Spending Time

The great French Marshall Lyautey once asked his gardener to plant a tree. The gardener objected that the tree was slow growing and would not reach maturity for 100 years. The Marshall replied, 'In that case, there is no time to lose; plant it this afternoon! – John F. Kennedy

Way back in a former life, an electric utility CEO once told me that he had just left a meeting in which his board of directors had instantly approved spending $10,000,000 on a new substation without batting an eye, then debated for an hour before tabling a motion to expend $3,000 on a bit of office carpeting.

“Some things seem too big to question,” he reasoned. “Instead, people object to little things that cost next to nothing, but provide a convenient illusion of control.”

I would say the same flawed thinking holds true for spending time. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the average 25-64 year old adult spends his/her life like so:

 

33% Sleep

24% Full-time job

11.3% Watching television

9% Other activities/self-care

8.3% Household/family

5.2% Eating

4.5% Online

4.1% Commuting

0.6% Religious activities

It is appropriate and healthy for us to sleep a third of our life away. It is hard to escape spending a third of our lives pursuing a living.  But surrendering 15.8% to staring at a screen?!? And, if 99.4% of our precious time is spent elsewhere, why are our faith practices often first to suffer when life gets hectic?

In the early days of my ministry, I still worked full-time at a local advertising agency. One day a co-worker approached me. He was in his early 30s. He and his wife had young children. He put in a lot of hours at the office.

“I was raised Christian,” he said to me, “and I do miss my church. But by the time Sunday morning comes around, we’re too exhausted from our week to pack the kids in the car and head off to worship. What can I do?”

This was the first time I was ever asked this question. I’ve answered it a thousand times since, but my reply really hasn’t changed in all these years. It is obvious to me that my friend wasn’t questioning the big things, but strained mightily at that which involved a fraction of a fraction of his resources. I could have suggested my co-worker not stay so late at the office when he was tired and his potential productivity was so low. I could have recommended he turn off the TV and spend more time in physical activity with his family. But he didn’t ask me to critique how he spent his time. He asked me how he could possibly connect to his faith community when he was completely spent at the end of a long week.

“Don’t go to church at the end of your week,” I suggested. “Go at the beginning of your week instead. I bet the support, energy and inspiration you’ll gain will improve the six days that follow.”

Last I knew, he and his family were still attending their church regularly. 

A Kick to the Liturgical Crotch

So I’m a few weeks into my Lenten fast. I have given up all violent media this time. This is harder than you might think, even for a fairly passive guy like me. Actually, I blew it on the first day.

Abbey of the Genesee

On Ash Wednesday, the wife, the son and I rode over to the Abbey of the Genesee, a Benedictine trappist monastery in Piffard, NY famous for their breads. (http://www.geneseeabbey.org)We bought lots of loaves (mmm, raisin bread…) and then slipped into the chapel for vespers.

If you’ve never attended a session of the Liturgy of the Hours, you should seriously consider it. It is peaceful, reflective, beautiful and wonderfully restorative.

Well, usually. On this fine afternoon, the chosen psalms for recitation included 139  (If only you would slay the wicked, O God) and 140 (let the mischief that is on their lips bury them. Let hot burning coals be poured upon them : let them be plunged into that miry pit from which they shall never arise.). This was incredibly violent stuff, even when chanted with placid monks in front of a minimalist stone altar. Check that - especially when chanted with placid monks in front of a minimalist stone altar. The effect was chilling! In a place of high Roman Catholic holiness on the very first day of Lent, I broke my fast before I’d really even started. Oh, the irony.

As it turns out, this experience was fair warning for what has followed. Violence is so deeply woven into American culture that it is nearly impossible to avoid. I lean over a pew before church to joke with a young congregant and he’s deeply engaged in a light saber duel on his hand-held video game. I sit down to watch the Daily Show and have to avert my eyes from a commercial for an automatic bill pay service that features a malevolent, angry bill collector shattering glass and breaking down doors to deliver an invoice.  At a hotel in Binghamton last weekend I had to turn off the cable tv because the commercials inserted into even the mildest of programs featured a ton of violent content.

 

Last night at band practice I began to show the boys and girl a rendition of Let It Be from one of my favorite movies (Across the Universe), only to realize I’d have to shield my eyes through the first 1/3 of the song.

Ridiculous? Yes, it is. The lengths to which we must go to honor a somewhat arbitrary decision is part of the glory of a Lenten commitment. It is maddening, imbalancing and terribly inconvenient --all things a good reflective faith challenge should be. These passing weeks help me realize how indifferent or even accepting I have become toward violence. I didn’t realize how ubiquitous it has been in my supposedly peaceful life. 

