Category Archives: Journal

Community Fails

The Covid pandemic has shown us how dangerously shallow are our community connections.

Several decades ago, Americans transformed from generational living to the nuclear family: mother, father, and minor children.

In the more recent past, community often disappeared altogether, becoming a collection of one-person units or single parent families. Singles and studio apartments and temporary live-in romantic relationships proliferated. Some apartment dwellers didn’t know the name of a single neighbor.

The pandemic saw many single Americans working from home with few ways to connect, given the danger of catching Covid from physical proximity.

Parents, especially single parents, may have lacked grandparents or aunts or uncles or cousins to help them through the pinch of forced home schooling.

Obviously, a family doesn’t automatically make for healthy living. Some families, unfortunately, are toxic. However, closer connections require overcoming our propensity of the past few decades to equate freedom with singleness. Families, it seems, are actually necessary.

While avoiding too much dependency for young people who need space and time to spread their wings, rebuilding family and community relationships is a task for our times.

Nomadland: This Land Is Your Land

I watched the movie Nomadland the day before it won the 2021 Academy Award for best picture.

Merely watching the picture was itself a momentous event—the first time I’ve publicly attended a move in more than a year. Our local movie theater recently re-opened to masked, socially distanced audiences. I attended a matinee exclusively for those patrons vaccinated for the Coronavirus.

Frances McDormand, who won best actress in the awards, played a widow, living a fairly normal life until the main employer in her small town shuts down, and the town begins to die.

An employment official says her best choice is to go on early social security. McDormand says she can’t make it on the reduced benefits. “I only want to work,” she says, voicing the cry of so many of today’s unemployed.

So McDormand, in her small van, joins other rootless men and women who, for one reason or another, cannot find a place in mainstream America.

The movie did not have a villain, so far as I could see. Not Amazon, where McDormand finds seasonal employment to help her get by. Not the woman who nervously tells McDormand that she can stay the night in a store parking lot and mentions that a nearby Baptist church offers food. Even a policeman ordering McDormand off a public space, is I suppose, merely doing what he’s paid for.

McDormand wants to support herself. She works seasonal jobs and travels in between, sometimes stopping for a while to stay with other nomads, sometimes seeming to enjoy the solitariness of camping alone.

I was touched by the precarious existence of so many in America, no matter whether they remain stationary or travel around.

Bank accounts? Medical emergencies? Vehicle breakdowns? The simple need for bathroom facilities?

Others with more expertise perhaps can offer solutions. I only know that simple human kindness requires that we seek ways to help the non-belongers find a place in their country.

Foreign Service Officer: What’s That?

The call from the Marine on duty in the U.S. consulate in this Middle Eastern country came late in the evening. I was the American consular officer, responsible for, among other things, being available for American citizens with problems.

“There’s an American lady here who says she wants help. She’s had some kind of fight with her husband, and she left him,” the Marine said. “ Her baby is with her.”

I hurriedly dressed and made my way from my house to the Marine’s post. The young American woman waited with her months old baby. I took her into the consular section where she could nurse her baby and we could talk.

She was one of many American citizens who show up, sometimes literally, on the doorstep of an American embassy or consulate asking for help. Working as a Foreign Service consular officer for the U.S. State Department, I was privileged to know some of them.

Writes one Foreign Service officer: “The most urgent calls rarely came during embassy business hours — the wee hours of the morning were much more common, no matter the country. ‘We found the body of a young American male at the airport hotel. It appears to be suicide,’ one caller reported. ‘I’m 14 years old,’ pleaded another. ‘My parents brought me here on vacation to visit family. But it turns out they want to marry me off to a 50-year-old man I don’t even know. Please help!’”
—Matthew Keene, “For Americans in Trouble Abroad, a Consular Officer May Be the Only Hope,” Washington International Diplomatic Academy,” March 21, 2021

Some of my own experiences as a consular officer included the following: An American killed by an apparent terrorist. Americans arrested for making booze in a country where any alcohol consumption was forbidden. An apparently mentally ill American showing up at the consulate needing money.

