May I Be Serious

A RELATION OF MINE TOOK THIS PHOTO OF GRAIN ELEVATORS IN WESTERN OKLAHOMA. As soon as I saw it, I thought, "if that were my photo, I would use at as the background for a poem or quote: something from a guy like Wendell Berry. Then this one came to mind from his book called: The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays.

To live, we must daily break the body and shed the blood of Creation. When we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully, reverently, it is a sacrament. When we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily, destructively, it is a desecration. In such desecration we condemn ourselves to spiritual and moral loneliness, and others to want.
― Wendell Berry

Photo by Corey Lee Fuller. Used without his permission.

This quote came to mind for me again this morning as we had communion at church. Of course, Wendell Berry is speaking in an agricultural sense, but his use of the metaphor is clear.

But I began to ponder this idea of breaking of body and shedding of blood in the context of humanity as a collective "body". No doubt there have been times when we as the human race have justified breaking the bodies and shedding the blood of our own kind. And some of it may have been necessary; maybe.

I also know however, that our human story, which we call history, is full of unjustifiable, senseless breaking and shedding. But dang it... It is everywhere these days: from Ukraine, to Afghanistan to Ferguson, Missouri, to our hometowns where drug-addled "baby daddies" are beating their own infants to death.

In the sermon this morning following communion the speaker suggested that when Jesus lead his disciples through that first, Last Supper, and said, "Do this; and when you do, remember me," He was giving us a center point, a true north, a way to find our way.

We need that, right? Maybe it just old-age coming on me, but we seemed to have lost our way. To borrow a line from the old catcher of the New York Yankees: 

If you don't know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else. -- Yogi Berra

The Moral Of The Story

THREE TIMES BEFORE, I have written about my favorite movies in posts I call Pops' Flick Picks: The Graduate, Finding Forrester, and Pleasantville. Here's my fourth: Mr. Holland's Opus.

Mr. Holland composed an opus, but not the one he believed he was destined to write. That happens, you know.

Recently I was giving a talk to a group of business managers. I was trying to make a point using a book from The Little Golden Book series called "Scuffy The Tugboat." This little book was read to me many many times as a child. Still, to this day, I read that book and I am still not certain what the moral of the story is. I know it has a moral; children's books just do, but I can't figure it out. Or, maybe I really have figured it out and just don't want to accept its thesis.

If you're not familiar with the story it opens with Scuffy sitting on a shelf in a toy store. He is obsessed with the sense that he was made for bigger and grander things than sitting in a toy shop. So the shop owner takes the little boat home to his son who quickly sets Scuffy to sail in the bathtub. But this too is unsatisfying and unworthy of the calling Scuffy believes is his.

The little boy takes Scuffy to a stream. Scuffy quickly makes his way to wider and deeper waters and ultimately finds himself overwhelmed with rough seas and the heavy traffic of big ships and other things that go bump in the night.

[Spoiler Alert] Fortunately for Scuffy, The man and his little boy find him on the brink of destruction and rescue him. The story ends with Scuffy happily floating in the safe confines of the little boy's bathtub, content with the realization that this is his destiny after all.

So what is the moral of this story? I really want to know. Don't tell me it is: to be content with your circumstances, to quash any temptation to explore beyond the obvious boundaries. I find that very unsatisfying.

Scuffy The Tugboat was written by Gertrude Crampton, who, not surprisingly also wrote Tootle The Train, the painful story of a little train that learned the hard way that you should always stay on the tracks no matter what.

But maybe Mr. Holland's Opus is a Scuffy story. If it is, then maybe I do get it and can accept it as a valid and satisfying plot line for my life. Like, maybe I wasn't built to be in the big waters, but maybe I can have a significant and worthwhile life anyway.

Here's a line from the movie that will help you see why I think it may be a Scuffy story. This is from a character called Gertrude Lang, one of Mr. Holland's students.

I have a feeling that Mr. Holland considers a great part of his own life misspent. Rumor has it he was always working on this symphony of his. And this was going to make him famous, rich, probably both. But Mr. Holland isn't rich and he isn't famous, at least not outside of our little town.

I hope I haven't already given too much away in case you haven't already seen Mr. Holland's Opus.

Maybe what Scuffy and Tootle and Mr. Holland teach us is that we can learn from others and our own experiences. We can also contemplate our future.

"Neuroscience has long recognized that emulation of the future is one of the main businesses intelligent brains invest in. By learning the rules of the world and simulating outcomes in the service of decision making, brains can play out events without the risk and expense of attempting them physically. As the philosopher Karl Popper wrote, simulation of the future allows 'our hypotheses to die in our stead.'" --David Eagleman, a neuroscientist at the Baylor College of Medicine, writing in The New York Times. August 2012.

In other words, we humans can play what-if. Kids do it all the time when they are playing make-believe. What if this... What if that... They are imagining possibilities, creating story lines. If only Scuffy could have contemplated the "what-if" of being a little toy boat in the deep, storm-tossed seas among the big ships, he could have saved himself the horror of reality. Maybe if he had, he would have known: life in the bathtub isn't so bad--metaphorically.

But, with apologies to Gertrude Crampton, I still contend that occasionally we need leave the tracks, color outside the lines, do something that makes our palms sweaty. To use a Mr. Holland analogy, Ms. Crampton would be happy to just play the notes on the page, when really, I believe God intended for us to be musical: so dance, or sing, or play.