So much of what and how I think are built on what I've observed and experienced. It is only in trying to avoid violence that I've come to realize how many rapes, murders, assaults, tortures, kicks, punches, slaps and thumpings I normally pay to see. Violent imagery excites the brain and leaves us hungry for more. How can this be anything but a bad thing? 

Yesterday was Charles Darwin's 203rd birthday, and I'd say he's holding up well for a man who's been dead 130 years.

I am a proud member of a group called the Clergy Letter Project, started by Michael Zimmerman ( http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-zimmerman.) That means I take part in Evolution Weekend. Each year, on the Sunday closest to Darwin's birthday, I preach/teach about the compatibility of science and religion. It's an important message to deliver.

Yesterday, in a children's message, I urged the kids to recognize how much of their existence owed itself to scientific inquiry. I noted that the very building inwhich we worshipped was designed, built and maintained utilizing the sciences of geometry and physics. I removed a cover from an altar candle holder and talked about the ingenuity of the candle, and even showed them the ingenius spring-loaded mechanism that keeps each candle uniform in appearance and burn. We talked about the clothes on their backs and the thoughts in their heads. We praised the scientific method as a marvelous lens and tool for better understanding the universe and every little thing in it. Happy birthday, Charlie!


But lately I find that I am no longer addressing the chief front of anti-science rhetoric. Sure, there are still plenty of narrow-minded, misguided folks of faith who wear their intentional ignorance as some sort of proof of their piety. This is sad, and must be engaged. But I am finding more and more that faith and science actually share a more formidable opponent: profit.

This is a strange and imperfect point, since much of our current scientific inquiry serves commercial purposes, but here are a few examples of what I'm thinking:


Climate Science: The reality of global warming is undeniable.  For a long time, it was popular with a certain crowd to deny this fact in the face of a tsunami of data. As that stance has crumbled, the more recent retreat position is to deny human causation. This has little to do with science and much to do with commerce. The fossile fuel and related industries are powerful and ubiquitous. They are central to our way of life. Reality is no longer a friend of ours.

Epidemiology: In conversation with one of the more informed folks I know, yesterday she mentioned a farm in Pennsylvania with three separate populations of cattle, each of which drank from a different water source. One population of cows experienced a 3000% increase in mortality rate (from two to 60 annual cow deaths) after hydrofracking operations had commenced near the stream from which they drank. The public never hears of these cases because financial settlements for damages include a blanket gag order. How can we possibly make informed decisions if evidence is thus suppressed? How many other paths of epidemiological inquiry are shut down or shut up to protect financial interests?

Education: It is now quite popular with a certain crowd to attack teachers and educational institutions. Ask yourself what motivates such attacks.

I have not yet fully formed this opinion. It is more of an inkling that I'd like to flesh out or throw out through dialogue with my peers. What do you think? Are there monied interests suppressing certain areas of scientific inquiry?

Creation

So there’s One.

To One, a thought occurs:

Two.

What a lonely thought that must first be!

And, BANG, there’s Light and Dark. One can work with that.

Next comes Matter and Doesn’t Matter. One can work with that, too.

And One throws Matter into Doesn’t Matter, all willy-nilly at first, but can’t fill it up. So One puts Matter here and there in ways that One don’t know…sort of makes sense.

In the process, One discovers Thin and Thick. One stretches Matter from really Thick to Thick to Thin to really Thin in bits and pieces and various gradations throughout Doesn’t Matter, and sets it all to spinning, circling, zooming and floating.

One gets really excited when certain bits of Matter seem to catch on to what One is doing. One’s Creation begins creating.

It isn’t much, at first. Just some particular little bits of Matter seem to organize and replicate. Then some bits grow identical bits and split. This starts to get more and more complex, until some Matter becomes adept at finding other Matter a lot like themselves, and they combine tiny pieces and nurture and grow new bits of Matter between them that are almost identical but just a bit... more-so. Some Matter prefers places where the Matter is fairly thin, some like to be in constant contact with thicker Matter, others float or swim around where Matter is sort of in between. Much of it has an appetite for innovation.

One sees Oneself in Two, and sits back and checks it all out.

What is wanting? What is needed?

One can’t help Oneself, and reaches out and lightly touches a bit of a more complex system of Matter. To One’s delight, it turns around.

I’m right here! One says excitedly. Hello!

