Theology Thursday #7: Sea Change

I don't care for reality shows.

Mostly because they're not REAL. I admit, they're entertaining. But, let's face it, no survivor reality show would ever let any of their contestants die in a tropical wilderness. And no social show would really allow somebody who was mentally ill to continue participating within the show.

I even found out recently that a favorite show in our household is as contrived as a "reality" show. HGTV has a show called House Hunters - my wife, Carol and I love to watch it. Just two weeks ago, however, I found out that the buyers on the show actually have already decided on a house before they come on the show. I guess the producers do this, because, if they didn't, the buyers might not like the choices the show gave them for a house and they'd end up houseless at the end. Can't have that... can we?

Life's not like TV?

Life's not like TV.

Life is messy. And many times there isn't a happy ending.

TV has contrived endings and is far too neat.

Life requires compromises in the face of radical changes - sea changes. A sea change is a major change, a change that stirs everything up. Much like a baptism, it is a change where coming up out of the water one is wholly, totally different.

The United States is currently experiencing a sea change with the topic of gay marriage. In fact, it's more than a change. It's a culture war.

Like any war, there are casualties. It seems to be a null sum game. That is, there are winners and losers. Both sides feel in a visceral way how their argument is right and the other is wrong.

I'm not going into the Biblical argument, because it's been hashed over a zillion times, and quite frankly, I'm sick of it. Maybe this will turn off some of my readers, but I'm not going down that path. We all need to come to terms with the fact that daily we all make decisions about things that aren't in the Bible. That's because the Bible isn't concerned much about modern life. That's not even getting into a First Century understanding of science. Folks, we just don't live in that world anymore.

If you remember nothing else about this Theology Thursday, remember this: gay marriage is not an "issue" and being gay is not a "lifestyle."

Gay marriage is about people's lives.

And, although there are some who may not like it, it's not going to hurt them. Not in the slightest.

But to those who only want the right to live life to its fullest with the one they love and have a legally accepted relationship - so that when their loved one dies they have a legal right to be there at their death bed - it means everything.

Why can't we (meaning the heterosexual majority, of which I am a part) give that to them?

The sky will not fall. The earth will not quake. People who love each other will have legitimacy within our legal system. (And, yes, I know that their love needs no nod from "us" to be right in God's eyes. Love conquers all. It can't hurt to acknowledge the human need to say "I do.") Unlike a real war, the casualties of this culture war will ultimately be phantom wisps. Fifty years from now, we'll look at how silly some were. The change will come. Maybe not so soon in North Carolina, but it will come.

The phrase sea change comes from Shakespeare's The Tempest. The spirit Ariel (which, interestingly, has historically been played both by male and female actors) has a wonderfully evocative song acknowledging the change of Ferdinand's father by the sea:

Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange. 

The new reality that we are entering is that there shall be no longer male or female, no longer Jew or Greek, no longer slave or free, no longer gay or straight. In God's eyes, we are one. 

Let two who are in love be one. Let them be and love the rich and strange changes that are coming.

I'll think you'll find after you get to know these new couples (men with men, women with women, and transgendered, too), they won't seem so strange. They'll just be... people.

At least not as strange as some of the reality shows out there.

Flash Fiction #6: Needle & Thread

 The following is an excerpt from my novel Needle & Thread. All text is copyrighted and may not be reproduced. Enjoy reading!!

"Hard to believe that one night more than sixty years ago, during a dance that had turned rowdy, someone hit Lawrence Welk over the head with a brick in Hague, North Dakota."

- Ian Frazier, Great Plains

The dog quivered, eyes wide and body frozen as he stared into the grass. Landon crouched behind him, grasping the check cord with two hands. He was caught in the rapture of the moment, his lips spreading open and a faint smile steadily growing on his face. The dog was on point.

    It was nine in the evening; at this latitude in early June, the sun’s warmth glowed on Landon’s skin. He closed his eyes while the dog held steady, statue-like, immersed in the moment. He breathed deeply and slipped into non-time, the realm of the transcendent. Although the sun’s heat continued to resonate through him, distant clouds obscured the day gradually, like theater lights dimming, signaling the commencement of a play. He opened his eyes and looked at the dog, whose eyes gaze was still fixed and remembered the work at hand.