Oh, yes, we used to say. Consular officers have the best war stories, better by far than our colleagues working at more rarified heights. They visit the jails. They make welfare checks on American children of divorced parents when the child lives with the foreign parent. They check the bodies of dead Americans at the morgue before calling a relative in the States with the sad news of the death.

Working for our country is a noble occupation: A soldier serving in a foreign land or one setting up hospitals for victims of Covid-19 in the U.S. A diplomat working out an agreement for free trade or one visiting an American in a foreign jail. A U.S. Supreme Court justice deciding between differing views on the Constitution or a judge seeking the best outcome for a juvenile offender caught shoplifting.

Easy work? Often not, but justifying the honorable title of “public servant.”

The young woman with the baby I mentioned earlier? Her husband, a young man who seemed to deeply love his wife and child, came to the consulate later in the evening, and the two made up. Sometimes we witness happy endings, too.

Ritual Appreciation

Several years ago I discovered the Grantchester mystery series by James Runcie They follow a young British cleric in the years immediately after World War II.

The series delves more deeply into purpose and meaning than many “detective” type stories. We know from the beginning of the series that Sidney Chambers is a veteran of fighting in the war. The stories are more than mysteries. They highlight some purpose or higher meaning.

In the latest book, The Road to Grantchester, Runcie provides the background for Sidney’s decision to become an Anglican minister. As we might expect, Sydney suffered horrible wartime experiences fighting in Italy during the war. The first part of the book recounts those experiences, made more terrible by the minimalist reporting style.

The next part of the book recounts his spiritual journey as he chooses and trains for the ministry, a surprise to his not particularly religious family and friends.

One of the insights of the book is how rituals sometimes sustain us in hard times when we are simply hanging on. Great knowledge or insight escapes us. We mumble the 23rd Psalm or the prayer Jesus taught his disciples.

In those desperate times when we may doubt any purpose in the universe or in our lives, ritual can offer us a way to survive. We overcome feelings with a kind of faith that hangs on to time-refined wisdom, sustaining us as it has sustained generations before us.

To Community

Community has no official verb form. Someone I know said we should invent the verb form “to community.”

The Covid-19 pandemic has shown us many things, but one stands out: the need “to community.”

Families and singles are locked down, connecting by Zoom and Facebook. Schools are closed as are gathering places: restaurants, bars, and churches.

Families suffering grief over the death of loved ones must postpone funerals and memorial services.

We can’t interact with our hair stylists or barbers. We dash in for pickup of food, not stopping to chat with staff.

We are born to community, to be part of a group: our family, relatives, and friends. Yet, in the age past, we put community behind things—making as much money as possible, buying as many gadgets as possible, putting tax breaks ahead of community services like health care.

We pay minimum wages to care givers who work with our elderly, as the virus spreads, and to the janitors, so important in a new age of cleanliness.

Have we learned to change our ways? After this pandemic passes into history, as please God it will, what changes will we make?

What will we do, for example, to strengthen that first community, the family? Healthcare, decent housing, education, and time to spend on nurturing?

Have we learned anything?

Divine Nationalism

In his book The Immoral Majority, Ben Howe coins the term “divine nationalism.” This is his name for the political battles waged by many evangelicals for Donald Trump.

He discusses one of their names for Trump: a “divine vessel.” Howe says they are “claiming a divine approval for him that he’d never claimed for himself.”

Howe talks of an unsettling aura in the white evangelical embrace of Trump. “Trump evangelicals have taken this earthly object of their adoration and quantum-locked him to God’s will.”

Trump is freed even from “the burden of accountability.” Indeed, Howe says, Trump has become an idol to his evangelical followers. The same evangelicals who denounced Bill Clinton’s affair with a White House intern are perfectly okay with Trump’s affairs.

Perhaps this seeming moral relativism is one reason the number of evangelicals appears to be declining while the religiously nonaligned are increasing.

When is debt an investment?

Education is free for American schoolchildren, but salaries for teachers are paid for by taxes. They are part of the public “debt.”

However, most of us would agree that the country benefits from an educated population. Isn’t the money we pay for those free schools more of an investment than a debt?

