Marking Time

I’ve always been a sucker for a good metaphor, and one of my favorite writers on spiritual matters, Anne Lamott, put me in mind of a very good one today: the Wailing Wall, the last remnant of the ancient temple courtyard in Jerusalem. Here’s an excerpt from her most recent book, Grace (Eventually) :

… a picture of a young boy and his father in yarmulkes, pushing prayers written on paper into cracks in the wall. This is something I do all the time, shove bits of paper with prayers and names on them into desk drawers, little boxes, my glove compartment. I have found that… turning the problem over to God or the elves in the glove compartment harnesses something in the universe that is bigger than you, and that just might work.

Anne herself is a recovering alcoholic, and writes quite humorously and eloquently about her journey, about the various ways God chased her around northern California until she finally surrendered and came to Jesus. I’ve been thinking alot lately about the idea of surrender. Certain prayers and attitudes are a healthy form of surrender, as Christian and Buddhist theologians have been teaching us for years. They say that letting go, giving up control, embracing humility, is the way to peace and happiness. Yet in an uptight, me-first, macho, militarized, post-9/11 world, the idea of surrender is not fashionable. Then again, when have I ever been fashionable?

Surrender also came up in church yesterday (Redeemer Lutheran in Park Ridge), as one of the earliest of the Twelve Steps in traditional recovery program language. Here’s how people in “the program” usually put it:

Step 3
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

“God as we understood Him.” This phrase is where the conservative evangelicals that I occasionally keep company with tend to part company with AA, considering it either a respectable but non-Christian system, or else a cultish organization of anarchists and tool of the devil (though not many would go that far… given the number of recovering addicts and success stories, it’s hard to make a case that God does not support the program).

Why don’t conservatives accept Step 3 at face value? Because those who cling tightly to an exacting and narrow interpretation of the Bible would like to believe they already understand all they need to know about God, through relationship with His son Jesus. Surrendering to the possibility that some things just cannot be known or explained scripturally, or that God as someone understands Him would not include Jesus, is too much of a stretch for them. Therefore a more subjective view of God, however one is able to see or experience God, is also too much of a stretch. For me –getting more theologically liberal by the day in how I look at the biblical text itself– the jury is still out on some of what Jesus actually said and did, and what I should therefore do.

Jesus was just such a confusing cat at times, wasn’t he?

Don’t get me wrong, though. I have great respect for scripture, and the utmost respect for Jesus — at least on the days when I’m not a sinful, piggish, opinionated clod only out for myself. On those bad days, Jesus is my perfect older brother, and I have a severe distaste for Him, because how could I ever possibly measure up to such a high standard? Those are my depressive days. My lonely days. My angry days. My self-pitying, potentially addicted days, which I often fill with too much tv or non-prayerful computer use. Basically that’s Mondays, alternate Wednesdays, and any other day upon which I have to take some responsibility for the well-being of myself and my family, and yet don’t want to do that.

And there’s the rub: I have to surrender control, and yet still maintain an attitude of responsibility and steady service to the principles set down by a Higher Power. I can’t just give up, say WTF?, and move on with my own business. I have to follow the path that has been shown to work. I have to have self-discipline, and set goals, even as I give up an investment in the outcome (knowing that it will not exactly match what I want personally). At this moment of surrender, the proud young Turk within me wants to stand up and say, “Wait. What’s in this for me? Why should I follow, if this path is so hard, and the ultimate destination is unknown (or sometimes unpleasant, if you’re doing it right, like Mother Theresa or Martin Luther King)?”

At which point the Holy Spirit shows up (hopefully) and answers for God, saying, “Because this is the path to health, dipshit. The path to abundant life. Do you want to be healthy and growing, or miserable and lost, wandering around some more in your own private 40-year desert?”

See how God is not always as gentle as those nice evangelicals once told me He was?

Meanwhile, remember those old Catholics, the ones who used to whip themselves? Well they may have been overdoing it, but they were still onto something: they knew how to surrender, and they knew how tough it is to do, over and over again, every bleepin’ day of our whole bleepin’ life. 

Which leads me back to where I started, the Wailing Wall. It took God so many years to get the Jews to a point spiritually where they were wise and humble enough to build His City, and then to build those temples properly and with the right attitude. It took both strength and humility, as modeled by leaders like Solomon, to create and maintain the home where Jehovah and his Ark (containing the original “Twelve Steps”) could take up residence. And then God turned around and chastened His people yet again, taking down the Second Temple as well, leaving nothing but an old retaining wall that keeps the mountain from spilling over onto the temple courtyard. That’s our Wailing Wall… it’s a glorified earth dam, a retaining wall.

And here’s something I didn’t know till I looked it up today: that expanded courtyard and its Wailing Wall were built by none other than Herod the Great. This is the same guy who was one of the worst Roman collaborators ever, who was outsmarted by the Magi, Mary and Joseph when Jesus was a baby, and then later killed his wife and two of his sons. So why did they call this guy great? Goes to show you: power does not equal greatness. It’s no wonder God had to get rid of Herod’s precious Second Temple.  It was nothing but a monument to  gross injustices, slave labor and corrupt, reprehensible acts by a man who couldn’t carry Solomon’s jockstrap. 

