New Blog Inklings

Review of 'The Children of the New Forest,' by Captain Frederick Marryat

2012-02-02T07:10:00.000-08:00

The Children of the New Forest (download ebook for free at this link) is a story of personal survival in the face of political persecution, and it serves as a prime example of Victorian narrative literature. Surrounding the lives of Edward Beverley and his three siblings - Humphrey, Alice and Edith - the story chronicles their delivery from the hands of Oliver Cromwell's Roundhead Covenanters during the Commonwealth of England (1649).

Overview
Edward spends the better part of three years as a forester...(clich here to read more).

Fox's Fringe: Shifting Toward Decline

2012-01-27T07:48:00.000-08:00

Fox and JJ Abrams have shifted the trajectory of Fringe, following in the footsteps of Lost and other mystery-meets-drama-meets-science-fiction-meets-alternative-realities. What is this shift? Irrelevancy and, should it continue, this shift will ultimately result in Fringe's cancellation.

Total Recall
Most television viewers like to be surprised, amazed and even gripped by cliffhanging continuations. But as the layers of complexity become more abstract, barriers to entry for new viewers and return on investment (ROI) for existing viewers are too great. For Fringe viewers, it was one thing for Olivia Dunham...(click here to read more).

Would You Really End All Suffering?

2012-01-18T07:57:00.000-08:00

If you were given the power to end all suffering, hardship, and affliction, instantly—would you use it? The question may sound academic—best discussed hypothetically over coffee and scones. In such a setting, some will (and do) argue that to answer anything but “Yes” is a sign of sadism, bordering on the insanity of every genocide-laden dictatorship.

But the question is far more than academic. Beneath the surface of every political expectation, legislation, or foreign policy is—to some extent—the pursuit of that universal “Yes.” I say “to some extent” because the goal to universally end suffering et al is mingled up with greed, self-promotion, ignorance, short-sightedness, and delusions of grandeur, to name a few. (I am not ignoring the truly evil person whose interest and intentions are only harm; however, ethical debates among Christians too often lump all opponents into such Strawman categories for immediate dismissal.)

Just look at the reach, scope, and names of some current and recent legislation:

· No Child Left Behind
· Disaster Relief Appropriations Act, 2012
· Troubled Asset Relief Program, 2011
· Job Creation Act, 2011
· “National Nurse-Managed Health Clinic Week”

These benign titles tell nothing of the unimaginable cost associated with them (as a corpus). Nor is this “should we end all suffering et al” only a political debate. Christians hypothesize doing the most good for the most people with the push of a button, as Douglas Wilson does in this blog post, in which all the world is seemingly broken up into two categories: the haves and the have-nots.

Faith Challenged!
Now consider this sobering reality. Jesus had the power to immediately end all suffering, hardship, and affliction…instantly (actually, he still has that power today!) and yet, he did not. We read of children raised and healed, blind men given sight, hungry people fed, and lepers cleansed. But do we imagine Jesus walking through every town and sudden health and prosperity flowing out from him like color into a black-and-white landscape? Scriptures gives us every warrant to believe that Jesus observed funerals, heard crying, saw suffering, and passed by dingily-clad children—who were less than food-filled—and did not end these. One such reference: “There were many widows in Israel in the days of Elijah…and Elijah was sent to none of them but only to Zarephath, in the land of Sidon, to a woman who was a widow” (Luke 4:25-26).

Now consider that we elect officials, more often than not, with the expectancy that they will do the most good for the most people in the short tenure of their official service. We make them Saviors, so long as they attain to this end; that is, we are willing to give the most power to those who will do the most good for the most people. This contrast between our expectations of elected officials and the actions of Jesus proves that it is easier to have little or no power or to give it away, than to have power and choose not to use it.

What if the better purpose is for those with power to constrain evil, injustice, and popular oppression; such that we—the un-elected—may do the most good for the most people? What if the power of politicians was not to redistribute wealth, pass healthcare reform, fund educational institutions or hospitals, provide food stamps and family planning clinics—but, instead, to set us free as individuals to pursue this true religion: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world? (James 1:27) Ironically, true religion is not to end affliction per se, but to visit (ἐπισκέπτεσθαι) those suffering it.

There was a time, not too long ago, when all of these were the expressions of the church. Hospitals, schools, and soup kitchens were the mercy arm of ministry as much as Word and Sacraments were the proclamation arm. Where did we release these obligations to governors—believing those with power could effect more good than those with presence?

Which takes us back to Jesus—who did not immediately end all hardship, suffering, and affliction. Said another way, he did the most good for the most people by restraining his power. And this bring us back to where we began—to ask again that age old question, “If you were given the power to end all suffering, hardship, and affliction, instantly—would you use it?”

How we answer that says more about our confidence in ourselves apart from God than it does about principles of compassion, mercy, and justice. Moreover, it shapes our expectations of those who lead.

It was Frederick Bastiat who wrote, over 150 years ago, “When a politician views society from the seclusion of his office, he is struck by the spectacle of the inequality that he sees. He deplores the deprivations which are the lot of so many of our brothers, deprivations which appear to be even sadder when contrasted with luxury and wealth.” And he would thus, and often at our bidding, presume to do the most good for the most people, end the most suffering, affliction, and hardship. Instead, he would render us impotent slaves, who relegate our duties to offices never intended for them.

Would you really end all suffering? Jesus hasn’t and could. What makes us think we could do better?

Christmas Small

2011-12-06T14:16:00.000-08:00

(image by guitargoa via stock.xchng)

The world is too big, though we pretend it’s not. We pretend, and try to take it all in, carrying it in our purses and wallets and hearts. For a while, we contain them—wars and famines, floods, governments rising and falling, the successes of success, the desolation of failures. But eventually the seams begin to split and tear, where sinking realities seep into the orderly places of life. They can be found in the strangest places, and we say—upon their discovery—“Aha, how did you get here? I thought I had cleaned this desk of clutter and disposed of all the dreadful thoughts. Away with you!” But like dust and the webs of invisible spiders, they return. It is because we were never meant to hold the world at all, much less in the smallness of our comprehension. But there is a penchant about such nonsense—supposing greatness. We can only tuck the unraveling threads for just so long before the mind is more wrent than whole, and what falls out is more than what stays in.

We feel it most acutely at Christmas time—the greatness made small by our smallness. That is because of the heightened accuracy of awareness sharpened by hope and memory, tempered by disappointment and loss. Summers and springs and other seasons are not so. They are always one: one kind of summer, one kind of spring. Summer is—what?—all heat and dry and sticky sleep; or warm with constant rain; or something completely different. But it’s always the same. Think of summer and what do you think of? It is all the same—whether the years have been eight or eighty. It is scary to talk that way because it shows us how small we are, that we are unable to keep a few summers separated in our minds well enough to say, “That summer was uniquely thus and so,” and so forth. A man can do that with one or a few, but not all of them. We can’t keep them straight and so compress them down into a monolithic recollection of sameness: heat and sweat, or warm and rain, or whatever the memory. But always the same.

Christmas is different. Having spent eleven months trying to hold in the world, we find ourselves undone at the seams. The world came in to us, and all the world goes out. Christmas is not flat: one dimensional. It can’t be chalked up to a homogenous sensation: cold. Every year is different, marked with the vividness of dreams fulfilled and not. The arousal of the senses is not easily dulled: eyes dilated, pulse increased, lips dry. The anticipation of hope is felt as acutely as is the wariness of apprehension. For good or for ill, all Christmas are different.

If we expect too much from Christmas, it is because we expect too little the rest of the year. All the bottled-up and undirected desire bursts out with such a vengeance that the most-best Christmas could not satisfy. We let it burst out on family and demand more than they can give. We pour it out on presents we wrap and unwrap with fury. Having drunk in the world and pissed it out eleven months straight, the emptiness is poignant, insatiable. The world is big; we are small. That’s the end of that.

Which is why the image of a barn trough is both so repulsive and compelling! The contraption is easily assessed, measured, and weighed for value: small. What lasting satisfaction could possibly be drawn from such an insignificant space? The mind offers suggestions: gold for a poor man, water for a thirsty man, food for a starving man, fire and light in the coldest, darkest night.

More than these, and less: an infant human, not less and so much more. One in whom the entire world could be taken in, taken in, and held. All the violence and homelessness and longing and sadness taken in, but the seams held. The cup would be offered, and he would drink it; his heart would not burst. He would expect the same of everyday, and it would be enough such that—at the end—he had no undirected desire. All was sufficient to him. That insignificant space would grow to wrap creation in such a wrapping as Christmas never saw, setting us all free to become small again. Heart seams are mended. Once pursed lips relax and in the air a sigh, as the smallness of comprehension yawns with satisfaction at the child making smallness great by his greatness.

What Dying People Have to Teach us?

2011-10-01T19:23:00.000-07:00

This week a British Judge refused a family’s request to end the life of a family member. Specifically, the mother and sister of the disabled woman had been seeking permission to let her die to escape her—in their words—“pointless existence.”

Just to be sure that “pointless existence” doesn’t have a technical, medical definition that I was somehow missing—I Googled the phrase. Top hits: Existentialism, two separate questions on Yahoo! Answers (of people describing their lives), and the lyrics to a song. So, I guess it’s safe to say that this mother-daughter combo are using the term “pointless existence” to summarize their own perspective on the life of this woman.

Sadly, these women have missed the point behind this pointless existence. Namely, that living people can learn more from dying people than from…well, Google. Vocationally, dying people and people in vegitative state are teachers. (Pragmatists need not respond about the burden on medical services to sustain dying people. When frivolous, self-glutinous waste has been permanently eradicated from all the corners of individual and institutional superficiality, then we can talk about financial constraints.) and, as they are teachers, we need to ask, “What do dying people teach us? “

The Value of Our Time
This woman in the vegetative state—referred to only as “M” by court documents—is in no hurry to get anywhere. If she’s not inside her own head, she isn’t experiencing anything: no pain, no loss, no regret, sorrow, frustration, disappointment. She doesn’t even care that she’s in a vegetative state. There is no burden on her. But there’s a burden on the mother and sister. Specifically, a burden on their time. (Not on their money, mind you. This is Brittan where health care is fully government run, and government funded.)

These women clearly have more important things to do. You know, like…stuff. I’m sure they’d rather go to the grocery store, or catch a little more sleep, or check their Facebook status, or something. Who wouldn’t? We like—all of us, mind you, myself included—to do what we want with our time. We’re Temporally Obese. No generation has worked less, had more free time, and actually been less productive. Free time makes us temporally fat. And nothing says I’m a selfishly obese time-hog like looking in the face of a non-responsive person. Staring into that face, I’m guessing it’s hard justifying many of the ways we’ve spent our time.

How Important Am I...really?
Once we’ve acknowledge how un-importantly we sloth away our free time, looking in the face of a non-responsive person gives us the opportunity to ask, “How important am I, really?” M hasn’t always been a vegetable. She was brain damaged in 2003. Before that, she was certainly...busy. But we just debunked the “I’m Busy therefore I’m important” myth. So now that the vitality of social contribution is less than the measurability of social demand, is there any point to living?

The second thing dying people teach us is reality. Frankly, I’m just not as important as my Facebook wall and email inbox indicate. None of us are. Any one of us could contract the same illness that debilitated M. Any one of us could go out for a run, stumble and fall into the path of an oncoming vehicle—as a young boy did just outside of Covenant Seminary this week. Any of us could die today, or become utterly incapacitated. In the end, the world keeps going. Yes, people cry. Yes, they care. But eventually, the days turn into months and the months into years and—at least for M and people like her—it just keeps going.

And for Mom and Sis to stare into the face of such a person day in and day out—torn between the seemingly urgent demands of electronic communication, economic issues in the Euro zone, wars in the Middle East, on the one hand; and the unhurried, generally un-valued life of this woman: well, who wouldn’t have to ask questions about their own significance. And based on the way we’ve spent our time (point one), the answer isn’t usually very satisfying. Few of us want to learn that lesson.

Get Busy Dying
Dying people teach us about…dying. They teach us about our own pending death—whether that is hours away or decades. Dying people remind us of our mortality and finiteness—how there will come a day when we no longer exist, at least not in time and history. (Beyond that depends on the afterlife.)

This is an important lesson because everything around us tells us we are super-important, super-loved, the best, awesome, perpetually young with a penchant for immortality. Our cars make us strong. Our diets. Our clothes. Our twitter followers. Death can’t beat strong. Strong conquers. Strong wins, right?

Wrong. Strong sucks. Strong is only strong until it isn’t any more; then it’s crap. And if we’ve been investing in “Forever Young-n-Strong Retirement Strategy,” we’re as bankrupt as the United States Government. That’s what dying people teach us. M teaches us that you can be a vibrant middle-aged person who suddenly is frail, dependent, weak, and...dying.

That isn’t a message anybody wants to be reminded of. No wonder we’ve ushered the dying off to their pretty houses of old age so that we don’t have to face death. We drive by hospitals, but spend as little time in them as necessary. We’ve forgotten how to die which means we’ve forgotten how to live. Consequently, dying people teach us how to live as much as they teach us that we’ll die.

Sacrifice Shows Our Humanity
Maybe it isn’t so much that dying or vegitative people teach us about sacrifice, as that they provide us the opportunity to show it. Take away all the needy, broken, hungry, dying, lonely, sad etc. people and you have just eradicated every need for sacrifice. Without hungry people, I can eat everything I want. Without needy people, I can buy whatever I want. Without middle-aged women in vegetative states, I can spend my time however I want. And when we live life without these constraints, we self-destruct.

The point~~less~~ed existence of vegetative people is that they make self-destruction that much harder. I would argue that there are plenty of people living pointless lives; I’m talking about healthy people. They are living without restraints of any kind, and have forgotten the lessons of sacrifice. Far from being set free, they’ve been enslaved: to selfish, self-destructive living. These people have become inhuman.

M may live an un-human life. That’s still better than living inhumanly. The everyday, moment-by-moment sacrifice of M’s mother and sister speak the value of humanity more than ten thousand words. That’s not my opinion. In the end, that’s the decision that Mr. Justice Barker came to. M may know, experience, hear or see nothing. And yet, the doctors, nurses, passersby, and bystanders of life are more human as a result of the sacrifice of these two women. Heck, the whole world is bettered.

For this point alone, these women should be praised. Mom and Sis, M can’t tell you so I will. “Thank you for reminding us how to be human.” M teaches us things. So do you.

Now the only question is—are we ready to be students?

Why Sharing Information is So Terrifying, and Essential?

2011-09-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

I’m working on a “10 Year Project”(that’s the working title) where I’m collecting some 20 data points for some 650+ graduates from an institution of higher learning to see if I can develop a predictive modeling approach to identifying the best candidates (for this program) on the front end. As part of this data pool, I was hoping to compare this with information from comparable schools. So I emailed contacts at those locations. The result—despite my guarantee to share all our data and the findings—was a big, fat, net ZERO. Why is sharing information so terrifying?

Because We Don’t Have It
Information is too…concrete. Data is too easily….analyzed. And so, as a protective measure, we don’t seek it, don’t capture it, and then don’t ask the right questions about it. It takes a lot of individual differentiation and emotional health to be able to capture the very thing that might end up showing how poorly we have performed. That is true, whether you are a mom-and-pop business, a Fortune 100 company, or a school. Opening up data means you might be proven a failure. If you show what you are spending, what you are getting in return, how well your product is performing in the marketplace, retention of key employees (or turnover)—you are immediately open to an Apples-to-Apples comparison. And the results might get ugly.

So, instead, we hide our data, or simply chose not to capture it. We don’t talk about graduates placed in their respective fields of study, or even about degreed graduates. We just talk about “alumni”—and use the loosest definition for that: namely, anybody who took a single course, ever.

Or in the business world, the pattern is to spin whatever metrics make us look best. For example, Toyota claims that “80% of all vehicles sold in the past 20 years are still on the road.” Great—so how many is that? How many did Toyota sell in the past 20 years? I seem to remember that the 90’s weren’t great years for Toyota.

Of course they don’t answer that question for us. We have to piecemeal the information that is available. For example, in November 2006, USA Today reported that Toyota was eyeing 15% global market share (total), or 14% for vehicles under the Toyota brand (excluding those sold by Daihatsu and Hino Motors). This 14% represented a sale of some 75 million vehicles worldwide in 2010. Then, in January of 2011, Autoblog reported that Toyota expects sales to jump to 13 million in 2011. Is that global? Who knows! The point is, you actually have to read Toyota’s annual reports for two decades actually find the answer.

Back to the educational industry. Nothing says we might be failing like actually being able to compare reality to reality, using the same terms, in the same ways. And so, we hide information.

Because Others Might Steal from Us
So long as nobody knows how well (or poorly, as the case more often is) we are doing, then others won’t want to copy us. This “close your eyes and hope for the best” approach to institutional health is ignorance reinforced by ignorance. The thinking goes like this: if the competition knows what we’re doing and how well it’s working, they’ll copy us; then, we’ll have to come up with something new. The whole thing smells of complacency. This kind of thinking is the beginning of the end of relevance.

Revealing the outcomes of our endeavors—that enrollment numbers or sales are down—is actually the first, needed step toward change and improvement. We have to stop being afraid of the possibility that others are going to copy us. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Then again, if we are an always changing organization, then competitors are only ever imitating our last best thing. Messages can be copied. Institutes can be mimicked, but core values of organizational life give the flesh and blood behind these forms that will ultimately grow and retain our customer base.

Because we’re Not Prepared to be Self-Reflective
Necessity is the mother of invention. Ignorance is just the step-brother of stupidity. And as we are honest about the state of affairs, then we can begin to listen to the voices of others who might actually help us move in the direction of new growth. But this takes a great deal of self-reflection, and a higher commitment to our constituents than to our personal opinions.

And this is the other reason why information isn’t shared. Sharing information means empowering others to act. When people know how well or poorly our company is doing, there can be calls for accountability. The façade is gone. The fear associated with this process is a fear of self-protection. Self-protection requires the maintenance of the façade: nobody gets past the showroom.

Fear is a stupid reason not to look at the truth. People who think they have cancer and don’t go to the doctor aren’t cancer free. They are just ignorant. Companies who pretend that their sales are just fine, and never bother to see how they compare across the industry, aren’t doing just fine. They’re dying. Organizations, companies, and institutions—like organisms—are either growing or they are dying. There isn’t a condition called “holding steady” in real life.

Self-reflection requires a willingness to critique, analyze, and even—if necessary—to abandon endeavors that aren’t working. This is hard to do, especially when the endeavor—the marketing campaign, the product placement concept, the established idea—comes from you personally. This reveals a lot of maturity. It displaces fear, helps establish trust, and even positions us to learn from the sharing of information.

Essential…because Otherwise We are Moving Toward Irrelevance.
The moment we stop assessing how we are doing—as a company, a church, a school—we have become irrelevant. No, that doesn’t mean we cease to exist immediately. It means that we’ve stopped learning. This is something that dead people do: they stop learning. In fact, it’s a key difference between the living and the dead. Ask your coworkers, “Are we continuing to learn?”

When I lived in the Mississippi Delta (late-90s), my primary care physician—Dr. Duff Austin— was a (at least) 69 year old man who had been practicing medicine since…well, before the time of computing. But he never stopped learning. He was one of the most well-read, up-to-speed doctors I knew. He remained this way until his death.

The moment we stop learning is the moment we start dying. True learning comes through curiosity—questioning why things are the way they are, and asking how to make them better. It is exhausting because it means never being content with where you are or what has been accomplished. And the only power that is really going to hold our feet to the fire of accountability is openness about reality: our metrics, our data, and our analysis.

When we stop sharing information, we become an encyclopedia: filled with useful data as static as the day is long. Irrelevance waits for us, sitting at the end of complacency and pride—of a sense of final accomplishment. Atrophy is just one workout away—our last workout. Institutional assessment, organizational evaluation, corporate growth depend upon staving off atrophy and complacency.

Don’t believe me? Ask Iomega, Novell / Corel, Woolworths, Lionel, Orion Pictures, Pan Am, Rolls-Royce Limited, Auburn-Duesenberg, Studebaker, or the other truly innumerable companies that once lead their industries and eventually gave way to irrelevance, dissolution, and eventually to history.

So, what questions do you need to ask about your church, company or organization? How up to date are the roles, enrollment numbers, member participants, etc? Who is in a position to analyze the metrics being used, and the adequacy of information being captured by those? It's never too late to ask good questions, but tomorrow always puts understanding one day further out from today.

(I just listened to a great, free, webcast that applies to this topic. It was with the author of Now You’re Thinking, Judy Chartrand; and with Col. US Marine Corps David Bellon. It totally applies to this topic.)

What Steve Jobs and Harry Potter Have in Common? (It isn't the glasses!)

2011-08-25T07:34:00.001-07:00

The announced resignation of Steve Jobs feels reminiscent of...well, the last Harry Potter film. There is no evil Voldemort to be slain: Microsoft ceased to be that some time again, and Google isn't quite the threat it desires to be. But all endings have something in common. Call it a moment of reflection. Old storytellers referred to it as "the moral of the story." In any event, endings invite us to be reflective in a way that, mid-stream, we are prone not to be.

Try-Try Again
Jobs wasn't always the glowing success he is today. Remember, he too once got the boot from Apple--by then CEO John Schulley. Reasons given were Jobs temperamental disposition and dissonant leadership style. Jobs is--in Myers Briggs Type Indicator language--a classic INTP (Introversion, iNtution, Thinking, Perceiving): knowledge is valued above all else, even relationships. Known as "absent minded professors," they generally don't like to lead or manage people. It's too messy and...well relational....(read entire article here)

The Role of Interdisciplinary Study in Leadership Innovation

2011-08-17T06:33:00.000-07:00

"Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise." (Prov. 6:6)

Proverbs is rightly described as the book that teaches the "art of godly living" (CJ Collins). But--more than that, and not surprisingly--it drives thoughtful people toward a habit of multidisciplinary comparative study. Isn't that the point of the above parable? To learn about one topic, you study something totally unrelated, with the end goal of understanding both topics better.

Isn't it also why we use illustrations in sermons--that by the telling of a story which appears unrelated (and usually is), some pattern of behavior or belief may be revealed. One need not be Aristotelian to espy the fractal repetition of ideology and intent. It is placed there by God for those who seek to find. Indeed, the entire story of redemption is fractal--showing in part, time and time again, what was broken in the garden and fixed at the cross.

Should it surprise us, then, that at the heart of innovation is this cross-disciplinary study. In a recent article called Think Different, the Economist interviewed professor Clay Christensen on the nature of disruptive innovation...(click here to read the rest)

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

Tea-Party Just the Beginning of Political Plurality

2011-08-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

The age of the two-party system is nearing its end. It isn't finished just yet--and many are riding that dead horse of hope into the next electoral cycle. But--as the recent debt-ceiling debate shows--within a decade, the Tea-Party will be just one of many "tribal" groups vying for power in and influence over our political and national interests.

One (Tea)Party-Crasher Does not a Pattern Make
The Tea-Party has had the spotlight in recent days, but it is not the first party to challenge the status quo of Washington. The Green Party of 2001 is still alive, if not thriving. Other parties have come and (thankfully) gone--like... (click here to read more)

Talk to the Hand: A Moment of Self-Reflection

2011-07-28T08:18:00.000-07:00

Texting while driving can be dangerous. But so is going through life at the whim of the next demand. The urgent is no longer tyrannical; it’s just easier. It demands less forethought, less deliberation, less contemplation, less consideration.

Twenty years ago, for example, frustration with political decisions meant the tedious process of using the yellow pages to find a phone number, using a Ma Bell descendant, paying 10-25 cents per minute to call either the state capital or Washington DC to secure an address where you could send your complaint—typed preferably, though hand written would still be accepted; taking the time to type or (gasp!) handwrite your complaint, print it off, secure and envelope and postage stamp, place in mailbox, put flag up, and wait—maybe two weeks—in the hopes that the letter arrived securely; hoping all along the process that someone on the other end would take the time to read it.

Now, lettering is a lost art. Ebonics was arguably a passing threat to lingual accuracy and visual literacy; but nowhere near what text message shorthand (i.e. Textese, chatspeak, or txt lingo) has become. I can now tweet a frowny face to my politician at #Geithner to express my disapproval of the Treasury’s handling of debt and the Fed’s issuance of currency. Communication sent; message received.

Or not. The noise of communicative attempt has become more a deafening force of cognitive wholeness than all the psychological manipulation of Orwell’s 1984. One reviewer writes, “One of Orwell’s most important messages in 1984 is that language is of central importance to human thought because it structures and limits the ideas that individuals are capable of formulating and expressing.” Are we still capable? Ideological slavery is self-imposed more than it is militarily enforced. At least, that’s what one must conclude from the rise of Hitler in post-WWI Germany. Before he could come to power, there had to be the willingness of the people to let him.

So, I’m trying to make sense of the noise and—where possible—turn it off. How do I keep focused on what is legitimately to be sought after? The present reminder that I can only do one or two things well. Whether reading Emotionally Healthy Spirituality, or Strength’s Finder, the message is the same: I am limited, and am only good at a few things. To pretend otherwise is hubris, self-ignorance, and self-neglect. Those strengths are situational: I wasn’t born a hundred years ago, or else I would likely be a really good farmer. I live today, and my nurturing finds expression in the fields of the immediate relationships around me (e.g. in my family, my church, and my job). My development finds expression in the tools of the pen, the paper, and the unformed shaped of raw wood. That’s it, or pretty close to it.

So I’m not going to text while driving. Actually, I don’t plan to text at all. The message will get through to you—I’m sure of that. But it won’t be me, and I won’t understand myself in the act of developing the attempt to communication. Yes, Babel has been undone (Acts 2). But not all the effects thereof.

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

Two and a Half Men!

2011-07-25T12:03:00.001-07:00

CBS's New "Two and a Half Men" Advertisement

The Federal Government's New "Two and a Half Men" Advertisement

August 2 is the Debt Limit Deadline.

The Sadly Predictable Failure of Firefly

2011-06-03T09:22:00.001-07:00

Ever Wonder What Makes or Breaks a Televison Show. I Promise You, it Wasn't the Reavers

Sorry guys--"guys," in that non-gender specific universal Midwestern-and-north kind of way--Firefly was doomed to fail. That's fail spelled ISFP. Yep, at the end of the day the success or--in this case--failure of a television show is tied to the Myers Briggs types of the characters, the roles they play, and the ways those reflect trends in cultural expectations

Background, Foreground, and Landscape Analysis
Once you get beyond the herd of cop'n'crime shows, the trend of successful television keeps the man in his place and elevates the woman to hers. Men are either gay (Two and a Half Men,Modern Family) or else they are ENFP--which means they talk a lot, are slightly on the goofy side, cuddly and cute (or, preferably downright sexy), likely a little dense, and reminiscent of the not-yet-grown-up-kid in a man's body.

And the woman is the driver-leader--less talkative, more logical, decisive, reflective, analytical, scheduled, well dressed, and -- well, sexy. Okay, so they have the sexy thing in common, but beyond that these types are opposites. In Myers Briggs speak, these women would be ISTJ (usually) or INTJ (occasionally) types. Examples: Doctor Temperance Brennan (Bones), FBI Agent Olivia Dunham (Fringe), Lawyer Alicia Florrick (The Good Wife), and Detective Kate Beckett (Castle). Even their titles and jobs distinguish this archetypal modern woman.