After secondary school, education generally is not free. In fact, over the past few decades, colleges and university have grown beyond the ability of many American families to afford.

Writes novelist Marilynne Robinson: “As state financing fell, tuitions rose, involving many students in burdensome debt. For generations people had, in effect, prepaid their children’s and grandchildren’s tuition and underwritten the quality of their education by paying taxes. Suddenly the legislatures decided to put the money to other uses, or to cut taxes, and families were obliged to absorb much higher costs.” (What Are We Doing Here? Essays)

Learning, Robinson points out, no longer fits into the economic equation.

But, of course it does. It’s one of those long term costs not addressed when only material costs are calculated.

Polluted streams in Montana are a cost passed on to ordinary people. If they drink the water, they will sicken, perhaps die. If the government pays to restore the streams, the costs are passed to citizens in the form of higher taxes. The companies, who mined but did not pay for preventing pollution. get off with more profit now paid for by citizens.

Mariana Mazzucato, author of The Value of Everything: Making and Taking in the Global Economy writes: “For too long, governments have socialized risks but privatized rewards: the public has paid the price for cleaning up messes, but the benefits of those cleanups have accrued largely to companies and their investors.” (“Capitalism After the Pandemic,” Foreign Affairs, November/December 2020.)

Mazzuecato suggests a long term view for our economic policies. Stakeholders in our economy, the workers, who also are consumers, need help to weather economic downturns and again be able to both work and consume.

In these and other instances, government “debt” is more of an investment.

We Fear the Unworthy

We are afraid that unworthy Americans will receive entitlements they don’t deserve. Food, perhaps. Or medical care. Or housing.

In my own life, I have received many good things that I did not, in fact, do anything to earn.

I was born into a loving household. We were healthy and needed no unusual medical care. I was born at a time when unemployment was low. Both my parents were able to work and afford comfortable housing for their family.

At the time, a college education was still possible for those of ordinary means. My brother and I profited from four years of college.

Again, I came of age in boom economic times and never wanted for employment—with health insurance—whenever I needed to work.

Thus, I’m not bothered by the fact that in a wealthy country no one would go hungry. I’m not thinking of steak dinners—just basic food for all who are hungry.

I wish all working Americans had access to affordable housing, including janitors and home health aides. I’d like to see adequate resources for the mentally ill and help for the drug addicted to recover meaningful lives. I wish no child to suffer homelessness.

I wish all America’s children had access to adequate education, no matter their parents’ standing in life.

I wish all Americans could receive basic health care.

I’d like to see a fairer tax system—one that taxes wealth as well income—to underpin meeting these basic needs.

Of course, these views are selfish. Healthy, educated, well-housed Americans ultimately benefit the entire country, including me.

Wandering Jews and Christians

Polls tell us that fewer and fewer people today, especially young people, identify as religious, including as Christians.

Christianity has lost its majority following before, usually after too many people calling themselves Christians followed gods other than Christ. Nazi Germany is one example.

Wesley Hill is a professor of biblical studies at Trinity School for Ministry. He uses Chaim Potok’s books about Jews in America, struggling to keep their faith, as an example for American Christians. (“Chaim Potok’s Wandering Jews, Holding to Faith in a Critical Age,” Plough Quarterly, Autumn 2020.)

Hill writes: “A religiously observant life is less and less accessible or intelligible to modern Westerners, yet many of us remain haunted by its possibility.”

Despite many who leave organized Christianity, others, like Hill, continue in the faith, perhaps in altered form from their childhood.

“Like Potok’s characters,” Hill writes, “I went away to university and experienced something of the wider world beyond the confines of my Baptist, Republican childhood. . . . I am now a member of the Episcopal Church, which, to my childhood eyes, was barely a church at all.”

And so he remains, as do many of us. “. . . “I can’t be the Christian I used to be, but I want sill, very much to be a Christian.”

But isn’t that the story of the Christian church? Over and over again, dying, then finding rebirth as a more humble but risen faith?

Of Gods and Men

I recently watched the movie CD Of Gods and Men, in French, with English subtitles. The story is loosely based on the kidnaping  in 1996 of eight Cistercian monks by fundamentalists in the north African country of Algeria. The monks had lived as a community, ministering to the people of the area.

