Which Tribe is the Dia-Tribe?

Our heads are round so our thoughts can change direction. Francis Picabia

Thinking is hard. It’s actually harder to think than most of us realize. Part of the reason for that difficulty is that we’re accustomed to starting with our conclusions because that’s where we’re at. I mean, I already know what I think about most things, so anyone who comes up to challenge my opinion on something is already starting off on the wrong foot.

When I was in Junior High, I remember science classes where we were learning about “the scientific method.” I don’t remember much about it now, of course, but I do remember that we would start with an observation, ask a question, then develop a hypothesis to explore the matter, and then we’d do some experiments to prove or disprove the hypothesis. Well, believe it or not, I wasn’t very good at crafting hypotheses, so I would do my experiments first, then go back and craft a hypothesis that fit the facts as they developed. That meant I was never wrong; my conclusions always fit my hypotheses, but I really didn’t engage in “the scientific method,” did I?

Why not? Because thinking is hard. Admitting I didn’t know something from the get-go was embarrassing. I knew my ignorance, of course, because I knew I was taking shortcuts. I don’t know if my science teachers ever caught on to what I was doing, but they didn’t need to. I knew the truth – something from which I couldn’t hide.

I wonder if some of the violent rhetoric we find flying around these days on social media, letters to the editor, and such whatnot isn’t the result of people taking shortcuts on matters under consideration. 

We know what we know, but do we really know what we know? Those who have had military training know the importance of depersonalizing the enemy, because it is really hard to kill someone if you think about their parents, siblings, friends, lovers, and children. The enemy isn’t a person – not a part of “my” tribe – but an object to be scorned and killed before “it” kills you. Sociopaths and psychopaths are able to commit their atrocities because they don’t see their victims as people, as equals, or as peers.

I may not be a psychopath or sociopath exactly, but I know how easy it is to act like one. My heart fills with violence when someone says or does something I find unconscionable. If I think, however (which is hard to do), I realize they may well be thinking similar thoughts about me. This attitude is exactly what led Cain to slay his brother Abel, and the religious and secular authorities to torture and kill Jesus. How can I claim to be better than them when the same illness resides in my heart, in my soul?

I can’t. That’s the truth of the matter. I can’t, unless I’m willing to do that which is very hard: think. People can look at the same facts and reach different conclusions. We can agree that oysters are edible, but we don’t have to agree about whether or not they are delicious. Oysters are oysters and there is a lot we can learn about them by studying them, but taste is subjective and it is also a fact that not everyone will appreciate an oyster except for its pearls.

How about issues that are more important to our lives than oysters? Well, I would say we need to remember that God gave us two ears and one mouth. I believe Jesus calls us to listen to one another. I believe he calls us to think first, and speak second. He definitely calls us to honor one another and treat one another with kindness, including those who would abuse us and mistreat us. Like thinking, that’s hard to do and, like thinking, it is something we hope Jesus was just kidding about when he said it.

That’s fine if your goal is to fight, but Jesus calls us to learn. The word he uses is “disciple,” the root of which is discipline. That doesn’t mean punishment, by the way; it means thinking. And that’s what I want to do here in this, our valley – always, even if it’s hard.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Heart of the Matter

 Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. William Shakespeare

September 29 is World Heart Day. The focus is on that thumper hiding behind one’s ribcage. I am told (via the media) that some 17 million people die from heart disease each year. A friend of mine wasn’t feeling too well a few months back, went to his doctor and from there was rushed to an emergency department for something much more serious than “not feeling well.” Five bypasses later, he’s doing much better. 

Although hospital resources around here are being stressed, stretched, and strained to address the climbing number of patients with Covid-19 related issues, they are still able to eke out emergency treatments for people with other needs. One reason I signed up for (and received) my Covid vaccinations was to help keep at least one more hospital bed open for people who might really need it.

I don’t make that statement out of arrogance or ego gratification. It’s just a boring fact. I don’t want to see the inside of a hospital for any reason, but if I can do something that helps keep those facilities open for those who need them, then I believe that’s what Jesus would have me do. As he said on a number of occasions and in a variety of ways, “Do what the law requires” (“render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's''), and “do what God requires” (“and to God that which is God’s”).