    As a trainer, Landon’s job was to hone the dogs’ instinct to point. This was to instruct them to resist the temptation to break their trance and flush the game prematurely. He thought hunting with pointing dogs for upland game birds as more an art form than a necessity. Anyone could buy frozen chicken breasts from a grocery store. Taking the time to find, shoot, clean, and cook a wild bird was a luxury, primitive yet elegant. The dogs’ passion to find birds was beautiful; bounding and leaping to find the game, the sudden stillness of a dog standing point took his breath away.

The pointing instinct never failed to amaze him. A vestigial behavior from ancestral wolves, medieval dog breeders took the trait and refined it. Generation after generation each dog inherited the wolf’s instinct to stare down their game the location of the quarry. For pointing dogs, this instinct was amplified so the dog would freeze up when he smelled any trace of game to signal his pack leader – the human hunter.

Breeders developed this trait in dogs as a strategy to capture game. When a bird or a rabbit felt threatened, there were two ways it might react: one response was the animal would run; the other instinct was to bury itself in cover and freeze, hoping the predator will miss it. Pointing dogs were the trump card for the second response. They could find and pin down the location of the game so the hunter could bag it. While the Thirty Years War raged in central Europe, breeders quietly developed this breed of dog. The hunters tossed their nets in front of the dogs’ noses and gathered the day’s table fare for their lords.

As technology progressed, hunters exchanged their nets for firearms. The dogs, whose progeny developed into dozens of breeds, assisted the new generation of hunters. Instead of throwing a net, the hunter would kick the grass and shrubs concealing the bird in front of the spellbound canine. Then, bursting in a flurry of wings, the pheasant, woodcock or grouse exploded into the sky just as the shooter took aim.

Landon imagined the medieval hunters felt the same pride and fascination with their dogs’ ability that stirred in his heart. Holding the check cord firmly, he repeated the whoa command and stroked the dog’s sleek fur. As the pigeon took wing, he couldn’t help but think that the dog’s cocked ears and outstretched tongue signaled a smile.

The trainer stood from his crouch and released the check cord. The dog vaulted into the open prairie, content that he had done well. Tall, puffed clouds continued to shroud the fading sunlight in the west as Landon looked into the broad vista of his training ground.

“Looks like rain,” Landon said as lightning flashes silently threatened in the distance.

 ****

The Badlands of the northern plains were in thunderstorm season. The gods of summer frolicked in pyrotechnic insanity, meandering across the prairie sky, emptying their chalice, whose mix was both life and destruction on the plain—precious water, flame, or flood.

The clouds were white and bright. Tall, leaning themselves into the eastern blueness, they seemed like gods imposed on the infinite canvas of grass and buttes and sky that was Dakota.

“See that one?” Landon pointed. “That’s a cumulonimbus.”

“You mean the one that looks like a big-damn-white wall of death?”

Landon raised one eyebrow, turned his eyes toward his assistant, Wade, with a bit of contempt and amusement, adding, “Yeah, that one.”

 He loved this time of year. Training was underway, grass was green, and the storm season was upon them. He liked thunderstorms in the Great Wide Open of western North Dakota. A transplant from the east, he never got over how big everything seemed. And how small he felt within it.

Theology Thursday #6: Obdurate Sin

I recently finished Stephen King's Novel 11/22/63. It is one of his best and I enjoyed it immensely. The plot revolves around the main protagonist Jake who travels back in time to the late 50s to eventually try to prevent the assassination of JFK. King is a master of description without being wordy. He's intelligent while not being highbrow. (In fact, he can be quite lowbrow at some times, and I appreciate it!) One phrase that sticks with me is: "the past is obdurate." (I know, this is a highbrow word. I couldn't help myself.)

Without spoiling the story (which is bloody brilliant, by the way) the meaning of this phrase is that the past "does not want" to be changed. Jake finds proverbial wrenches thrown in his plans to change the past at every turn. It made me think of how the past - one's own past - does not change. It can haunt you, if you let it.