Algeria has suffered one of the bloodiest struggles among former countries colonized by European powers. French settlers, some of whom had been there for generations, were forced to leave by native Algerians who wanted their country back.

Early governments after the French expulsion were managed by former Algerian fighters but ended up themselves corrupt. As is often the case, fundamentalist Islamists saw an opening and began a campaign of terror to gain power.

Fear gripped areas where government forces now fought the fundamentalists. The monks attempted to minister to all in need, which included a wounded fundamentalist fighter, brought to them one night. This action made them suspect by the national army forces.

The fundamentalist soldier was later captured by the army and allowed to die, the army soldiers joying at his suffering. The commander of the government forces then brought in the leader of the Cistercians to identify the dead fundamentalist soldier. The monk, named Christian, does so.

Christian prays over the dead fundamentalist. The army leader is angered—angered that sympathy would be shown to this man, who has probably killed and perhaps tortured some of the commander’s men. As the army is now responding in kind. No doubt the commander believes that torture must be met with torture—leading, of course, only to more torture . . .

That scene so poignantly illuminates for me the absurdity of war. One should not show sympathy toward one’s enemy. The only way for war to take place is to inspire hatred for the other.

But, of course, killing and torture, once loose, keep escalating on each side.

Meanwhile, ordinary people, to whom the Cistercians have ministered, suffer the consequences of a reign of terror.

We don’t know exactly what happened to the Cistercians after their capture. Their deaths were announced a couple of months later by an armed Islamist group. Their heads were found three years later, but we don’t know the circumstances in which their deaths took place.

No matter. The examples of those who defy hatred live on after their deaths to inspire us.

My Lost Algeria

My assignment from the U.S. State Department to the North African nation of Algeria in 1993 was supposed to last two years. I was evacuated out within a few months of my arrival because of terrorism concerns for embassy personnel. I’ve always felt a sense of loss for not completing that assignment, something like one feels for a lost friend.

A few weeks before I left, I had accompanied the ambassador on a “show the flag” trip around the northern section of the country. I got to know our Algerian driver, a Berber from the mountainous Kabyle region. We visited several sights, including an ancient Islamic mosque. The stone walls around its well were scarred from more than a millenary of providing water for the faithful to wash before the call to prayer.

Just after my arrival to the capital, Algiers, I had visited a Christian church. It was open to the public, but the lay worker reading papers at a desk as we entered seemed nervous. I’ve often wondered what happened to him and his church when the country shut down because of the terrorism.

I thought about these people again when I read an article by Stephanie Saldana, “The Martyr in Street Clothes” in Plough (Spring 2020).

I left Algeria in December, 1993. A group of monks who had chosen to stay and serve in that country were kidnaped and killed in 1996 by extremists. Their story is told in the film Of Gods and Men.

Another incident occurred in August 1996, when a bishop, Pierre Claverie, and his Muslim driver, Mohamed Bouchikhi, were killed in a bomb blast. Mohamed, a Muslim, had grown up next to the bishop’s church and become a volunteer there. Pierre at one time, concerned for the death threats he was receiving, asked Mohamed to consider no longer helping so that he would not be in danger. Mohammed became upset that the bishop would consider such a thing. Thus, they were killed together.

I studied the picture of the painting along with the article in Plough. All these martyrs are depicted, including Mohamed, in his street clothes, beside a small depiction of a mosque.

I have loved other assignments—in Saudi Arabia and Tunisia and Canada—but I will always grieve for the one in Algeria.

We Wait

We wait for return to a job and a paycheck.
We wait for a normal workday at our healthcare jobs.
We wait for the library to open.
We wait for food.
We wait for worship with our friends singing and praying beside us.
We wait for help with our mortgage payment.
We wait for a haircut.
We wait to have our teeth fixed.
We wait for the surgery that keeps being delayed.
We wait for schools to start.

Who knew we have been taking so much for granted?

Lord, please help us learn from this waiting, so that we will take better care of the things that really matter.