Jesus didn’t seem too heck-bent on rights, freedoms and privileges. Love was his North Star, his Guiding Light. Back in the 1990s there was a bunch of “WWJD” paraphernalia sold or distributed everywhere you went. It stood for “What Would Jesus Do.” That sounded good on the face of it, but it always made me uncomfortable because, well, frankly, I can’t imagine Jesus doing anything different from what I would want to do in a given situation. Too many people rationalize their behavior, and then simply add, “I’m sure that’s what Jesus would have done.”

I prefer to change the question slightly, asking: What Did Jesus Do? It is more difficult to rationalize bad behavior if we set it up alongside what Jesus actually did. I know the government didn’t mandate masks or vaccinations in Jesus’ day, but what they did mandate, Jesus said, “Do it.” 

In one story we find Jesus paid taxes that were required (Matthew 17). He didn’t argue about it. He didn’t whine about it. He didn’t grab a sword and threaten to kill over it. He had the disciples go fishing, and from the mouth of the fish, discovered money needed to pay the tax. 

The tale derives from a question about freedom. “Must we pay?” he asks. “We’re free to pay,” he answers. 

Some people rise up in the morning and say, “I have to go to work.” Others rise and say, “I get to go to work.” The result of their labor is the same: income. But their attitudes make all the difference. 

Jesus worked the field. Jesus kept busy. He took time off to recharge, refill, and reconnect with God. He also got grumpy from time to time. I have no doubt there were times Jesus took his disciples aside and said, “Friends, I am down to my last nerve and you’re getting mighty close to stepping on it.” To the best of my knowledge, he never took a two by four to them, but he spoke directly, clearly and plainly to them. He gave Peter what must have felt like a gut-punch one day when he said, “Get behind me Satan, for you’re not looking at things through God’s eyes, but your own” (Mark 8).

I suspect many of the world’s problems are caused by looking through lenses made of green-eyed envy, or huddled behind walls of fear and loathing (and calling it “being realistic”). That’s fine. I just ask that we be honest about it and stop trying to pretend our words or actions are either godly or Christian. Perhaps the world is in desperate need of heart bypass surgery.

I only know of One Surgeon who can do it. Love is how God heals and bypasses hearts of stone in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Milk of Kindness

There is probably something in the world that tastes amazing but we refuse to try it because it doesn’t look appetizing to us. Anonymous

When my daughter and her family moved east, they left an unopened carton of milk designed for people who have issues with lactose. The producers say they want people to be able to “fall in love with milk again.”

I have never considered myself a snob, and I have never been one to throw away perfectly good food. I had lunch in a restaurant with a parishioner many years ago who had no desire to take his leftovers home. He said, quite matter of factly, “I ate this meal and enjoyed it once. I don’t need to eat it again.” I knew it would be uncouth (and probably not just a little weird) to offer to take it myself, so I let it pass. But letting that food go to a dumpster just seemed so grossly indecent (to me). 

So now the cow is on the other foot, of course, as Mama Karma has gifted me with sixty-four ounces of nutrition that I, frankly, don’t want to deal with (and which won’t expire for another month or more). I grew up in a family where we were not encouraged to eat what was put in front of us; we were EXPECTED to eat what was put in front of us. We were not encouraged to try new things; we were EXPECTED to try new things. 

As a consequence, there is virtually nothing I won’t try, and most things I eat, I enjoy. Yes, I enjoy liver and onions. Yes, I enjoy broccoli and brussel sprouts and – stop the presses – baby green lima beans. I think escargot is overrated (if you use enough butter, garlic, and wine, I am sure banana slugs would taste delicious, too) but if escargot is being served, I’ll do my duty and take my share.

The problem with new things, of course, is not their newness, but the mental barriers we erect to avoid dealing with them. I have done enough laundry in my life to appreciate the chemicals that get my whites their whitest and colors their brightest, so I’m offended by products that are touted as being “new and improved.” They may well be better, but my mind (or what’s left of it) isn’t convinced. I can’t bring myself to wash in cold water. I can’t. I won’t. I refuse with all the stubborn stupidity I can muster, for to change might suggest the way I’ve always done things wasn’t right, or isn’t the best way to do them. It’s a silly attitude when one thinks about it, but that’s what keeps therapists in business, isn’t it?