Ancient Israel called sin hamartia, or missing the mark. The sin of a person's selfishness misses the mark only insofar as it harms both parties affected. "Sin" is such a loaded, judgmental word that I don't even like using it. Unfortunately, another one hasn't been found. To deny its existence because overtly religious folk have abused and twisted its meaning is simply burying one's head in the sand. Evil happens. Sin is. And our sins and regrets from the past seem obdurate, stubborn. They are sticky, like gum spit out in July on hot asphalt. You step in it, you'll know its stickiness.

In Hazelden's devotional Twenty-Four Hours a Day a phrase continues to be an earworm from my treatment days: those two awful eternities. Basically what they are saying is that the past and the future, with its sticky sins and its terrible fears does us no good. Here's the quote:

Anyone can fight the battles of just one day. It is only when you and I add the battles of those two awful eternities, yesterday and tomorrow, that we break down. It is not the experience of today that drives us mad. It is the remorse or bitterness for something that happened yesterday or the dread of what tomorrow may bring. Let us therefore do our best to live but one day at a time.

Sin may seem to stick to us. The past may continue to haunt us. Obdurate and stubborn, sin missing the mark is difficult to shake off (especially for perfectionists like me). But as a believer who hears the story as "truth-building", I believe that the haunting of the past or the fear of the future are just phantoms of a different reality, a reality without Jesus of Nazareth. 

Fortunately for us, we have a different story.

It makes the sin a whole lot less sticky. I hate being sticky, don't you?

Flash Fiction #5: A New and Novel Weapon Against our Common Enemy

The council was impressive. Every grass wanted to attend. Every grass had to attend. As the August sun broke the horizon, the light washed over the sea of rich green and tawny blonde stalks. Only the dome of the sky grew above them in this place. Here, at least, the tall ones hadn’t yet come. The open prairie was their own…for the time being.

But fear of the enemy on the horizon had called them here. Fear called them, and a need for action.

The din of one billion blades of countless species of grass swooshed in the gentle wind. A warm-season giant rose above them all, stretching his leaves outward. The other grasses—even some strange, scrawny forbs with pungent yellow leaves—took notice. The Monarch was a Big Bluestem, an ancient warm-season. He had ruled the prairie for decades. He survived fire, drought, flood, and wind. His tripartite seedhead looked like a foot of a turkey. Full and plump, each seed dangled, ready to deliver its genes to the wind, where Big Great Blue had millions of children.

As the morning wing stirred in the great-wide-open, Big Great Blue began to speak: “Warm Seasons, Cool Seasons, Forbs, Weeds, and fellow Sedge…” the Great One paused as the attention of the plains drew to him. He continued, “We have a great threat at our doorsteps.

“You know of the evil of which I speak.” An audible gasp flew up and murmurs made their rounds.

The Monarch continued, “Yes, yes. The ancient enemy, we must acknowledge, is far stronger than us.”

A cry came from the Ryes, “We can beat them! They can’t block it all!”

The full-sun species scoffed at the Ryes: “Quiet yourselves, shade-lovers!”

Always the politician, always willing to compromise and live with neighbors, Big Great Blue raised his leaves and boomed to the prairie: “We must not fight amongst ourselves! Our greatest strength is our diversity! Our roots grow strong. And deep. And we shall not outcompete each other while our enemy advances, year after year, to destroy us all.

“Yes, we know that some of us—the Ryes, Bluegrass, the Beebalms and Hostas—some of you are willing to live with them. But they will grow taller. They will dominate and wash away soil. They will push up and up and shove us down as they take up every square-inch of nourishing sunlight!”

The grasses nodded. All species knew Big Great Blue was right. He was always right. His wisdom came, after all, not from him alone, but from the eons of growth under the prairie soil. More than simply allies, the rhizobacteria and roots took invisible carbon and infused it into the ground, making it black and whole, full of life and experience from the ages. Big Great Blue’s roots went deep into the network. He knew what was best for them all.

The grasses wondered if their king was hesitant out of fear. After pregnant silence, he spoke four words. These words would be the true purpose of their gathering: “We need a weapon.”