Besides, with the coming of Jesus, God moved off the Temple Mount and out into the world anyway. So the remaining ruins of the courtyard wall aren’t much more than a tombstone, really — an important landmark to what once was great. The old Jerusalem, the old temple, the old ways — those are all gone now. We have to surrender to the future, to what’s healthy and best for everybody that has a stake in the New Jerusalem (which seems to cover just about everybody, right?).

Thus, a desk drawer or glove compartment will suffice from now on, as repositories for the prayers of those of us who still want to write down prayers for peace in Jerusalem, or for the healing of our wounds so we won’t drink or gamble or compulsively shop anymore, or for anything else that’s too big a problem for us to solve through merely human methods.

A computer and a blog work pretty good, too. Pardon me while I go finish my wailing in private.

For those that don’t know your arcane Hollywood film history, The Three Faces of Eve was an odd, but high-quality, 1957 take on mental illness, specifically multiple personality disorder. It starred Joanne Woodward, one of the most underrated actresses of the Baby Boom generation. If I were a film historian, or teaching college (which I may in fact do sometime soon if I get myself together), I might do a unit on the good and bad portrayals of mental illness in film over the years. For example, how many of you have seen the sweet, early Johnny Depp movie Benny and Joon (subject: late teen onset of schizophrenia… not Johnny’s, but Mary Stuart Masterson’s)?

Maybe I’m thinking about Eve and Joon because I recently watched Robert Altman’s Vincent & Theo (1990), about another cuckoo, Vincent Van Gogh and his complicated relationship with his brother Theo. It was depressing and uneven, as many Altman films are, but I liked it nevertheless. Perhaps because I, too, am depressing and uneven.

Depressing, optimistic, whatever. All of the above and more. Therefore I finally put myself out there on facebook, which I think I’ve been avoiding for the past two years in the interest of NOT doing something trendy for once. Conformists like us all have to stake out at least one way to not be a lemming, right? (Same reason I’m not going to drive a hybrid, or probably get tats and piercings… I prefer to display my distinctiveness in what I say and do, not how I look.)

The cool part about facebook though –which, I know, will be stating the obvious for those of you who participate (sorry) – is the prospect of turning up old friends and returning them to New Friend status. Perhaps even friends you didn’t know you had, people you thought had dismissed you in high school as a dope, or nice but irrelevant. That’s the experience I’m having, anyway. Acceptance (or at least tolerance) from unexpected sources.

Still, nothing beats honest face-to-face conversation, like the splendid time that was had by all at the L’Arche Chicago Eighth Anniversary event on Sunday, June 22nd. My friend Spencer Foon was honored, along with State of Illinois disabilities advocate Sheila Romano. Sue and I caught up with old friends, made a few new ones, and just enjoyed the smiling faces of the core members.

Two highlights: Spencer in a suit and tie (it will be another five years before I see that again), and Reba/Sonshine Group pal Ron Polzella looking hale and healthy… and winning a bottle of wine in the raffle! I’ll drink to that, Big Ron.

As conspiracy theorists go, I am clearly bush league.

This week’s reminder of how far one can go down this strange, winding path is one Michael Tsarion. He was proposed to me recently as a writer who advances the cause of all things Irish and/or Celtic, and thus mystically and/or politically reasonable. However, in wandering around upon his complex private “interweb” of fact and fiction, I see that he’s just another in a long line of goofy astrologists, occultists and conspiracy theorists, those colorful cats out to take wild, random potshots instead of pointing out a productive path toward the truth.

By now, a small but dedicated handful of you are saying under your breath to me: “Oh, you poor simpleton. You deluded soul, already stolen away from us, we who were only trying to free you from the tyranny of lies and deceit, perpetrated over the past 5000 years.”

Nevertheless, I must defer to a higher authority, who calls me to sing out loud and proud:

“I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.”

Meanwhile, Tsarion and his ilk are out to convince us that every U.S. president was a Freemason, that the mystical, philosophical or biological descendents of Egyptian pharaoh/priest Akhenaton are in control of every Western government, and probably that monotheism in itself is the true enemy of mankind. 

Therefore the Yahweh of the Bible, for some of these theorists, does not love His people but has instead abandoned them to the slings and arrows of all these false prophets and tyrants. Or else the One True God is an invention by these past cults, to keep Everyman down, to keep us from accessing our inner power, which would allow us to practice magic, travel by astral projection, and tear down well-armed despots the moment we encounter them. I don’t know, maybe I’m getting it wrong though. These amateur symbologist types draw such tenuous and strange connections that it’s easy to get confused. 

For instance, did you know that Hitler was actually in league with the pre-Zionist Zionists, in England and elsewhere? Mr. Tsarion even has a photo of a young Hitler, kissing the hand of Elizabeth the Second  –though he mislabels her as Elizabeth the First! This is the kind of sloppy, stupid, ahistorical hogwash that his type loves to slip by us, under a veil of actual facts and plausible interpretations, of very vague details and far-reaching symbols.

Here’s another example, taken directly from Tsarion’s site:

The Bohemian Club - Elite members of this secret order (that includes most US presidents) meet at a time when the sun (Aton) is at its highest point during the year - at the summer solstice - June 21st. The summer solstice was adopted by Hitler and his Nazis as their most important day of ritual and celebration. It was the most sacred day in the Nazi calendar.

Dude, if you so smart, where’s my local Boho meeting being conducted tomorrow? I wanna be there! Are they really THAT good at keeping secrets?