That Road to Emmaus

Two disciples of Jesus had business in Emmaus, a town out a little ways from Jerusalem. They were in deep despair,—no deepest despair.

Their teacher Jesus now was dead, crucified by the Romans. Wonderful, shining hope that Jesus was the Messiah, sent to set up the kingdom of God, were dashed. And for three days, continuing despair.

True, some women claimed the tomb where Jesus’ body had been placed was empty. Something also about angels around the tomb. But they were just women, no doubt in some kind of hysteria over all that had happened.

Well, life had to go on. They had business in the town of Emmaus, out from Jerusalem.

Then this stranger suddenly showed up and started talking to them as they walked.
Even then, they were slow to understand.

When they stopped at Emmaus, the stranger made as though to keep going. When they suggested he stop and eat with them, he agreed.

God, after all, doesn’t force himself on us. We have to invite him in.

Jesus had to break bread with them, before a—what—quiet gesture of bread breaking, life breaking—startled them. Suddenly, like that—finally—they knew.

And they were never the same again and neither was the world.

Viral Awakening

We might consider Covid-19 as a wake up call. Or as a another kind of New Years Day. An opportunity for change.

The virus suggests a different set of values than we’re used to living by. What’s important now?

Family and friends, of course.

A safe place to shelter, not housing as investment.

Food and grocery stores.

Care givers for the sick and the elderly and the young. Those who rescue and protect.

The workers who perform tasks that must go on if civilized society is to continue: sanitation workers, farmers, grocery store clerks, janitors.

A reshuffling of our values might prod us toward a society which better rewards care givers and child care workers. Perhaps we might revisit our penchant for seeing housing as investment and instead see it as a universal need.

We could, in addition, build places of refuge and growth for the mentally ill and for those crushed by addiction.

We could revisit the ways we use our country’s wealth. Higher wages for the ordinary worker? Housing they can afford to live in? Affordable medical care? Education and job training?

Happy New Year!

Political Righteousness

When I lived in Saudi Arabia in the 1990’s and early 2000’s, some American citizens living and working in that country enjoyed raising their children there. Drugs and crime were much less than in the States. Of course, religious gatherings of Christians and any religion other than Islam were forbidden and had to be carried out discretely.

X-rated movies weren’t allowed, but neither were films like depictions of the Narnia tales or The Lion King or Charlotte’s Web.

Pornography might be punished by flogging, but one who dared criticize the country’s rulers risked the same punishment.

Richer citizens could escape the publicly strict moral code by paying smugglers to bring in whatever they wanted—liquor, x-rated movies, even maids to abuse. The religious/political alliance that ruled the country often led to outward piety, pleasing the religious, but encouraging corruption among the elites.

In this country, the recent marriage between the Trump presidency and the anti-abortion cause illustrates the danger of a religion hitching its wagon to a particular political movement for the sake of one cause. In this case, it risks supporting a political establishment that might commit killing small or unborn children in other ways.

The political powers might suggest, for example, beginning a war against Iran with the potential to kill thousands, including pregnant mothers and small children.

Or decreasing funds for healthcare for American children.

Or supporting a war in Yemen leading to starvation and disease that kills still other children.

A close alliance with any political power risks being coopted by that power for its own selfish goals.

The Black Stallion

A series of books about a boy and a horse enlivened my childhood. The horse was a black stallion out of Arabia, featured in a series by Walter Farley. I was not particularly drawn to horses themselves, as some children are, but the stories intrigued me, especially the second in the series, The Black Stallion Returns.

In the first book, The Black Stallion, Alec Ramsey, a boy on his way home to the United States from visiting his uncle in India, is shipwrecked. He is saved by a black stallion, also being shipped on the boat. Alec is able to hold onto a rope around the horse and is pulled to dry land.

By the time they are rescued, Alec and the stallion have become friends. Alec begins training him and enters a race.

However, The Black Stallion Returns was my favorite of the series. The supposed owner of the horse (an Arabian chieftain) appears, claims the animal as his own and takes him away to Saudi Arabia. Eventually, Alec follows them to that country to reclaim his horse.