“Fire! More fire!” Cheatgrass screamed.

A response came from one normally quiet. Not now. Winterfat, terrified at the prospect of more fire, replied, “I bet you’d like that, Cheat.”

“No fighting! And no, we shall have no more fire!” Big Blue boomed.

“But what? What weapon can defeat them?” Indiangrass and Needle-and-Thread asked.

“We require a new and novel weapon against our common enemy. We must enlist the humans.”

Porcupine Grass quivered. “The humans? The ape-people?”

“Yes. They are our best weapon against the high-ones. They may tame some of us. And to attract them, we shall need to be sweet for the four-legged ones.”

“Why?” an unnamed yellow grass asked. “They will eat us!”

“Yes. They will. We must learn to adapt. You see, the humans like to kill and eat the four-legged ones. The four-legged ones are not leaf-eaters. They belong on the plains. We attract the four-leggeds, the humans will come.”

Nodding Rye and Needlegrass nodded in affirmation.

Their King was indeed their One Monarch. He stood, inspiring. He knew his wisdom was true. He said, “The humans will chop. They will burn. They will push and pull out the seedlings of our enemy. With them, and the four-legggeds, we shall rule the earth!”

The wind swished across the flat plain and the infinite multitude erupted in applause.

*********

Thus, it was foretold, that grasses made their compact with humans, the greatest weapon of all against the trees.

And the rain would fall. And the trees and shrubs would push into the plain. But the ape-people, with their cleverness, would push them back.

And the grass swayed in the wind, content.

But some looked at the ape-people with their clever tools. Some of the grasses wondered. Some of the grasses asked, "How long, O Monarch, will this peace last?"

Great Big Blue knew, but he did not share.

Theology Thursday #5: Anger and Perception

First of all, let’s get something straight: when I perceive there is an injustice, no matter how small, I turn into an asshole.

Take your pick...

They're both valid angry faces.

Banking regulations demanding I pay for a service that is pointless, poor service at a restaurant, another driver cutting in on the highway, or any life-isn’t-fair situation...they all make me fume. Typically, I turn that fuming on someone who has little power to change the situation. Typically, it hurts no one but myself when I do this. I don’t know why I do it. But I do know that other people have this problem, too. So I’d like to look at this from a theological angle, both as a therapy for myself and for others who may read this blog and find that it may help them, too.

I think my obsession is rooted in something good. That is to say, I think an understanding of “how things ought to be” is a gift. Without a common understanding of justice, there would be no order; only the powerful and oppressive would rule. Some might say this is already the case, but I’ll leave that for another time.

My selfishness and my temperament make the injustice seem like something that is threatening me right now. My perception is distorted. So I react. I rant and rave and try to argue my way out of it. Rarely, it works. Most of the time, I get so worked up about it I hurt no one but myself. I’ve learned through my 12-Step program to recognize when this is happening. But I wish I could prevent my reaction to begin with!

This is a spiritual issue, because spiritually I make the center of my understanding (my world) of all that I can perceive. My emotions take control. That doesn’t make emotions bad in themselves. It just means that emotions without perspective and spirituality are like a railroad car going off the tracks.

I’d hate to be on the receiving end of my ranting.

What’s the solution?

An experience I have weekly is my service commitment at St. Joseph’s Hospital in St. Paul. Weekly, our men’s AA group hosts a meeting in the Chemical Dependency Unit or the Mental Health Unit, depending on the week. It’s incredible. The people are very appreciative that we come there. We appreciate them, because they show us where we came from and we can share the experience, strength and hope of the 12 Steps.

After the meeting, I’m never thinking about my piddley little problems. I’m energized in helping others. It amazes me that in order to get out of myself, I have to help others. To really help myself, I have to be there for someone else. To live I must die to self.

That’s all spirituality is. It’s not rocket science. It’s about how to live a whole life. It’s about seeing God in the suffering, the forgotten, the needy… and providing.

Flash Fiction Friday #5: The Royal Empress

I found this piece a challenge to write, since stylistically it is quite different from my other work. Also the first-person, present-tense written from the point-of-view of a seventy-year old woman is something I've never done before.