Tsarion tries to make a case for the Nazis and others co-opting and altering many basic Druidic or similar ideas. Yeah Mike, it’s well-established already that Hitler co-opted everyone’s mythology, from India to Scandinavia to Ireland to God only knows where else. But that doesn’t mean he was secretly in compliance with some long-standing plan of the Knights Templar to rule the world. It just means he was crafty and evil, a tool of Satan, a disenchanted but brilliant nutjob who veiled his megalomania in intense nationalist, populist, pseudo-religious bullshit.

Tsarion’s not the first one to try connecting Hitler, Pat Robertson, Pope Paul VI, Satanist Anton LaVey, The Illuminati, philosopher Francis Bacon, and the ancient Persian prophet Zoroaster (it’s like some fascinating but intellectually dishonest variant of the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon  game!). Anyone with a will to think creatively can build a case and turn up potential evidence. Remember the Lone Gunmen, from The X Files? (Oh My Gawd!!!  I was such an X-Files fan… and here’s a thought: was it The Man who secretly killed off the Lone Gunmen’s short-lived spinoff show, or just really crappy writing?)

There are thousands of people like this out in the world, who believe they’re doing important work. In my opinion, a few of them actually are. But they get lost in the midst of all the noise, and because of the very nature of evil, which works to remain hidden and secret for as long as possible.

Every once in awhile, I get sucked into exploring this complex web of numerologists, Kabballah enthusisasts, astrology buffs, and ultra-conservative Christian Pentacostals on the lookout for secret but powerful cults to pray against. And again, I’m not saying these groups, alliances and spiritual connections aren’t out there. They definitely are out there (the “powers and principalities” that Paul speaks of), though I can’t claim any expertise in which theories are solid and which are misguided. Frankly, it just makes my head hurt whenever I read all the fundamentalist, neo-paganist or other misguided tripe that tries to explain every last war and historical development as part of some evil Master Plan.

Sometimes, you gotta just pick a lane and drive. The fact is, sin is real. A negative spiritual force or personality does exist in the universe. But so does the eternal Creator and Redeemer. Thus, every human ever born is capable of both incredible mercy and unspeakable evil, depending upon whom we align ourselves with, and how much ethical and spiritual discipline we are willing to practice.

Yet we are lazy and fearful by nature, and prefer to conform, so we mostly tend to aim down the middle, ignoring Jesus’ path of radical love (and political change, and true justice) because it requires us to feel like such aliens in a world gone wrong.  Even Christians, in most cases (myself included), can’t manage to be in constant, peaceful communion with the Creation and Creator, choosing instead to practice religion rather than faithful, risky, loving action and forgiveness like Jesus himself. 

On the other hand, if we are also hungry or powerless, or have not forgiven past wrongs against “our people”, we are then ripe for the picking by every jihadist, neo-con, or self-aggrandizing leader looking to play upon those fears and physical needs by promising a comeuppance for “the godless infidels”.

If you think about it, commiting to remain disenfranchised, to share equally amongst ourselves, to hang with the prostitutes and have nowhere to lay one’s head, doesn’t sound like such “good news”, does it? It’s so much nicer to sit with a big steak in air-conditioned comfort in front of an HDTV at the ESPN Zone and watch the Boston Celtics (BTW, did they have a Druid priest saying incantations, arranging for their victory?… or perhaps bribing the referees to call fewer fouls?). Fasting and praying under the stars in front of a Celtic cross, clothing the naked, taking in and feeding the orphan, admitting you’re wrong once in awhile… these are works of radical discipleship that require God’s grace precisely because  they’re so hard to perform without His help. Ignorance, of both the good and bad in the world, really is bliss. Anyone with the guts to look into his or her own soul will tell you this.

I say “his or her” above, but let’s be honest: most spinners and practitioners of these crazy conspiracy theories are men — emasculated or psychically wounded men, pseudo-religious pirates, a much different brand of “outsider” than the disciples of Jesus. They’re the fickle followers of Barrabas, the Judases who took a wrong turn, or the self-appointed shamans looking to justify themselves, while leaving others (especially in the undeveloped Two Thirds World) to fend for themselves.

Most are looking for a systemic or external explanation for why they’re forever on the outside personally. Some want power, others merely acceptance. Meanwhile they’re in denial themselves, avoiding the “dark night of the soul” that might actually transform them into credible  witnesses to the true Eternal Light and the truth. This is why other outsiders (you may call them geeks, but we all need to embrace our inner geek) find these theories so attractive. It’s cafeteria-style, libertarian, serve-yourself, super-sweet philosophical candy in an attractive package. The theories free us from any responsibility for our own situations, be they personal or political. They let immature, adolescent, me-against-the-world attitudes fluorish and find justification, irrespective of any higher authority or personal call to holiness and service.

What’s more, the anarchic, non-theistic, or factually fuzzy solutions these theorists often recommend don’t account for the contentiousness and will to power that inevitably sets in among all us sinners. They make it easier to attach blame beyond ourselves, to the eternal THEM – whether THEY are the liberal Jewish media, the conservative fundamentalist Zionist warmongers, the Black Jesus-denying racists, the imperialist/royalist/fascist aristocracy, the Wahabist (or Shi’ ite) usurpers of the true Islamic faith, the Socialist/Communist hippie baby-killers looking to give away the store and crucify Christ again, or the Christian witch-hunters out to kill every horned owl and tree sprite that ever sought to set us free.