So What about Firefly Don't They Like?
Well, it isn't the lack of...(click here to read full review)

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

Fortitude and the Uncertainty of Times

2011-05-17T15:42:00.000-07:00

The theme of fortitude has run throughout more than one Wall Street Journal article of late. It is a theme which might as well be accidental as intentional; and yet, in any case, leaves one with an immensely heavy question. Namely: Have we faced the cost of losing? Specifically, have free people faced the cost of living in a world without freedom, in perpetual fear, with prevailing injustices, without recourse; in short, losing?

Andrew Robert’s commentary (Britain Goes Wobbly on Terror, May 11) asks that question by pointing to the resolve--of generations past--not to lose. He writes, “…[T]he intestinal fortitude of a people matters much more than weaponry, economics or even grand strategy. Morale is almost impossible to quantify, whereas demoralization is all too evident.”

Lt. Cmdr. Eric Greitens asked that question in his article, “The Seal Sensibility” (May 7). There he writes, “Some men who seemed impossibly weak at the beginning of SEAL training—men who puked on runs and had trouble with pull-ups—made it. Some men who were skinny and short and whose teeth chattered just looking at the ocean also made it. Some men who were visibly afraid, sometimes to the point of shaking, made it too.”

What both of these poignant reflections spotlight is that the fortitude of a single person or an entire nation succumbs, in the end, to loss when the cost of that loss is never fully considered ahead of time. I believe the reason these “impossibly weak” men made it to the end is that they tasted failure at the beginning. It was a taste they were unwilling to live with and so, resolved, they would die rather than taste it again. England had tasted loss before and during the days of Hitler, as had Russia. It was the knowledge of what loss cost that was the final, un-breached foundation of their national fortitude.

By comparison, Greitens says that those who failed had never “been pushed beyond the envelope of their talent to the core of their character.” Character is simply another word for intestinal fortitude.

Which leaves the question to us: have we truly faced the cost of losing? Whatever some might say, the rhetoric common boasts of talent that has yet to be pushed. Loss is a powerful pedagogy. There are lessons in failure, lessons that many in this world have learned but that we—the United States—have managed to avoid in our long running years of success.

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

A Review of Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible

2011-04-01T06:32:00.000-07:00

The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver, is a finger drawn crooked through the heart of Africa, directing the lives of Nathan Price and his "five wives"— his wife, Orleanna, and their four daughters: Rachel, Leah, Adah, and Ruth May. It is a story of a family as well as a country: Congo, or Zaire as it was later called.
Nathan, the hot-headed, not-to-be-contradicted Baptist pastor is the self-declared savior of the Congo. His wife and daughters have but one recourse: shut-up and follow. Nathan's brash arrogance is only somewhat explained—though no less excusable—by his personal experience with the Bataan Death March (1942). But his utter disregard for the common respect of the nationals to whom he seeks to minister is just one of his deeply unjustified flaws. He is the caricature of a man, a shadow made real only by the equally shallow words that he speaks when he opens his...(click here to read more).

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

Diversity of Calling. Diversity of People

2011-01-26T14:37:00.000-08:00

Covenant Presbyterian Church of St. Louis, MO hosted their first (of many planned) Faith in Work speaker series—where discussions will center on the value, dignity and goodness of vocation (read, non-church); and to inspire and invite deeper reflection on the purpose of vocational calling.

On Eric Metaxas

Today’s speaker was Eric Metaxas—author of Amazing Grace (about William Wiberforce) and, more recently Bonheoffer. He’s also written for Veggie Tales, which commends him as something more than a dry historian recounting (or regurgitating as is so common) epochs of the past. Metaxas is funny and engaging; witty, and worth having speak in other forums. After a fairly long and impressive introduction on background, experience, and accomplishments, emcee Caroline Leutwiler summarize Metaxas in this way: “He reminds me in some ways of Bonheoffer… His abilities and convictions have been used to change lives.”

Metaxas was raised in New York City in a nominal (cultural) Greek Orthodox family. He later studied at Yale University where, he says, “everyone is supposed to lose their faith [and] become a nihilist with your parent’s money…without them finding out.” Then in 1988, he had a radical—and one might say charismatic—conversion experience. While he only hinted at that experience (which centered on a dream), he tells a fuller version of it at his website. Speaking of true Christian faith, Metaxas said, “It changes one’s life. Or, at least, it should.”

The same year as his conversion a pastor asked him if he’d ever heard of Dietrich Bonheoffer. Metaxas (said) he replied, “No. I went to Yale where it’s not allowed to learn about historic Christianity. And Welcome Back, Cotter never covered that topic.” Metaxas’ decision to write Bonheoffer is particular significant because of his own family ties to Nazi Germany—where his own grandfather (if I understood the relational dynamic) was forced into military service and died in the war.

On Bonheoffer
Bonheoffer was 14 when he declared that he intended to study theology—meaning, he intended to distinguish himself academically in the field of theology. He went on to study at Tübingen and Belgium University. Bonheoffer was intellectually independent—or, what I would call “differentiated”—such that he was not influenced by the liberal theology of the day. He’d completed his doctorate by the age of 21, writing his thesis on the topic of “What is the Church?” This focused study ended up birthing in him a desire to actually be a pastor (not just a theologian). He couldn’t get ordained—because he wasn’t 25 yet; so, after a year pasturing in Spain—in the words of Metaxas—“Bonheoffer killed a year in New York,” adding, “I too have killed many years in New York, and am working on my honorary doctorate…starting right now!” (laughter).

Praise God that Bonheoffer ended up in NYC. Because, after his less than positive interaction with the theologians at Union Seminary—of whom Bonheoffer thought them shallowly liberal—he began worshiping at an African-American church in the Harlem. That was in 1931.

When Bonheoffer left Germany, the National Socialism party was 12th in terms of power and size. When he returned, it had attained to the second largest and most influential party—eventually taking full control. The idea of a “human savior”—in the form of a Führer—had begun to take hold. Immediately following Hitler’s appointment to that position, Bonheoffer gave a radio speech dissecting the idea of a human savior—pointing all of German back to Christ. The implicit question in the speech was directed at Hitler: “Where do you get your authority?”

Within Germany, the populace that was spiritually and theologically illiterate saw nothing at odds between the role that Hitler had assumed and that of the Bible. Bonheoffer—among others—did! Many are confused in thinking that the Nazis were Christian. Far from it—Metaxas says, emphasizing that those people should read the chapter of Bonheoffer on that topic.

Foremost among theological issues was the Jewish question. The Nazis tried to restructure the church along lines that were racial by nature. The inconceivability of this attempt moved Metaxas to hyperbole, "I could be wrong here, but I think Jesus was part Jew. And Mary—well, she was either Jewish or Italian. I don't remember!"

Bonheoffer, along with many who held to true Christianity (and not just a cultural guise), died for their commitments—including many church leaders who signed the Barmen Declaration. Sadly, many believed that the rise and corruption of the Nazi was temporary and would pass , believing that Hitler was “a one term Führer” (Metaxas says, tongue in cheek). But the faithfulness of witness and faith in the life of Bonheoffer offers a call to the American Church. As Metaxas says, “If the American Church were to read [and embrace] the writings of Bonheoffer, we would be transformed…a real church.”

“In the end, the pseudo-Church will always fail,” Metaxas said in closing. “The real church never will.”

(The title of this piece comes from the prayer that Pastor Ryan Laughlin prayed at the beginning of the luncheon.)

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

Determined to Write....Something.

2011-01-20T12:47:00.000-08:00

Every morning is the same, in this one regard. I think, “Tonight, I am going to write. And not just one page, but a dozen.” Sipping hot coffee and warm oatmeal, I nod to myself in silent reassurance. Driving past trafficked byways on the way to work, I look for scenes of certain inspiration. Walking beneath snow covered trees, I make up couplets about the cold.

The day goes on: work-filled hours pass slowly, broken intermittently by conversations and prayers, notes and encouragements. Email is the bane of sane existence, such that I’ve begun working “offline” to delay—if not completely deter—the constant barrage. Surfing the web splinters focus like glass on cement. I resist the urge, and chose instead of stare into the sky—which is the only thing I can see (and that in part) from the small portal of my high-placed, low profile window. Eight hours, ten notes, fifty emails, and eleven phone calls later—the workday ends.

Someone said that men only have a thousand words each day. Driving home, I check my reserves to find them totally depleted. I still desire to write, but determination has waned. Signaling cars lane change across the landscape of my eyes with more certainty and direction. Staring blankly at the red light, I resolve to give my family nothing less than what I gave to work.

Dinner talk is all the day. I stare past half drunk glasses and competing desires to meet the eyes of those who speak: my children and my spouse. Their micro-expressions—mostly those of the children—are a running narrative of emotion and experience, accentuated by emphatic verbs tied inexorably together with simple conjunctions. Amidst the tide of telling, voices compete in chorus. I drink my water to keep from drowning in the moment—that “homework driving home from playground football playing teams of mud tracks on the hallway floors as beeping watches chime far across the laughing classroom lessons that contains history unfolding lunch to teachers slight chagrin” moment. Then it’s over.

All the floors are picked up, and bedtime stories told. The hallway stretches out before me; light leads off to dark. The silence takes up much more space than all the spoke words. I am lost, for a moment. And then I find myself, there, tired. Slowly, I manage a few remaining habits of business—to brush my teeth clean of all the gnawed on thoughts, and put my shoes away. I lay my body down and think—as sleep overtakes me—that I did not write today…not many pages. Not many. Just one.

It is the best kind of writing—full of memory that will fuel joyful praise when all that’s left of life is frail breath, gentle sleep, and recollection.

Today was a page of history, written on heart and lives of children, my wife, and a too-often forgetful--but sometimes watching--world.

As for the rest: it will have to wait until tomorrow.

"How Long Before We Get There?" and Other Hardwired Phrases Children Say

2010-12-02T12:18:00.000-08:00

Traveling with Children is Always Interesting, and Sometimes Humerous

Five minutes out of the driveway, just about the time the car started warming up and my mug of coffee started cooling off—it started. Windshield wipers swished. Rain fell. Tires splashed. Then: "How long before we get there?"

Science is Wrong: Children Aren't Blank Slates
I've historically accepted the theory that children are linguistically Tabula rasa when born. But as I grow older, I'm beginning to think there are some phrases that are hardwired into them. Phrases like, What's for dinner? and, Can I watch a movie? and, Are we there yet? Other phrases are hardwired out of children. For example, I've never heard one of them ask unprovoked, "When can I go to bed?" or "May I have some more Brussels sprouts, please?" (Brussels sprouts: what are those...(click here to read more)

Escape Suburbia: Queeny Park in St. Louis, MO

2010-12-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

When the rush of modernity drives you to the edge of insanity, a haven rests on the edge of urbanity. Just west of St. Louis proper, and tucked between the busy Manchester Road and I-64—known simply as "sixty-far, farty" by many native Missourians—lies 569 acres of hardwood, hiking trails, and most importantly, silence. This is Queeny Park.

This November, the leaves have decided to change late and in a less-than-systematic way. Some trees have shed completely their bounty and stand like a recalcitrant. But most—the more glorious specimens among them—have entered...(click here to read more).

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

Glimpsing for Heaven--What do you see?

2010-10-28T11:57:00.001-07:00

Status update says, “Just saw the awesome trailer for…” and I start to rush over to Apple Trailers to see it too. Why? Because it must be important, right? Right? So I stop myself mid-Google and stare at the half-typed search words. Who am I kidding? I don’t care. I really don’t. I don’t care who the American Idol is this week, or what Brittney Spears was caught saying, or what Barak Obama swears to now, or which Taylor Swift song just showed up on YouTube. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about what app will now let Mafia War ratings cross over into Farmville for a bit of Cow on Horse violence.

Not to be too harsh—maybe, maybe these are really important things. For the sake of argument, let’s assume they are. So they are important, and lots of people are Googling and ogling over the pictures and sounds and tweets of people real and imagined. Looking around the bakery where I’m sitting—it sure seems that way. Of the patrons whose screens are facing me, only one has a non-Facebook-Google-email window open. All the rest franticly sip the overnight gossip with their side of morning coffee while crumbs of irrelevance and bagels fall from their fingers. Oh that one poor sap—the guy slaving over the spreadsheet—is missing out.

Then again, I guess I am too. I’m thinking that heaven will be like a memory fest where Jesus gets to sit down and tell the entirety of history starting with, “A long time ago, in the universe I created…” But this story is not like the kindergarten class—where stern faced teachers remind children not to shout out parts of the story even if they’ve heard it before. In this telling, we’re supposed to interrupt.

Jesus says, “So then I was talking with Cain and told him how sad I was by the emptiness of his sacrifices…” and Abel shouts out, “I was there. I saw that. That was the day when the wheat was high in the field and a flock of geese flew past my brother and me as we were walking out in the field.”

Only it won’t be just the “important” stuff—births and deaths and murders and victories, wars and rumors of wars. He’ll say, “And then on October 28th, 2010, I sent a flock of birds flying over Des Peres Missouri while the leaves were changing colors right in front of anybody willing to watch....” And the audience is silent. Nobody saw it. Nobody but God. That unique flock of birds, moving in just that unique way that—if you watched long enough from the right angle—spelled “Roll Tide” or “Hello friend.” These incredible images of life are the eternal currency of heaven—memories of fleeting glory, like momentary glimpses over the shoulder of God as he conducts the orchestra of history.

Okay—so the Taylor Swift Farmville Wars search is important. And somebody will be called on to shout out the memory of that event during the telling and retelling of the ancient tale of God brining redemption to all creation. But how many other details go unnoticed because we are so busy living our lives through other people? Heaven isn’t like the Thanksgiving table—where too-oft repeated details of mark and memory cause the audience to groan and eye-roll with the “not again.” Captive, we’ll all sit with unblinking attention, gasping with awe-filled amazement at the facets of redemption carried from this life into the next through the vehicle of memory.

But I’m thinking someone will need to fill in the detail of the perfect Fall tree on Burgundy Lane that—on October 28, 2010—was bare on top, red in the middle, yellow below that and green at the bottom. A tree that, like the whole of all the seasons of a year, captured for a moment everything in the morning light of a sun that was filtered dreamlike by thin sheets of mist. In fact, I’m banking on it, and turn my eyes to that glory of eternity that, like Christ himself once did, somehow found itself as part of the unfolding story of redemption. In turning, I’m missing something else—I’m sure. But one can only see one thing at a time.

Jesus says, “…and then I made the light fall just so and it landed…” and he welcomes my interruption as I stand amongst the redeemed throng of the sheep and say, “I saw that.”

The crowd leans forward in awe. Christ laughs. And the unfolding retelling goes on.

What will you see today?

Opelika Eighty-Two Tuscaloosa

2010-10-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

These vacant shells of once-lived lives are shadows of my past, reflections of years traversed through the heart of Alabama. I know these hills and trees, and clapboard houses falling down. What the creeping passage of time does not consume, the rush of years will. And what the rush of years does not consume, the harsh heat of days will. And what the harsh heat of days does not consume, Kudzu will. Until, the downward flowing years of humanity are shadows, and shadows of shadows: a rusty mailbox with a bent flag, and five black men gathered around the stools of an old service station. Were they twelve, they could be the disciples with Jesus in the middle—or maybe the Pharisees plotting to kill Jesus, or maybe the left-behind crowds who said, “What just happened? Was that not the Son of Jesse?”, or the Roman guards that said, “Truly this was the son of God.”

Trees lean over the two-lane road called Eighty-two: pine and oak, and here and there the changing elm. Most remain untouched by the early days of southern autumn. It is October and I wish it would rain cold down on me. Behind me lies two days in Opelika, and a year. Ahead lies a day in Tuscaloosa—a day and a year, and two. Eighteen years ago, I drove this uncertain path on a day not unlike this—warmer, less cloudy, but equally filled with the expectation of something I could only imagine but longed for nonetheless.

This is me: I am young—as the miles wash away the years of travel—a shower of recollection on the train of memory. Next stop, college! Students played on the quad as I slowly drove down University Blvd. There was a volleyball game; I wished to play. There was Denny Chimes; I wanted to ring out as well—the caller of times present and past, “All is well! All is well!”, and “Peace. Peace.”

And then there was November. I drove home to vote in the 1992 elections and back in a day. Tara, Heather, Brett, Dan, Allen, and Chris waited back in Freidman (and the matching girls dorm). The cold chill of November rain gnawed through jeans and a paint-stained canvas barn jacket. I hated leaving. I hated in-between road.

Then there was the female twin, whose name I forget. Dark headed, and bright eyed. I didn’t really know her. No, but she was the one who laughed one night at a Southbound concert, smiled, and hugged me goodbye for the summer. And, goodbye forever! She died backing out of her driveway. Died, with a hug and a smile as a goodbye…and now even her name is lost.

Memory is like Old Testament prophesies. There is a shortening when looking backward as well as forward. The music always plays double-time. The tangled threads of particular commonality intertwine, confusticate, and then are gone.

I remember…walking from Freidman to a dorm across campus on a Saturday for lunch, to eat—hopefully—with someone I knew.
I remember…pool in the game room off the Ferguson center. Heidi and Camille were there.
I remember…sitting in my room during one home game, listening out the window to the sounds of pre-football ringing crisp on the cool September air.
I remember…the somber boy-knight who stands guard over the large study hall in Amelia.
I remember ...jumping off of the cliffs that first weekend in town, after standing scared for so very long.

I remember. I remember and I forget. Shake the snow-ball. Watch the world spin. Chaos rages all around, while Reindeer—or Santa, or the Eifel Tower—remain frozen in place. In my ball, I stand frozen amidst the swirl of memories. Snatch one out of the air—like a furtive lightening bug—then let it go just as fast, before the light goes out. A flake in the hand is worth nothing compared to the brilliance of the thousand that fly past.

Just before entering Chilton County, a white crumbling lean-too says, “The horn of plenty.” There is plenty enough in the old roads and hidden minds of humanity to make the world weep a billion years and laugh even longer, harder. For what: the past? The past is a fun place to visit. But longing after all is just longing, and the promise of presence is a power not easily overcome. No, I don’t want to be back here—alone, insecure, struggling, afraid, more sad than cheered, and regularly melancholic.

Yes, the past is a great place to visit, but I would never choose to live there.

Well—at least not often.

Missouri Looking for Someone to Lead

2010-10-04T05:26:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween, in September!

The recent report by the National Bureau of Economic Research—that the "great recession ended in June 2009"—would be funny, if they weren't so painfully false. Missouri continues the impact of fewer jobs and higher unemployment. Layoffs this summer at Boeing reflect changes in defense spending, while more-recent layoffs at ISS Facility Services Inc., a janitorial service, indicate companies are still cutting back on external services.

Higher unemployment means fewer taxable dollars, which in turn means declining municipal revenue. For East St. Louis, Illinois (part of the metropolitan St. Louis area) that has meant a 30% cut in police staff. For a city already plagued by crime, this situation is ripe for an escalation of violent activity—as greater need drives some to take greater risks in the face of diminished enforcement.

Mayor Alvin Parks said that "the weak economy has robbed the city of badly needed money," (St. Louis Post Dispatch, July 2010). Others suggest it is unchecked local, state, and federal governments which have robbed people of money—expanding already-unsustainable budgets during the '04-'06 high property-tax years.... (click here to read full article)

Reality Bites

2010-09-21T12:30:00.001-07:00

Insincere, Inconsistent, or In Memory Of

2010-09-11T21:11:00.000-07:00

Five Steps to Becoming a Christian

2010-08-28T20:15:00.000-07:00

Five Steps to Becoming a Christian (or is that Three?).
People love to start with the "how." So here it is—a step-by-step how-to of becoming a Christian:

1. Do nothing.
2. Do nothing some more.
3. Ask the God of the Bible to bring you into relationship with him.
4. (Optional) Thank God for bringing you into his family.
5. Continue doing nothing.

If that list seems remarkably short and a little irreligious—then you are starting to get the picture. Christianity is the only religion that does not require actions, behaviors, or obedience to save you. In fact, the more you "do" to become a Christian, the further away you are from getting the main point: that God loves us and wants to have relationship with us so much that, when we ran away from him (and got utterly lost), he couldn't stand it and so sent his son after us to bring us home.

I became a Christian when I was five. No, that's not when I joined the church or got baptized. I didn't suddenly change my behavior to be different, better, or holier. In that moment, I just regretted not listening to the Bible, and I asked God for another chance to listen. That's it—I said, "God, I want to hear what the Bible says."

Click here to read the rest of the article.

(this post contains affliate links to Amazon.com)

Missouri to Washington DC: We Want the Freedom to Choose

2010-08-04T17:29:00.000-07:00

ST. LOUIS -- As 5 p.m. approached and the heat settled in at a steamy 99 degrees, the once-steady flow of voters tricked off to a near-standstill. On the Missouri ballot this hot August day—among the standard, statewide primaries—is Proposition C (Prop C). Also known as Missouri Health Care Freedom, the amendment takes to task key aspects of President Obama's trillion-dollar plan, signed into law in March.

Among the sporadic, late-afternoon voters were a college student, a family with one small girl, and an older woman. Provisions within the federal Patient Protection and Affordability Act of 2010 (PPACA) could possibly affect each of these individuals' ability to afford and secure sufficient health insurance. That is...(click here to read more)

Fox Seeks to Increase Male Viewership by Hijacking the Homosexual Agenda

2010-07-20T05:56:00.000-07:00

From House M.D. And Bones to Fringe and Lie to Me, Fox Spins Sex for Male Viewers

Fox Television's uniqueness and creativity has brought this late-1990's upstart into the mainstream of TV viewing—with shows like JJ Abrams'Fringe,House,Bones, and Lie to Me. But Fox is unique in another way—that is, its blatant push to increase male viewership through the glorification of gratuitous, lesbian relationships.

Both Bones and House introduced regular, female bisexual characters in the past few years—Angela Montenegro and Dr. Remy Hadley respectively. Initially, small, passing references to bisexuality in both shows slowly took on more pronounced roles in the development of those characters...(click here to read full article).

ABC's Castle: A Review (of the Season Finale)

2010-06-24T06:10:00.000-07:00

Maybe It's ABC That's Lost

Castle is one more in a long series of failed attempts by Disney's ABC to win viewers hearts and loyalty. The show is named for one of the two main characters, Richard Castle (played by Nathan Fillion)—a mystery novelist who puppy-dogs a female detective, Kate Beckett, (played by Stana Katic). And do I ever mean puppy-dog!

(Richard) Castle is like a big kid—driven by his desire for sex, clueless in his ability to shepherd his daughter through the pitfalls of adolescence (like sexual responsibility), and living as a divorced bachelor in a wealthy house full of large-screened entertainment systems. He drinks, smokes, and gambles at night with his buddies, and is occasionally visited by a pop-in mother who relates to her son like a child. Castle's ex-wife/publisher even says about him, "He's such a little boy sometimes. I don't know why." (click here to read more)

Another view on BP and THIS national crisis.

2010-06-17T14:51:00.001-07:00

I'm not saying BP is free from guilt. They are gilty. It's the inconsistency of the response to this crisis verses the response to the banking, housing, and automobile crises...as Mark Haines points out.

Spain Stumbles While Switzerland Sails in World Cup Soccer Match!

2010-06-16T14:31:00.000-07:00

Nobody wanted to be that team--the first ones to take on Spain in the 2010 World Cup Soccer (or Football, as the rest of the world calls it) Championship. Spain isn't the reigning champion of the previous World Cup, in 2006. That title belongs to Italy—won on penalty shots against France in a game make famous by Zinedine Zidane's headbutt of Italian Marco Materazzi). Still, Spain dominates world football (soccer). They pocketed a whopping...(click here for full article).

C.S. Lewis' Other Narnia: Three Books that Deserve the Large Screen

2010-05-03T20:39:00.000-07:00

Good books don't make good movies. Well, not always. But sometimes—every so often—a book screams, "Make a movie out of me." The Help by Kathryn Stockett and Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers are two examples: compelling narratives, poignant themes, and rich characters. Three other books—a trilogy—that are equally compelling, poignant, and rich (and likely to be overlooked by the best film makers) are Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, and That Hideous Strength, all books by Clive Staples Lewis.

Clive Who?
Affectionately known as C.S., Clive Staples is the renowned author of The Chronicles of Narnia, and the only slightly less known (in some circles) Mere Christianity. He was one of the most vibrant contributors to The Inklings—an eclectic group of writers out of Oxford—which also included J.R.R. Tolkien (author of The Lord of the Rings), Owen Barfield, and (sometimes) the poet T.S. Elliot. Unbeknownst to many, C.S. passed away relatively unnoticed—as newspapers worldwide focused on the same-day shooting of John F. Kennedy.

While Disney has re-popularized the Narnia series through the recent films The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe and Prince Caspian—C.S. Lewis' space trilogy remains a great imaginative adventure, with galactic trips between planets, introduction of strange and unique creatures, and a plotline that remains unique...(Click here to read entire article)

Participation versus Posting

2010-04-29T10:38:00.001-07:00

Google any topic, click “I’m feeling lucky” and you are likely to end up at a discussion board, somewhere. And—whether the topic is financial planning and investing, home gardening, or how immunizations cause autism (or not!)—familiarity with discussion boards will quickly delineate comments into two groups: participators and posters (or, is that poser?).

Participators see themselves as part of a community, not only opining about some topic, but actually vesting themselves in the content of the discussion. There is a cost (gain or loss) to holding a particular view. And those views are acted upon. While the vast majority of infopinion the internet over is anonymous, disparate, and launched from a place of safety (i.e. there is no possible loss, error, or criticism linked to the to the opinion posted)—the greatest innovation, broadest transformation, and deepest impact of ideas and input is seen, measured, and felt when the random board pos(t)er becomes a participant. Any website can track the inconsequential numbers of page views or topic posts—but regular and recurrent participation is the stuff that turns random websites into social hubs. The posts of true participants are measured, not simply in regularity, but in depth of content and breadth of impact. Posts are proactive, sequential (if not also diverse), and grow from a place of informed certainty (if not also the possibly of being publicly wrong).

Pos(t)ers, by comparison, are those who surf the web—often in an aimless fashion. Their posts are reactive (rather than proactive), sporadic, and even a little spastically-psychotic. The key differentiation between pos(t)ers and participants is the possibility of loss. The possibility of being right in an unvested area, or being right in a vested area are one in the same. There is no shame in saying, “I think Google will increase in market share and market value,” not acting on that information, be right, and not be vested! That individual wins either way: he can boast of “being right” even if he can’t boast of the profits. But to say, “Apple (AAPL) will underperform the S&P 500 in the next year” (a position I publicly took a year ago!), not act on that information, and be wrong—whether one is vested or not—is a great risk. Either I risk money or my reputation or both. Either way, true risk must be measured in the possibility of loss, not the possibility (or reality) of gain.