I think it turned out OK. What about you? Please leave your comments on the blog, I love to read them.

*********

As I sit down at the keyboard of my gray little typewriter, I wonder whether I can measure up to all the younger writers in my class. I'm seventy-one years old; I must be as outdated as the 1951 Royal Empress typewriter sitting in my husband's old fly-tying room in the basement. Since he passed in '99, I haven't thought much about what I was going to do down here in the dank basement. I decided that, aside from the lack of sufficient lighting, it would make do to set this area up as my writing studio.

I was surprised the writing instructor selected me. After all, I didn't think I would get in, at least the first time around. (This course is only offered once per year, you know). I had applied for the course "On Crafting Your Novel." They only took ten applicants; I was one of them. I think they said eighty people wanted to get in. I still can't believe I'm one of them.

It was the first class this evening and all of the other students are under fifty. They were nice enough, though. Jack Dennis, our instructor, told us that next week he will be assigning writing partners. I hope I'm not paired with the young man who is writing about the mutant gorillas. That's the way it will probably be, though. Because, despite the fact I was accepted in the course, Mr. Denn-- ... er, Jack... told us that we were in the class together because he found our stories interesting. "The differences in us would make us less diffident." I think that's a rather clumsy way of saying that we will learn from each other.

And the topics...people are writing about such different things. I told you about the mutant gorilla--that's a sci-fi writer's project--but there are also several stories set in the antebellum South, a Romance set in Brazil, and two different historical fiction pieces--one's a story about Van Gogh and the other is about Joan of Arc. One young gentleman is even writing a story about a dog trainer in North Dakota. How interesting.

I wonder if my piece will be up to par. I know the topic is interesting enough: it's a romance and a bit of a mystery. It's about a young woman who went to Kenya in the 1830's. That woman was my great, great grandmother. I only found her diary this last May.

And now, I'm sitting here in the basement at the little gray typewriter, because I can't sleep. I'm too excited. Finally, I will get to write. Finally, my dream has come true. Finally, the basement doesn't seem so dank and dirty as it did ten years ago. I'm happy tonight. The Royal Empress even has ink left in the ribbon.

Theology Thursday #5

This week's TheoThursday is going to be a link. Some people say true faith is what you do in action to care for others. I agree. Rachel Jones has a great take on this about Somalia. Check it out!

http://www.djiboutijones.com/2012/04/6-ways-to-help-somalia.html

Flash Fiction #4: In Deference to the Precious Nature of Time

            Pete looked at the bulging heap of paper in his hand; it was thick as the ham sandwich he had brought to work that day. He looked at Mr. Knowles and asked, “Do I really have to read all of this?”

            “Why, of course not,” the man said. “It would be burdensome to peruse such an onerous document, especially since time is so precious.” The man spoke with a distinct English accent. His speech, however, had an artificial tone to it. It was as if the man’s words had shellac brushed on them as he elaborated each syllable.

            Pete looked around his cubicle. God, he hated this job. Software support, my ass, he thought to himself. It wasn’t his fault that no one used the damn software. How was anyone supposed to, either? Bugs larger than cockroaches filled the computer program and the development team did nothing to fix the problem. Any of the calls that came in he handled readily enough. They had become less and less frequent since the majority of their customers were switching to the competitor’s accounting software. He wanted out. Mr. Knowles, if that was his real name, had his full attention.

            “That is, after all, Mr. Cayle,” the man spoke with a strange cadence, “the purpose of our discussion, to come to an agreeable arrangement between us. “

            Pete had only arrived at Mastodon Software minutes ago. Having walked to his cubicle past the wooly mammoth logo in the entrance, he had noticed a man in a pinstripe, double-breasted suit carrying an aging, black briefcase. This man had promptly approached him and invited him to consider an offer “to change his life forever.”

            Pete hadn’t considered it until now: Mastodon Software had a strict solicitation policy, no one was allowed in without first speaking to management. Why was he speaking to him? And where was everybody? The office space seemed empty.