This strange country intrigued me. Who knows—it may have contributed to my choice of Saudi Arabia for two of my assignments in the U.S. Foreign Service.

Books can be powerful influences, especially on children.

I would have missed much in my fortunate life if I had lacked public schools and public libraries and parents and teachers who cared.

Why was the Christmas Eve service so meaningful this year?

I have been to many such services in my life in all sorts of different places and times of life. So, as my husband and I walked the short distance to our church this year, perhaps it was more out of habit than hope.

But the familiar message—I’ve heard it enough to have it memorized—helpless babe in a manager, come into a hate-filled world full of hurting people.

But this year, tears glistened in my eyes, evidence this time of the message going deeper.

Why? Perhaps because this year, this end of 2019, the times appear especially hopeless, and we are desperate. We’ve been through a deluge of hate-filled, hurting words. Homeless men, women, and children are everywhere. Some have become so desperate that our birth rate is falling and the death rate of young and middle aged people has been hastened by overdoses and suicides.

And, we are told, 2020 will not be any better, maybe worse: impeachment trial, bitterly fought elections, a world with almost daily evidence of climate change affecting millions with droughts and floods.

Yet, in that way grace has of coming at the oddest moments, the message, the familiar carols, struck deeper, became beacons of hope for this time.

Somebody loved us and came to us, then preached love that has affected people mightily since that time: death didn’t stop him: His weak, sinful people have been transformed time and time again, overcoming even their own misreading of his message.

Slavery was abolished and racism, though still strong, is challenged. Women have entered public life. Young people are concerned about climate change.

When the times are right, those touched by this season’s message have always found pathways to counter the worship of wealth, power, and greed.

Waiting in a Troubled Time

“The furred magnolia buds we bring to warmth
here in the heated room soon bloom and sicken;
the tree without keeps its own secret time.”
         (Jane Tyson Clement; “Out of a Difficult and Troubled Season”)

Sometimes patient waiting is our best choice. Not idle waiting, but rather a recharging kind of waiting.

Maybe we touch base again with family and friends. Maybe we read poetry. Maybe we use a winter’s day to ponder while watching flames of a small fire in our fireplace or the rain spattering on our windows.

We do the necessary tasks, but we admit our limitations. We look for ways to appreciate those with whom we disagree.

We turn off the shouting and the tweeting. We go slowly, thoughtfully for a while. We wait patiently for the turning.

The quaint art of conversation and reading with your children

We often discussed ideas at the dinner table when I was growing up. My parents read a lot.

It had nothing to do with the level of their education. My mother had no schooling beyond high school. My father didn’t even finish high school because of the need to support his parents and younger siblings when he was a teenager.

My lower middle class parents were readers who loved to learn for its own sake, then discuss their ideas with each other and their children. Reading became as natural to my brother and me as walking.

According to several reports, including one in The New York Times, an inexpensive child rearing technique to help you raise responsible children is to read to them. (“Reading aloud to young children has benefits for behavior and attention,” 16 April 2018)

Parent to child reading not only encourages intellectual growth, studies show, but also tends to curb aggressive behavior and other troublesome activities.

The first years of a child’s life are the most important for a child’s development. Spending time with them, including talking with them and reading to them, costs little in the way of money.

Downton Abbey as Fairy Tale

So here I am enjoying the latest Downton Abbey venture.

Is it a great movie? No.

Is it realistic?

Certainly not in the sense we think of realism today. Stories that don’t always end right but lead us to see ourselves as we are, and perhaps to change, may be more realistic.

But fairy tales have their place. That’s why they’ve been around since people first told stories around a campfire.

Interesting that Downton, a nod to a vanished era, has been so successful when Britain and the United States appear to be falling apart.

But perhaps that’s the reason for its success.

Few of us want a class-based society as Britain used to be or a racist, gilded-age America as existed in the early twentieth century. Yet we sense that much in our long history is worth keeping.

Beyond the racism and wars and other abominable sins, we hunt for the promise of purer things: a sense of family, the carrying out of duty, simple caring—when those values are threatened.

Yes, fairy tales do have a place.