We don’t feel that way about all new things, though, do we? Or at least I don’t. I compare my sixty-five inch high definition television (which is properly termed “monitor” in modern parlance) to the thirteen inch black and white set I grew up with back in the days when programming ended with the National Anthem, followed by hours of a static test pattern, and I’ll admit I have no desire to go back to the way it was. My ability to send and receive instant messages online with speeds measured in gigabits per second compared to the “blazing fast” .056 megabits per second (56k) of dial-up is nothing less than miraculous!

So our response to new things tends to be more of a subjective mind-game we play than an objective analysis of what is set before us. It really isn’t the newness of a thing, but the attitude we bring to what’s new. If I’m convinced I’m not going to like something, I can pretty well guarantee it will live up or down to that expectation. Perhaps that age-old parental admonition to “try it before you decide whether or not you’re going to ‘like’ it” is worth revisiting, for my experience had been to actually appreciate most of what they “made” me eat in my youth.

What is true of food may also be true with other aspects of life, but we’ll explore that next time we meet up here in this, our valley. For now, I’ve got to go have a bowl of cereal with some moo-juice.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Meditation for Proper 19B

Mark 8:27-38

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” And they answered him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.”

(Text from the NRSV): https://www.lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Pentecost/BProp19_RCL.html

Life is burdensome. I don’t talk about it often, but I occasionally find life unbearably burdensome. I don’t talk about it much, I suppose, because we’ve all got burdens of one sort or another, and if you really wanted to listen to someone cry in their beer, you would just go to any bar, stick some money in a jukebox, and listen to country-western music. Dogs die, lovers leave, the truck breaks down. Wah wah wah. We all have burdens. Burdens are the pain that accompany us in life.

Life is also full of thorns. I have rose bushes I stay far away from. I think the flowers are pretty, but I have found at my age that I only have to look at a rose bush and my arms and fingers just start gushing blood all for the heck of it. To paraphrase a line from Jurassic Park, “(Thorns) will find a way.” We can do all the right things, eat all the right foods, practice social distancing and proper hygiene and still get run over by a drunk driver, wounded by an IED, contract an illness, or lose a friend. These are thorns. Thorns are the pains that are inflicted upon us in life.

And then there is the Cross. “Take up your cross,” says Jesus. “Follow me,” he says like a good scout leader marching off into the wilderness with saints and sinners all packed in together. The Cross is neither a burden, nor is it a thorn. It is the pain we take up on behalf of another. It is the pain we choose. It can’t be forced upon us, except by our own choosing, our own choice. Jesus says we MUST take up our cross and follow, so it sounds like we’re being ordered to, but the MUST here is different. 

It is the compulsion of compassion. It is the compulsion you feel when the right thing to say or do is put in front of you, and while you may want to run away screaming, “Not my table, not my problem,” you feel just the lightest little tingle from the finger of God, right about two inches below the solar plexus, about where your heart sits on your gut, and you know, you just know you MUST say or do the right thing. 

For Christians, the Cross is the compulsion of compassion we feel in our heart and know in our head, just like Jesus knew about his cross when he turned and set his face to go to Jerusalem. He took the burdens of the world, and he took the thorns of the world, and he made them his burdens; he made them his thorns; he made them his cross to bear.

We’ll talk more about this Sunday in church. I hope to see you there in person, or by live-streaming, or coming to you somewhat Messianic-like from “the” cloud. 

Peace and Grace,

Fr. Keith+

A Hard Road

We do not have all the answers. We are on a spiritual journey. (A welcoming sign outside St. Martin’s, Canterbury)

I looked out the living room window. The sun broke through a flock of clouds that had been breaking up since the earlier evening’s rainfall. Rays of light covered the spectrum of colors generally reserved for the richest and ripest of citrus fruits. There was a burst of tangerine, surrounded by rays of orangey orange, limey greens, and lemony lemons. The display was truly radiant and spectacular, and one of the things I truly love about this part of the world. The colors were so vivid, and despite the many fires out West, I wasn’t catching any of those reddish browns that often accompany sunsets during the fire seasons. Nevertheless, the colors were gorgeous and bore witness to the One who creates all that is.