Mr. Edward Knowles
(aka Mephistopheles)

            It had all happened so fast—as he entered, he noticed the man, and soon he was following him. He spoke fluidly, as if every word were rehearsed, “Allow me to introduce myself, Mister Peter Cayle,” the man spoke with a bizarre rhythm, “I am Mr. Edward Knowles. That is pronounced noles but spelled K-N-O-W-L-E-S. I represent the Apollyon Corporation. Please, forgive me, since this is your place of employment, might I suggest we enter this conversation in a more private locale?”

            Pete didn’t say what he thought he should have, which was, “no thank you.” Something itched inside him, fighting the reasonable response to remove himself from this remnant of the late 19^th century. The curiosity had won: “I…I guess you could come to my cubicle.”

            Mr. Edward Knowles had begun to spell out a fantastic offer for him: fantastic as in not believable fantastic. Fantasy world fantastic. The man’s sing-songy words dripped like golden liquid and continue to reverberate in his head:

            “Mr. Cayle, as you well know, your employment at this software establishment is lack-luster. You slave away, daily, not with what is productive and beneficial to your life, but with the pointless distraction of social-network-games and internet surveys. To be candid, Mr. Peter Cayle, your life contains neither hard work nor joyous recreation. It is a glum, piteous, pointless existence, to which its end can only be disappointment and regret.

            “However, Mr. Cayle, I have an offer for you, that, once you carefully consider, shall send you into a world devoid of boredom. Every day, Mr. Cayle, you will find yourself not only entertained, but also driven by the passion, which still flickers within your soul. If you are interested, I have prepared a document for your consideration.”

            The whole encounter was weird. What was this guy selling?

            He hadn’t had time, because Mr. Knowles grabbed the thick stack of papers from him. The salesman continued, “Yes, yes. Time is, indeed, a precious commodity, Mr. Cayle. One of which I know you cherish readily. Well, this is your chance, Pete,” the man winked and poked him with his elbow, “sign at the bottom and you’ll get what you want.”

            It was too much. Was this guy for real? His curiosity could only go so far. Now all he wanted was to be rid of him. But he had to ask, “Yeah, so what do I get if I sign?”

            The man leaned back and stared uncomfortably for three seconds, smiling, and replied, “Extra time.”

            “Extra time? Like, extra time during the day? As in extra time like I-don’t-need-to-wait-at-the-stoplight extra time?”

            “To you, yes.” The polished gentleman gave only a hint of a smile and nodded.

            “Okay. Get out of here. I’m calling security,” Pete said, irritated.

            “If you sign, I will be happy to leave,” the man said. He did not waver, but sat statue-like in the chair next to Pete in the cubicle.

            “Fine. Whatever,” he said. He grabbed the stack of papers and read the cover sheet:

To the Advancement of Time

 For:

Mister Peter Jay Cayle

On this day the 28^th of April, 2012

            Peter brushed through to the last page, scribbled his name, and threw the cheap ballpoint pen on his desk. He looked at the man and said, “There. Will you leave now?”

            “Certainly, Mr. Cayle. I would be happy to oblige,” the man said. He smiled and nodded, picking up the stack of papers and placing them in his old, black briefcase.

* * * * * * *

            Peter sat in his living room, the holograph news projecting on the walls surrounding him. So much time had passed since he met Mr. Knowles. It seemed just like last week. That is what it was like ever since he discovered the document he signed gave him a power he previously did not have—the power to advance time when he was frustrated, sleeping, nervous, angry or simply bored.

            He advanced time a lot. More than he could keep track of. Now he sat here, wondering: where had it all gone?

            That’s the thing he asked himself, justifying every time advancement he made: why bear through this? This sucks, push it forward, Pete! Come on, come on, get moving.

            He figured that for every day that went by, every boring meeting he had sat through, every torturous hour in the cubicle he advanced into nothingness, he probably had lost half his life. You wouldn’t know that when you saw him, though. Pete soon learned that he aged as he did it. At least I didn’t have to sit through all of it, he thought. Yeah, yeah…it was worth it. 

            Definitely.

            He looked outside into the rainy weather and pushed time forward into his death.