And so random pos(t)ers will always stand outside the realm of real risk. If they opine on a topic, and are wrong, nobody knows who they are. There’s no possibility of shame. If they never invest, never vote, never buy, never practice, never participate—there is no possibility of loss. And what loss may really occur will never be observed. Pos(t)ers can spread opinion without accountability. I call them posers because there is a form and shape, but no substance.

This hit me acutely with a recent article comment thread at the Motley Fool financial site. On one article, one user posted three responses to an article (back to back), all within 1 hour. There were no other comments. Each responses focused on one stock mentioned—Sirius (SIRI)—and each increased in incredulity. A click through to this users “profile” revealed him/her to be a poser: zero stock ratings, zero board postings, zero profile updates, no stocks liked, etc. In short, his profile was blank (see below).

Note that pos(t)ers may be long time “account holders” at the places where they randomly show up. For example, this particular pos(t)er has been a Motley Fool (MF) member since 2007. (This fact reveals why we should be suspicious of companies that measure success in metrics based on “user length of time.”) By comparison, note the profile of a true participant (see below):

There is depth, commitment, and risk: the risk of being wrong with (in this case) favorite stocks, or with opinions taken on posts. There is also the risk of losing a great deal: of time, money, respect, recognition, and influence. These are not cheap or easily replaced. And yet, when there is true risk of loss, the benefits of reward—over and above the prospect of simply being right—is immense.

So is there anything that a company can do to move pos(t)ers to participants? First, participation needs to be rewarded. Loyalty is a value that drives the revenue of extremely successful business models. Companies can reward participation through a variety of value-added content and/or savings (e.g. resources available only to participants, scaled with increasing opportunity or discount based on level of participation). Companies can also recognize participation—allowing that certain metrics must be attained before comment recognition is allowed.

On the other hand, companies can generate a user-peer based model for participation, akin to MF. Peers can measure the weight of comments by posers based on a variety of things (cumulatively): length of membership, number of board posts, number of stocks rated, percentage of profile complete, and number of positive ratings per post.

This level of transparency is essential if we are to differentiate between participants and pos(t)ers. In reality, this is very hard. The weight of one comment can be disproportionate to the trend of a discussion or argument, until the level of participation is revealed. Then, it becomes clear who is a spastic pos(t)er and who a true participant. And, to be honest, most users are both pos(t)er and participant—though the level of each varies from forum to forum.

What do you think? Are there ways you differentiate between posers and participants? What else can companies do to move users along the scale from posers to participants? If you are a chronic pos(t)er, why? If you are a recognized participant, how would you leverage that position?

Almost Fifty: The End of Covenant Seminary's Original Administration Building

2010-04-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

December 21, 2009: At the intersection of Conway Road and Balcon Estates Drive, an old white-columned building stands. Three-storied and painfully unattractive from the back—its facing mirrors the old homes that once lined the streets of this neighborhood. Perpendicular to neither road, the building is angled, poised—as if to proclaim some message. But whether through time her message has been “Welcome to the City” or “Now leaving the Country”—all is now silent in the end of the end of the waiting.

The building has a history that predates its incorporation into the once burgeoning institution of which it is currently part—Covenant Theological Seminary. Built in the early 1900s, the building used to sit at the site of St. John’s Hospital’s current extended care unit—where it served as a twenty-room convent for the Sisters of Mercy. Covenant Seminary was offered the building in 1960, when St. John’s was set to construct a $14 million facility at the same site.

The Seminary’s student newspaper reported that month, “It was a long-awaited answer to prayer when the phone rang several months ago and a Roman Catholic Sister said that she wished to donate a house to Covenant College [at that time the College and the Seminary shared the campus]. The house that she was speaking of is a twenty-room mansion about a half mile from the college on a site where the Catholics are planning to erect a $14,000,000 hospital in the near future. The one string attached to the gift, however, was that the school must at its own expense move the house off the property. Because the T-shaped house is old and sprawling, there is little hope that all of it can be successfully moved. The present plan is to move the front section of it down Conway Road and place it on a new basement and foundation constructed on a site between the faculty homes and the main gate of the campus. The rear section will then be rebuilt, so that when it is completed, the structure will be as large as it now is and will perhaps be arranged a little more conveniently for the purposes of the college” (The Bagpipe, October, 1960) The home made the journey on November 17, 1960—to watching neighbors and stopped traffic—across four days and half a mile.

Thirty-nine years later, much has changed. A red hawk has taken to perching on the house’s chimney, and once-small trees are old and weatherworn. The front, double doors open up to an empty and threadbare space that feels more like a tomb than a home. Converted to office space, and coded with fire doors, much of the original elegance and (then) contemporary comfort of the home is hidden by trappings of modernity or lost completely—patched over with sheetrock and drop-tile ceilings. To the careful observer, the grandeur of the décor is visible, here and there—in the ornate molding that breaks the long stretches of wall into decorative and inviting shapes.

In what must have been the lounge or receiving room—the fireplace is set in a series of contrasting trim styles, hand-crafted in days before mechanized routers and electric saws. A dark marble slab adorns the face, and evenly spaced bricks support the base. Though blackened with years of fires, one can still feel the once-inviting space, arranged perhaps for the occasional guest of residing nuns, on days equally as cold as this. I imagine a Sister would welcome the visitor and bid them warm by the fire, while outside the French-style windows snow covered ground, trees, and life.

Today, there is no fire. Cold seeps in through single-paned glass and the cracks in right angles no longer right in the settling of years and service. The muted sunlight barely lights the farthest corners of the room. How quickly decay has set in—as plaster blisters from the walls in the presence of too much moisture and not enough conditioning.

Original film footage of the moving of the house—with men running in and out beneath the raised structure—reveals the complexity and semi-magnitude of the project. Of course, those were in the days before Interstate 270 stretched over Conway Road, a reality that would prevent a modern reenactment. And yet, it remains a noteworthy feat—that the cumulative lives of those who lived in this house at St. John’s Hospital would be far outnumbered by those who would make it a home at Covenant Seminary.

After the move, the building front was adorned with a raised portico, Doric columns, and the unassuming name of “Administration Building.” But what the name lacked in creativity and color, the building made up for in the myriad of disparate and varied functions it served for the Seminary’s faculty, staff, and students. Originally employed as administrative offices and library space, the building regularly held classrooms, faculty offices, counseling rooms, and—perhaps most remembered—living space for single male students. Paul Billy Arnold, a native of southern India and currently a pastor in that region, lived in the building during the 1990s while studying at the Seminary. He recalls eating apples from the apple tree to the east and pears from the pear tree to the southwest. (The apple tree has been gone for years, but the pear tree still produces good cooking pears biannually.)

Other Seminary alumni from the 1970s remember negotiating with staff—who worked upstairs of the dorm floor—over what foods could and could not be cooked and when. Kimchi was among the favorites of the Korean students, and un-favored among staff. The old kitchen—where these debatable dishes were certainly prepared—remained in use until the end: for the occasional party or staff break room.

Once in place, the entirety of the building was covered over in a brick veneer and painted white. The upper screened sunroom, visible in those original images, was closed in to make even more office space—with the aforementioned addition on the back, restoring the T-design. The lateness of this addition is noticeable in minute architectural and design elements. The trim and molding are near perfect matches, and the French windows similar in style, but the lower ceiling and narrower hallways are a clear mark of the pragmatic 1960s rather than the hospitable 1930s.

Even if one ignores the prohibitive presence of I-270, the idea of such an attempt today—that is, moving an old building—seems preposterously inconceivable. In fact, the last four years have seen the felling of all the similarly-designed and commonly-aged houses on Conway Road—destroyed to make room for the stone-faced (castle-like) mansions popular today, and desired for their promise of privacy, over and against 1950’s neighborliness. There is no indication that anybody thought to save these homes and move them somewhere else.

What does it say about us as a nation that, what 50 years ago we would save at great expense and effort, today we do not think twice about destroying? What does it say about us that the once-hallowed halls of holy women—who gave themselves over to lives of prayer and sacred care—are deemed of so little value? It’s not just cement and stone and wood that will fall in the final demise of this building—it is the history of life and play that transpired with this structure as the stage.

Walking through the upper rooms of the abandoned building, one becomes keenly aware of much that could be salvaged—like the newish and excellently cared for doors left hanging on solid brass Hagar-made hinges. In the end, the cost of paying someone to salvage these, or the banister, or the fireplace below, has been deemed too great. And in an age where labor is expensive, all else can be replaced.

The Sisters of Mercy held to the beliefs in God, in eternal salvation, and in resurrection from the dead. Does that apply to the old structures that served so well? Will there be room in the great “new heavens and new earth” for redeemed buildings: deemed obsolete, outdated, and disposable?

For now, the building stands silent, cold, and closed up. The air hangs dank—a musty smell half dust, half dirt, with a sprinkling of years gone by. The emptiness rings hollow to my footsteps within. But I have come for a reason more than commemoration. I have been permitted the removal (“salvage” sounds so harsh) of finished corner shelves that adorn several offices. My hammer swinging, plaster takes flight—more dust than crumbs. And in the cloudy aftermath, I confirm the expert craftsmanship of these redeemed pieces—detailed, hand-chiseled lines as straight as a razor, with engraved parts that only God, and the occasional mouse, would ever see.

Beneath these shelves, an even older carpet is discovered—and beneath that, the spiny crisscross of floorboards: a little pine, a little oak, a nail or two, and a century of decay that bespeaks the years gone by. Perhaps somewhere among the fragments, one might find the lost charms of a chaste nun given to a life of purity and prayer. Only dust is the absolute now: universal in its covering. Some say that dust is half human—the cast off remains of a life lived. If so, then this structure stands not just as a record of history, but as a final resting place for those who gave their lives to work that history did not bother to note or remember. And from this place, perhaps the dust will reconstitute, and the dead will rise again.

In a sense—this removal of sacred shelves is a sacrilege. It is wrong! Not that I’m not permitted, but that, in a sense, no one should be. For in the piecemealing of these scraps, the last great remains of beauty are removed. Like Cinderella—stripped of her gown by contentious stepsisters—the fate of this home is rendered final, and the gaping holes left in the wake of my salvage effort mirror the destruction to come in a week.

December 28, 2009: Heavy equipment has taken up residence in the parking lot of 12330 Conway Road. The red hawk circles about listlessly, apparently unimpressed with the goings on below. Outside in the extreme cold, two men stand and talk about the pending demise of the building. One of them—David Brown, the Seminary’s director of facilities and operations—invites me into their small circle.

“Do you have everything you want out of there?” he asks, motioning to the white building. I stop to think. The shelves, yes. But what of the residual echoes of history that stain the walls of old buildings such as this one, and tell the story of a hundred lifetimes? Nobody can remove those. The ghosts that roam the hallways of these final hours are not the haunting sort, but are more a deep nostalgia—nuns about their daily prayers and Korean students about their kimchi.

David turns back to listen to the man in a hardhat, who is mumbling something about permits. “We’ll push it that way,” he says, motioning as if to destroy the building by sheer will. Above, the hawk calls out a haunting sound. A chill runs through me. And for an instant, I shield my eyes from the tragedy—as if someone has said, “Look away,”—protecting these last fragile images of the past with integrity.

After 49 years, 1 month, and 12 days of service, the iconic administration building at Covenant Seminary was destroyed and removed. Grass now covers the spot.

My submission to the BetaCup Contest

2010-04-21T06:58:00.000-07:00

So the challenge is, make a better coffee cup. At the end of the day, I believe changes in habits have to be shaped by incentive. This is sad, but habits usually form this way. That said, I believe that the best way to change the habits of drinking coffee (or for that matter, water and soda) out of disposable canisters will be changed with a trend toward ubiquitous reusable containers. So, here goes:

To read the description that goes with this, click here.

Employment Opportunities for Humanities Majors

2010-04-06T04:47:00.000-07:00

Finding Contentment--and Landing a Job--in Areas of Passion, the Arts, and Literature

Graduation: regalia, fanfare, and the last-minute projects that bookended four years of study. The University of Alabama was abuzz with activity—people moving out of dorms and sorority houses; frat boys surprised that they had graduated (or those who woke up to realize they hadn't), and well-wishers of all kinds about for the fun of it.

The crowds gathered in the Foster Auditorium for the ceremony: some 3,000 graduates and 10,000 parents, grandparents, siblings, spouses—plus the occasional road-scholar (not to be confused with Rhodes Scholars) who mistook the event for another of Alabama's sporting events. Then, the president had each group stand, by school: the College of Engineering, the College of Business Administration, the College of Education, and the College of Arts and Sciences.

What are You Going to do with that Degree?

I was in this last group (Arts and Sciences). We weren't the smallest group among the lot, but once you broke out those of us with degrees in the humanities—studio art, art history, linguistics, music, and literature—we were a small, ragamuffin band some two hundred or so in number. We were those students that everybody jokes about, and are asked—more than for our names—what the heck we are going to do with a degree in that? Yes, a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, with minor studies in Studio Art and Creative Writing, doesn't scream, "Hire me!" At least not to most people...(read entire article here)

Training Leaders to Move the Church Forward

2010-02-11T12:10:00.000-08:00

In every generation, the Church is called upon to apply the message of God’s grace to old vestiges of human depravity wrapped up in new inventions. The central message of God’s “rescue plan”—as Sally Lloyd Jones calls redemptive history—never changes: Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures (1 Corinthians 15:3). The many applications and ramifications of that truth look as different as the sins it means to address. Where the expressions of rebellion and denial may have taken new forms, the essence is unchanged: “sexual immorality, impurity, and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions, and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like” (Galatians 5:20–21).

(read full story here)

The Eyes of St. Patrick

2010-02-11T12:07:00.000-08:00

Off stony clave, he northward gazed,

beyond the place Rome's Pax had blazed.
(read full poem here)

The Haiti Crisis: A Time of Reciprocity?

2010-01-25T14:47:00.000-08:00

Less than two weeks since the devastating earthquake in Haiti, the United States is beginning to receive subtle criticism from outsiders. One NPR opinion editorial expressed concern about the presence of U.S. troops—and the necessity of the U.S. to function primarily through the United Nations, in close conjunction with the Haitian Préval-Bellerive Government. And yet, there is good cause to ask, "Should there be strings attached to the international help being extended in this hour of need?"

Ironically, nobody—save a dissident research fellow, Anthony Bradley—has asked, "Why is the world looking to the U.S. to rebuild Haiti? France, Spain, and the EU are solely responsible for what is 'Haiti'; not the U.S." Most journalists seem to be ignorant of (or deliberately ignoring) the fact that the Haitian situation today—political unrest, deep and perpetual corruption, and the totalitarian impoverishment of her people—is a direct consequence of the pattern of alternating French-Spanish occupation throughout the 19th Century. By contrast, U.S. occupation of Haiti during the early part of the 20th Century is credited for developing stability, dependable infrastructure, education, and economy.

Nobody thinks that help should be withheld...(click here to read full story).

Facts, Faces of the Farmers Market

2010-01-25T04:50:00.000-08:00

On an early Thursday, to the sound of the morning rush hour, a plain-looking fellow sets up a tent in the parking lot of a strip mall. He is average build and height, but the texture of his skin and the raw size of his hands tell a story — for those interested in hearing.

"I'm a third generation farmer," says Thomas — who asks that his last name not be printed. "I'm dedicated to the work. Heck, it's all I know." Within a few moments, the tent is pegged and tethered. Thomas then pulls a folding chair out of the back of his flatbed, sits down in it, and smiles up at me. The twinkle in his eye says I should have remembered to bring my own seat. (click here to read more)

2010 Stock Market Indicates It's Not a Wonderful Life

2010-01-14T06:51:00.000-08:00

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter."
Those now-iconic words uttered by the relieved George Bailey, in It's a Wonderful Life capture the unfettered enthusiasm of the past six months—a period that saw a 27.5% increase in the DJIA leading up to the New Year. But while the New Year is still young, the hope of peace and prosperity that underpins those celebrations is already starting to grow old—at least in terms of the stock market rally. After all, fourth quarter earnings from bellwether Alcoa—a raw materials provider—leaves investors and consumers alike with little hope that Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke's "green shoots" are surviving the cold streak of winter. Signals are mixed for the private investor—while Christmas sales came in slightly higher than expected, unemployment was also surprisingly up in December. The question is whether the stock market bull of late 2009 can continue its run as the stock market bull of 2010.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind"
Okay, maybe the six months stemming from September '08 through March '09 should be like the old acquaintance of Auld Lang Syne...(read the entire story here).

A Review of Edward T. Welch's Blame it on the Brain

2010-01-11T06:56:00.000-08:00

Edward T Welch’s book, Blame it on the Brain (P&R Publishers, 1998), is written in laymen’s terms as a guide to understanding, differentiating, and addressing a wide variety of human behaviors and conditions. While popular anthropological psychology has lumped these diverse issues—everything from Alzheimer’s disease to brain injuries, depression, homosexuality, and even chemical addictions—into the singular category of physical “brain conditions;” Welch attempts to lay out basic scientific evidence concerning these diverse conditions and offer a systematic approach to addressing their implications, not just understanding their scope.

Most helpful was his oft employed diagram that first distinguishes between spiritual and physical symptoms and then offers suggestions for addressing each respectively. Particularly, I appreciated his emphasis on “maximizing the strengths” of individuals struggling with the various conditions.

On the surface, Welch’s model appears to offer a variety of endorsed treatment options, whether the condition is a brain injury, severe depression, or ADD...Click here for full article.

Methodology, Interpretation and Reasoning: Three Strikes and Cave is Out! A review of "What your Doctor May Not Tell You About Children's Vaccinations"

2010-01-07T11:46:00.000-08:00

Dr. Stephanie Cave's book, What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Children's Vaccinations (Warner Books, 2001), is an attempt to inform non-medically trained people about hersuspicions concerning the potential dangers of vaccinations. However, her attempts more often fall short of their intended goal. No doubt, this book will leave questioning parents anxious and worried about the effects of vaccinations. But is this anxiety valid? In order to answer this question, one needs to examine (first) Cave's interpretation of supporting evidence, (second) her logical reasoning and defense, and (third) her methodology for conclusions.

Since the writing of this book eight years ago, there have been no less than eight epidemiological studies (one as recently as 2008) that conclusively—as conclusively as the scientific method allows—show no correlation whatsoever between autism and either vaccines or the preservatives used in them. Furthermore, since 2001, thimerosal has been nearly completely removed from childhood vaccines (by a 96%+ reduction). And case studies like the MMR study in Japan—after the cancelation of the MMR vaccine—have successfully and thoroughly disproved any relationship between MMR and autism.

What's more, Andrew Wakefield—oft quoted by Case in her book (e.g. p 65)—has been debunked in his research methodology. Some argue that ...(click here for full article).

Searching for Delight: Our First Cardinals’ Game

2009-10-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

Child enthusiasm expressed itself in verbosity, and that particular numerical superseding that often follows the comparisons of boyhood “one-upmanship”—echoing the braggartly ways of manhood. And why not—this was the first time any of us had seen a major league baseball game live. Heck, even I felt the butterflies of anticipation, expressed in the more mature feelings of responsibility.

“Has anyone ever swum across the ocean?” one asked.

“No,” I said, adding, “But people have swum across the English Channel.” It was enough.

“I bet I could swim five miles an hour,” said the youngest—not concerned with the location as much as with his potential for speed.

“I bet I could swim five miles,” said another—distance, not speed, his only concern.

“Maybe a hundred,” said the third.

“Or a thousand,” and I tensed in expectation of the certain reply: a ga-billion-trillion-ta-infinity. Their heightened comparisons faded into the background of the rhythmic sound of tires on highway joints—the metronome of our advance.

We parked beneath the Arch—the Gateway to The West. That structure—utterly impractical—is nevertheless impressive. But bigger than the Arch were the eyes that beheld it: wide and forward, amazed. Delighted. That monument—the gate that never closes—is a regional marker for the beginning of every westward trip and eastward return, or vice versa. But the scope and scale of the massive structure is missed by the casual passerby, underwhelmed, in a way one small child never could be while standing beneath the legs stretched north and south.

For those unfamiliar with the place—long sloping ramps descend beneath the ground in that space between the Archway legs, emptying out into a grand, high-walled space, off of which doors lead to a museum, gift shop, café, and small theater. In this last, films of the Arch’s construction play in continuous cycle, broken by the brief intervals of people ushered in and out.

The museum-seeker is greeted by the statue of Thomas Jefferson, who stands overlooking the contents: everything from a wigwam to time-piece guns, outfits, icons, a stuffed longhorn, bison, and several bears. This is America’s history, captured and preserved, dehydrated and homogenized; shells absent the lives lived in the negative space: gloves without hands, boots without feet, glasses without eyes, and hats without heads. That macabre image of the bygone Midwest solicits a fleeting reference to the Tin Man and his song: If I only had a brain.

Back in the main hallway, people line up for their journey to the top—a line that will lead to another and that to another, until finally all will board small round chambers whose small chairs were designed for a nation of people smaller (or certainly lighter) than those who file in today. I’m certain the ascending, jerky motion—that somehow keeps one always aright to the ground and gravity—was quite the invention of the 1960s: an era of fast cars and travel to the moon.

From the top of the Arch, a series of thick windows unfold images of the landscape—mostly urban. The occasional farm can still be found—eastward—but the rest of Greenland has given over to gray concrete, black-top, and the rainbowed reflections of glass.

Today, the rainbow is predominantly red, with the convergence of Cardinal fans. Whether it’s the communal aspect of commonality, a result of mere proximity, or whether a facet of the Midwest—strangers talk like old friends, comparing stories of games past. Some focus on the sheer quantity attended, while others intimate a particular moment. Some boast of their seats, others of their near misses with greatness. Scalpers beg tickets, or promise them at ten times their value. Vendors sell water, shirts, hats, pennants, hot dogs, peanuts and cracker-jacks. Everything but the national anthem brings a dollar.

“This is our third game in a month,” the self-declared Chicagoan says to me, upon learning this was our first game. “Of course, the best game I ever saw was…” His voice gets lost in the sound of the crowed and the exclamations of my boys—but I find myself nodding as if to appease his desire to be heard. People want to be heard—want to be the one who nearly misses greatness.

“I bet I could jump over that wall,” says one of my boys—and I anticipate references to future jumps in the ga-billion-trillion-ta-infinity.

Inside the great underbelly of the coliseum, the senses are assaulted—pictures of old players, current year stats for the league, more vendors, and young college girls begging to take a photograph (to be made available online for some ungodly amount). The proximity of the interstate outside the south wall lends to the sense of urgency, hurry, and haste—as fans reject the lock-step formations of the outside lines, in a frenetic rush to line up again: for signatures. It’s autograph night at Busch Stadium. Forget that I’ve never heard of the two guys who’ll be signing balls and hats and the occasional body part—no more than the different-but-still-talking man behind me has heard of them. It’s an autograph—the potential not to miss greatness this time.

But greatness is not to be found in the autograph of an up-and-coming, or in the choicest of seats, the clarity of recollection, the highest jump, the furthest swim. These are but fleeting glimpses of significance, flailing hearts and fumbling hands worn by the tides of life’s darker side—unemployment, death, war and rumors of war. These people are here in the hopes that a moment, a breath, may exalt them from the longing for more, and exude them into a sigh of contentment.

I would come for that. But not this time. This time, I came for a different glance: the backwards look of excitement reflected in firsts. At the beginning, my children wear guarded masks of uncertain confliction—eyes searching to take in the magnitude of some thirty-five thousand people and the immense arena. The first innings come and go, with only brief moments of echoing excitement. But they wait and settle back into postures poised for…what? They do not know.

Until it happens—Albert Pujols, the St. Louis wonder, swings hard on the fourth pitch. From our seats nearly parallel with the left-field line, the ball seems to hover a moment in air. Motionless. Then, as if propelled by the sudden release of pent-up longing—the ball vanishes over the fence. Homerun!

The eruption momentarily startles the boys, but almost as suddenly they are swept up in applause and cheers, and a round of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Hopes are satisfied, longings fulfilled. For a moment, all present have come near to greatness.
The walk back to the car is full of words and retellings. No longer is the excitement the expectation of the unknown, the untouched, un-tasted. These are the boasts of drunkards—filled with an uncommon energy.

No longer at awe—once beneath the yawning gait of the Arch—they run about and fill up the gateway: their souls the size of that great maw, pushing upwards against the farthest reaches of light dying skyward in the evening air. The rhythmic metronome of highway joints follows us home, while backseat voices fall to whispers, then mumbles, and then silence. And in the half-glow of dome lights—caught in the backwards glance—the faces of children reveal contentment. Veni. Vidi. Volupti. I came. I saw.

I delighted.

Nighttime Walk

2009-10-20T08:14:00.000-07:00

Long blackness falls
upon the broken path
that into woods descends
a wild ride,
cutting sordid through thick morass—
while skyward rises moon
and Jackal cries.

Bare feet plod
neglected dress of shedding pines
to find the way the heart has gone
before,
while Frost’s divergent paths
profane the ground,
sets at odds the unified intent.

Trident winds chide the silent oaks,
sends up groans of August-ine regret
till tree-lined skies
give way to starry eyes
where long the dark valley
of the river forge sighs

and I hear the call, “Come up!”

But not tonight:
for the hour is late,
and I have plod the gauntlet of the night,
a man intently searching for delight
who, for troubled pains,
gains a seldom glance
of a world un-beholden.

Review of Neale Donald Walch’s “Conversations with God”

2009-10-06T15:13:00.000-07:00

In this three-volume work, “Conversations With God: An Uncommon Dialogue” Neale Donald Walsch has set out with deliberation on a journey that all mankind is upon: to bridge the distance between God and man. Anyone reading the book can sense the fervency with which Walsch engages the topic. He is honest in his questions, even—at times—revealing in his own points of doubt, insecurity, and uncertainty.

In some places Walsch has incorporated truth. For example, he believes in the eternal nature of mankind—writing, “It means, My Son, your body was designed to last forever… Yet those who have ears to hear, let them listen. I tell you this: You were not meant to ever die” (168-9).

Sadly, most of Walsch’s observations become little more than a patchwork of religious (and scientific) dabbling—with the only originality resting in his juxtaposition of contradictions. From his regular reference to the Bible, Walsch is clearly versed in a Judeo-Christian heritage, interpreted through the mind of “new Age teachers” (140).

Walsch frames his Conversation with this statement, “People may not know the answer to life’s biggest questions, but they know that the answers we have been giving ourselves up to now are not working (vi). From this point—Walsch has a great opportunity before him: to examine, evaluate, and critique the various “answers” that “are not working.” THAT would be a book to read! Instead—Walsch takes the easy road out: he plays Thomas Jefferson (with much less convincingly) and takes what he likes of each of the “not working” answers, to re-package his own version of reality.

Notice the avoidance of saying that these answers (that are “not working”) are wrong. By necessity, Walsch must avoid this, because the peculiar Eastern Mysticism he employs pits good and evil on the Yin and Yang of universal balance (262). There is no good, no evil. There is only what is. He writes, “If a thing is obviously right, do it. But remember to exercise extreme judgment regarding what you call ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ A thing is only right or wrong because you say it is. A thing is not right or wrong intrinsically. ‘Rightness’ or ‘wrongness’ is not an intrinsic condition, it is a subjective judgment in a personal value system. By your subjective judgments in a personal value system” (48). “The only way to move forward on this is to ask yourself, ‘What would happen if everything I thought was “wrong” was actually “right”?’” (16).