The beauty of the scene drove home ever more sharply the pain of grief that accompanies loss. In this particular case, it was the final night our daughter and her family would be in our neck of the woods for quite some time as they packed up, loaded up, and prepared to move away first thing in the morning. Her beau has been transferred by his company to another assignment located in Indiana. 

A couple of weeks ago their son (our grandson) made the move east, not so much to scout the region (as most twelve year olds don’t do that kind of scouting), but to get enrolled in and start middle school (about three weeks earlier than schools around here). So he’s been living with another set of grandparents, going to school, running daily in Cross Country, and is now, this weekend, anxiously awaiting what should be a grand reunion in just a matter of days.

The dying rays of the evening sun spoke much more eloquently than I ever could of the darkness that comes with loss. I want to fast-forward to the darkness that precedes the morning dawn, but that’s not where I’m at. Besides, morning will bring the grief of actually watching them back out the driveway in their car, following a brother in law and father in law who flew out specifically to help load the truck and drive it “home” for them.

The sun continued to dip below the mountain range just to the west of us, and I turned my attention back to the task at hand – the Last Supper. Well, not exactly like the more famous meal one reads about in scripture, and if everyone drives properly, probably won’t end up with arrests, trials, or executions over the next few hours. But it was our last supper together for now. And it was a simple meal of microwaved pizza singles (courtesy of Costco), some cool beverages, and the sharing of life stories of the “Remember when …” variety.

The time for bed eventually came, as it always does, and each took their leave as necessary. No one slept well, of course. Most endured the anxiousness that comes with knowing they had about 2,200 miles to cover as quickly as (legally) possible (and the restlessness of sleeping in beds that were not their own), while we being “left behind” had a future full of empty blanks coming up (birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, simple babysitting duties, school sports, etc.).

Morning eventually broke. The skies were lead-gray and weeping. Birds were snuggled in their trees and nests and making no effort to look for meals. After downing my first cup of coffee for the day, I hustled about the kitchen preparing a simple breakfast casserole, served with toast, butter, and a variety of jams. Family members rose and took care of their ablutions one by one. The adults packed up their overnight bags and loaded the vehicles. We continued lighthearted conversations as breakfast was served and consumed (and griefs suppressed).

Finally, time came to say our goodbyes. We know we’ll see each other down the road, so they weren’t really “goodbyes” but “see you laters.” We hugged and kissed, and waved final “I Love You” signs (used between members of the deaf community). As they backed out of the driveway, the rains stopped, but moisture – signs of a hard road – began to fall from other sources here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When Things are Closer than They Appear

The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been. Madeleine L’Engle

Do you realize I have never seen the small of my back? I have seen photographs of it, of course, and in those angled groups of mirrors found in dressing rooms one is using to try on clothes to see how they fit. But I’ve never actually seen, with my own eyes, my own backside.

I was pondering that totally uninteresting tidbit of information as I set down a book I’d just finished reading dealing with a bit of American history. As my mind wandered the deserted streets between my ears, I found myself thinking about history as those times or events that lie behind us. Many of us look at history as if we’re passengers on a train pulling out of a station that falls further and further behind. 

Another history buff and I were talking about our common interests and he made an interesting observation. He said, “You know, we westerners look at history as something that lies behind us. We're constantly moving forward, away from it. Other cultures look at the past differently. They see the past in front of them. It’s receding, of course, but it’s the future that’s out of sight – behind them, so to speak. It hasn’t happened yet.”

Interestingly, people in addiction recovery take that second view of history. The Promises of twelve-step recovery programs states, “We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.” Rather than running from the awful or shameful things they may have done to themselves or others while in the throes of their addiction, they use those experiences to help them grow into a future filled with hope rather than shame; with courage rather than fear.

There is an old saying that those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. I suppose that is true, to a degree, but I prefer a more positive approach: Those who study history are bound to find solutions to current conundrums. I know it hasn’t got the same panache as the original, but perhaps it is more helpful. I don’t like doom and gloom. I can’t recall a time when doom and gloom saved me from anything. If anything, it paralyzes me, whereas a clear-eyed view of lessons learned has helped keep me out of the deep doo doo I might otherwise step in.