Playing music is supposed to be fun. It's about heart, it's about feelings, moving people, and something beautiful, and it's not about notes on a page. I can teach you notes on a page, I can't teach you that other stuff. -- Mr. Holland

Learning About Love: A Chronology

Fall 1969, Freshman at Oklahoma Baptist University: I was eating in the dining hall with my roommate, a basketball player on scholarship. I was a drummer on percussion scholarship. Apparently there was a "mission" of sorts for upperclassmen ministerial students to see how many wayward freshmen they could bring into the fold. Their approach to us was: "Are you guys a part of the "elect?"

I grew up in church, my dad was a pastor. I knew the lingo. I replied, "I'm a Christian; not a Calvinist." The leader of the group said to his posse, "Come on boys. Let's not cast our pearls before the swine." They collected their trays and King James (not Lebron) Bibles and left.

Fall 1970, Sophomore at The University of Tulsa: I was at the BSU for lunch (always eating). The BSU director saw me and asked me to come by his office. He told me of a church that was looking for a part-time music director. He knew I was a musician; he didn't understand that drummers don't make good church musicians--especially in that era where drums were considered pagan instruments that inevitably lead to dancing and sex. But the church paid $25 a week--where do I apply?

At that church a wonderfully kind and gracious woman took me, and every other young musician in the church under her wing with encouragement, grace and support. Her name was Betty. She had a daughter. In fact, she had three daughters and two sons, but she had this one daughter...

New Years Eve 1971: I asked Betty's daughter, Arlene, to go out with me on a date. Betty's husband, Ernie, was a Farmer. I was a long-haired drummer who drove a VW Bus. Arlene said yes, and I guess Betty and Ernie did too.

Valentines Day 1972: I asked her to marry me and she said yes! I asked Ernie if I could marry his daughter and he said yes too!

June 16, 1972: With my dad officiating, we were married. (I'm sure there was some "discussion" around the community about the hurried nature of this romance and marriage. So to remove any doubt we waited eight years to have children.)

June 13, 2014: Today is my Amazing-Missus' birthday. We will celebrate with coneys at Coney-Islander in Tulsa. It's sort of our place.

June 16, 2014: We will celebrate 42 years of marriage. And once again I will marvel at the fact that somehow or another this beautiful soul(mate) of mine chose and chooses to love me.

My Amazing-Missus on the farm where she grew up.

See that's the thing about LOVE; it is about choices and decisions and our wills--our free wills. I will admit though that I cannot deny the Hand of Providence.

I have laid out here a very brief history of how it all happened, but when I look back on our romance and life together, I can see pieces that fell together. And, yes I get that my choice of words makes it all sound fairytale-like.

The theologians will tell me I can't have it both ways, i.e.: "Either you believe in pre-destination or you don't."

But I can have it both ways. I can believe in an omniscient God who gave me the choice to love Him or not. I believe and know from 42 years of experience, I can meet a woman who chose to love me and still chooses to, and I know that can't be easy so much of the time.

So do I believe in Divine Providence? Yes, I do.
Do I believe in free will? Absolutely.
Do I really believe you can have it both ways? Without a doubt.
So, yes I do believe in Destiny. I do believe in Fate. I do believe my Amazing-Missus loves me. And I love her. And if that love comes only from a pre-programmed puppet of some kind with strings pulled by a heavy-handed god, it wouldn't be beautiful at all.

Once again, I will rely on the wise sage, G.K. Chesterton to help me with the words: 

I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act.
Gilbert K. Chesterton

Free At Last

Years ago I was in Pineville, Louisiana, to speak at Louisiana College. They put me up for the night in a wonderful old hotel in downtown Alexandria, The Hotel Bently. To enjoy the wonders of historic buildings you have to endure their old quirks and failings. Sort of like you have to do to enjoy the wonder of us old "men of a certain age."

Unfortunately, for the Hotel Bently, while it had undergone some rehab and modernization, the elevators were still on the to-do list. So, returning from my speaking engagement, I returned to the hotel and boarded the elevator. It made it up roughly two and half floors and quit. I was stuck on an old elevator; tired and hungry.

Fortunately, a phone had been added and it worked. The rescue took 30 minutes or so, which seemed like three hours or so. The doors were manually separated and a ladder was lowered into my little prison. I climbed free. The Freedom was sweet indeed. 

The hotel manager was on hand for the rescue, full of apologies he was ready with vouchers for free drinks in the hotel bar. "Oh, that's okay," I said. "It wasn't your fault and anyway, I don't imbibe." He asked what they could offer for the inconvenience. "How about some of those little bottles of shampoo and conditioner." I said with a smile. He looked at my bald head, but missed the irony. We finally agreed on a room-service burger and fries.

Just a few weeks later I was scheduled to speak at an event in Tulsa. Again I was staying in a downtown hotel, but a modern one. I don't remember the name of it but it involved two trees. (a Mitch Hedberg joke.)

I remember using my recent elevator saga in my talk to illustrate the sweetness of freedom. The next morning I was at breakfast in the hotel restaurant. At a table near me, were three older men and two women. The men were wearing military style caps and I noticed POW patches on the caps. Then I noticed many more in the restaurant. Turns out it was a reunion of a group who had been prisoners of war together.

When their breakfast arrived, the fun, rowdy conversation stopped. They joined hands and one of the men lead them in a prayer. He was thankful for the food, the company, but most of all for FREEDOM. I watched and listened and thought: how could I possibly think I could understand freedom from the context of being stuck in an elevator. 

I learned that a heart, truly grateful, has truly known hopelessness, emptiness, fear and despair. 

I can't truly empathize with those who have made, as we say, the ultimate sacrifice, because I never have. But I can remember them; and the lives of their loved ones left behind, fractured by their passing and injuries.

The price is so high.