Sure, a few modern conspiracy analysts are on a genuine quest for the truth. But many are just the next generation of pawns and liars in the eternal struggle of good and evil.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not advocating we remain ignorant. Just that we consider the source, question authority with a healthy but non-obsessive skepticism, and then lead with our hearts … but without disengaging our heads. Be faithful first. Then be smart. And be careful not to get caught on the wrong side in this battle of disinformation and distraction, only to find out too late you could have instead been enjoying the fulfilling fellowship of true believers all along, the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.

As Peter once said to Jesus when Jesus gave him leave to abandon their difficult journey: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have words of eternal life? We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.”

‘Nuff said.

But first another confession: This marks at least my third blog post in which the word “confession” is part of the title - a sure sign that I’m a St. Augustine-aping, whiny, guilt-ridden, post-Catholic, pseudo-intellectual hack trying to catch people’s attention with self-deprecating humor and imitation, half-assed, lazy religious trickery. Nevertheless, here goes…

I went out, alone, for pricy coffee and and a delicious torte after a church committee meeting the other night. I seem to need to do something like this about once a month: fancy coffee and a hipster newspaper, or popping into a blues bar, or walking down to the corner tavern (which for me is about a half-mile away, barely walkable with my arthritic knee). I never plan when I will make these little bohemian excursions — where I act like a carefree single man, or an irresponsible married man, or a down-on-his-luck divorced man who for some stupid reason reveres reckless poets and raging drunks like Charles Bukowski and Arthur Rimbaud. In fact, planning would be in direct opposition to the spontaneity I so desperately need when the urge to excurge hits. (Excurge? Excurse? Play hooky from my boring life? Whatever… you get it.) Plus, I’m multiply disabled in the medulla adultada, that part of the brain where for most people planning occurs.

But my secret fear is that I look out of place when I’m out playing at that bohemian lifestyle. I have no tattoos. No hardware hanging from my appendages. I don’t wear funky hats much anymore. I mostly wear off-brand polo shirts. My jeans are not ripped, nor written-upon, and I don’t wear all black. I do own a classic old leather bomber jacket – one which I can picture the hero of Kerouac’s On the Road  wearing as he immerses himself in some seedy underworld of tenement apartments and broken-down, landlocked houseboats. But the zipper on that jacket is busted, so I often opt for something warmer and more sensible, if less cool.

Out at the cafe the other night, my main clue that I’m getting too old for this sh*t was that I couldn’t see anything in the dim, atmospheric lighting. I had to use my phone as a lame-ass itty-bitty book light, in order to read The Onion, skipping over articles about rock bands I’ve barely heard of, and occasionally puzzling over references aimed squarely at college-age kids. (I still “get” most of the jokes, though I may not think they’re as funny as the youngsters do…) And I cursed under my breath like a crotchety old man when my twenty-year-old waitress moved at the speed of molasses in getting me the check. Doesn’t anybody have pride in their work anymore? (Yeah, I sound like my parents now. It sucks.)

For last month’s excursion, I admit I pushed the outside of the envelope a bit, as I went out late on a Friday, after Sue and Graham were asleep, to play craps on the gambling boats all the way over in Gary, Indiana. I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t ask “permission” (God forbid). And I knew full-well that my father struggled most of his adult life with a gambling addiction, much injuring my mother and yet denying he had a problem every step of the way. But dammit, it was Friday night, I was wide awake and wired, and I wanted to do it. I’d been thinking about it for months, in fact. So I did it. I even won $130. But Sue called me at about 1:30 or 2am, as I was driving back, wondering where I was. When I told the truth she was rightfully ticked off.

So now I have to make confession, to be reconciled to my wife and my life and my boring middle-class, middle-aged existence. Until next month, when I will fall off the wagon again and limp my way through a game of Ultimate Frisbee with kids half my age after church. In a few minutes I will go off to my full-time job, and when I come home tonight I will cook a well-balanced dinner and probably watch Night In the Museum with my family. Between now and Sunday, I have to mow the lawn, the ultimate symbol that I’m no longer bohemian. (Do they even have lawns in Bohemia, or do they just cover their yards with skate parks and cheeky paintings of Elvis on black velvet?)

Plus I probably need to spend some time this weekend looking for work again, as the school I’m teaching at is suspending operations next year due to financial difficulties. Well, at least that’s ONE way I’m still living like a twenty-something bohemian and wanna-be. I have no real CAREER to speak of…

Is Teddy faking it? I doubt it. But this weekend’s mysterious seizure sure gives Barack Obama some good press, not to mention providing a chance for Sen. Kennedy to look like a folksy “regular Joe” as he recuperates, watches the Red Sox, and plots the next conquest of the progressive movement in America.

I know it’s low-down and dirty to say so publicly, but the illness of one Kennedy – a universally acknowledged bridge to the heady days of Camelot – would be a big boon for the “next JFK”, as Maria Shriver and dozens of other heavy-hitters have called Obama. It would just be a matter of time, then, before environmentalist/knight-in-shining-armor Robert F. Kennedy Jr. becomes a more significant political role-player, and the Beatles would make a triumphant return, and the Peace Corps would replace the Marine Corps in Iraq, and we’ll all be invited out to the Kennedy compound in Hyannis for a celebratory picnic. (What? Party on Cape Cod? I am SO there… Where’s the keys to my yacht?)