Is Walsch saying there is no such thing as “wrong,” “evil,” or “injustice”? Yes, and no, and yes…and no. By stringing together such a list of subjective scenarios and soft-spoken phraseologies, he sidesteps the issue—sometimes saying we make choices on what is best for us, and should : “The most loving person is the person who is Self-centered,” (111).

If other events seem “bad” or “wrong” or “unjust”—well, we have chosen these for ourselves. Walsch writes, “[N]ot all of the things which you call bad which happen to you are of your own choosing. Not in the conscious sense—which you mean. They are all of your own creation…” (38). Don’t miss this key point: you suffer, are wronged, and have experienced (in his words, “apparent” or “perceived”) injustices because you create them, though not out of your “conscience sense.”

This raises the question: what about the most extreme cases of such “perceived” injustice? Well, of course, Walsch has an answer for that as well: Group Think. “Do you think the feeble, the infirm, the handicapped are limited, as you put it, not of their choice? Do you imagine that a human soul encounters life challenges—whatever they may be—by accident?” (46). “The person who has the ‘faith to move mountains,’ and dies six weeks later, has moved mountains for six weeks. That may have been enough for him (74).” “May” have been? Mr. Walsch—as God—did he decide that or not?

If only Walsch answered such questions as clearly. Sadly, he offers more shades of gray, using the example of Hitler. Walsch writes, speaking on behalf of his god, “Hitler went to heaven… First, he could not have gone to hell because hell does not exist. Therefore, there is only one place left to which he could have gone. But that begs the question. The real issue is whether Hitler’s actions were ‘wrong.’ Yet I have said over and over again that there is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ in the universe. A thing is not intrinsically right or wrong. A thing simply is” (224; cf, 241). Somehow by making death the great escape from this physical life, he frees Hitler, himself, really any of us, from any consequence for life, for choices, for actions.

I wonder how well it would have gone over had Walsch (and his god) been so bold as to substitute Osama Bin Laden. Come on Walsch? Don’t take the easy way out. Use a living killer—someone responsible for planning and exacting the deaths of well over 2500 people. Look in the face of the 50,000 people still alive and missing their loved-ones, murdered on 9/11. Say it to them (with a straight face): “Osama bin Laden [will] go to heaven… The real issue is whether bin Laden’s actions were ‘wrong.’ A thing is not intrinsically right or wrong. A thing simply is.”

And therein lies Walsch’s ultimate disregard for the dignity of human life. Have you been raped? Experienced child abuse? Had someone dear to you murdered? Been savagely abused? Lost a loved one in 9/11? Walsch has an answer for you: Too bad. “A thing simply is.” See, in Walsch’s religion, his god has no control: “Events are occurrences in time and space which you produce out of choice” (95).

And lest you suspect that Walsch’s god—though strong enough to create the universe—could not create one without conflict, Walsch present’s this explanation for the problem of evil: “God knew that for love to exist—and to know itself as pure love—its exact opposite had to exist as well. So God voluntarily crated the great polarity—the absolute opposite of love—everything that love is not—what is now called fear. In the moment fear existed, love could exist as a thing that could be experienced” (30).

He doesn’t even get most of his facts about historic, orthodox, Christianity right—utterly refusing to deal with six millennia of Biblical interpretation—and purporting as truth this relatively modern theory regarding the “lateness” of the New Testament.

Walsch: The Bible writers were witness to the life of Christ, and faithfully recorded what they heard and saw.

God: Correction, most of the New Testament writers never met or saw Jesus in their lives. They lived many years after Jesus left the Earth. They wouldn’t have known Jesus of Nazareth if they walked into him on the street… The Bible writers were great believers and great historians. They took the stories which had been passed down to them and to their own friends by others… (64)

Walsch, what about the Old Testament, which is not only the great portion of the entire Bible, but also the section that offers a greater attestation of the veracity of the God presented therein? Historic, orthodox, Christian faith at least invites the critic to examine the evidence. Members of the Old Testament community were given the ability to discern between true and false prophecy: “When a prophet speaks in the name of the LORD, if the word does not come to pass or come true, that is a word that the LORD has not spoken; the prophet has spoken it presumptuously. You need not be afraid of him” (Deut. 18:22).

Walsch offers no such invitation for critique—though begs you not to be “afraid of him.” Simply, by his own admission that he has asked the same questions of legitimacy that we, as readers, must also be asking—he expects us to “review the material and, irrespective of its source, explore the ideas offered here with an open mind and an open heart.” Irrespective? That’s a massive and weighty claim for anybody: ignore the source, just accept my word for it.

The Bible invites to so much more—and provides millennia of believers who have found the veracity of scripture more historically reliable and accurate than most ancient works. Walsch, for his part, offers as evidence of this “Conversation” as the people who have written him: “More than 100,000 people have written me personal notes, letters and e-mails since these books have been published, telling me that their lives have been impacted in very positive ways by this material (vi)” So what? Bernie Madoff lost a thousand times that in dollars for every one of his believers who—prior to the collapse—would have praised the benefit of his investment philosophy.

Granted—the problems of other religions, Christianity included, and their misapplications are valid; and worthy of our consideration. But do these problems somehow merit a cosmology based on the mental exercise of one man and his moral: “There are no ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’ts’ in God’s world. Do what you want to do. Do what reflects you, what re-presents you as a grander version of your Self.” (41)?

Far from offering hope to the hopeless, freedom to the enslaved, health to the ill, care for the neglected, food for the hungry, or life to the helplessly dying—Welsch offers platitudes: feel better, think better, and you’ll be better. Recently unrepentant in his plagiarism of another writers work, Welsch has plagiarized the Bible, fragments of Eastern Mysticism, and his own Feel-Good Hope-i-ness to sell books that offer nothing, promise nothing, and guarantee nothing. As if on cue, Walsch has an answer for that: “If you want guarantees in life, then you don’t want life. You want rehearsals for a script that’s already been written” (124).

At the end of the day, Conversations with God is the reflection of Neale Donald Walsch’s self-made God… and “oh, how he loves his maker” (William Cowper). Walsch (to God): “I love you.” God, to Walch: “I know you do. And I love you” (139). As for the rest of us—we are just along for capitalistic ride of book sales and Group Consciousness:

Walsch: How do I know that what you are saying is true? How do I know this is even God speaking, and not my overactive imagination?

God: What differences does it make? (98).

Review of Paul Offit's "Autism's False Prophets"

2009-10-02T13:45:00.001-07:00

In 2000, just after the birth of our first son, I sat in a McDonald’s parking lot, listening to an NPR report on the possible “casual relationship” between mercury (in vaccinations) and autism. I was understandably concerned, but as one thing drives out another, I did nothing about it. He subsequently had his immunizations and was fine. Our second son very early in life expressed moments of odd impulsivity which, as the years went on, turned into full-blown out-of-control impulsivity. Someone mentioned Sensory Integration Dysfunction (SID)—labeled by some medical professionals as “not a real dysfunction” and labeled by other medical professions as expressions of some other disorder. After researching that, we were convinced—whether the symptoms were in isolation or part of something greater—our son was hyposensitive to vestibular and tactile inputs. (We’ve tried many experiments to help him process experiences in something of a more standard manner.) When our third son was born, our second son was too young for us to see his SID as being part of the “mostly normal range” of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). And so the idea that immunizations might have played a part in our second son’s disorder (dysfunction?) only came back to the fore as we’ve recently added a little girl to our family. I began to research as extensively as online medical journals would allow, and read books on the subject. It is with this background that I was recommended to, and read carefully, Autism’s False Prophets. Know that I approached this topic as one suspect of the role of thimerosal in neurological disorders, specifically autism.

Autism’s False Prophets is, as best I can find, a thorough treatment—background, history, scientific evidence and explanation, on the topic of vaccines and their suspected causal relationship with autism. The book starts with, and is quick to remind us of, true moments in history where diseases ran rampant throughout concentrated groups of people. Offit writes, “In 1916, polio became an American disease. In New York City alone, in one summer the virus paralyzed 10,000 people and killed 2,000” (xix). Starting here is helpful, because it reminds us all that the threat of non-vaccination are also real—assuming for a moment that the danger from vaccines is as well.

Offit documents how the earliest research identified classic expressions of autistic behavior. “In 1938, Leo Kanner…found that autistic children didn’t talk much; when they did talk, they often talked to themselves. He also found that they played in a stereotypical and repetitive manner; demanded their toys and clothes remain in the same place every day; had an excellent memory for lists; and lacked imagination, choosing to interpret what was said to them concretely… Kanner noticed that parents of autistic children has similar personality traits, describing them as ‘cold, bookish, formal, introverted, disdainful of frivolity, humorless, detached, and highly—even excessively—rational and objective’” (1-2)

Autism hasn’t changed much in its expressions, though it has increased substantially in its recurrence. “Since the mid-1990’s, the number of children with autism has increased dramatically. Now, as many as 1 in every 150 children in the United States is diagnosed with the disorder” (3). Evidence of early- and wrong-therapy treatments are rampant, as Offit reminds us from the study of behavior therapy. He writes, “Behavioral theory uses imitation, repetition, and frequent feedback to teach children appropriate behaviors. But because some children require a high number of repetitions, programs might require as many as forty hours a week” (4).

And yet, for many, the question remains: do vaccines (or does thimerosal) cause autism? The scientific answer: no, not at all. The issues that play into that answer, however, are multiple. First, there is a general confusion on the way that the scientific method functions, as Offit points out: “Although the scientific method has almost singlehandedly brought us out of the Dark Ages and into the Age of Enlightenment, it can be difficult to explain how it works. Here’s the problem. In determining whether, for example, MMR causes autism, investigators form a hypothesis. The hypothesis is always formed in the negative, known as the null hypothesis. In the MMR-causes-autism case, the hypothesis would be, ‘MMR does not cause autism.’ Epidemiological studies have two possible outcomes: (1) Investigators might generate data that rejects the null hypothesis. Rejection would mean that the risk of autism was found to be significantly greater in children who received MMR than in those who didn’t. (2) Investigators might generate data that do not reject the null hypothesis. In this case, the risk of autism would have been found to be statistically indistinguishable in children who did or didn’t receive MMR. But there is one thing those who use the scientific method cannot do; they cannot accept the null hypothesis. This means that scientists can’t prove MMR doesn’t cause autism in absolute terms because the scientific method allows them to say it only at a certain level of statistical confidence” (208).

Secondly, there is confusion over the nature of mercury. Offit writes, “Mercury is part of the earth’s surface, released into the environment by burning coal, rock erosion, and volcanoes. After it is released, it settles onto the surface of lakes, rivers, and oceans where it is converted by bacteria to methylmercury. Methylmercury is everywhere—in the fish we eat, the water we drink, the infant formula and breast milk we feed our babies. There is no avoiding mercury. Because everyone drinks water, everyone has small amounts of methylmercury in their blood, urine, and hair. A typical breast-fed child will ingest almost 400 micrograms of methylmercury during the first six months of life. That’s more than twice the amount of mercury than was ever contained in all vaccines combined. And because the type of mercury in breast milk (methylmercury) is excreted from the body much more slowly than that contained in vaccines (ethylmercury), breast milk mercury is much more likely to accumulate” (114).

Finally, there is the confusion of self-evident information. Call it anecdotal or singular information: unfounded, self-discovered, and unrepeatable. This largely occurs when it comes to the “self-taught” of the internet. Offit writes, concerning one well-known vaccines-cause-autism spokeswoman, “[Jenny] McCarthy has trumped her pediatrician’s four years of medical school, three years of residency training in pediatrics, and many years of experience practicing medicine by typing the word autism into Google. There she found a wealth of purported therapies her pediatrician didn’t know about—therapies she believed had cured her son… By writing a popular book about her son’s autism, Jenny McCarthy had become a media expert on vaccines” (242).

Ultimately, the issue of the case is brought down to whether suspicion and cynicism is enough to trump scientific evidence. Offit points out, “Because of the Internet, everyone is an expert (or no one is). As a consequence, for some, there are no truths, only different experiences and different ways of looking at the same things… The peculiarity of our current predicament is the selective withdrawal of trust from scientific and medical professionals, which is both unjustified and mutually damaging” (204).

The conclusion one is left with, after reading this book, is that hope and desire mingled with a hint of cynicism or suspicion, fed by the (usually) well-intended remarks of some people can blind us to truth. Here are just five of the results from epidemiological studies:

“In August 2003, Paul Stehr-Green published a paper in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine. Stehr-Green studied children with autism in Sweden and Denmark from the mid-1980s through the late 1990s. He found the risk of autism increased after thimerosal had been removed from vaccines” (106).

“In September 2003, Kreesten Madsen, an epidemiologist from the University of Aarhus in Denmark, published a paper in Pediatrics. Madsen examined the medical records of 1,000 children diagnosed with autism between 1971 and 2000. Like Sehr-Green, he found that between 1992 and 2000, after thimerosal had been removed from vaccines in Denmark, the incidence of autism skyrocketed” (107).

“[I]n September 2004, John Heron, an epidemiologist from the University of Bristol in the United Kingdom published a study in Pediatrics. Heron examined the records of 14,000 children who had received different amounts of thimerosal in vaccines between 1991 and 1992. He wanted to see if he could find a relationship between the amount of thimerosal babies had received and the risk of neurological problems. He did. The more thimerosal children received, the less likely they were to be hyperactive or to have difficulties with hearing, movement, or speech” (107).

“The same month…Nick Andrews, an epidemiologist from the Communicable Disease Surveillance Center in London, also published a study in Pediatrics. Andrews examined the records of 100,000 children who had received different amounts of thimerosal. Like Heron, Nick Andrews found the more thimerosal children received, the less likely they were to develop neurological problems like attention deficit disorders” (108).

“Finally, in January 2008, Robert Schechter and Judy Grether from California’s Department of Public Health took a closer look at the rates of autism from 1995—six years before thimerosal had been removed from vaccines—to 2007, six years after it had been removed. They found what everybody else had found: the rates of autism continued to increase” (109).

At the end of this book, one is either forced to accept the findings of these (and other studies) or else conclude that all epidemiological studies are suspect. If one finds himself in this latter group, he must object to everything: every medicine that is available, every diagnosis, every prescription, every advice but that which he himself is able to verify—by the very least of his experience. All of these are derived from or based on studies employing the scientific method. Offit notes, “Although some parents have been skeptical of the scientists and public health officials who failed to find that vaccines caused autism, questioning their motives and occasionally threatening them, they haven’t been similarly skeptical of the vast array of autism therapies, all of which are claimed to work and all of which are based on theories that are ill-founded, poorly conceived, contradictory, or disproved” (119). Nor are such parents universally suspicious of suggestions regarding the food pyramid, recommended exercise levels, over-the-counter medication, or other epidemiological studies that support other widely (and mainstream) approaches to medicine. If we reject the findings of the scientific method—it must be universal.

Offit's best advice (which I took and implemented) was that “If parents want to do genuine research on the subject of vaccines, they should read the original studies of the combined MMR vaccine; and analyze the ten epidemiological studies that examined whether MMR caused autism. If they want to research thimerosal, they should read the hundred or so studies on mercury toxicity, as well as the eight epidemiological studies that examined whether thimerosal caused harm” (203).

He writes, in conclusion, “The science is largely complete. Ten epidemiological studies have shown MMR vaccines doesn’t cause autism; six have shown thimerosal doesn’t cause autism; three have shown thimerosal doesn’t cause subtle neurological problems; a growing body of evidence now points to the genes that are linked to autism; and despite the removal of thimerosal from vaccines in 2001, the number of children with autism continues to rise. Now it’s up to certain parent advocacy groups, through their public relations firms, lawyers, and celebrity spokespersons, to convince the public that all of these studies are wrong—and to convince them that the doctors who proffer their vast array of alternative medicines are the only ones who really care” (247).

Taleb's Problem. Not a problem for "Silent Evidence"

2009-07-24T14:23:00.000-07:00

Nassim Taleb, in his book The Black Swan, introduces a concept he calls “silence evidence”—particularly the problem of silence evidence as it weights into the decision-making process. In short, the results and conclusion from whatever pool of data we may be studying can be (and likely is) skewed—possibly contradicted even—by evidence to the contrary which (for one reason or another) did not survive. In order to illustrate this concept in practice, he provides several key examples (there are others to which I will refer, but these are a few):
1. The Adventurer Casanova
2. Restaurants in New York City
3. The Phoenician “Cemetery of Letters”
4. Cicero and the Trouble Worshipers
5. Patients that would have lived (and some who died) from a drug.
In each of these examples, the evidence which failed to survive contradicts or severely affects the evidence which survived to be studied, from which conclusions were drawn.

There are two questions which must be answered in examining the validity of silent evidence, and to what extent it is actually a problem. First, is it a valid factor in our equations? If it is, secondly, how can and should silent evidence be used?

Keep in mind, truly silent evidence (pure) is utterly untraceable and immeasurable. Nothing remains of it to actually study. In this sense, Taleb’s example of New York restaurants is only semi-silent evidence (not pure). While to the casual observer, it seems that restaurants in NY survive and thrive (and so, I conclude, I should open one! Right? That’s how the argument goes), business, property ownership and other records remain to be discovered by the ardent inquirer. This simply goes to illustrate the varying degrees of silent evidence.

My purpose is to explore the purest kind of silent evidence—of which nothing remains: no sign, no marks, no unnatural “void” where something should be and isn’t. The evidence is utterly and completely silent.

So to the first question: If evidence once existed—or yet might remain available for later discovery—to contradict, disprove, or diminish the impact of previous findings, then house (before this discovery) can and should this type of evidence be accounted for?

Silent evidence will either confirm our conclusions (e.g. “people die eventually” and I don’t need all the bodies of the generations to prove it) or else contradict our evidence. In the above example, I’ve drawn an estimation of the number of restaurants that are thriving (visible evidence) and the disproportionate number that have failed (silent evidence). The actual relationship may be much greater—how many really survive? One in one hundred? One in one thousand, or one million? Regardless—the silent evidence (when accounted for) must either confirm the findings of the visible evidence or else contradict it.

It’s worth noting here that Taleb’s main point is to show how prone we are to discount likely outcomes based on errors of interpretation (e.g. we find what we want to find), and so fail to consider a broader scope of possible data. Question: can silent evidence be used to prove both a positive and negative outcome? That is, can it prove some things more unique (less likely) and other things more common (more likely)? How we answer this question will also answer the question of proper use for “silent evidence.”

I submit, and will attempt to prove that silent evidence is helpful only in preventing our estimation of the likelihood of desirable results and our underestimation of negative results; but not vice versa. In this sense, silent evidence is only a problem if we have overestimated the results of our findings (usually positive or desirable) and conclusions, and underestimated negative results and consequences.

Let me illustrate with this example from restaurants in New York. Taleb writes, “Consider the restaurant business in a competitive place like New York. One has indeed to be foolish to open one, owing to the enormous risks involved and the harrying quantity of work to get anywhere in the business, not counting the finicky fashion-minded clients. The cemetery of failed restaurants is very silent: walk around Midtown Manhattan and you will see these warm patron-filled restaurants with limos waiting outside for the dinners to come out with their second, trophy, spouses. The owner is overworked but happy to have all these important people patronize his eatery. Does this mean that it makes sense to open a restaurant in such a competitive neighborhood? Certainly not, yet people do it out of the foolish risk-taking trait that pushes us to jump into such adventures blinded by the outcome” (115). IF we were to chart this “visible evidence” against the “silent evidence” on a Venn diagram, it would look as follows (illustration 1).

We could likewise diagram each of the illustrations Taleb presents:

There is a fundamental different between all of these examples and the further examples Taleb presents—namely about patients who would benefit from a drug that kills a few patients and so is taken off the market (112), and Katrina-related deaths resulting from a re-allocation of resources and funds (110), and the stability of species from the surviving fossil records (108). The diagramed examples have some aspect of “visibility” or what I call soft-spoken evidence. Silent evidence in each case merely shows that inaccurate assumptions were made and applied. And yet, we know that these assumptions (or deductions) are inaccurate because of soft-spoken evidence.

These other examples, on the other hand—the patients, the Katrina survivors, and the stability of species—is pure speculation. There is nothing wrong in asking what species might have existed but left no surviving record, or how many people died because funds were reallocated to Katrina (and away, in his example, from cancer research). Nevertheless, this information remains is beyond the reach of measurement, and as a result (while we can assume and speculate) our Venn diagrams would be little more than the expression of this speculation.

Consider that in each case, there is simply no way to know the relative proportions between the visible and the silent evidence. Take the fossil record, for example. Which of the following two Venn diagrams accurately expresses the real relationship between the types of evidence?

Answer: we could pick either or neither and be right. Until the “silence” is broken—we are left to speculation. On this particular point, the problem of silent evidence is merely a theoretical discussion for scientific observation and empirical data collection.

And so we ask again—is silent evidence helpful? For science, no. Science must continue to record and document what is visible until the silence is broken. I can ask the question, “Could pigs fly?” but it is mere hypothesizing until some evidence presents itself.

It is at this point that we can see how silent evidence is unhelpful, as well as where it is helpful. Some of Taleb’s examples are right on, especially where silent evidence is used to curtail our over-eager risk taking. In the other examples, he simply misleads. Silent evidence can only contradict something, but (so long as it is silence) cannot prove or disprove anything. Whereas, in the realm of risk assessment—Taleb’s main area of study and training—silent evidence is a valid (even significant) aspect and element to consider.

Ask: what are the odds that a restaurant will survive in NY city? What risks must a casino insure again? What is the likelihood that I could lose all my money in the stock market? What factors should I consider when buying a house? These are all types of scenarios where silent evidence should, and must be, considered; or else we risk experiencing Taleb’s “black swan.”

Ask again: How many unregistered ships have been lost as sea? How many once-existing species have vanished without a trace? What is the likelihood a planet will explode? How many children in the 3rd century died of starvation? The truly silent evidence of these questions is unattainable.

Silent evidence serves to protect overestimation, which tends to diminish the possibility of risk. Take two casino owners and their risk management approach. One insures against high losses at the tables and personal injury on the premises. This owner has chosen to ignore the other (outlier) threats to his business (underestimating the negative consequences and risks). Consider these risks:

Keep in mind these are but a few of the many possible risks. If all threat scenarios were within the realm of expectation and possibility, there would never be any black swans. Still, if the casino owner expanded his protection to the range of the dotted line, he would be protected against a range of more possible situations. With each possible consideration, one increases awareness or risk (overestimating a negative possible outcome) and so is better protected by that mitigation (tendency to underestimate risk, overestimate success).

I believe the answer to our first question is: yes. Silent evidence can be used when one is attempting to mitigate risk, contrary to the propensity to assume the best, accept only visible evidence, and dismiss risk. This is the extent to which silent evidence can and should be applied.

Taleb, to the contrary, tries to use his “silent evidence theory” to prove anything. He uses it to argue that the earth isn’t rare in that it exists, but only rare in that it survive. He uses it to argue that people who died of cancer would not have died had monies not been rerouted to Katrina. He uses it to argue that vastly more species existed than we know about, contributing to our erroneous assumption regarding the stability of the species.

Because Taleb makes such a point to stray in this area, I will take him to task on the point of ontology. Taleb writes, “Consider our own fates. Some people reason that the odds of any of being in existence are so low that our being here cannot be attributed to an accident of fate. Think of the odds of the parameters being exactly where they need to be to induce our existen (any deviation from the optimal clibration would have made our world explode, or collapse, or simply not come into existence). It is often said that the world seems to have been built to the specifications that would make our existence possible…it could not come from luck. The problem here with the universe and the human race is that we are the survivain Casanovas. When you start with many adventurous Casanovas, there is bound to be a survivor, and guess what: if you are here talking about it, you are likely to be that particular one… So we can no longer naively compute odds without considering that the condition that we are in existence imposes restrictions on the process that led us here” (117-118).

Let’s graph Taleb’s argument:

How many others didn’t survive, Mr. Taleb? One, two, ten, a billion, a quintillion? The above graph represents a visual ratio of, say, 1:10. So the odds of us being here are really only 10%? Depends what you are graphing. Based on the size of the universe, that there are even 10 places where an “earth” could exist and support life is pretty insignificant. But maybe the ratio should be 1:1,000,000,000,000,000. (At what point does possibility get replaced with probability?)

In either case, we’re just guessing. There’s no proof. Using this reasoning, I can argue just about anything I want: there is no God, there is no soul, frogs used to be able to fly (fossil record simply failed to record it), people used to have tails (ditto), and Jupiter is made out of colored cheese (prove me wrong!).

By attempting to apply silent evidence to scenarios where risk is not involved—but odds and statistics are—the evidence fails. No longer something to consider, it merely becomes something to speculate about. This confusion between risk and odds as mere synonyms is part of the problem. The odds of something aren’t correlative to its risk. They aren’t even the same thing, but Taleb treats them as though they were. The odds of a restaurant or adventurer surviving under certain conditions are unlikely; there are great risks to both. Silent evidence can cause us to dismiss that evidence. But the odds of the earth being here are immense; but there is no risk here. There is no silent evidence that can confirm that we’re the lucky ones. In fact, quite the opposite—silent evidence would prove how incredible the odds of our existence is.

In conclusions, answering our second question, silent evidence can only be used where to counter actions based on visible evidence, which tend to diminish or completely dismiss potential for or risk of failure. Applied to other realms—it become little more than a tautology: proving whatever one believes to be true in the first place.

Vain Promises of Eternity

2009-06-25T16:13:00.000-07:00

This world promises glory, but glory fades. This world promises eternity, but death takes away. 1980’s sex symbol Farrah Fawcett died this morning, followed by rock and pop star Michael Jackson this evening. Money, fame, glory, power, and influence are powerful mechanism of trade and economy. Death is blind to such present realities—and cares not for status, ability, popularity, or intention. This world promises what it cannot fulfill.

There is only One who has conquered death, only One who can conquer it still.

Three Deeper Issues with Television, Part 3: Faith Relegated.

2009-06-24T16:49:00.000-07:00

The final thematic element that you will be bombarded with (in most TV viewing) is pandering of faith as acceptable but unfounded and irrational. “Faith is fine…for you.” Several episodes of House M.D. drew this conclusion. But don’t suggest for a moment that it has any place in a fact-founded, reason based discussion.

How is this different from generations past? I haven’t thought through this completely, but the past 50 years strike me in this way:
• 1950s – faith national: “a cultural thing.”
• 1960s – faith critical: “a personal thing.”
• 1970s – faith assumed: “a Sunday thing.”
• 1980s – faith political: “welcome at the table.”
• 1990s – faith ignored: “irrelevant to the conversation.”
• 2000s – faith empty: “mystic, abstract, personally relevant; corporately irrelevant.”