But instead of waving or smiling or otherwise engaging One, each of these little bits of complex Matter strain unsuccessfully to recognize what is obviously still far beyond their grasp, and, inevitably, each turns to their companions and says “Did you hear that?” or “I think I almost caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.” or “I don’t know, I just have this feeling, you know?”

One recognizes what is happening. Two sees itself as two! And all the separate pieces of Two are individually wrapped up in dark-or-light, black-or-white, yes-or-no, right-or-wrong, this-or-that; so much so that there is little or no sense of One or even oneness about Two or any of its pieces. Little bits occasionally come close to recognizing One before wearing out or breaking or giving up. But the process is so slow and terribly frustrating to watch. It is hard on One, learning that One and Two inadvertently make at least three.

So One sits back, occasionally leaning in (Hey, I think I can talk to this piece of Two…). A touch here and a great religion is born. A breath there and a marvelous advancement is realized. One even tries slipping fully aware into a bit of matter to show several little pieces of Two what it is all about, beating a path back to One, but ends up nailed to a post and causing a lot of arguments. One whispers into solitary ears on mountain tops, under trees, or in caves and beautiful ideas are documented, filled with hints of One and profound truths, causing a lot of arguments within the various pieces and parts of Two.

One has to admit to Oneself: Two is biological, binary and bi-polar. There is nothing for it but for One to simply love Two as is, and wait for Two to get its meds right and realize its oneness, before the whole of Two can recognize and become one with One.

So One waits.

Anyway, there is something tugging at One that merits attention. It is just a vague stirring, at first. But the idea grows to a maddening whisper from some back corner beyond Matter-Doesn’t Matter; a question in need of exploration. One can’t help but steal occasional glances over One’s own shoulder.

Is there a ONE or MORE I don’t recognize beyond Me, too?

My daughter wrote this great piece on her blog. I ask all of my readers to follow this link, read and think about what she has to say:

http://daegansquebecadventure.blogspot.com/

Pandora's Happy Meal

Most people are at least vaguely familiar with the story of Pandora’s Pithos (that is Pandora’s Jar – not Pandora’s Box, as often mistranslated) – an ancient myth that posits yet another misogynist claim regarding the introduction of chaos into the world (remember that apple in the garden? Who takes advice from a talking snake?!?).

But many folks either forget or never learn the most intriguing portion of each of these tales:

·      Before banishing Adam and Eve from the garden, God sat down at the most high holy sewing machine and made garments of hides for them before sending them out into the world (a very tender, poignant moment for the three of them, not so much for whatever animals had skin in the game.)

·      After all the pesky war, famine and pestilence were released, Pandora noticed a crumpled little thing still in the jar: HOPE.

Both of these foundational myths speak tellingly of our human condition. Most of us possess a certain dignity and decency, and, given the opportunity, will do the right thing, given enough information and enough thinking time to make informed, thoughtful decisions.

Key phrase from previous statement: most of us.

This week, a new law goes into effect in San Francisco, requiring any restaurant meal accompanied by a free kids toy to meet certain very basic nutritional requirements. McDonalds immediately snapped into action… charging 10 cents for the crappy little lead-encrusted doodads they place in their Happy Meals. Get it? They are no longer giving away free toys, so they don’t have to change the fat, cholesteral and sodium enriched sludge America’s youth is hoovering up at an ever-increasing rate. HAH!

I wanted to grumble about McDonalds, but I can’t imagine any sentient being on this or any planet who can somehow fail to be aware of what McDonalds “Food®” does to the human body. I mean, just pull your head up out of the trough and check out your fellow diners…

Burger joints marketed to children long before our current obesity epidemic (Willard Scott was the original Ronald McDonald, and I would pay big money for a Foghorn Leghorn or Speedy Gonzalez glass from way back when).

The Garden of Eden and Pandora myths were humanity’s struggle to reason out why some people did nasty , destructive and/or stupid things. The history of civilization since is wrapped up not so much in origins as what to DO about evil already present. Our most reality-based answer to date comes from  Scottish sociologist and educator R.M. MacIver (1882–1970) who posited in 1926 that you can’t legislate morality.  Even the academes eventually can only throw up their hands, put down the chalk and step out for some fresh air.

Let’s extend this now. McDonalds’ San Francisco Two-Step is really nothing more than a cynical reflection of a corollary to Dr. MacIvers bonny truism:

Turns out you can’t legislate wisdom, either.