News of Teddy Kennedy’s seizure over the weekend probably struck me a bit differently than many liberals.  Maybe because I just watched the excellent movie The Good Shepherd, director  Robert DeNiro’s serious look at the creation and growth of the CIA from the late 1930s through the early 1960s. Matt Damon’s character Edward Wilson, prompted by his own and JFK’s biggest blunder (the failed Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961), looks back over his life’s triumphs and challenges as a spy. Damon is effective as a quietly hawkish, behind-the-scenes true believer; he’s a killer masquerading as civil servant, though one who never once is shown pulling a trigger or wielding a weapon himself. The film is effective as both drama and political commentary (non-partisan commentary, about the spiritual and philosophical danger of too much paranoia — whether one’s enemies are commies or terrorists).

And lest we forget, George Bush Sr. was once Director of the CIA. So this is not some fringy little entity like the Departments of Interior or Education. It’s the little devil on the shoulder of our nation’s leaders, whispering truth and lies into their ears with little certainty of which is which. (Wasn’t it George Tenet that called Iraq a “slam dunk”, even while sending Gulf veteran Colin Powell to the U.N. with faulty intelligence?)

Military and foreign intelligence is the “black hole” among the many bright stars in our sky, a place where reason, mercy and democracy get sucked in, thus suckering us all into thinking that without some great enemy or epic battle, we’re less of a nation. One might call the CIA’s violence and disinformation our nation’s festering cancer, a cancer that can neither kill us nor be cured.

Not that I’m a lover of terrorists, religious dictatorships, the Soviets, or any other monolithic, casually violent, shadowy institution (including our own overly complex and secretive government). But I do sorely hate that whole Red-baiting, saber-rattling, woefully misinformed and hollow foreign policy attitude held by Eisenhower, JFK, and every president up through at least Bill Clinton. For a great man like John F. Kennedy, anti-Communist paranoia was his achilles heel. For example, it led him to embroil us in the first great, ill-advised, unwinnable guerilla war, in Vietnam. (Let’s not kid ourselves: Johnson was only following up what the CIA and JFK had already set in motion in Indochina/Vietnam.) And as for Dubya, he’s just ineptly trying to finish what his Daddy started. And failing. Again.

Let’s hope that future U.S. foreign policy can be more reasoned and sound, in Iraq and elsewhere, for the next generation of Kennedys and Kennedy clones. Don’t take that as an insult, though. I still like Barack just fine. He thinks for himself, despite patterning himself somewhat on the image-obsessed Kennedy. He’s tough, yet without being fundamentally angry (like both Hillary and McCain tend to be). He’s gutsy and takes chances, like that Bay of Pigs thing, but is honest about what’s at risk or being compromised. He’s not “post-military” like JFK, but “post-local” in his understanding of what makes people tick, both in America and around the world. He trusts in his, and in the American public’s, ability to adapt and put our best foot forward when the pressure is on. And despite his smallish, local political beginnings, he may end up being our nation’s first truly “global” president, in an era when a global identity (instead of local/isolationist naivete) means so much.

It never fails. I watch a great political movie like Michael Winterbottom’s A Mighty Heart, starring Angelina Jolie as Mariane Pearl (or Blood Diamond with Leo DiCaprio, or Syriana with Matt Damon and George Clooney), and I’m immediately inspired to do something. The courage and grace of French/Cuban journalist Mariane Pearl (as seen in this Oprah interview), during and in the aftermath of her American journalist husband Daniel Pearl’s murder in 2002 Pakistan, demands nothing less than some kind of concrete nonviolent action. I can’t watch these compelling stories strictly as passive entertainment. “I have to do something!”, I always end up saying.

And then it hits: the feelings of powerlessness, the frustration, even self-loathing; the sense that I’m a little dustmite, an annoying mosquito in the drawers of the powers that be. What can I, of all people, do?

Furthermore, what makes me think I have anything to say that anyone could want to hear, or any skills that are of use in the struggle against such powerful and entrenched warmongers? I’m just a pathetic little schoolteacher. I’m a blogger with a readership of about 12, most of whom probably feel as powerless as I feel, otherwise why would they be mucking about here on the internet instead of out in the streets actually doing something. (Yeah, why ARE you here, by the way? I never had the guts to ask before…)

But those feelings of powerlessness are exactly what the enemies of peace and justice want us to feel. That, and fear, are what keep the downtrodden down, and what keep the genuinely powerful but woefully misled majority silent. Therefore, refusing to give in to those feelings of apathy and fear is the first and most essential step in taking victory away from the perpetrators of violence, in dulling the power of the sword (and the bulldozer, in the violence they would do to our planet). This step does not bring me much closer to knowing what I can do to help, but it at least gets me out of that comfy little foxhole/prison they would have me fall asleep in.

Besides, where are the streets anymore? Does protest actually matter? Are these the streets, these electronic alleyways lined with dirty windows, through which we see silly dressed-up kittens, old instructional video footage of James Brown teaching us to dance the boogaloo and funky chicken, and dumpster upon dumpster filled with porn?

In a media-saturated society, it’s easy to shut down, to screen out, to remove ourselves from all this trivia and complicated mess that surrounds us. Yet we can do something else, from right where we are. We do it through real relationships, with real people, out living real life. The “streets that have no name” lead to our churches, our neighborhoods, our schools, our families. We can talk straight, do what we can to educate those whom we see every day, and hope that some of it sticks.