Watch episodes of the original Twilight Zone series—particularly an episode called “The Obsolete Man.” Faith was an accepted practice in the 50s. In the 1960s, it came under attack as part of a larger assault on the family and become “a personal matter.” (Watch the original Star Trek series and you catch glimpses into the cultural tenor regarding faith.) Then in the 1970s, religious affiliation dropping, it was relegated to a “church thing”—something for those people. In the 1980s, faith seemed to have its greatest voice in the Moral Majority as a political power. And in the 1990s, it seemed to serve only to advance a neo-evolutionary worldview (watch the movie Contact, with Jodi Foster); or else be dismissed as purely relativistic.

Post 9/11, faith has been given this mystical position: on the one hand, it’s non-scientific—which is to say irrelevant and of no consequence; but, on the other hand, its “good” for people to have a faith. “It” helps with life. “It’s” irrelevant, except to the one who holds it—then “it’s” relevant, tolerable, significant, and worthy our respect.

Numb3rs takes up the issue of faith: Don nearly dies, and starts going to the synagogue (he’s Jewish by birth). His girlfriend is antagonistic, and his brother is dismissive. His father is encouraging, and his brother’s girlfriend is tolerable. Conclusion: faith is relevant…for some.

House M.D. takes up the issue of faith: a woman is dying and she believes her “faith” will save her. House is antagonistic. Cuddy is permissible. Foreman justifies. Cameron is encouraging. In the end, she is healed in ways that remain subject to interpretation. Conclusion: faith is relevant…for the believer.

This is faith today—unfounded and non-factual. It’s a table, really, around which all sorts can come and offer varying views and opinions: some accept, others believe, criticize, dismiss, argue, lambast, encourage, support, and still others don’t care. This is the mystic and “non-concrete” faith as presented on television.

What is wrong with this? It teaches us that faith in God, or a god, is something wholly abstract. For religious proponents, faith has always had concrete consequences. Whether one was a Buddhist, Muslim, Jew or Christian—faith was real. The Being in whom one believed actually affected reality. Faith even changed and transformed reality. For the Christian, we do not believe faith—expressed in prayer or fasting or spiritual devotion—is an appeasement to God. Rather, that God in his Grace ennobles faithful expression by dignifying it with consequence. A man prays and is delivered. Another fasts and receives direction in some decision. This is the ennobling of consequence. Taleb would petition silent evidence, of course. But that aside, faith was always concrete—and for true believers, it always will be.

What is the benefit of having faith relegated to the non-concrete? Namely, you put an end to fundamentalism. If what a Muslim or Jew or Christian believes can be reduced and relegated to some abstract feeling of peace and goodwill—then maybe there won’t be many more reason to have wars that grow out of religious convictions (the Afghanistan war is more religious than political in nature, proving that religion impacts politics, and has very real consequences…aka, 9/11). Where science failed to “prove” religion irrational, and philosophy (Nietzsche) failed to render “God dead,” television presents religion as relevant to a diminished sphere of influence: an individual life. Continue to reduce that sphere, and eventually religion has as much power as a “mall cop” (I’m thinking the new movie that’s out): enough to be an annoyance, but not something to take seriously.

But as Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Budhists—we must insist that faith is concrete. Either we insist that God (a god) can save us, and give him the opportunity to prove it—or else we have no grounds for proselytizing. We must insist that the God in whom faith is put, if real, has real and significant effects upon reality. Otherwise, we accept Hollywood’s version. And when that happens—we stop praying, stop fasting, stop seeking the direction of the Creator who made us and God who sustains us. “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” Faith is empirical in its outworking, or else it is nothing more than the feel-good preference that House and Numb3rs (and a dozen other shows) would have us believe.

This is particularly harmful to children who, on the one hand, are told by parents and pastors that God is real and He really works in and through events; but are instilled, on the other hand, with the assurance that their faith is powerless over the lives and events of those who don’t believe (the way magic has now power over the logical, in the movie Flight of Dragons!).

Such is the philosophic assault that TV has upon us. We watch their shows that convey “faith” and feel good afterwards. But reflect upon these conventions: I believe we will certainly find our faith less reliable, ourselves less confident, and our God less powerful. Under such subtle attacks, our faith withers away from the desperate spaces of creation. Redemption ceases being a divine act and becomes a human endeavor. Faith may fill our heart, but never does it overflow into others. It may comfort us, but we are left bereft of opportunity to encourage others with “the hope that is found within us.” In an environment where believers insist upon empirical consequences for faith, mysticism grows weak. The invitation by the God of the Bible is: test, taste, see.

Compare that to the invitation of television and the contradiction is obvious: “Just watch.”

Three Deeper Issues with Television, Part 2: Heroification

2009-06-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

The second detrimental thematic element of television (as a modern story telling medium) is what I call heroification. In today’s politically-correct, “appease all” world, Hollywood can’t talk about “truth, justice, and the American way” (or even just “truth and justice”!). That isn’t a message likely to draw in the international community of viewers within or outside of our borders. Viewership drives revenue and so ideals like mercy, justice, absolute truth, and rational faith take a back seat to soft narrative—where conflict centers on some “event-oriented” or “emotional” tension. If there is no “justice,” (non-partisan) then there is no real “injustice”—just criminals or patients or clients (on the one hand) and police, doctors, and lawyers (on the other).

CSI isn’t about seeing justice done (I watch them all)—they rarely (if ever) talk about justice, rightness, or truth—but is, instead, about a team of scientists seeking to solve a case. Private Practice is not so much about changing and improving the lives of patients for the betterment of…what? Themselves, society, the world? (e.g. restoring the effects of the fall). Rather, the misfortune of patients is merely the thematic tension that allows us to see the relational dynamics of the doctors as they interact, debate, conflict, copulate, fight, debate, etc., etc.

Making the world a better place, extending goodness and mercy—that’s so yesterday! (Modern values have exploded into the void left by these neglected virtues, values like the environment, equality, and anti-imperialism.) Will Dr. House solve the case in time and if so what does it teach us about House—drug addicted, bitter, angry, disrespectful, spiteful, undermining, bad-talking, abusive Dr. House? Heroification isn’t about the understanding the world, or ourselves, or propensities (if anything, the “picked-on” Muslim is likely to turn out the innocent bystander of the terrorist attack [e.g. both Numbers and Lie to Me had this storyline]; while the evangelical Christian will be boorish, daft, and prone to stupidity).

Nor is heroification about a hero. That too is yesterday—we don’t want Superman or the A-Team, Matlock or Stingray. Give us broken, screwed up, passed over, divorced or divorcing, characters—but then heroify their lifestyles. Used to be, you watched daytime talk-shows to see who was “more broken than I am” and nighttime drama to see “who I should be like.” It is very possible that these have completely flip-flopped. Don’t give us heroes to “imitate or emulate.” Give us characters with careless relationships, compulsions, and corrupt; but environmentally friendly, open to sexually-orientation, and universally accepting. Lower the bar. We don’t want someone to live up to; just someone to watch.

Therein is the essence of heroification. Where there is no God, there are no ultimate morals—mercy, justice and righteousness—and ultimately meaning must center upon the main characters: Horatio Caine, Gregory House, Cal Lightman, Walter Bishop—and whatever scenarios these characters find themselves tangled up in; dragging us along with them on their stumbling journey through life.

Heroification is intended to make us feel good about our values, our choices, and our live styles; assuring us that we aren’t as “f****d” as others (moralists? Christians?) would have us think; and that our cause—however pathetically irrelevant or culturally acceptable—will be enough to merit our praise…by the great accident of evolutionary history...."coming soon to a channel near you, this Fall."

Three Deeper Issues with Television, Part 1: the "60 Minute" Day

2009-06-24T08:25:00.001-07:00

Pick a show. Any show. Watch it for a month and you are likely to experience—though maybe not explain—three stylistics elements that bend our perception of reality toward hopeless despair. I would suggest that, more than sex, more perhaps even than violence, these philosophical undergirding shape us.

The ’60 Minute’ Day
Television, as a narrative medium, skips the lulls of life—waiting in traffic, going to the bathroom, sleeping, being alone—except in the rare exception that these drive the thematic line (Seinfield has used all of these as thematic elements). Instead, television presents a world where character formation and interpersonal relationships jump, in seconds, from an office encounter to a restaurant interchange ten miles and four hours away.

The result is that viewers begin to have our concept of “normal” and “flow” shaped by these lull-less lifestyles. Such that—by contrast—our own lives seem dull, boring and more lull than activity. Dating people are surprised by the deep bitterness of betrayal that takes longer than a 2-hour special to heal. People shaped by death are shocked that the grief lasts beyond the 25 episode season. Television narrative necessitates haste and speed—forty-two minutes to establish believability, construct a scenario, build tension and come to climactic resolution.

Not life. Life, by comparison, is shaped by the slow and low points—how I respond in a traffic jam, what I think about before going to sleep, what I eat for breakfast and lunch, paying bills, reflecting on life. In television, there is no reflection: it’s boring to watch someone think. We get it from time to time, in those last “music-filled” moments of an episode, when the scene moves in slow motion and some nascent pop-artist sings.

Our reaction to this “real life” is to seek the level of activity and motion found only in television—the going, as it were, from one scene to another instantaneously. The speed and multifunctional aspects of the internet and interstate serve our addiction to some extent. But eventually, these leave us listless—unfocused, disconnected, bored.

It explains yet another way that the normal, lifelong commitment of marriage is assaulted. Long-time married people know that the shape and stability of their relationship will be crafted more in the ten-minute conversations at meals or in the morning before work, or at the end of the day; more than in the ten-minutes of sex in the shower. And yet—TV shows us the sex in the shower until we think, “Only my relationship is boring.”

I think the recklessness of drivers is due in large part to this sense of the “60 minute” day—this artificial compression of time and relentless energy of characters written without compulsion (or with it!), without grief (except thrown in to spruce up ratings), or consequence (beyond the next episode). And marriages, relationships in general, financial behaviors, introspection, and generally our view of self.

Attempted, we may attain this pace, for a season (no guarantees of a renewal next Fall!). But ultimately, we exit the “60 minute” day at the season finale of despair, listless vanity, and a reckless abandonment that gives up seeking meaning in life.

(Next: Heroification)

The Glorious Fitting of Incarnation

2009-06-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

Someone asks, “Doesn’t it say a lot about the smallness of your god that he could inhabit human flesh?” I wonder if, instead, it says something about the great care and value vested in the creation of humanity. (Psalm 8:5, in reference to humanity, is applied more specifically to the person of Christ in Hebrews 2:7.)

I read too much to remember the reference, or even how accurately these details are. Nevertheless, the inklings of a story read stay with me: a man whose granddaughter survived a horrific car (airplane?) accident. The narrative conveyed how he was actually the one who built, installed, and tested the safety restraint device which was the means of her survival.

Asked, “Were you surprised to hear that she survived, and that you—in a different time and place—had a hand in it?” the man answered something akin to, “Surprised? Yes—that anyone could survive that is a miracle. But not surprised at my part in it—no. I think about my family each and every time I am installing and testing the safety systems of these cars.”

What does it say about the capacity of humanity—made in the image of God—that He would design us with His own Son in view: His Son who would someday take up this same form? What does it say that every sampling of human expression, across the scope of history and space, bears the form designed to be taken up in the great union of God in Human Flesh? Furthermore, what does it say about our descent that we have stooped so low beneath the weight of base corruption, and what—that one day, face to face with fellows of the same substance, we would be tempted to worship that which was created? This is the Weight of Glory, of which C.S. Lewis wrote the following:

“It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit -- immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment” (The Weight of Glory).

Irregular Ground Rules: Taleb on the Presence of Intelligence

2009-06-04T09:31:00.001-07:00

Central to the ongoing debate between creationists and evolutionary theorists is the presence of intelligence: is there intelligence present in or behind the reality of existence? The presence (or absence) of an intelligent designer is the crux. Without it, there is no creator. But without it there can be no discussion either.

In the other species that I’ve taken to studying, there are no others that are studying (empirically provably) their origin and or existence. I am yet impose my own impressions upon the inquisitive expressions of the Orangutan, but here—the presence of my intelligence, observation, and summation—make my summations questionable. In Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s words, “However, our presence in the sample completely vitiates the computation of the odds” (118).

See the issue—I can only prove that discoveries can be inadvertent, that narration can create a fallacious view of reality, or argue from silent evidence that the earth is the lucky .00001% of the universe wherein the precise elements existed to produce life; I can only argue these things in the presence of my own intelligence (limited as it is).

By Taleb’s own assessment, it is only a matter of possibility that the life-diversity of the earth would come into existence because of the scope and expanse of imaginable attempts (universally speaking). And yet, despite the presence of human intelligence and reasoning, it is actually more likely that his own book would have been written already, without him, before him.

But it wasn’t. It took him, and the presence of his intelligence to set the guidelines for discussion that insists on the absence of intelligence in empirical defense of creation. In my interactions with all manner of other species, I have never been so limited in my argumentation. Taleb must check his own cognitive intelligence at the door if the same rules are to apply on both sides of the table.

Taleb writes, “Most of the debate between creationists and evolutionary theorists (of which I do not partake) lies in the following: creationist believe that the world comes from some form of design while evolutionary theorists see the word as a result of random changes by an aimless process. But it is hard to look at a computer or car and consider them the result of aimless process. Yet they are.”

Agreed—these are the inadvertent discoveries of humans—intelligent humans who were trying to do something. By Taleb’s own position, he should have ample evidence from turtles and ameba that significant movements in technology, medicine, knowledge, awareness, understanding, or any other facet of study, result regularly from equally incidental attempts. Where is the turtle’s equivalent of a computer? Where is the ameba’s equivalent of a laser?

The presence of the human intelligence in each of Taleb’s examples invalidates argumentation against intelligence. Not that his interpretation of these narrative anecdotes is irrelevant, but they are invalid as documented evidence for the position of non-intelligent existence.

Taleb has no problem saying that the presence of earth in predictability models for creationist verses evolutionist perspectives skews the visible evidence-erroneously—toward intelligence design. By contrast, the presence of human intelligence seeking something, and finding something larger or more significant, is assumed equally supportive evidence of his position. See the tautology? By Taleb’s own rules, the presence of the human intelligence in any of the inadvertent discoveries invalidates these cases as evidence for his position. Furthermore, his assessment and interpretation of these anecdotes further distances him from the objective assessment.

Historically, it’s been the position of evolutionists that support of their case will be the finding of other examples of life beyond earth (remember the excitement surrounding the Martian rock that seemed to have a “microbe” petrified in it; it turned out to be nothing more than a strange formation within the rock). Now, Taleb argues that it is more likely the absence of evidence which equally proves the evolutionary theory. In short, everything proves the theory.

That is, in the presence of the intelligence of humanity.

A Critical Response (Engagement with) The Black Swan

2009-06-01T15:01:00.001-07:00

The premise of Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s book on probability, “The Black Swan”, is simple: humans are poor predictors of significant future events, because of the fallacy of our narrative organizational nature, the tendency to ignore outlier markers, and because of the presence (absence?) of silent evidence.

Having never read a book on probability, Black Swan reads easily—it is full of narration, stories—itself a strange fact for a book suspicious and critical of the narrative role in information organization and categorization. Oddly, if you were to remove all the “narrative” illustration, the book would be one-tenth as long and (in my non-scientific opinion) a million times less interesting.

I suppose I could summarize the book, but that would actually be the very hubris that Taleb is so critical of. And so, instead, I’ll look at some of the fallacies of a book that is aimed at the identification of fallacies.

First, there is the fallacy of interpretation. In explaining what Taleb calls the narrative fallacy, he uses the story of an Italian Toddler in the 1970s to show how narrative compels. Taleb shows how the Lebanese people—entrenched in a period of sever war—were more in tune and engaged, more compelled, with the plight of this Italian child, thereby proving Stalin’s statement, “One death is a tragedy; a million is a statistic” (80). The problem of interpretation is that it is not uncommon for individuals in places of extreme stress to fixate on places of insignificance or personal irrelevance, as a mechanism for dealing with an immanent threat. Severely wounded soldiers have been known to fixate on unrelated events in the moments leading up to their death: worried more about the dirt on their buttons, or the mud on their gun, or a dropped photograph, than on the immanence of their own demise.

Does the Italian child offer supporting evidence for narrative fallacy? Only if there are no other postulant alternatives to why a war-torn people would care about a child some 1300 miles away. Taleb in no way accounts for these interpretive differences. Nor does he give any evidential research—of which he is so proud and insistent in other examples. Which proves one thing: the narrative fallacy isn’t just limited to the way we organize information; it’s how we use stories to prove it.

Secondly, there is the fallacy of non-equivalent comparisons. In his section explaining the problem of silent evidence, Taleb takes a journalist to task for stating that Russian mobsters were more tough and brutal because they were hardened by the Gulag. Taleb writes, “The sentence jumped out at me as…profoundly flawed…” (107) He goes on to compare prisoners in a Gulag to rats subjected to radiation.

The problem is that rats are mere physicality (body) and impulse—and radiation both weakens and kills both. Humans are both philological and cognitive—but, while radiation kills us physically, it may actually harden us cognitively (ignoring for a moment the period of time that cognition continues past exposure). Gulags were (are) harsh, corrupt and brutal prisons in Siberia—which could, but do not necessarily kill (else we would never have an ex-Gulag prisoner).

If we accept that Taleb’s comparison is accurate, we should be able to prove that to increase the amount of radiation (for the rats) and the time in a Gulag (for a Russian) proportionally with the same effects. I am certain of this: increase radiation to rats indefinitely, and 100% of the rats die as a result of the radiation. Increase the amount of time that a Russian spent in a Gulag proportionally and indefinitely, and (yes) the Russian would die (because all humans die)—but not necessarily as a result of time in the Gulag. The example of the rats would be more accurately compared to the World War II German labor camps: radiation and nerve gas are anti-life agents. Harsh conditions and environments in Sibera aren’t necessarily (in punctiliar events).

As such, Taleb dismisses that certain harsh environment can harden the will, resolve, and intent of some humans, while also breaking or killing others. Of course, he can draw this conclusion because of his carte blanche endorsement of an evolutionary framework that under girds his premises (something I’ll address toward the end). And yet—history is repute with groups, tribes, and individuals who are “hardened” by their exposure to difficult scenarios (the Islamic fundamentalists of 9/11?).

Thirdly, there is the problem of erroneous correlativity. In the same chapter of the book, Taleb writes, “Katrina…got plenty of politicizing politicians on television. These legislators, moved by the images of devastation and the pictures of angry victims made homeless, made promises of ‘rebuilding.’ Did they promise to do so with their own money? No. It was with public money. Consider that such funds will be taken away from somewhere else… That somewhere else will be less meditated. It may be privately funded cancer research…. Few seem to pay attention to the victims of cancer lying lonely in a state of untelevised depression. More of them die every day than were killed by Hurricane Katrina; they are the ones who need us the most…” (111).

Note the assumed relationship: money spent right now to feed staring and shelter exposed people, and money spent on cancer research, are equitable and equally efficacious. However, as long as humanity has been researching cancer, we have yet to have a cure. In reality, the money spent on Katrina victims does in fact (provably) provide for their immediate needs: food today, shelter today, clothing today. On the other hand, all that money spent on dying cancer patients might produce new treatments, or might develop a new line of cancer-fighting drugs, or provide more insight into the origins of cancer. Then again, it might not. At the end of that money and the cancer research, there might be nothing to show for it—nothing but silent evidence that is. Sure, the people in New Orleans might be dead from hunger, exposure, and diseases that come from stagnant water and blight—but at least we now know something we didn’t know about cancer two-hundred billion dollars ago: these treatments don’t work.

That’s the problem with temporal causality: we can’t know any other outcomes for decisions that we didn’t make—whether we call this the “road less traveled” (Robert Frost) or silent evidence. But there I go narrating again, offering cause where only data should be. Since I’m at, though, let’s at least note the narrative language Taleb uses in his own story-telling. These aren’t just people dying of cancer. They are “lonely” cancer patients, lying in “untelevised depression” (see the sensational effects of narrative on page 76).

Isn’t this a contradiction of the propensity that Taleb is so critical of? Of course it is. But Taleb is okay with contradiction. Consider on the one had his suspicion of evidence, and preferential treatment of silent evidence. While showing how predictive modeling actually allows for Black Swans, Taleb discusses a casino’s attempts to prevent loss through the implementation of sophisticated technology. However, Taleb writes, “It turned out that the four largest losses incurred or narrowly avoided by the casino fell completely outside their sophisticated models…. Conclusion…these Black Swans, the off-model hits and potential hits I’ve just outlined, swamp the on-model risks by a factor of close to 1000 to 1. The casino spent hundreds of millions of dollars on gambling theory and high-tech surveillance while the bulk of their risks came from outside their models.”

What is wrong with Taleb’s evaluation? It doesn’t account for the silent evidence to which he is so dedicated. Here’s the real question: how many millions (billions?) of dollars did the casino save through the implementation of the high-tech surveillance? Suppose they had insured against random tiger attacks and angry contractors (two of the causes of these Black Swan events) but not against loss from cheaters? Would they be better off?

It’s a question that can’t be answered—and yet it is a question that very much lies at the heart of the argument of the Black Swan. A Black Swan is any significant event that lies outside whatever system you are using for predictability. This assumes that the events that can be seen—a random tiger attack—is a Black Swan because it was big and because it didn’t fit into the model of prediction. But what if the real Black Swans—say, the total losses and collapse of the casino due to termites, cheaters, and sudden-flooding in Navada—were all avoided. In light off these things, the four Black Swans the casino actually faced were more White Swans with black speckles.

Let’s suppose that the casino risk management had taken into account four of the events that resulted in their great loss—1000 to 1. Then let us suppose that an unpredictable event results in losses 500 to 1. That becomes the Black Swan. And what if that was prevented, but an event that resulted in losses 100 to 1—that becomes the Black Swan. At what point does the ratio cease to have Black Swan effects? 50 to 1? 25 to 1? 10 to 1? Maybe the “four largest losses” are Gray Swans, or Tan Swans, or White Swans that got a little muddy, when compared to the silent evidence of what causality served to prevent. Taleb at least accounts for this early in his text when he writes about “not knowing what we don’t know”.

The final issue with Taleb’s argumentation is his aforementioned uncritical, non voco in dubium, acceptance of evolutionary theory. He becomes the myrmidon of that master, and rests much of his presuppositions. He mentions it regularly—for example, on pages 66, 67, 69, 85, 87, 94, 109, and 133 to list a few—and expounds on this philosophic-religious treaties on pages 117-118. Let it be known that in this day an age, to accept evolution as a working basis is as “clustered” an acceptance as deism was in the 15th century. All the more reason he should be critical of it.

And yet, he uses his argument from silent evidence to surmise the existence of humanity, and life in general: “Consider our own fates. Some people reason that the odds of any of us being in existence are so low that our being here cannot be attributed to an accident of fate… However, our presence in the sample [emphasis his]completely vitiates the computation of the odds… The problem here with the universe and the human race is that we are the surviving Casanovas [emphasis his]… So we can no longer naively compute odds without considering that the condition that we are in existence imposes restrictions on the process that led us here” (117-118).

The argument is a classic tautology. Regardless of the outcome, the conclusions would be the same. If we were a planet of one non-reasoning (single-celled) life-form, we would be the lucky 1%. But as we are a planet of such vast, diverse, and disparate life-forms, we are nevertheless still just the lucky 1%. There can be no proof for the supposition: we are the proof. And if we find life on another planet, that too is the proof.

It’s at this point that we see Taleb stray farthest from his philosophical-mathematical predictive modeling. Despite his dismissal that “there are so many significant dangers to worry about down here on the planet earth,” Taleb has a religious—as in narrative explanation of causation concerning the presence (or lack there) of life—agenda.

Taleb writes, “We are not manufactured, in our current edition of the human race, to understand abstract matters.” I disagree. Our problem isn’t abstraction. Our problem is that, as temporal beings, time and causation are linear. Maybe in the newest Star Trek movie, Admiral Spock and rogue Romulans can go back in time, destroy Vulcan, and utterly rewrite history. For the rest of us, there is only what happened (and what is). And what happened either has no meaning—the collection of words glued together to constitute a 500-page book” (68)—or it means something—like his own book.

To apply this further, Taleb’s assessment must account for the possibility that the words of his 368 page book (plus indices and notation), randomly thrown together could become his book—without his help. Without the help of any author. Without error or mistake or omission. (Ironically, his book isn’t even without error or omission—can you find the missing “have” in the first section of the book?)

In summary, if what happens (visible evidence)—even in the origins of life—matters, then maybe data isn’t the most basic and unrefined (raw) assessment of reality, and narrative just a computational corruption of that information. Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe data only results when there is narrative causation which can be striped of detail and hermetically isolated for study. Maybe it isn’t our dependence upon narrative, but our misinterpretation of it, and our further error-ridden reduction of that interpretation into spreadsheet data that is the greatest cause of Black Swans (158).

Regret of Prose

2009-05-17T18:55:00.000-07:00

I suppose there is no quicker way to lose sight of all that is beautiful, all that is marvelous, all that is utterly incompressible in its glory, all that demands our arrested attention—than to become completely prosaic. Poetry forgotten is the sunset ignored, and nature overlooked; the minutia of life in the flower, of struggle in the ant, of music in the bird, of freedom in the doe—until it all fades to the un-stately background of noise, uninterpreted.

Somehow, I forget to remember to notice—and find a thousand unreconciled moments fleeting beyond the hazy fog of recollection. I forget to see that my children are…just that: children—playful, fun, full of the energy of enthusiasm at surprise and inspiration. I forget to hear their exclamations of insight as the melody of praise. And, dour, I pour out dismissal upon them—reprove, retreat, correct, instruct. All because I have become utterly prosaic.

The poet hears the refrain of nature's tale, of glory echoed in the unlikely sights of human expression and nature’s cry. The prosaic sees only the practice of convenience: umbrellas, sidewalks, stop signs, and the clatter of feet upon the late-hour steps. The poet hears music to be sung—the prosaic, noise to be buffered against. The poet sees lines of despair and spaces of redemption—the prosaic, utility. The poet a journey—the prosaic, a distance to span. The poet, possibility in the hour—the prosaic, a critic of time past.

I would be a poet. I would shed the trappings of prose and leave the unmeasured lines of dictation to find, in a small space upon a page, the gathering of my heart, my hopes, my longings—which, like a song sung and a glory glimpsed, reflects the place where angels wait upon the Savior. Such are the realities that prose will never know and only poetry will reveal.

Ode To This Fall

2009-05-17T13:57:00.000-07:00

Ode to this Fall when all of life and one
small part of earth is lost to childhood days,
where play and light grow short, while nights blow cool,
and flowers fell to dreams of summers past.

The sunlight tilts through leaves—a solemn lean
which says we’ve moved to change this giant orb,
no more to bear the wrathful heat of sun
that once in scorn bore down on youth o’erhead.

Where birds once sang and fireflies flew
to light the sky in motioned stars, and still
trees bare a whisper made, now quiet all—
the world walks the hour and readies now to sleep.