But slow down now. Don’t get me wrong. I am sick to death of the lunk-headed neo-con scream machine ripping into Mrs. Obama for mounting an effort to fight childhood obesity. We have a looming health crisis that is already threatening to overtake our already massive healthcare crisis that some would choose to simply whistle past in the dark. The first mom is the perfect person to lead by example, especially on an issue that hits so hard in minority and impoverished populations. Even if we decide we are not our brother’s dietician (and remember the original speaker of the original line – humanity’s first murderer), since we are all living in America, we all pay for some people’s bad choices through higher insurance rates, skyrocketing medical costs, over-crowded hospitals and some really wide, slow folks in the grocery store snack aisles.

Mrs. Obama’s is a sane, rational approach, and an appropriate use of her elevated, influential position. With Type II diabetes nearing epidemic status, obesity rates increasing exponentially among our children, and factory farms turning out cheap, cruelly produced, chemical/hormone/bacteria tainted “mcfood,” Pandora’s Happy Meal Box has already been opened.  With McDonalds spending more than $2 billion a year on advertising, the chaos is swirling and winning. What can we do?

Constitutional scholars, libertarians and deep-pocketed corporate sycophants aren’t about to let us impose healthy eating habits on the general public, but we can relentlessly clothe every person within earshot in wisdom on their way to the marketplace (For example, I highly recommend the movies “Super-size Me” and “Food, Inc.” every chance I get.). Four of the people I love most dearly in this world (my wife, daughter, sister and brother) are healthy food evangelists. The rest of us should speak up as well.

We can’t outlaw junk food, but, perhaps, even with so much damage already done, and in the shadow of all that money and corporate influence, we can still scrape Hope up out of the empty Happy Meal box. When you can't legislate, educate.

Understand the Fuss

It was just shy of 20 years ago at a leisurely breakfast table in County Roscommon, Ireland. We had finished our porridge, scrambled eggs and scones after a solid night's sleep at the Bed and Breakfast. The other guests had just departed, some dressed in auto-racing jackets. The room still glowed with the warmth of travel tales, Irish brogues and easy laughter as Teresa and I enjoyed a quiet cup of coffee before we, too, would hit the road. The innkeeper cleared dishes and doted on us.

As we prepared to leave, we complimented our host on her hospitality and the quality of the breakfast conversation we had just enjoyed as the lone Americans among a dozen Irish guests.

"Yes," she said in her marvelous lilt, nodding her head slowly. "They're just like us, aren't they? I don't understand the fuss."

Reading our baffled looks, she explained herself.

"The Northerners, I mean. They're no different than us."

Visiting from the other side of the ocean, we two Yanks hadn't recognized that half the guests had been Catholic Irish, and the other half Protestant Northern Irish. This was a vital distinction to those closer in, but Teresa and I missed the whole conflicted under-current.

I've often reflected on this small treasure of a memory from my particular spot on the tiny, spinning rock all humans call home. I imagine all the vital distinctions dividing our race would be quite imperceptible to any visitor from beyond our  fragile atmosphere. Still, this is the soup inwhich we swim... our reality.

I mention this because we have just passed Veterans' Day. I know some people are quite uncomfortable with this and the Memorial Day holidays. Some believe these observances are turned into a promotion of the military-industrial complex and the glorification of war. The point does have some resonance for me. War is undoubtedly the worst of human innovations: a true mark of abysmal failure in EVERY case.

War is hell.

I heard an interview recently with a soldier who had done multiple tours in Iraq. He, like many, had been placed in a position where he had to kill other human beings. He is certain that he killed several. He said that near the end of his final tour he had started to think before each patrol that he just wanted to make it home, no differently than any person likely to be in his gunsights that day.

That is hell.

I hold other stories, but they aren't mine to share. They came out in hoarse whispers late at night when others had gone to bed, or within concrete walls after staff and family footsteps had long since trailed away down long hallways. They are harrowing memories, and mostly involve what must be done to survive amid unspeakable carnage. Such stories are not welcomed from lofty pulpits or flag-bedecked platforms erected on village greens.

That is hell.

Let's never forget those who go through hell.

It is not lost on me that many who chant "freedom isn't free" are turning a hefty profit waging war. Also, somehow, it is never their sons and daughters shooting and being shot -- nor, typically, the sons and daughters of the elected officials they own. The parting wisdom of President/General Dwight D. Eisenhower should be carved on every forehead in America. He called it, didn't he?

But two days a year I still choose to publicly recognize en masse the horror we have elected to put many of our brothers and sisters through. Phone calls and/or visits are made, too. I don't wrap it in flags and patriotic platitudes. I recognize horror, hardship and sacrifice. Don't even dream of suggesting that's not appropriate.

It is so tragic what we humans put ourselves through.