And yes, the Internet is The Street also. Furthermore, it’s as powerful a tool for doing good as it is for spreading, um, …fertilizer. We can use it to stay informed, or to publicize important information so that others are better equipped. We can donate money to some inspired project, like musician Peter Gabriel’s work with WITNESS providing hundreds of video cameras all over Europe, Africa and Asia, to document human rights abuses and bring to light what most abusers would prefer remain in darkness.

And last but not least, we can cry out ourselves –here in our little cul-de-sac blogs and boutiques of opinion– believing that if even one more person is saved (in body or spirit) by our dozens of attempts, by our refusal to stop caring, then we’ve done what we could, and it was good enough.

Or, …we can choose to go where the action is. For example, today I went to Jesus Manifesto and found out that its founder/editor Mark VanSteenwyck is joining with Christian Peacemaker Teams. Which means he’ll soon be putting his own ass on the line to keep local journalists, lawyers, human rights workers and labor organizers safe, in one of the dozens of war zones throughout the world. Mark is a young man with a new baby… a baby he cares enough about to try remaking the world into a safer place for him to grow up in. Furthermore, Mark trusts Jesus with his life, and that of his family.

In Colombia, Palestine, Congo, Iraq, and other conflict zones, hundreds of regular Joes and Janes on Christian Peacemaker Teams act not as soldiers, uninvolved journalists or security contractors but as friends, layman ambassadors, and prayer warriors. They accompany the powerless. They teach conflict resolution. They are patriotic but peace-loving, believing it is just as important to change the hearts and minds of combatants on both sides as it is to preserve the lives of the oppressed, those caught in the middle of it all. As Westerners (mostly American and Canadian Mennonites, Brethren, and Quakers, with a few Catholics, Baptists, Presbyterians and “Other” thrown in for balance) these teams really do show a Power to the People kind of courage and hope. They walk in the Spirit. They keep the conversation going, with the local Joachims and Juanas, while huge nation-states and mindless terrorist organizations prove every day that the way of the gun only results in more confusion and violence.

In Iraq Tom Fox, a CPT human rights worker, lost his life in the midst of that confusion and senseless violence. Tom was one of four CPT members kidnapped in March 2006. Though his colleagues were rescued, Tom was not so fortunate. But the witness that he presented to the world had an impact, and the CPT work in Iraq continues even now.

Last year, I met somebody here in Chicago who knew Tom Fox, who told me about something else Tom had done. There was a working collective of painters and artists in Baghdad that Tom had contacts with, and he acted as a go-between, helping set up channels for some of their remarkable and accomplished paintings to get out of Iraq. Those paintings are still coming over, to the Iraqi Art Gallery here in Chicago, in the Rogers Park neighborhood. This is not far from Living Water Community Church, where my own church (Reba Place) did a church plant in the early 1990s. The nonprofit’s director and curator, Chuck Trimbach (a former colleague of filmmaker Harold Ramis), is still plugging along after three years. But in the present political and economic climate he’s got to be scraping the bottom of the barrel by now. And it’s a shame, because the paintings are both excellent and affordable. More importantly, the artists who get the lion’s share of the profits need help, now more than ever.

Meanwhile in Iran, Mennonite delegations are practically the only Westerners that their president and more moderate religious leaders are willing to talk to or trust. And in a context of trust, even a controversial message (like “stop denying that the Holocaust occurred”) can be delivered face-to-face, which is precisely what those delegations have done. (“Speak the truth in love,” Jesus said. Right?) I know some folks, including my friend Dr. Tom Finger, who participated in these talks.

So I may never get to the front lines. But this is 2008. This is the internet. This is the worldwide church, established and empowered by Christ, which knows no national boundaries, and continues to dismantle the artificial boundaries of denominational division. This is the small world that they kept telling us was on its way. The battle lines keep moving, and they get more blurry every day. The battle to uncover and stand upon the truth is one we are all called to. So come on out of that foxhole now. We’re gonna need some help. Besides, you won’t be alone.

Those of you who have followed Marking Time since its inception in the summer of 2006 –all two of you– will recall that when I began, I had Lebanese actor Tony Shalhoub (as tv detective Adrian Monk) up here as my background photo. Although I do like that show, it was really the tangential monastic tie-in that caused me to use that figure as a starting point.

The monkish tradition has long been of interest to me. Having grown up Roman Catholic, I was occasionally exposed to the practices and history of the Benedectines, the Trappists, and the Franciscans. (Plus there were all those cute molded, cement St. Francis statues I saw around in people’s gardens.) Then when I experienced a deepening of my faith through various Protestant ministries as an adult, I kind of put the whole monastic thing on hold, for a little while. But I did not, nor have I ever, thrown out my past or present experience with Catholics and monks as invalid or incomplete.

If anything, the message and methods of the “first church” have continued to be a voice that keeps me rooted, occasionally calling me back across the bridge to spend some time with my ancestral teachers, brothers and sisters. The consistent Roman Catholic application of the gospel to problems of social justice, for example, inspire me to make more radical choices in how I follow Jesus’ lead as a peacemaker and prophet of pain.