These are the days I’ve never mourned to live
and lived to love as though they were my all,
my life enclose and echoes of the past:
In Fall, I feel I am a child again.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a Review

2009-05-14T09:07:00.000-07:00

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, sadly, is many things—curious it is not. Not for lack of opportunity. Imagine the possibilities—a child who lives his life backwards…of sorts. Ignoring for a moment that both ends of Benjamin’s life had him cuddled at 21 inches—he really could have proved, well, curious. Imagine how differently he could live his life, having listened to and learned from the lives of those who can look back, morn, grieve, and reminisce. Would Benjamin (Brad Pitt) allow those reflections to shape him—to be the guiding wisdom that directed his life on a different path?

No. In fact, quite the opposite. Take away the man who was “struck by lightning seven times,” and the hand-me-down stories from the old-aged to the old-looking Benjamin are little more than tales of sexual misadventure, infidelity, and remarriage. There’s the man who was “married three times” and the womanizing Pygmy. There’s his adopted mother, Queenie, who isn’t married to her live-in boyfriend. There’s Benjamin’s real father, and Captain Mike, who both frequent a brothel.

In fact—sex is one of the all-too-common, non-curious, aspects of the film. There’s the British Consulate’s wife, Elizabeth (Tilda Swinton), that ends up having an affair with Benjamin—an affair that has the ground rules of “never looking at each other during the day, and never saying ‘I love you.” There are the various women Benjamin beds during his “younger” days—in between his encounters with Daisy (Kate Blanchett). There is the moment when Daisy shares her near-lesbian encounters in order to seduce the simple-minded Benjamin, and the years on “the mattress” that Benjamin and Daisy spend in their better years. And then there’s Daisy’s late-life infidelity with Benjamin—ignoring her vows to her husband.

The only truly curious aspect of the film is the complete lack of consequence for actions. Captain Mike never suffers the Clap or any other sexual diseases—for that matter nobody does. Despite all the sleeping around, nobody ever gets pregnant—until Daisy gets pregnant to advance the storyline. There are no angry husbands who find out about a wife’s infidelity. There is no bitterness in Benjamin at being abandoned by his father—no bitterness at his waltzing back into Benjamin’s life in a far-from-transparent manner. There aren’t even consequences for the very old and dying Daisy, as she reveals to her daughter that the man she called father was not—and that she was the child of a man who lived backwards. There is no longing—except for just a moment, when a disabled young Benjamin watches with real curiosity children playing in the streetlight of a summer night. There is no evidence of emotional grief when love ends up…empty. No sorrow. No confusion. No guilt. No penalty. No consequences.

And that is as far as the curiosity goes. Take away for a moment the fact that this Benjamin—this “son of my right hand”—was born an old man, and this movie becomes quaint and common. Curiosity is lost. The chance to see a life lived differently is thrown away on the far too-common theme of promoting sex at the expense of marriage. Curious—that viewers are offered no answers to their own emotional realities, longings, consequences, and universal human experiences. That isn’t life. It’s science fiction.

Spin the Wheel: Save a Billion...or $25

2009-04-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

Spin, spin, spin. We have become about spin. Take, for example, this news that GM wants to restructure to give bondholders and the union-run health care trust 99% control of the company—to save taxpayers $10 billion dollars.

This new plan isn’t going to save the $15.4 billion that taxpayers—or rather, the government on our behalf—has given this company. That money is gone, forever. This “$10 billion savings” is the next handout that GM will ask for to continue past June 1.

And what is this about “equity holders” getting 1%? That’s more spin—and means that if you own stock common stock in the existing company, it would be…well worthless. For every $100 in GM stock someone currently owns—equity—it would be worth about $1. Then again, when bankruptcies and bailouts are concerned, “equity holders” often walk away with nothing but the capital losses they get to report on their 1099.

The message of this restructuring is this: “Let us restructure, and you lose only $15 billion. Don’t let us restructure, and you’ll lose $25 billion now…and uncounted billions in the years to come.” In Michigan, that’s call a steal. In DC, they call that a deal. But Mississippi, we call that "damned": damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

What is the other option? True bankruptcy. In true bankruptcies, courts oversee the distribution of equity to existing debt holders. Granted, GM’s debt to value ratio is non-existent. That’s what happens when you stop making money and become a business buoyed by socialistic governance.

And then there is the problem of the unions—those collective entities that served a purpose a century ago, when corporations abused employees. Unions were relevant when Ford would fire a woman who lost a finger on a die-cutting machine because of the injury (read, “The American Jitters” by Edmund Wilson).

Today—Unions have become, for the most part, the self-promoting monsters they unseated in corporate abuse. And yet, the union will still retain 41% stake in the “restructured” GM. Far from actually having to negotiate prices, pay scales, and benefits the way that most people do—their strike lines and power of sway would continue to derail this rail-less, and direction-less, company. Look at Delta Airlines—they aren’t much better off since their restructuring. As late as last June, Delta was still pursuing arbitration to come to agreement with their pilots union.

Given the option between the Michigan and DC, I chose Mississippi. There is a reason Russia got rid of its Czars. GM will restructure one way or the other—with taxpayer money, or union control—but in the end the bill will land in the same place. The citizens of the USA.

A century before unions, that had a different name: taxation without representation.

Reflections on Ben Edwards' Funeral

2009-04-28T08:12:00.000-07:00

The rain was an appropriate backdrop for a funeral, and the gray of the sky reflected the black suits that filtered into the normally cheer-filled lobby of Powell Symphony Hall. I didn’t know Ben Edwards (other than brief passages in the hallways at church)—and from the laughs, smiles, and general good-spirits of the crowd, I wager most of these people didn’t; not personally, at least. They—not unlike me—were there for proximity, someone they knew or knew of, or heard about, and so on. Even throughout the funeral, most of the laughs sounded more like the release of anxiety at having to be uncomfortably close to death—not separated by a television or computer screen—while also listening to a preacher’s reassurance that (in not so many words) heaven is real, God is real, and Jesus is the only way.

Ben Edwards was the great-grandson of Albert Gallatin Edwards. A detailed history of the Edwards family can be found here. Suffice it to say, Ben followed in the footsteps of the generations before him—faithfully working in the investment company that his great-grandfather had helped build. AG Edwards (the company) survived the Great Depression, the financial shake-out of the early 1970s, and Black Monday in the 1980s. It even bypassed most of the derivatives collapse of the late 1990s. But what success could accomplish, it could not eventually fend off—growth by acquisition. Wachovia Bank managed to convince a majority of shareholders to sell the firm for $6.8 billion in May 2007. Edwards’ shareholders got $35.80 in cash, and .9844 in Wachovia stock—then worth close to $54. Just over a year later—Wachovia desperately accepted a $7 per share merger (read “rescue”) by Wells Fargo.

Today, with the rain falling, and no-so-subtle voices filling the lobby of Powell Hall—there isn’t much left of the Edwards’ name. AG Edwards is now Wachovia Securities. Come May, it will be Wells Fargo Advisors. At best, you can pick out an A, a G, and an E from that name (but not in that order). Along with the name has gone the wealth as well. From SEC declared holdings, the value of Ben’s Wachovia stock was reduced by 82% before Wells Fargo rescued the trouble Wachovia. And now, along with that, has gone his life.

Let the curtain fall along with the rain.

But that isn’t the whole picture, because the Edwards’ name does continue—and not just in the fledgling company that his son Tad has started. It honors on a house just off Ballas road—a house once owned by members of the Edwards family. A house that now is being developed into a gathering place for community leaders, for artists, and for Schaeffer Fellows—whose desire it is to compel a sometimes watching (sometimes sleeping) world of the reality of Christ and His Lordship.

The Edwards' name also marks a building at the campus of Covenant Seminary—a school the Edwards family helped to found and establish. Longtime support of the Seminary means that thousands of Gospel ministers have been trained thanks to the Edwards family. Ben’s name does continue—in India, with Paul Billy, a church planter who received scholarship during his studies at the seminary in the ‘90s. Ben’s name continues on in Brazil with Luciano Pires, in France with Nicholas Farelly, and in a dozen other countries where graduates serve, minister, and faithfully proclaim the gospel of salvation.

From a worldly perspective, Ben’s life ends in failure. Even the aforementioned link gets it wrong, predicting, “AGE celebrated its 100th anniversary in 1987, and it seemed quite possible that its 200th would be celebrated in 2087 by a young man with blond hair and boyish features named Benjamin Edwards VII.” There will be no 200th. There wasn’t even a 110. It doesn’t take much to lose the world’s favor.

And yet, when this world has forgotten that Ben died, eternity will remember that he lives. Ben has the inheritance that we all desire—an inheritance that can’t be bought (out), sold (short), or lost (on the gamble of derivatives and structured notes).

Listen to the Funeral Message:

Review of F.I.A.S.C.O.

2009-04-14T13:54:00.000-07:00

For an easy and mostly understandable explanation on why we’re in the financial problems we’re in—you won’t do much better than F.I.A.S.C.O. Written by Frank Partnoy, once a emerging-markets derivative seller for Morgan Stanley, the book walks through in plain English the principles and approaches that have shaped the investment banking industry over the last 15 years—with these remarkable observations: legalized corruption, personal greed, and lifestyles of profane excess.

What are derivatives? Partnoy explains, “A derivative is a financial instrument whose values is linked to, or derived from, some other security, such as a stock or bond.” Derivatives come in one of two forms: options or forwards. “An option is the right to buy or sell something in the future… A ‘forward’—is the obligation to buy or sell something in the future.” When you buy or sell something, you are either capitalizing on current or forfeiting future appreciation in value. Derivatives have at their heart the selling of borrowed goods—something you don’t own, and will have to pay back.

This only begins to tell the story, because you have to add in to this mix the use of bonds. Bonds are really nothing more than an IOU with interest. Your city or a local company or the Federal Government issues bonds (debt). You (or somebody else) give them money with the guarantee that over a preset period of time the principle loan amount will be repaid plus interest. The extent to which a city or a government is likely to be able to pay back the bond is reflected in the rating it receives. Hence, rating agencies play the part in assuring you and me (and Japanese buyers) that they’ll get their money back.

If all of this starts to sound confusing—it’s no wonder. Partony regularly describes coworkers in the structured derivative division as “rocket scientist.” He gives, as example, the saga of the PLUS 1 from 1993—a structured deal that allowed a Mexican bank to borrow billions more than it could repay. Partony writes, “Banamex asked several U.S. investment banks whether it could remove some undervalued and illiquid inflation-linked bonds from its balance sheet without actually selling them… Banamex wanted to exchange the bonds for cash so that it could invest in something else, but it didn’t want to sell the bonds because it would have to book a loss from the sale.”

And so man’s greatest art—the art of deceiption—takes over. Partony, by his own admission, as an employee of Morgan Stanley, helped Banamex take their very risky peso-linked bonds (debt), partner them will very stable US Treasury Bonds (debt), and put them in a trust in the Bermudas which then turned around and sold it all to unsuspecting Americans—with the trusted stamp of AAA rating. Partony writes, concerning this financial trickery, “Morgan Stanley was taking precisely the same steps drug deals too to evade U.S. regulators.”

Where there isn’t outright trickery and deception, there was flagrant gambling. In describing one trade, called a Three-Year Currency Protected Sterling Inverse Floater—Partony writes, “Because this note was an ‘inverse floating rate’ note, the payments on the note moved in the opposite direction as the interest rate reference in a formula…” He goes on to say that this note “wasn’t merely any old LIBOR rate. In this case the referenced rate was called the Two-year Constant Maturity Sterling Swap Rate. The two-year swap rate is the fixed interest rate offered on an interest rate swap if you agreed to pay a floating rate of LIBOR flat.” Confusing? Partony sums it up: “Basically, by buying this note, you were betting that British interest rates would decline. Except, as with other notes, instead of placing this bed directly, you would be betting indirectly in the most unbelievably convoluted, complex manner possible.”

As with all gambling—the house has the advantage. Here is no exception—for whenever Morgan Stanley, or another investment bank, had monies tied up in one side of the complexly structured financial instrument, they would hedge against losses by buying (or, conversely, selling) the opposite. It’s like you going to Harrah’s—betting the house that gold will go up by $5 in the next week—and pay to lock in the current rate. What you don’t realize is that Harrah’s owns or controls 90% of the gold above the ground. They can afford to dump tons of it just for the sake of driving the price down, to keep from having to sell it to you at the increased rate, thereby earning the profit from your fees paid.

Another insightful passages: “The term ‘hedge fund’ clearly was a misnomer because hedge funds typically didn’t hedge. Instead, hedge funds were overseen by risk-seeking, off-shore investment managers who placed some of the biggest best in the bond market.”

While F.I.A.S.C.O unveils the government-approved (and regulated—via Moody’s and S&P) gambling of the investment banking industry—it does so in a narrative, and occasionally vulgar and risqué manner. When Partony’s coworkers aren’t “ripping someone’s face off”—a term used to describe legalized thievery, they are really gambling (at casinos), or engaged in alcohol induced sexual activities. Though these passes are rarer, the profanity of language throughout is raw and intense. And why not? When you have made it your goal to make as much money as possible through financial trickery—there is no god but your desires and impulses.

In a word—the problem that faces us as a nation—is “borrowed.” Investment banks have been allowed to gamble with borrowed money. That money first came from mutual funds, hedge funds, corporations, and communities. And yet, once begun, the gambling impulse is so all-consuming that the successful bets will never offset those that failed. And when the bets of this money went south, all that remained was to borrow more money—from Uncle Sam.

Eventually, the art of deception utterly corrupts, or begins to appear corruptible. Where Bernard Madoff was corrupted utterly—and would continue the farce as long as the environmental conditions would allow, with absolutely no intention of ever changing his practices—the dehumanizing fatigue wore Partnoy out.

After a season in Japan, he returned to the States. He writes, “When I retuned to the U.S., I was completely disillusioned. Three years earlier…I knew nothing about derivatives or structured notes or RAVs or ripping people’s faces off. Some of my friends even thought I was a nice guy…. I now believed everything was a fraud, and I had a well-founded basis for my beliefs. Derivatives were a fraud, investment banking was a fraud, the Mexican and Japanese financial systems were frauds… The value system I had acquired in recent years included shooting at clients and blowing people up, all in the name of money.”

Where is human morality? Where is compassion? Care for the weak? Concern for the frail? A belief that to hold the trust of others is the greatest investment of all? Partnoy writes, “For most people in the financial services industry, their job is morally ambiguous. That’s the only way to survive. I believed mine was, too. Moral ambiguity is fine, especially when your salary is increasing. However, when I began to think, unambiguously, that what I was doing with my life was fundamentally wrong, I simply couldn’t do it anymore. I had no choice but to stop.”

In the end—the emptiness of deception reveals its ugly head. In the end, Dorian Gray hated the image in the picture. And if there is a moral from all of this, it is the old proverb which—if practiced—would have kept us from this debacle in the first place: the borrower is slave to the lender. Foolish in his own pursuits, Shakespeare’s Polonius at least got this right, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be; for loan oft loses both itself and friend…” How much more a society, which—when all its lenders be lost—will have nowhere to turn?

Reflections on Mary Alice's Situation

2009-03-20T09:30:00.000-07:00

Mary is doing well—now part-way into her second 24-hours of antibiotics. She eats, sleeps, dirties diapers, spits up. Everything is normal. Everything—except for the wires strung up to her chest to measure heart and respiration, and the IV in one foot, and the red diode on her other foot that registers her blood-oxygen levels. It doesn’t take long—a few hours really—to completely lose track of time and any external reality. The small room—full, with Shannon and I, Mary and her bed, a couch, a chair, a small shelve, and the monitoring station—quickly becomes a reality unto itself.

For a moment, I glimpse the lives of people cornered by debilitating or chronic conditions. A man can be 36 or 96—it doesn’t matter. Close him off from external stimuli, from any sense of whether it’s a cool or hot day, whether there is sun or rain, wind or calm; from news as to the financial crisis, the wars in Iraq or Afghanistan; from family, from friends, from the common duties of laundry and dishes, uncut grass and cars in need of inspection renewal—cut him off from these and suddenly life slows down to a crawl. I find myself reacting only to the buzz of this monitor or the alarm on that one. Instead of staring at television, I watch the sometimes-regular, sometimes-irregular waves of EKG, respiration, and blood-oxidation.

What do you talk about in such conditions? Visitors usually want the same information—how is Mary. The reports grow more similar, more monotone—and eventually become little more than a summary recounting hard facts: the fever broke no report from the blood culture still waiting to see what the urinalyses shows nothepetitusormeningitisanotherbloodsampletomorrowtotestCRP. And with the report completed—there is nothing else to ask, to say. Maybe a prayer and an offer for help. Then the momentary stimulation of something external is gone and the monitors become the center of attention. This is the self-centering reality of older men and women in hospice or long-term care. In such an emptiness of time and space, only the past becomes real—only the past remains a place to fly away to. I know why old people long for the past. I understand that, and grow thankful for the present.

Then there is the all-consuming aspects of the treatment. Playing with Zeke last night, I found myself completely disengaged from what we were doing. I began thinking about Mary, about the IV and the antibiotics, and her absence, and her monitor. I let myself pretend to be present with Zeke when, in reality, I wasn't. I understand now some little bit of how hard it is to fight the consumption—to continue to engage other children or a spouse, friends, or chores; when your mind constantly defaults back to the small room—that self-imposed prison of the soul. I understand that, and am thankful for places outside the hospital.

Then there is the gut-wrenching fear of realizing—after all the fighting to put it out of your mind—that you forgot. I’m not just talking about for a moment, a moment when I can concentrate without thinking about Mary at the hospital. No! I mean completely forgetting. To find myself cleaning out the garage and thinking about supper, stopping to break up a disagreement between the boys, and wonder where Shannon is—wonder, like I didn’t know she was at the hospital with my daughter. It hits me. I can’t breathe for a moment. I forgot. I have a daughter.

I understand now why so many of the pods—that’s what they call the individual rooms that the NICU babies are in—are vacant of parents or grandparents. In some rooms, people are in and out. But in one of the rooms, I haven’t seen a single visitor. Only the nurses care for the child, and the volunteer “cuddler” (e.g. retired people who walk around waiting to hear a cry, so they can rush in and offer comfort). We’ve been here, what, 36 hours—while some of these babies have been months in transition from very serious conditions to these more stable situations. After 36 hours, I’m tired of the hospital, and scrubs, and new nurses introducing themselves to us every 8 hours. What must it be like after a week? A month?

Maybe after a month, you are used to being self-centered, on the one hand, and all consumed, on the other, and forgetful, on the third. No—none of these babies have three hands. But some can’t breathe without “forced air.” Others need perpetual IV drips. Others have their eyes still covered, and are under a heating lamp. And this is in the south wing—the “stable wing.” In the north wing, where they first admitted Mary, the babies lie as close together as the various machines and bulk of the incubators will allow. Their conditions are much worse. Some will be delivered from there and move here, and from here go on to a full and healthy life. But there are others—God knows—that will not. I understand that, and I'm thankful for the grace of healthy children.

I’m thankful—that Mary is responding to the medicine. Thankful that, by all accounts, she should be coming home next Tuesday. I’m thankful that she isn’t more serious. But I’m also thankful for these tastes—of what life becomes like for parents and spouses and individuals who are stuck in these perpetual care situations. I’m thankful to see, for a moment, the world through their eyes. This is not the way life is supposed to be. There is nothing normal in these situations.

I would not have chosen this, but I have sipped the sorrow that must be the perpetual drink for so many people in this life. And for that too, God, I am thankful.

Rather to Dream of Something Better

2009-03-16T18:22:00.000-07:00

The compounding of contradiction becomes more clear now. The spending of nearly $1 Trillion got a couple of disgruntled objectors. But the spending of a few hundred million dollars by AIG “on bonuses” has received the outrage of the ruling party (now the number is up to $650 million). Not that they shouldn’t be angry—but consider proportionality. The Stimulus plan threw $1.2 billion dollars at NASA “just because.” NASA, of all places. Shovel ready? Job building? Economy advancing? It doesn’t really matter—that’s someone’s pet project that promises possibility: just “maybe, maybe” we’ll find some cure to cancer, the global threat of warming, or the economy out in that great expanse. And then NASA went and blew up a $273 million satellite intended to study the environment. For comparison, that’s 1436 houses offered 100% loans at an average of $193,000 each. Bye-bye—thank you for flying NASA. Bye-bye.

The double-speak is getting more convoluted. Anger at the way money is being spent by others. Frivolity at how Big Brother is spending it. Throw a billion here or there—so what. But, if you get caught spending money on some unjustified expense—watch out! Yes, we want you to “consume” your income and more to stimulate the economy, but if you get caught saving or paying off debt or eliminating loans—watch out! How dare Germany not embrace an even greater “rescue” package! How dare China consider not buying American debt!

It all sounds so backwardly normal, doesn’t it? On the one hand, bank officials are begging for money because they can’t go it alone, but then warn the Government to stay out of banking because they “aren’t experts.” Auto makers warn of Armageddon without a bailout, but then kindly tells Washington it has no business questioning their business practices. There is such a comedy of errors in the thinking that any attempts to rationalize against it somehow fail. As though finding that mathematicians are saying 2+2 isn’t 4—your best attempts rest on the reasoning discounted as yesterday, antiquated, and irrelevant.

Community broke. Somewhere in the past, it broke down, and we walked away. Maybe, like in the movie Avalon, it was in the movement away from the city and into the suburbs. Maybe, it was when we pretended that externals were more important than reality. Maybe it was when husbands treated wives as lesser beings, or when industry moved out of the home. But the individualism that was once tribal and geographic turned on itself in a Lord of the Flies manner—it isn’t just “us” against “them.” It’s “us” against “us.” You against me. Me against me. Like The Masque of the Red Death, the disease we thought we locked outside was found within. Like Noah entering the ark only to find—half a year later—that the sin he sought to escape was there. Right there. Inside them all.

But Community is being fixed—in all those places where people have stopped asking the question, “What can my government do for me?” It’s hard to get the words past the proverbial “full mouth.” We’ve suckled so long that source of stolen milk that it’s hard to refuse. But refuse we must. The purse of government comes with the long strings of subjugation. Thinking past the spiderwebs of complacency, like the befuddled marsh-wiggle, we must dare to stick our hand into the enchanted fire—trusting that the smell of burning flesh and a faded memory is more beautiful than the lies of safety, security, and comfort.

And either we will stick our hand to the fire, and give up that which we cannot keep…or else we will grow so fat as to put our hand into the bowl, to have it never return to our mouths. Fire or chains. Sacrifice or secruity. There is a reason that epocs past held to the tension of antitheicals. Only in the absolute is there power. All else is the ambiguous hum of the enchantress: Take, and eat.

OM* - Stimulus Plan Just in Time…for NASA.

2009-02-24T13:48:00.000-08:00

NASA SATELLITE CRASHES MINUTES AFTER LAUNCH

Maybe NASA and the auto industry should consolidate. Then, over-priced and under-performing vehicles of all types—terrestrial and extra-terrestrial—can be developed under one grand auspices. They could call it GANSAM—Generally Autonomous Nationally Sanctioned Aeronautics’n’Automobile Manufacturing.

Having witnessed—on the news, that is—the deaths of two entire space shuttle crews, I am grateful that this project was unmanned. And yet, there goes $273 million dollars. Clocking in at three minutes of flight, that averages US$ 91 million per minute. Not even Delta charges that much for its most expensive flights.

Thanks to the new Stimulus Plan signed into law by our President, NASA now has an additional US$ 1 billion, $2 million dollars--$400 million for the construction of a new space shuttle, $400 million for climate research, $150 million for aeronautics research, $50 million for the rebuilding of facilities damaged in 2008 floods, and $2 million to pay for the people who are going to oversee the spending of this money. I'm assuming these are the shovel-ready projects that we heard so much talk about--projects destined to save the collapsing economies in Ohio and the budget short-fall in California.

"We'll get back to flying at a pace that allows us to do so successfully," said Chuck Dovale, NASA Launch Director, at a press briefing after the failed launch. The project took 8 years to develop. Eight years and $273 million dollars! This wasn’t included in the new stimulus plan—intended for new research into climate.

Ironically, the very thing that makes NASA perpetually unsuccessful is the very thing that will keep GM and Chrysler from producing truly innovative vehicles. Governmental money for governmental projects return investment on capital well below the break-even point. Always. That is why so little privately-funded space exploration projects have gone forward. The knowledge that there is a regulating government body, that can carte blanche restrict or confiscate anything questionable to that broadly-undefined category of “national security,” and (dispensing with pleasantries) ignore budget constraints—is as much a barrier to entry as anyone needs.

Were the government to offer a contract in the sum of $1 billion to any private company capable of delivering regular payloads of satellite and human cargo, on schedule, safely, reliably, dependably, at a fraction of the cost—America would see a kind of innovation unparalleled in recent years.

As it is, we just got to see a $273 million fire-work display. That is, those of us who were watching.

The rest of you get nothing.

Top 10 Lessons I learned from “Mansfield Park” (by Jane Austin)

2009-01-21T09:07:00.000-08:00

1. Even halfhearted attempts at good pursuits can produce the purest good and greatest glory.
2. To be simple is not a vice; to be shallow is. Simplicity can be overcome with patient instruction, but shallowness is rarely plumbed.
3. A woman who loves a man “save for his occupation” loves only the figment of her imagination imposed upon another being.
4. A father does well to mind the unnecessary praising of his daughter’s beauty and qualities by those who have set their hearts upon her social successes.
5. A man who must have the attention of any woman will lose, in the end, all hope of having the love of one.
6. Sin is entirely less satisfying 3 months in, as it was at the onset of deception.
7. How one speaks concerning good is less revealing of the inclinations of the heart than how one speaks concerning evil.
8. One illness in this life can do more to bend us straight than the innumerable blessings received.
9. In the end, what you most fear is less likely to happen than that which you never even considered a possibility. That’s why they are called “blind spots.”
10. There are far worse things in life (and the character of a man) than marrying your cousin.

Understanding “Crisis Applicants” and Evaluating our Institutional Responses to Them

2009-01-12T14:52:00.001-08:00

“[S]he might soon learn…not owe
the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire—
the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty,
to the lessons of affliction…”
Jane Austin, Mansfield Park

Our perception of the number is that “economic downturns actually serve to increase enrollment” based loosely on the perception that a difficult or declining job market offers—in addition to limited employment opportunities—the opportunity to either pursue further training (careered individuals) or delay market-entry (recent graduates).

When this is the extent of our observation, we prepare to respond in this manner:
• “Yes, lots of people are enrolling in light of the economy and job market”
• Finding a job later may be easier with a higher degree of training as the economy improves.”
• “Investing in education now will pay off when the job market improves.”

I cannot help but wonder if our correlation is too narrow, effectively reducing stronger enrollment opportunities. And rather than a 1=1 ratio (down economy = higher enrollment), we should be asking what about a down economy (besides the obvious job market) may be factored into the equation.

Our current equation makes it a financial matter exclusively. But could it not also be an issue of stability or security or eternity? I think down markets should be viewed as one part of a greater category: crises. A down market (or may be) a crisis—and crises, more than comfort, challenge us to examine fundamental beliefs and values. Only as someone is faced with difficulty is he forced to answer questions which, in times of relative peace or prosperity, can be easily ignored or dismissed as irrelevant. Bernie Madoff could quip ambiguous responses to questions on his investment philosophy—when times were good. The failure of his hedge fund has forced him—and those working or invested with him—to answer questions long-neglected questions of life’s ultimate purpose, value and meaning—beyond financial stability, and subsequent public exposure.