Now, I know that walking backwards around the house or driving in reverse down the street would not be very healthy for most of us (I wish I would beep when walking backwards), but keeping an eye on the past can be very helpful. For instance, I could be worried about receiving one of the Covid-19 vaccines. I don’t have a crystal ball, so I can’t look into the future and see whether it is safe, effective, or whether or not I will get the disease and die without the vaccine. The future is a mystery.

However, I can look into the past and see the polio and smallpox vaccines I have received and, voila, I have not gotten those diseases. My kids received their MMR (Measles, Mumps, Rubella) shots at the prescribed times and, voila, never came down with those particular diseases. My father received tons of shots when he entered basic training in the army back in the 1940s and, voila, lived to be ninety years old. Consequently, when I made an appointment to receive my Covid-19 vaccine, I did so with full confidence in the scientists who developed the vaccines, the labs that produced the product, and the medical personnel who put those doses into my arm.

Some folks may remember the thalidomide debacle in the 1950s (a drug which caused major issues, like birth defects). Of course that is precisely the sort of rear-facing history that helped to prevent a lot of mistakes after that. Science practices, tests, refines, improves. Scientists aren’t perfect, but they’re willing to acknowledge their mistakes and learn from them.

I may never see the small of my back, but I’m glad it is there to lead me forward (masked and vaccinated) here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Time Marches On – I’d Prefer It to Dance!

 

Perhaps the misfortune that you do not like, leads you to a beautiful destiny that you never dreamed of. Anonymous

Life is a pilgrimage, or so it is said. We travel a road full of twists and turns, beginning in a womb and ending in a tomb. We find ourselves eventually holding court beneath a stone with name and dates engraved, but it is really the tomb of an unknown. Immediate family may pop by for a visit, but it won’t last long, and when that generation passes on, the stone with its engravings will sit and, over time, begin to wear away with exposure to the constant bombardment of sun and rain, snow and ice, and the vegetative mastication of not-so-innocent mosses and lichens that latch onto the engravings, seeking to devour the very stone itself – over time.

“Time marches on; it waits for no man,” said my grandmother. She knew a thing or two about time. Although she was in her nineties when she died, I am sure I thought she was in her nineties back when I was just a child, and she was likely in her forties or fifties, instead. The concept of time is wasted on youth. What the heck do we know? 

Time. Nothing lasts forever. Heck, some things come broken straight out of the box. I bought a new laptop that I spent months troubleshooting online, as well as shipping it back and forth with their technical support staff. It is still a five pound paperweight. The manufacturer insists it works fine. Their computers tell them it meets all their specifications and returns no errors. My experience tells me something different. Life’s too short to keep up the fight, so I’ll just have the bleeding thing cremated with me when the time comes to topple from the frying pan into the fire.

Time. It seems there is a magazine with that moniker, although odds are pretty good my mug will never grace the cover of that periodical. That’s OK. I’m not out for fame or fortune, although a little more fortune would be nice. Fame, on the other hand, isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I’m not famous and (by Somebody’s good grace) I’m not infamous. It has been ages since I have even looked at a magazine rack in a store, so I don’t know what periodicals are left standing. Perhaps their time has passed, too.

Time. It comes and goes. I have a desk clock I inherited from my great uncle, Gus. It hasn’t worked in years. Clock experts have looked at it, but none have been able to restore it to a functioning condition, but that’s OK. It has the correct time twice a day and dresses up the curio cabinet in the living room very nicely. I may try to find a specialist to look at it, but only time will tell if I will ever get around to it.

Time. I am obsessed with the topic, it’s true, and I think my interest was inherited. The first thing I ever coveted from a very early age was a wristwatch. My mother told me I could have one when I learned to tell time. I studied the hands on the kitchen clock daily until I knew far more than the basics. Hour hands and minute hands were easy. I made sure I knew the “quarters past and the quarters to” and the “half pasts and the thirty minutes tils.” 

I saved money from odd jobs, allowances, and birthdays until one day I was finally ready to buy a decent wristwatch. I went to the jewelry counter at Ballard’s JC Penny store and picked out a wonderful looking timepiece for which I had exact change. Sadly, I didn’t have enough extra to cover the sales AND luxury taxes imposed at the time, so I left empty handed.

That’s OK, though. Empty handed is exactly how we enter this life, and that’s how we’re going to leave it. It’s what we do between those two points that gives time its value, and that’s all the time or space I have for now in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)