Thus, while wandering around some of my favored internet neighborhoods this morning (most notably the Potter Street Community/Simple Way site, featuring noted author Shane Claiborne), I clicked through to a blog maintained by some members of Psalters, a punkish, gypsy, neo-granola, somewhat monastic (but mostly Protestant?) music group that has been turning heads for a few years now. What really turned my head today was a section of the blog about their tour of Turkey. Here’s an excerpt:

Just east of there we found the oldest monastery in the world, Mar Gabriel.   Founded in 397a.d. it housed a large library and some 2000 monks as recently as the 1960’s.   Now there are 3 monks and a handful of others left to care for the several large buildings.   We met with the Bishop to see if there was a way we could build a relationship with the church here in America and perhaps in some way help.   Bishop Samuel Aktash, with a full beard and robes, … was a kind and resolute man but with the countenance of the heavy burdened and worn down.   For most of our questions, including our offers to help, he kind of just shrugged and said, “hmm” or “i don’t know”….his answers and manner conveyed more of a solemn perseverance that seemed to fall short of actual Hope.   They speak Aramaic (the language of Jesus) yet are banned from teaching the language to anyone.   They are “permitted” to be Christian, but are not allowed to share it.   At one point he told us, “you have heard the great stories of the martyrs.   Here we are not killed anymore, but we are not allowed to live.   We as a people are being made a museum like this monastery.   We are living martyrs.”

I will not add comment, as the words speak for themselves. The Spirit will break your heart as He/She sees fit. Suffice it to say we should pray for the minority Christians in Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Syria, and throughout the Mesopotamian region that gave birth to what we now call civilization. Our Western churches have their roots there, especially in Turkey, whether we like it or not.

Some of the current groups, like Psalters, that now carry forward the values and commitment inherent in the monastic tradition will be gathering this summer for the PAPA Festival (People Against Poverty & Apathy), in the little central Illinois town of Tiskilwa. Intentional Christian communities, activists, gardeners, and neo-hippies from around the country will gather at PAPAfest for music, prayer, workshops and other creative endeavors, building a temporary village and a big home-made happening, all to explore the living out of these ancient but still relevant monastic values. (I may be doing a workshop there, …just now starting to look into it.) I think it’s going to be a bit like the progressive Christian version of the Burning Man Festival. But attendance is capped at 1000 people, so don’t go spreading the word about it unless you’re serious about coming and absolutely have to drag a few friends along. The website and other details are still in-process, but registration begins next week.

For a U.S. monastery that functions as both a museum and a high-functioning religious pilgrimage site, take a look at Thomas Merton’s old Kentucky abbey, Gethsemani. Established in 1852, it’s a Cistercian (Trappist) abbey, and one of the grand old dames of prayer and peace-producing action in America. Merton’s hermitage is there, and they host retreatants of any and all religious persuasions, so it’s got both educational and spiritual possibilities for those of you looking to explore the field further.

I will move on now to a few other somewhat random links to matters monastic:

In Three Rivers, Michigan, there’s a modest little Episcopal abbey and retreat center called St. Gregory’s Abbey. Although I have never done an overnight there, I have visited for a few hours, sat in on their vespers prayers in the architecturally amazing chapel, and walked the grounds a bit. I also have friends who have done some truly life-changing retreats there. If you live anywhere in the northeastern Illinois or Michiana regions, it is a nice getaway for both personal and small group retreat experiences. If you live elsewhere, look into whether a monastery near you offers either silent or guided retreats. There’s bound to be one nearby, but they like to hide, like the hermits in caves that taught them everything they needed to know.

Heading in another, admittedly odd direction, I’m also a fan of the old monastic tradition of making wine and other “spirits”. My favorite liquer, for example, is Frangelico, a woundrous Italian monk-brewed concoction of hazelnut and spices that you never forget once you taste it. In August of ‘06, in a Marking Time blog on gardening and grape-growing, I had this to say about Frangelico:

(I call it “angel drool”, and I have it on good authority that it’s the one alcohol, besides wine, of which Yahweh fully approves.)

Similarly, my favorite winemakers are the people of Franciscan Oakville Estates in California. Disclaimer: the irony of this fancy, slightly expensive, non-religious winery and website pimping the name of the original “simple living” monk is not lost on me. Nevertheless, their Cabernet Sauvignon is a very good wine, and we all gotta make a living, right? So I’ll forgive them their excesses. Maybe they donate all the profits to the poor. (Yeah, right…)

So look around! Monks are not a thing of the past. They’ve just changed how they dress, and where they live. They’re still alive and well, mostly. May their witness and their radical love endure forever.

I was Jesus today.

In a play at church, that is. As Jesus, I started out dead, and by the end, I was alive, smiling, and talking to Mary Magdalene. The role is quite a treat, once one gets past the worry that those are some pretty big shoes to fill as an actor.

I was almost late for the service, though. (Oops. Sorry. I’m only human…) The play was first up, and the director and cast were in a mild panic, as I had struggled to get my family out the door and into church on time. Nevertheless, the extra two-minute wait for the congregation was probably a good thing. Built some anticipation, a moment of silence for them to consider the work of God in their own lives, or what they still needed Jesus to come and fix. And yes, this cheap, imitation Jesus did eventually show up, just as the real one always does. The Holy Spirit has a way of getting God’s work done, even if it does not happen according to our schedule or our exact plans.

A very good Easter message this morning from pastor Ric Hudgens, too, on Peter’s sermon about the meaning of Jesus in the book of Acts. You can find a podcast of it at the church website, though it most likely won’t be posted for download till later this week.