Going to graduate school is one kind of response to a crisis. The billionaire, Thierry de la Villehuchet—who lost over $1.5 billion through Madoff—chose a different response: suicide. The benefit of viewing economic difficulties as but-one example of a type of situation (resulting in the pursuit of graduate school) is that we change the way we look at other recruitment opportunities.

Yes, the current financial and economic situation is a crisis, as were 9/11 and Katrina. But so were the recent UVA shooting of 2007, the floods in the Ohio River Valley in 2008, and the current impeachment of Illinois Gov Rob Blagovich, and so forth. The fruit of such crises is long in playing out—but the fruit of another crisis is daily lived out in the testimony and ministry of Chuck Coleson.

Every crisis offers an opportunity for some group of people, or individual person, to ask those lasting and eternal questions—the kind that result in decisions to pursue seminary.

We know crises play such a role in our lives. Post 9/11 saw a spike in church attendance unparalleled in recent decades. Though not a lasting response for some, many were converted in the days, weeks, and months immediately following that event. How will the effects of Katrina upon New Orleans eventually play out to break the back of witchcraft and dark spirituality in that community? (Which crisis event caused the radical change in the life of Anne Rice—from sexual and sadistic vampire novels, to those portraying the humanity and deity of Christ Jesus in her newest trilogy?)

The privacy of people often prevent us being aware of the individual crises that they are encountering—a rebellious child, a recent miscarriage, death of a close family member, a rocky marriage, or some kind of destructive pattern of addiction. Only as these are revealed can we offer the best kinds of responses. In this way, personal crises offer a limited opportunity to engage people with the deep questions of purpose and meaning.

Which is why our recruitment responses to a public crisis is so important. Community crises become a personal crisis for individuals with a direct exposure to the effects. Jews and Arabs alike, in my community, have responded differently to the current war between Israel and Hamas in the Gazs region—differently than each other, and differently than myself. We can graph this as follows:

Community crises become a personal crisis for individuals within a given segment based on a direct correlation. Our recruitment in the above situation would be concentrated on those individuals who are experiencing a community crisis on a personal level.

Another example would be to look at the effects of 9/11.

We can assume that all people in the World Trade Center faced a crisis moment during the 9/11 attacks—as did many (if not most of their family members), the residents of New York, the nation, and the world—to ever lessening degrees than those closer to the event.

In this event, it becomes more difficult to identify those individuals who were processing a public crisis in an individual manner. But the point is made—that as individuals process a public crisis, those individuals are in a place to “owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire—the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction…” (Jane Austin, Mansfield Park, 473).

Seeing financial or economic turmoil as a kind of crisis changes the types of responses we can have to “crisis applicants”—particularly for career transition people going to seminary:

What are the immediate changes we can implement in response to this reality?

Questions to Ask “Crisis Applicants”
• Good Question: Why are you thinking about seminary now?
• Better Question: Has there been an event in your life that has caused you to pursue seminary at this point?

• Good Question: Has the economy been a factor in your pursuing seminary at this point?
• Better Question: How has the current economic situation affected your decision to pursue seminary at this point?

Having a mission statement regarding crises is also helpful. Instead of assuming that the inquirer is considering seminary for financial reasons primarily, a statement reflects our broader appreciation of crises—as a seminary, observing not simply the external possible realities, but the internal spiritual reactions that take are either present or potential:

We believe that all crises—personal, familial, communal, national, environmental, economic, or global—are an opportunity for people and nations to ask fundamental questions about good and evil, and the purpose and meaning of life. Crises are also an opportunity for the church, as the body of Christ, to proclaim the Gospel of Salvation in Jesus Christ, in response. And we believe that—like Esther—God raises up ministers and messengers for such a time as this. Our commitment is to encourage and advise you in this time to help you discern your role and response in light of whatever current crisis caused you to consider seminary—so that you can answer to yourself, and those who ask: And who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?(Esther 4:14)

The other benefit of this type of approach is that it broadens the opportunities for recruitment. Instead of seeing periods of economic instability as somehow unique recruitment opportunities—we can begin to see smaller and more localized crises as recruitment opportunities within key areas, regionally or within certain demographics.

In summary, we improve the quality of our response and the possibility for recruitment interaction through broadening our understanding of types of crises, and having approaches that address individuals along the spectrum of response—those transitioning because of the “lessons of affliction” more than just a weak job market.

Then, Now, & Forever - Part 1

2008-11-22T20:42:00.000-08:00

THEN
“Henry Ford is belching forth like a volcanic eruption telling the world that in 1950 the industrial slaves will be paid at the rate of $35 per day. Well, half of that would go mighty nice right now and it would help a lot in solving the economic situation that the world is going through. When you accounted your $1.00 per day increase, Henry Ford, the higher-priced men were laid off and replaced with cheaper help, so if you are sincere and intend to give the works a little of the sunlight and this scheme is not another of your tricks to hog the front pages of the newspapers throughout the world, why send some of your expert investigators over to The Murray Cor’p of America and see for yourself the slavery conditions that exist there, where humans are building the bodies for your cars, where polishers work all day Sunday, eight hours, to be exact, and receive the glorious sum of sixty-two cents for a Sabbath of slavery.” (Fred Vogel, quoted in “The American Jitters” by Edmund Wilson, 1930).

NOW
“I spent a month in Detroit adjusting the settings on the automated systems. With the new software, some of the mechanical arms weren’t hitting right. My job was to train the chief guy what to watch for. He sat in a windowed room high above the production floor, in a leather chair—he’d curse you out for sitting in it—eating donuts and drinking coffee. The other day, we had to shut down the line. I ran the diagnostics and found the problem, readjusted the settlings, and reset the system. Everything was ready to go—everything, except that the one guy with permission to push the red “restart button” was on break. He was on break, eating a donut, or taking a dump, or smoking outside. No one else is supposed to push the button. I’d already made that mistake—pushed it the other day. Management had to come down and talk to the Union leaders who were threatening to call for a walkout. Management gave it to me for that, but what do I know. I’m not Union or Management. I’m on consultant pay. So the line was shut down while head-Union button-pushing guy was on break. A hundred people just standing there. They can’t sit down or that counts against their break. But they can’t take a break either, because that violates their labor agreements. So they just stand there, all 100 and more, making $50 and hour to stare at the dead production line. I’ve beat the h--l out of my rental car driving on the potholed roads of this industrial town—roads that are as run down as this antiquated system of self-promotion, manipulation by labor against management. I’m ready to get back home.” (A_____ T_____, in an email dated March, 17, 1999, after spending a month on consultation of an automated system in a car-parts plant in Detroit).

FOREVER
“It only stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting the sacrificial offerings. Where there's service, there is someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice is speaking of slaves and masters, and intends to be the master.” Ayn Rand

Evaluation of St. Louis County Propositions / Ballot Initiatives

2008-11-02T10:02:00.000-08:00

Proposition I
Proposes to authorize the incurring of indebtedness and the issuance of general obligation bonds of said County in the amount of One Hundred Twenty Million Dollars ($120,000,000.00) for the purpose of constructing various capital improvements to County buildings and facilities, and making improvements to County safety/security and communication facilities

Background – The county raised taxes—20-40%—on property in the last two years. And yet the reduction of resources through the decline in the stock market and broader economic conditions has left the county in need of resources. These new funds are not going toward paying new employees (like some of the taxes of Proposition H), and municipal bonds are a good way to raise cash.

Issues / Implications – The implications of this are a leveraging of future earnings of St. Louis County residents. Dependent upon how sever the recession ends up being, this could be a costly decision. Consider that the city of Birmingham, in attempting to implement social health and welfare programs, teeters on the brink of bankruptcy. Still, there appears to be a lot of health in St. Louis County. And short of raising taxes, bond initiatives are the primary means of raising funds to pay existing accounts. The purpose and intended use of these funds, all things considered, makes a lot of sense.

CONCLUSION: I plan to vote YES for this bill.

Proposition H
IMPOSING A LOCAL USE TAX ON TRANSACTIONS SUBJECT TO MISSOURI USE TAX LAW, SUBJECT TO VOTER APPROVAL; CALLING AND PROVIDING FOR THE HOLDING OF AN ELECTION IN THE COUNTY OF
ST. LOUIS ON THE FOURTH DAY OF NOVEMBER, 2008, FOR THE PURPOSE OF SUBMITTING TO THE QUALIFIED VOTERS OF SAID COUNTY A PROPOSAL TO IMPOSE A COUNTY-WIDE LOCAL USE TAX OF ONE AND EIGHTY-FIVE HUNDREDTHS PERCENT (1.85%) FOR THE PURPOSES OF ENHANCING COUNTY AND MUNICIPAL PUBLIC SAFETY, PARKS, AND JOB CREATION AND ENHANCING LOCAL GOVERNMENT SERVICES. (read more here).

Background – this is a hard one to judge. St. Louis County has three initiatives to raise taxes on residents in this voting cycle. We have already seen a county wide increase of property taxes by 20-40% (last Fall). The $2000 out-of-state tax is going to hit small businesses hardest. Many small businesses have already stopped spending in the area of R&D, technology, and are seeing cutbacks in payroll. This tax is going to hit them hard and potentially force a reduction of payroll (i.e. layoffs). On the parks aspect, St Louis county has hundreds of little parks—due to a stipulation that allows private individuals to donate their property to the state for “parks use.” These cost a ton on upkeep.

Issues / Implications – It’s hard to swallow. Individuals and businesses getting taxed for out of state purchases. This amounts to double taxation. And with two other county wide tax increases on the books, this is too much.

CONCLUSION: I plan to vote NO for this bill.

Proposition M
CALLING AND PROVIDING FOR THE HOLDING OF AN ELECTION IN THE COUNTY OF ST. LOUIS ON THE FOURTH DAY OF NOVEMBER, 2008, FOR THE PURPOSE OF SUBMITTING TO THE QUALIFIED VOTERS OF SAID COUNTY A PROPOSAL TO IMPOSE A COUNTY-WIDE SALES TAX OF ONE HALF OF ONE PERCENT (0.50%) FOR THE PURPOSE OF PROVIDING A SOURCE OF FUNDS FOR PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION PURPOSES, I ADDITION TO THE EXISTING COUNTY-WIDE SALES TAX OF ONE QUARTER OF ONE PERCENT FOR THE SAME PURPOSE; IMPOSING SAID

Background – While public transportation may not be desired for many of the affluent West County citizens, the fact remains that the expenses related to transportation for the less affluent, poorer segments of the population is enough to make car ownership / insurance-ship / maintenance accessible. Removing / reducing the obstacle of transportation for poorer segments of society—in a highly mobile society—increases their ability to find stable work, and support themselves. The City has expanded the tram and bus routes as best they can with current funds. Public transportation will never be for everybody, and yet—because of the mobility of our society—public transportation will forever be a necessity for those who make use of it.

Issues / Implications – Other than what is mentioned previously, there is an unconscious fear that the expansion of public transit somehow allows for the bussing in-and-out of crime to more “stable areas.” This notion, not only unfounded, assumes a “safety” in suburban areas that is facadistic and artificial.

CONCLUSION: I plan to vote YES for this bill.

Evaluation of Missouri Propositions: Proposition C

2008-11-02T09:52:00.000-08:00

Language - Shall Missouri law be amended to require investor-owned electric utilities to generate or purchase electricity from renewable energy sources such as solar, wind, biomass and hydropower with the renewable energy sources equaling at least 2% of retail sales by 2011 increasing incrementally to at least 15% by 2021, including at least 2% from solar energy; and restricting to no more than 1% any rate increase to consumers for this renewable energy? The estimated direct cost to state governmental entities is $395,183. It is estimated there are no direct costs or savings to local governmental entities. However, indirect costs may be incurred by state and local governmental entities if the proposal results in increased electricity retail rates.

A "yes" vote will amend Missouri law to require investor-owned electric utilities to generate or purchase electricity from renewable energy sources such as solar, wind, biomass (including ethanol) and hydropower. The required renewable energy sources must equal the following percentages of retail sales: 2% by 2011; 5% by 2014; 10% by 2018; 15% by 2021. Of the total renewable energy sources required to be sold, at least 2% shall be solar sources. Also, any rate increase to consumers resulting from this measure must be no more than 1%.

Background – When oil hit $125 per barrel, the EU and the US Congress rushed to mandate ethanol be included in gasoline. The effects—the price of corn shot up. Keep in mind, the US has had a surplus of corn for many years. Government buys up this corn to keep the price up. Then they sell this corn to third-world countries at a loss. The effect is that the local agricultural industry is devastated. When the ethanol became mandated, this meant the US and other countries stopped exporting excess corn. Riots occurred in many African countries. Since then, the EU has backed off its mandate, and changed the language to prevent “food commodities” being substituted for energy.

Issues / Implications – The problem is, most renewable energy loses money. Solar, wind, etc. all costs significantly more. Many renewable energy companies are existing from one government-rebate to the next. While this seems to help wean us off coal and oil, it does so at the expense of capitalism. Think about it—the energy companies (AmerenUE, Laclede Gas) are already regulated. They can’t increase rates without approval from the state. Now they have to find other energy sources without raising rates. Long-term they become unable to compete. Government ends up having to take over more of the industry, or begins competing against the private sector, in a step toward further nationalization of corporations. If the State would just lay off, renewable energy is going to become cheaper as it becomes cost-effective. Mandating it will only hurt us economically. And with 7.2% unemployment in Missouri—and how many thousands of others teetering on bankruptcy (because they can gamble everything away without limits, and because many are barely making mortgage payments as is it)—this initiative will hit taxpayers because it is the government who will end up subsidizing these measures with taxpayer’s money.

CONCLUSION: I plan to vote NO for this bill.

Evaluation of Missouri Propositions: Proposition B

2008-11-02T09:51:00.000-08:00

Language - Shall Missouri law be amended to enable the elderly and Missourians with disabilities to continue living independently in their homes by creating the Missouri Quality Homecare Council to ensure the availability of quality home care services under the Medicaid program by recruiting, training, and stabilizing the home care workforce?

The exact cost of this proposal to state governmental entities is unknown, but is estimated to exceed $510,560 annually. Additional costs for training are possible. Matching federal funds, if available, could reduce state costs. It is estimated there would be no costs or savings to local governmental entities.

Background – This all sounds good. We all want people to live in their homes longer. That isn’t the issue here. The issue is the creation of the Council which to oversee, employ, assign, and manage a home care workforce. Currently, there are dozens of private-sector (non-government) home, healthcare providers. Deacon Barth Holohan (Covenant Pres) runs a company called Continuum. STL Business Journal reported, “As founder and CEO of Continuum in St. Louis, Holohan’s No. 1 mission has remained helping those who have difficulty caring for themselves” (read the full report here) Continuum provides services at fraction the cost of government provision. But the Medicaid program isn’t happy about that—and so they hope by passing this bill to create such a barrier for companies like Barth’s, that they have to shut down. Then the government run health segments can control more of the money and all of the providers.

Issues / Implications – This is a horrible solution for elderly people. Some of them don’t need much—and the rest have numerous private-sector options. Notice this Proposition doesn’t say how much this will cost, only that it will cost more than half a Million Dollars. The reality is that these costs could exceed multi-millions within 2-5 years. Once the private companies have been put out of business, the cost to taxpayers and the elderly is likely to skyrocket.

CONCLUSION: I plan to vote NO for this bill.

Evaluation of Missouri Propositions: Proposition A

2008-11-02T09:49:00.000-08:00

Language: Shall Missouri law be amended to:
• repeal the current individual maximum loss limit for gambling;
• prohibit any future loss limits; require identification to enter the gambling area only if necessary to establish that an individual is at least 21 years old;
• restrict the number of casinos to those already built or being built;
• increase the casino gambling tax from 20% to 21%;
• create a new specific education fund from gambling tax proceeds generated as a result of this measure called the "Schools First Elementary and Secondary Education Improvement Fund"; and
• require annual audits of this new fund?

State governmental entities will receive an estimated $105.1 to $130.0 million annually for elementary and secondary education, and $5.0 to $7.0 million annually for higher education, early childhood development, veterans, and other programs. Local governmental entities receiving gambling boat tax and fee revenues will receive an estimated $18.1 to $19.0 million annually.

Background – In an economic downturn, more than in any other time, drinking, gambling, and general “sin taxable” items increase. With the current unemployment rate of Missouri at 7.2%, and other layoffs coming from Chrysler (and maybe Boeing), the temptation to escape “reality” through gambling is likely to increase. Add in that those most tempted (most likely to engage) are those least able to afford it—the aged, the abandoned, the poor, the oppressed. With this in mind, when Missouri made gambling legal—there was the concern that someone would stay and gamble away their entire life in the time of a few hours. So they set caps, limiting the loss of one individual in a given time frame.

Issues / Implications – This amendment would remove all caps on loss limits. Without these, someone could walk into a casino and gamble away their entire life and nobody would stop them. 10,000? 100,000? Whatever. Gone. It would prevent the state from ever setting loss limits again (bullet point 2). Then in the third bullet point, the “restriction on casinos built” is just a way of giving a monopoly to existing Casinos. Harrah’s wants to get more money with no limitation on the people gambling with less competition. At what benefit to the people? A meager 1% higher taxes. This is corruption at its worst—set to take advantage of the propensity of people toward addiction, their escape mechanism, and the poor.

CONCLUSION: I plan to vote NO for this bill.

Evaluation of Missouri Propositions: Amendement 4

2008-11-02T09:47:00.000-08:00

Language: Shall the Missouri Constitution be amended to change provisions relating to the financing of stormwater control projects by:
• limiting availability of grants and loans to public water and sewer districts only;
• removing the cap on available funding and existing restrictions on disbursements;
• requiring loan repayments to be used only for stormwater control projects?

It is estimated the cost to state governmental entities is $0 to $236,000 annually. It is estimated state governmental entities will save approximately $7,500 for each bond issuance. It is estimated local governmental entities participating in this program may experience savings, however the amount is unknown.

Issues / Implications – When you read “public water and sewer districts” this should be understood as “municipality run districts.” This bill would eliminate any other private companies (aka, publically traded companies) to come in and compete against “public districts” (aka, government run entities) for water and sewer contacts in the state. This elimination of competition would create monopolies among the (government run) public works. Costs would not be checked by fair competition from the private sector. Furthermore, bullet point two would allow the government to raise as much money as they want—removing the current caps that prevent wasteful spending. In short, this measure would make government providers a monopoly, eliminate competition, and remove all limits on the amount of money they could spend: more money but only for the Governmental (public work) entities.

CONCLUSION: I will vote NO on this bill.

Evaluation of Missouri Propositions: Amendment 1

2008-11-02T09:40:00.000-08:00

Language: "Shall the Missouri Constitution be amended to add a statement that English shall be the language of all governmental meetings at which any public business is discussed, decided, or public policy is formulated whether conducted in person or by communication equipment including conference calls, video conferences, or Internet chat or message board?"

History – For more than 200 years, Americans have gotten by without declaring English their official language. English Only legislation first appeared in 1981 as a constitutional English Language Amendment but the measure never came to Congressional vote. Since 1981, 22 states have adopted various forms of Official English legislation, in addition to four that had already done so. Subtracting Hawaii (which is officially bilingual with English and Hawaiian being the official languages) and Alaska (whose English-only initiative has been declared unconstitutional) leaves a total of 24 states with active Official English laws. My mother reflected, “At the time, I thought it was so stupid.” The initiative could never pass today—with 17.9% of the US (6.26 million Americans) and many illegal immigrants (approx. 12 million) not speaking English fluently.

Issues / Implications – Those who are against this ballot say that English is already the “default” language and so any change is unnecessary. Also, such a change might discourage immigration. Both were cases made in 1981 and time has proven that English is not necessarily the default language. What this does guarantee is that there would be integration of communities that might be prone to stick together and “not integrate” as has happened in places like France in 2005. The opposite danger is that some proletariat would come to power in future generations, and use this as a reason to discriminate against the bourgeoisie (or middle class). However, as globalization proves the greater threat—and the rise of a proletariat (in the form of some oligarchy) is less likely; with legal and illegal immigration on the rise, it is more likely that no passing this amendment would, in the future, require all governmental functions to be bi- or tri-lingual, encouraging tribalism and non-integration. It is also worth noting that a bill mandating that voters have a valid ID card issued to them failed to make the ballot. This issue runs parallel to the issue on language.

CONCLUSION: I plan to vote YES for this bill.

Vote for Change...beginning with you

2008-10-29T07:39:00.000-07:00

Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. –Colossians 4:5

When better to examine one’s fundamental beliefs concerning government than during a Presidential campaign year? With current debates centering on the economy, the housing market, health care, national security, and immigration, we have the perfect opportunity to reflect on each of these issues and to ask ourselves the biblical question: Have we pursued, insofar as it depends upon us, peace with others, justice for the oppressed, and the honor of our King, Jesus Christ?

--the rest of this article can be accessed here

One Good Turn: the Preponderance of Myopia

2008-09-24T03:50:00.000-07:00

With the brokered sale of Bear Stearns, the nationalization of the GSE, and now the $2,000,000,000,000 bailout of financial US firms—good things must come in threes. So here is my list of the top three myopic myths of the financial times:

1. Myth One: History is 50 years old.
It must be, because every life-long financial analyst, advisor, and investor is quick to quip how his life-time of experience explains away the potential woes of governmental involvement in our free-no-longer market. These “experts” explain how the Harry-Potter like magic used to create upwards of $2,000,000,000,000 from nowhere probably won’t cause inflation, how the Fed is too smart for that, how tax payers likely aren’t going to lose money, and might even make money as the Fed sells off these assets. (If they could be sold for more than what someone is currently willing to invest in them, wouldn’t someone want to invest in them?). Note the repetitive use of the subjunctive—might, could, would, should, may, possible, likely, probable. And in defense, these “experts” can point back to what? Well, to 50 or 60 years in the lifespan of their experience.

Where is the long-term historian among these experts—who looks back over a period of 500 years and says, “Once Government takes over an area of society, it never relinquishes it back; never—short of a revolution. Never. “ Never. Read my lips, “NEVER.” The myopic blindness that resulted in this financial crisis was caused by the very same approach that says, “In my experience, as an expert…”

While we can justly say that the governing bodies of these financial institutions were stupid, we cannot say they were dumb—and they drew from their experience as experts. And now we are to trust that the Fed is “smarter than that” or “too smart” to cause inflation?

It is the lesson of history, for those willing to learn it—that there are opportunities to avoid disaster that lie far beyond the scope of our years and experience—beyond the last 50 (even 100) years.

2. Myth Two: Governments—like God and magicians—can make things from nothing.
We have allowed ourselves to be reclassified. No longer are we Countrymen, or Citizens—humans as imago dei. We are now consumers. As such, our status is not dependent upon a common participation in a common society. Instead, we have been monetized in a fiat system for political means. No longer neighbors in communities—more often we are residences of subdivisions. No longer husbands and wives—more often we have become cohabitating civil unions. No longer fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, and friends—we are only consumers, workers, and the struggling Middle Class. (Thanks to constant government entitlements, we don’t have to call ourselves lower class.)

Having allowed ourselves to be so redefined in relationship to country and government—we become Gnostic believers in a pagan state whose god is money—in this God we trust. Gnostic—because, far from owing our personal responsibility in a government “by the people,” we plead ignorance and demand recompense, allowing the elite (those highly trained and educated experts in the secret formations of higher governance) to rule “for the people.”

We hear it every time a community suffers some disaster—some neighbor says to the camera, “Something has to be done! This isn’t right! If it was a terrorist attack, the government would be here! Why aren’t they here now?”

In a word—entitlement, expectation…or some other people might say, comeuppance.

3. Myth Three: The US is Saving the World by this Bailout.
Having been reduced to the struggling masses of a recent history and Gnostic approach to governance—it is only natural that we would see the actions of our government (and our nation) as “saving” the world. In the past, in some wars, tragedies, and the financial woes of other nations, we have done just that.

Not so today. In fact, this problem is ours. We caused it, and the culmination—of a consumption-driven economy (vs. a production driven economy), the abuse of monetary production (inflation) and the willingness of neighboring countries to buy and hold our debt—is all on us. Though the US news agencies don’t report it in so many words—the rest of the world knows this is our problem.

Moreover, they are taking steps to protect themselves from the impact of our fiat, financial tomfoolery. That is why Russia, China, and Iran (whose own Oil Bourse will not accept US dollars) are meeting regularly—in the Shanghai Cooperation Organization. Russia and the EU are meeting in what has been dubbed EATO, or the “Euro-Atlantic Treaty Organization.” Japan has entered into closer bilateral ties to China than with any other nation (including the US)—revealed after Japan’s Emperor Akihito met with Chinese President Hu Jintao three times in the month of May. Even Latin American countries have begun to take the same steps.

Friends, Countrymen, we are not saving anybody—not ourselves and, least of all, the rest of the world.

Conclusion
Media talks about the historic presidency, but I suggest that in 100 years that we had a black president or that we had a female vice president will be little discussed. Of much remembrance will be what was done today—whether we allow the separation of powers between private and governmental realms to safeguard the continuance of our fundamental and Constitutional (not entitlements) freedoms; or whether, in our rush to ensure the status quo of comfort, lulling us toward totalitarianism, we sacrifice what cost us (personally and individually) very little but is of inestimable value.

Either way, a century from now, someone will be able to say of this period what Paul Johnson wrote concerning the shift in Asian powers leading up to World War II, “There now followed one of those decisive historical turning-points which, though clear enough in retrospect, were complicated and confused at the time” (Modern Times, 194).

A Momentary Reflection on History

2008-09-13T05:03:00.000-07:00

“History shows us the truly amazing extent to which intelligent, well-informed and resolute men, in the pursuit of economy or in an altruistic passion for disarmament, will delude themselves about realities.” (Modern Times, Paul Johnson, p175)

Nothing has come so close to capturing the heart of our current financial situation as this statement written—not primarily about markets and economies—about the regional instability and political blindness that led to the rise of Japan as a global threat in the 1930s and, ultimately, World War II.

It is easy to say that the housing bubble was predictable, easy to call “blind” the men (and women) at the helm of stations like Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers, Washington Mutual, IndyMac, Countrywide, and a thousand other banks. Everybody loves being a sidelines quarterback—silent when wrong, but multi-active on the blogsphere (and Fool boards) when right. “I called it!”

I’m not saying these leaders didn’t make bad decisions, nor had lapses in judgment. But eventually, alterations in models force all of us to reexamine our fundamental principles and, at times, cause us to radically change long-held suppositions. For example, how long would the rise of oil have to increase (recognizing we are currently in a commodity pullback), before even the “bubble bears” would have to say, “Something has fundamentally changed and so too must my model.”