Finally, I noted with humble gratitude a positive and hopeful news story about Pope Benedict an the conversion of an Italian Muslim. True faith takes courage, like that displayed by this man who will endure death threats in order to follow Jesus. Or the courage of Benedict today, speaking of peace and calling for merciful solutions in The Holy Land, Iraq, Tibet, and everywhere else the work of Jesus has not yet been completed.

Even here, right?

I read a little satirical piece in The Onion this morning about the accidental washing of the holy relic the Shroud of Turin with a red t-shirt, which as we all know would stain the shroud slightly pink. While the writing there is not the funniest I’ve seen in The Onion, it did get me thinking about holy relics, archaeology, and the odd place they hold in post-modern popular culture.

Remember the Big Flap about The DaVinci Code when it came out, first in book form and then as a film? Or the Slightly Smaller Flap about the recently discovered Gospel of Judas  in 2006 (actually found in an Egyptian cave in the 1970s, but that’s another story…)?

It seems that the tricky-sticky-icky “evolution/intelligent design” debate is not the only subject area where scientists have been squaring off with theologians and historians in this decade. That’s just the most politically-charged area, because it impacts public schools and millions of kids from the primary grades right up through college. And lucky us, we get to watch the sparks fly every time a new nonfiction book stirs up the debate in a new thematic area. And maybe we learn something, about ourselves and what matters most, every time a new book or scholarly journal on other biblical or scientific issues (like Mary Magdalene, Judas, genetic engineering or string theory) leads to a dramatic, fictionalized interpretation of those themes in fiction or on film.

When I finished that Onion article, I found myself thinking back to a certain long-forgotten 1970s miniseries starring David Janssen, in which a newly discovered gospel by Jesus’ brother James turns the religious world on its ear. That Jansen movie involved Irving Wallace’s The Word (1972), a popular novel made into an eight-hour miniseries in 1978.

[Side note: Wallace was the father of author David Wallechinsky, who co-authored 1977's The Book of Lists with his pop. I think BOL is Wallace's only published nonfiction work, but his son David has gone on to quite a career also, as an Olympic historian and socio-political journalist. He currently writes for Parade magazine, and he does a cool blog on The Huffington Post which you can link to here  (including an extended article on his recent undercover visit to North Korea).]

I was 13 in 1978 when The Word was broadcast, with a brain ripe and ready to ask the tough questions about philosophy and identity.  So I think this miniseries may have been the beginning of my long-running fascination with theology and science, and Western ideas about how each informs the other. I remember how the film’s concepts captured my young, developing imagination. Though I had not yet heard about linguistic deconstruction or postmodernism, I was fascinated to suddenly see that our history was not in fact some rock-solid, unchangeable thing, but was formed by various interpreters from various fields! I was further intrigued at the thought that all these interpreters had an agenda in determining the wider public view of historical “fact”. Political agendas. Social agendas. Scientific agendas. And, of course, religious agendas.

It helped that I was Roman Catholic, the part of the church that, even then, was the most fun for our secular society to poke and prod and try to scandalize. I was not a old-style Catholic, though. Vatican II happened from 1962-65, when the Church softened some of its nuttier theological stands on things like the Latin Mass, Purgatory and fish on Fridays. By the late Sixties, it seemed almost all the rules were changing in Europe and America. Therefore many of the taboos about what was impolite to write or speak publicly about were already crumbling by 1972 when The Word came out.

I didn’t know any of this at the time, though. In 1978, watching The Word, all I knew was that here was a great story, an adventure. Better still, it didn’t involve pirates or cops or some other foreign or implausible character, but a regular Joe, a P.R. guy that looked like my dad and traveled the world to find the truth about, of all people, Jesus!  Janssen (an underrated actor) was like Indiana Jones in a three-piece suit, three years before Lucas and Spielberg stumbled onto the same formula.

A bit of fun trivia: the miniseries featured a very young Chistopher Lloyd (of Taxi and Back to the Future) and an equally young Kate Mulgrew (Captain Janeway on the Star Trek: Voyager series — and one of the sexiest voices ever dropped onto magnetic tape). And it has John Huston, the Oscar-winning director, who acted very infrequently but is a highlight of any film in which he appears. Such gravitas.

I’m going to have to see if there’s a DVD version of The Word out there for rental, maybe even for purchase, as I occasionally teach a series of classes for adults called “Faith on Film” and could use a snippet next time I teach the class.

[Warning: Shameless self-promotion ahead -- Email me at mnielsen34@gmail.com if you want to sponsor a single or multi-session Faith on Film course for your church or school. I'll give you a good rate, 'cause I just LOVE talking about God and the movies. I've done portions of the course for Catholics, mainline Protestants, conservative evangelicals, Mennonites, secular students, ... you name the group or age range, I can teach 'em, and better yet without ticking them off. I can even work with home schoolers. Pass the word...]

One of the best treatments on film of this subject (the changing historical face of Jesus) was done in the Oscar-nominated 1989 film Jesus of Montreal. It portrays a troupe of mostly non-Christian actors and actresses, who’ve been hired by a present-day Catholic diocese to put on a Passion Play. Writer/director Denys Arcand clearly knew his stuff, including the linguistics, literary criticism and semi-scientific methods that have been used by historians and theologians in the past 50 years to shed new light on the biblical text. But JoM is a great drama, too, in which the actors really become a sort of religious co