In fact, that is the reality of investing. Otherwise, we’d all be piling in to Corel, Hotmail, and Altavista. These each were leaders in their areas at one point. As late as 1990, Wordperfect (not yet owned by Corel) was the de facto standard for word processing. Corel Draw owned a market unfamiliar with the name of Adobe. Altavista was one of the lead search engines a decade before anyone would use the term Google (despite the “misspelling”) for anything but a mathematical formula. What changed? Fundamental trends which, over an ever-lengthening period of time completely adjusted fundamental application of core principles. No, “we” didn’t stop buying value, or looking for growth. But how this was applied—that changed.

So here are 10 questions to think about over the weekend:
1. Did the rise in the dollar (by 4 points in the last 3 months) cause the fall in commodities, or vice versa? Or was there any correlation whatsoever?
2. Was the flight from commodities due to fear over being overbought and, if so, are they now oversold? Or was the flight from commodities due to the cash crunch that many banks, funds, and individuals find themselves in?
3. For the first half of the year, equities and commodities reacted inversely, but now are tracking in parallel? What does that mean for investors?
4. Will the Fed bail Lehman Brothers over the weekend? With what equity backing? And what will that ultimately do to the value of the dollar internationally?
5. China and Russia are the largest holders of the US Dollar. Relationships with both are…less than optimal. China continues to be the leader in energy growth consumption, while Russia remains the leader in Natural Gas. How does this bode for the US, especially in light of our continued printing of fiat money to back failing investment banks?
6. Will Russia seek to acquire once-held segments of Ukraine, just as it now is holding sections of Georgia? Will NATO respond, and how?
7. What long-term impact will the Iranian Oil Bourse have on dollar stability and oil prices?
8. McCain wants to extend our military imperialism (think Brittan, 1920)—and pay for it with what?
9. Obama wants to tax the heck out of big oil and the top 20%—and do what when these entities are in their waning seasons? He also wants to make healthcare free to all (think France in the last 30 years)—what will this ultimately do to the healthcare industry?
10. What will be the global consequences of either a) pulling our extended military out of Iraq and Afghanistan or b) actually getting one or both of these nations to a place of (some semblance of) stability?

These are global questions, intricate in their implications, complex in their development, massive in their scope, but altered often by nuanced decisions—a condition ripe for “intelligent, well-informed and resolute men, in the pursuit of economy or in an altruistic passion for disarmament” (of which many of us claim to be!) to delude ourselves about reality—to make mistakes, have lapses of judgment, and let a truly-changing global politico-economic environment affect long-held beliefs.

Remembering 9/11 – Le Sauveur est Mort! Vive le Sauveur

2008-09-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

It seems we’ve arrived—that moment when we can definitely acknowledge understanding and claim a cognitive victory over the once unknown. I’m talking about 9/11. Now on the seventh anniversary of the tragic, deadly attacks—we remember… by declaring victory. The documentaries of a dozen channels have moved from the now too-familiar footage of the collapsing World Trade Centers…to explaining—all explaining: why one building fell sooner than the other, why the planes disintegrated on impact, why the black box at the Pentagon was found near the nose, why, why, whywhywhywhy. We are good at explaining.

And we are good at explaining away. As such, we become victims of a false sense of self-security which creeps into our living. It is almost as though when—having explained, having found satisfactory (though never complete) understanding—we become the exception. Consequences need not apply. Explanation has set us free.

Have you ever noticed that it is the people who regularly smoke who know the statistics about lung cancer better than anyone (just look at the nurses lined up on the sidewalk at St. John’s hospital along Ballas Road)? How it’s the guys who actively trade stocks that take the biggest risks—believing somehow that their “experience” and their “knowledge” make them immune to the dangers of excessive loses.

Enron, K-Mart, Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers, Freddy Mac, Fanny Mae. Most of the leaders in these collapses or corruptions (or both) made the same (wrong) judgment calls as people before them—believing, somehow, they were different, exempt. That some secret knowledge or “insiders’ insight” would protect them from the law, bankruptcy, ridicule, and prison. Then there are the pastors who sacrifice the entirety of their families, reputations, ministries, and vocations. There are the union workers who entrench themselves into a work-ethic of complacency. And there are the democratic nations that embark upon socialistic and fascist pathways. “We’ve studied the past. We understand it. We have a secret knowledge. And we will avoid those consequences.”

Ironically, Western nations thought they understood what gave birth to the Great War and so—in that time between wars—they made decisions with improved “knowledge” and heightened “insight” that offered certain confidence in the prevention of future such happenings. Less than a generation later, another great war ravaged the world. NASA, having studied the destruction of the Challenger, took steps to ensure it would not happen again…until the Discovery exploded on landing. On the same day that I watched the “9/11 Documentary” on why we are better prepared, I heard report of a study that found the US almost unchanged in its preparedness against biological and chemical attack as on September 11, 2001.

As with all pride born from knowledge, naming, and discovery—we forget what matters most: The children who are growing up without parents killed in the 9/11 attacks. The husbands and wives who lost their partner. The parents who lost children. The friends who lost friends. The nation…that lost its ability to reflect long on the cry for deliverance. The cry—that died so soon after the attacks—for deliverance, for salvation, for…God.

Today is like that first 9/11—the weather and the world, I mean. The only thing missing is the silence—the silence born from confusion, unanswered questions, sadness, fears. And from the humility that comes with the momentary reflection that knowledge, information, and understanding cannot deliver us, cannot defend us, cannot save.

Seven years later, there is no room for silence. We have filled up all the silent places with explanations, comforted with the self-certain belief that our knowledge will makes us exempt, safe. John Bright might have said it this way, “We are a self-saved people and oh, how we love our savior.” Or in the words of Pogo, “We have seen the savior, and he is us.”

In Remembrance: Dr. Wilbur Wallis

2008-09-05T08:27:00.000-07:00

(Wilbur and Marie Wallis on their Wedding Day)

Wilbur Wallis is dead. A week has passed since his memorial service, but his memory still hangs on me like an albatross on the neck of the Ancient Mariner. I think, how unremarkable is the passing of great believers. It almost seems the greater the impact, the longer the faithful service, the deeper the Christian commitment and love—the more silently they pass into the night. How even the passing of CS Lewis was shrouded by the death of a President—and he slipped, that great man, beyond the curtain of glory, while all eyes were elsewhere. NPR tells me that two died in fighting on some distant plain, or that seven died with some new storm front. But the passing of one such as these gains what—the emptying of some nursing home room, the forwarding of last pieces of mail, and the disposal of papers kept for some reason unbeknownst to the living.

The white administration building is likewise on its final days, and stands now—more often than not—an empty shell of inactivity. I walk her empty hallways knowing that Dr. Wallis spent the better part of a dozen years in the confines of her walls—knowing that if I could just gather up the dust and decay from every decrepit crack, and regenerate that waste by science or speculation, I could birth again the ghosts of yesterday. But death has come, and mites have feasted upon the stray hairs of passed-away saints. Like the noble elephant in David’s memories (from Hemingway’s Garden of Eden)—it is a glorious thing in its massive size and animal defiance. But when the gun it put to its ear, and the repeating shots ring out in the surrounding forest, the elephant is gone—and only an empty mass of wrinkles remains. So too—whether in caskets or cracks—Wilbur is not here. The nobility resides elsewhere, and only wrinkles remain. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

His brothers and sisters were there. They told stories about childhood—about Wilbur’s dance with death, and bare escape from Phenomena; how he walked 6 miles a day, alone, lumbering his 6-foot height with an easy gait. He was known for years afterwards to walk from Des Peres to the Seminary campus. I’ve walked that stretch of Ballas many times, and see how little the passing cars note my existence. Did they note his? In life, was he granted—at the least—that passing driving queried at this tall man of the disheveled hair, taken so often to the wayside? Or was he just another obstacle to avoid, something not to hit, to miss but not regard; to avoid but not acknowledge?

I remember my last visit with him—now nearly two years ago. He was praying when I came in. Dr. Wallis explained to me that there was a fellow resident at Friendship Village who mocked him whenever he spoke about Jesus. Here—this great saint of faithful years and heavy sacrifice, of theological battles and exegetical comprehension, treated by caretakers as little more than a needy geriatric—was untiring in his prayer for the lost, his compassion for their salvation; such that—when the rest of us had forgotten him—he had never forgotten his mission. Like the abandoned robotic WALL-E—faithful in his unending directive—this man was about the work of the King, the advance of His Kingdom, and the building and strengthening of His Bride.

To be like that. To be remembered like that—remembered for faithfulness when the faculties of body have failed, and the ability of recollection weakened; remembered for remembering even when I have been forgotten. God, let it be so.

The ancient mariner waits for the wind to blow again, and the empty administration building waits to see what redemption will bring. The grave stands ready to receive another—in that cry that never says, “Enough!”—and yet, with every fleeting soul to the side of the Savior, the curtain of heaven closes a little bit less. The glory shines out a little bit more. Glimpses of eternity pierce more regularly the monotony of days that, one upon another, fall. We will all fall. And while the world is distracted, looking left, I look right and see there another saint slip behind the curtain. Eventually, I think, heaven will be so full of those who have gone ahead that the sound and sight of it cannot be hidden from this world—and those who remain will walk a season as if in-between worlds—till Christ reclaims His own.

Soli Deo Gloria

Garden of Eden, by Ernest Hemingway

2008-09-03T19:02:00.001-07:00

Hunger—that nagging, empty, gut-tugging, bone aching, heavy, and exhausting insatiability. That is the unsatisfying hunger of Hemmingway’s The Garden of Eden. It is the story of a newlywed couple, David and Catherine Bourne, insatiable in their hunger—famished for breakfast, dying for lunch, starving for dinner. And a drink—always some alcoholic drink: whisky, beer, wine (of a thousand brands), Armagnac, and absinthe. And the sexuality of their marriage bed.

But it is a dark hunger—unsatisfied. A hunger that finds hinted-at expressions of the unnatural. Catherine longs to be the boy. She longs David to be the girl. And they make the game of it—in the dark of their room. But what is done in secret will be revealed. It is—and she is discontent. There is one more secret yet to be had by the unsatisfied Catherine, one more desire to find fulfillment, one more experience to try, one more mores to break. Always one more attempt at happiness.

But the loneliness of the empty soul is a dark hunger satisfied only with great difficulty, by an ancient love. Catherine seeks to be as dark as an African, with hair so white that it becomes almost colorless when wet. And in her pursuit of darkness, she never finds the end of those troubled ways. Contentment remains a handbreadth away—while the darkness is always closer than that.

“…Now there is this disregard of the established rules which can very well be the salvation of the whole coast. We are pioneers in opening up the summer season which is still regarded as madness.” Human salvation never is. The trust of wealth promises. The lure of the siren raises echoes of brokenness not to be healed in the pursuit of the vain. And the empty heart, like an empty bottle, is all that remains after drinking the vanity of the earth.

“I thought you might be lonely,” David says to his wife of three months—after they have ventured too far down the roads of marital contentment.
“I was.”
“Everybody ‘s lonely,” David said.
“It’s terrible to be in bed together and lonely.”
“There isn’t any solution,” David said. “All your plans and schemes are worthless.”
“I didn’t give it a chance.”
“It was all crazy anyway. I’m sick of crazy things. You’re not the only one gets broken up.”
“I know. But can’t we try it again just once more and I really be good? I can. I nearly was.”
“I’m sick of all of it, Devil. Sick all the way through me.”
“Wouldn’t you try it just once more for her and for me both?”
“It doesn’t work and I’m sick of it”
“She said you had a fine day and that you were really cheerful and not depressed. Won’t you try it once more for both us? I want it so much.”
“You want everything so much and when you get it it’s over and you don’t give a damn.”

Brokenness is empty. This kind of soul hunger will not be filled with the ordinary kinds of food and drink. Hemmingway drew long from the draughts of promise—till in the end there was nothing, for him, for David, for Catherine…for any who set upon such paths. Vanity? Yes. And the revelation of a modernity now nearing the exhaustion of age and waste and trying.

“All your plans and schemes are worthless,” the heart says.
And with a desperate voice we hear ourselves reply, “Oh, but to give it one more chance.”

UK-1920, US-2010: Slouching in Kind

2008-08-27T14:05:00.001-07:00

I'm reading Paul Johnson's "Modern Times"—particularly, the section on the cultural shifts of Brittan in the time between the wars (1919-1935). How like today it was then—a nagging consumption with inopportunity more than injustice. About license and freedom, bound almost unexplainably by boredom, weakness, and exhaustion—an image captured in the airport gambler that I noted during a recent trip through Utah. Surrounded by flashing lights and happy sounds—communicating energy and excitement—this shell-of-a-man sat slumped in his chair, mindlessly pushing buttons and pulling the switch with a unhindered fervor. And yet his eyes wandered aimlessly about the room—never on the screen before him—scanning the passing faces with as much disinterest as one man can present.

The current administration has been criticized for its policy on Iraq. Accused of neo-colonialism (echoing from the 1920s Brittan) the rhetoric has been touted, “The advance of democracy” (where 100 years ago it was the "Advance of Industrialism"). And yet that rhetoric has only come in the past four year. Prior to that—as one op-ed in the WSJ noted—our foreign policy on Iraq was framed around a Hussein that regularly ignored UN resolutions (nearly 15 of them all told).

Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD)? Certainly—the biochemical nerve agent known to exist (and documented by UN forces) in Iraq prior to a US invasion were never found. Could other weapons have gone the way of these unaccounted-for means of aggression (think Kuwait)? Probably—given the continued soft-border policy Iran has held to date with the Taliban. So, the US tenor of war changed from “international threat” and “failure to abide by UN resolutions” to “advancing freedom and democracy” around the world.

But to the point—why this change(again, a question asked by the WSJ op-ed writer)? Someone in the administration recognized that the heart of the people—that is, us: you and me—rested on the issues of inopportunity than with objections to injustice. Resolutions? Threats? WMD? Whatever!

It was supposed than an appeal to our carnivorous fascination with licentious freedom might spark a glimmer of compassion for Iraqis. Alas, no. And in this—we see ourselves laid bare—that nagging consumption with opportunity (how quickly heath care has become “a right” and not “a privilege.”); exhausted (despite our national—and my personal—addition to caffeine); and the extremes of perfection and destruction. Best noted in the lives of high school students of affluent communities—as pointed out by a friend of mine—they pursue perfection for the maximum advance (on the one end) or total and absolute rebellious, self-destruction (on the other). Straight A's or straight F's. Everything in the middle is mediocrity—and the guarantee of being forgotten—a lonely gambler in some corner of an airport. When every gate around him offers the opportunity to take him somewhere else, he remains in the in-between, nowhere; not going; not coming; just barely hanging on to existence: bored, witless, weak, and exhausted.

We do not travel unfamiliar roads—“there is nothing new under the sun” (Ecc. 1:9). The invitation remains—“Take the blue pill…and you wake up in your bed believing what you want to.” Contrary to Morpheus-ology, the story doesn’t end. The narratives of history are either our tour guides or else our bedfellows. Ecc. 1:9 is the blue pill. Ecclesiastes 12 is the red pill.

The only question is—do we have the strength to take it?

Pathways In My Garden

2008-08-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

Too long the desires of the world have traveled through my garden lot,
and trampled down the flowers planted, broken limbs and every pot,
left worn the ways meant for grass, left bare the places saved for life
and made a joke of Godly peace, and made a home of trouble strife.

But no more—for I take anew to patch the breach of walls
to fill those holes left blank by every stone which falls
with the inclination of invading thoughts; my captains,
my captives—I know not which: to bring me joys, or bring me pains.

I till the ground and break it up, and feed it seed and water drink,
and tend these hopes against vain guests that make me think
more of this life—and her every glistening gem—than the one to come.
Still a stranger, I have a home.

I cannot keep all invaders from this plot—nor is it mine to try,
but is mine to care to hold the breach and fix it by and by
perchance in time, my foolish thoughts will be to weak
to tarry here much longer. With delight, my soul the stronger—
That is what I seek.

Fathers & Sons—Retreat or Defeat?

2008-08-18T14:34:00.000-07:00

I am typing with one hand and two fingers of another. No, nothing is broken—just sore from a 24 hour father-and-son retreat, sponsored by my local congregation www.cpcstl.org. And, from the air conditioning of my office I peck out these insights:

Insight 1: Machines that claim a “full-body workout” weren’t meant to simulate throwing children five feet through the air into a pool.
Yes—and that is why my shoulders feel like an eighty pound weight is hanging on them. There is a big difference between…say, a sixty lb. dumbbell and…well, sixty lbs of pre-pubescent boys. Dumbbells don’t squirm, twist, jump right on top of you, or claw you with finger nails in a desperate attempt to increase pre-launch balance. I was accused of being the youngest father there (clocking in at 35 years). Then again, none of the other fathers was in the pool throwing children.

Insight 2: The way to earn the title “The Jerk” is to be the dad striving the hardest to WIN!
Hey, I’m an INFJ—I would rather let other people win than deal with the emotional vomit that they exude when they lose. Not so my ISFJ son who loves to win. (Granted—Jonah has more sports ability in his pinky than I have in my entire body.) None of the other dads had to listen to their son cry the entire way home last year because they didn’t win a single event. So yes, did I practice for these “father-son Olympics”? Sure I did. A regimented diet of Clif bars, rock-climbing at Ridge Haven, bringing down a 40 foot tree (piece-by-piece) in my own front yard…and a rowing machine. Yea—I caught the ball and tagged out the 7 year old who was first up to bat for the other team. Then again, he leveled me at third base, clawed my back in the pool, and “inadvertently” dripped scalding S’mores on me. (All’s fair in love, war, and Father-Son Retreats). At least I didn't dope up! (A guy has to have limits.)

Insight 3: Earplugs don’t come standard.
Snoring is the most underutilized energy source on the planet. If a presidential candidate could tap that—we’d be able to laugh off Brazil’s biofuel, the Middle East’s oil, and Vladimir Putin’s natural gas. Pillow? Check. Towel? Check. Sheets? Check. Earplugs? Earplugs? Blast it, why didn’t I check? Long nights in the wide unexplored wilderness of Camp Trinity do offer one thing—an opportunity to practice the Hebrew alphabet. Strangely, I kept getting stuck at Lamed.

Insight 4: There are benefits to having grown up in Mississippi.
Honestly, I thought archery would be a great event for the retreat. After all—when compared to the Cannonball Splash, the “Child Press,” and the Football Throw—at least Archery is in the real Olympics. I’m amazed at how few people have never picked up a bow, who don’t know why one feather is a different color, and somehow miss that the word “ARCH” is the first part of Archery for a reason. At least the 53 year old—who frowned on my record time in the father-son relay event—not only know how to shoot but also had his own bows and arrows. Good thing people from West County aren’t dependent upon the ability to shoot in order to survive. If so, Darwin would, sadly, be proved right on one point: the weak don’t survive.

Insight 5: A father who misses the Olympics at the Father-Son Retreat can justifiably be feathered.
Granted—he was tired and I don’t know what all he’s had going on. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy. And when I told his son I’d be the stand-in dad and bench-press him 20 times—I did it with the knowledge that he weighed a full 2.5 times my own son. There should still be a clause—somewhere in the Camp Kiwanas Guide to Retreats, or the Boy Scout’s Survival Guide—that outlines the judgment of “tar and feathering for failure to actively participate.” I guess it is enough to know that the Crackberry’s that were there suffered their own self-induced fate.

Insight 6: Father-Son Retreats are anything but a Retreat
A call to arms—yes. The opportunity to pretend to be younger than you are, sacrifice your quickly aging body for a moment of glory in your son’s eyes—absolutely. Now I know why the women always have a “Lock-In Hobby Night.” The term Hobby excludes—by definition—strenuous, physical, exertion. (And my wife wonders why I’m so tired!). If I ever become and Elder, I am going to vote for the Full-Contact WIC Tea. “Come On, girls. Let’s see some broken China!” “Ouch—a box of Earl Gray to the forehead! That’s got’ta hurt!”

A New Economic Stimulus: In Search of an Indenture

2008-08-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

So my wife and decided it’s time to replace that old fence. We called the county to find out what stipulations there were—and imagine my delight at being told I could get copies of my subdivision indentures via mail (that was six months ago). I guess I wasn’t that surprised when the rejection letter came—“We’re sorry, but these indentures are on public record at the Records and Deeds Office.”

Lesson 1: “Public Record” is not the same as “Available to the Public.”

Making use of a long lunch break, I drove the 10 miles to the country records department where the first lady I spoke with told me I needed the third floor. Three flights of steps later, another lady told me I was only just on the second floor.

Lesson 2: The FIRST floor you enter may not well be the First Floor—maybe the G(round), E(ntry), E(xit), S(treet), G(arage), B(asement), S(ubfloor A), or any other of the 26 letters in the alphabet.

On the third floor a gentlemen ushered me to a long line of ancient looking books. “Ah,” I thought. “Now I understand.” Then—rather to my surprise—he took me to the computer that sat in the middle of this archaic library. A few clicks took him to a very familiar page (it was the page I started on at home, six months ago, when I first wanted to find out my building permits). He pulled up my address and then clicked a link. “Oh,” I said with surprise. “I could have done this from home?”

“Oh, no,” he assured me—with a nod that told me my journey was just beginning, “this is an in-house link only.” He wrote down the number of a map that was stored…no, not in the dusty old books…but in another computer where three ladies talked. I waited nearly five minutes before one broke out of the conversation to assist me. I gave her the slip of paper, she typed, and then somewhere nearby a printer clicked out a large—very old, very antiquated, very ancient and dust- looking—image.

Lesson 3 – Technology can graphically age people, but cannot graphically un-age old government documents.

After conceding my check for $2.50, she told me that I then needed to proceed to the sixth floor to the Public Works department. Thinking that was only a place in Monopoly—and knowing I couldn’t trust my ability to count flights of steps—I took the elevator.

On the sixth floor and very friendly woman sent me to talk to a very unfriendly woman about my “corner lot.” Friendly woman said, “If you didn’t have a corner lot, it wouldn’t matter.” Unfriendly woman said, “What’s your plat number?” She again visited the webpage-that-looks-like-the-webpage-I-can-view-from-home-but-ISN’T, this time pulling up…no not a dusty book…a computer image of my property. Pointing to the corner side of the lot, “As long as you don’t build here, we don’t care what you do.”

Lesson 4 – When a government office says, “WE don’t care what you do”—it is a royal use of the pronoun.

“You don’t?” I asked.

“WE don’t,” she said, “But your subdivision might have more rigorous stipulations that we don’t acknowledge or enforce…but which you have to abide by.” Pondering this conundrum, I made may way (via elevator) to the Fourth Floor where, yes indeed, I entered another office. I don’t know what this one was called, but another woman met me, sent me to a station where another woman met me, who wrote down some numbers (her phone number maybe?) and sent me to another woman who said, “Print or view?”

Lession 5 – Viewing is cheaper than Printing.

“View please,” I said. Hoping (beyond hope) this time for a ancient, archaic, worn-out-and-dust-covered book that could have been used in a Harry Potter movie (in which I might even have found an original copy of the Declaration of Independence)—I was introduced to another computer. This one had a electronic images of anything relating to my subdivision—though with all the WHEREASES and WHATFORTHS and WHEREWITHALLS and THEREFORES, I decided to print the images.

Lesson 6 – Printing is easier on the cognition.

Ironically, I noticed that these files were in a format which could have—emphasis upon COULD—been (future, perfect, subjunctive) emailed to me as attachments (theoretically speaking of course) if only I had know whom to email…and that individual had the permission—because, after all, the GOVENRMENT CREATED EMAIL back in the late 1980s (I believe Al Gore was instrumental in that endeavor).

I was sent by woman #10 to woman #11 where I paid another $15.00 for scans of images that I will in turn take home, rescan and save in my computer. Only now, I’m $17.50, 4 gallons, and 1.25 hours poorer.

Then again—I helped keep 11 women and 1 man employed today.

Lesson 7 – There is a reason government is considered a bureaucratic.

PS. All that to find out that I need to get written permission from the Trustees of my subdivision before I can actually make any changes to my fence.

IT’S A FREAKING FENCE, PEOPLE!!!! NOT A NUCLEAR LAUNCH PAD.....

In Pursuit of Profundity

2008-07-20T19:02:00.001-07:00

In the urgent-now of anticipation and anxiety rooted in nostalgia, I pursue profundity, supposing to find escape in intellectualism and philosophy. So I walk the woods of Emerson and muse over the shavings of Aristotle. I turn over this stone or that to see what life lives beneath; and crumble dry leaves within my hand to see what comes of a thing at death; I peel back the bark of ancient trees and touch my tongue to taste the sap of a forgotten world; I walk the traveled paths in hopes that I might find the road less traveled and say, when it has come to an end, “Yes, that has made all the difference.”

But profundity eludes the searcher, the philosopher, the intellect—for he looks outside and beyond the common supposing that something great lies just there, just at that place where human eye once ventured, but gave up venture in despair: one man sought, but gave up seeking…or so it seems. He supposes—or should I more honestly say, I—that I suppose insight may be found, like gold, in a place too little searched, too long ago.

Weary, I lay upon the living room floor. Speckles of crumbs lie scattered as feed for non-existent bird. The labors of the day bore no sight of the profound, no vision of introspective glory too great for simple articulation. I nearly sleep while my children play nearby. They play common games with common toys: this one races cars while that one lines up figures in some comedy of movie characterization: Batman is friend to Mr. Incredible, and he to Chewbacca, and he to an oversized Care Bear. Darth Vader barks commands at Buzz Lightyear and a Lego Indiana Jones trades heads with a Clone Trooper—an orchestration of such contradiction that it stretches the imagination beyond breaking—or, at least, the imagination of the old.

I am old, if proved only by the declaration of the preponderance of my observation. In ages past, I brought the jungle of Africa to the planets of far off adventure and waged war on alien creatures with a Six Million Dollar Man. And all was right with the world.

In my half awakened state, these characters of play grow large as life. Dreams overtake reality as they engaged for prominence on the battlefield of imagination. And in their haste, they pause and wonder at the sleeping giant—the figure of a man more out of place than adventures in space and aliens in the Amazon. And I find in that too-oft searched, neglected space—gold. It glitters with the glint of imagination, captured in child’s play.

This is profundity.

The Wane of Influence

2008-07-09T07:44:00.000-07:00

Influence: Different From Power
When conflict rises within a church—often involving the pastor and some segment of the congregation—we are quick to talk about “power struggles.” And rightly so—a misuse (or at best, a misunderstanding) of a biblical view of power is a major factor in most church conflicts. But far too often, we quickly lump all conflict into the bucket of “power struggles” when a far more basic, human tension is involved. Namely—influence.

By influence, I mean the prominence that an individual (or a group) has gained in the normal course of institutional, organizational, and communal life. Influence involves power—in technical terms “the action or process of producing effects on the actions, behavior, opinions etc., of another or others.” (Dictionary.com) But power is only one part of influence. At a much more basic level, influence affects identity, significance, and purpose.

Influence, for anyone, comes about through the normal act of living. Parents have great influence over their children. A small-business owner has great influence over the direction of his company. And certain individuals within a church setting gain influence as they live—usually as they counsel, advise, serve, and eventually, lead. The very act of seeking wise counsel entails the granting of influence to some: “instruct a wise man and he will be wiser still” (Prov. 9:9), “the wise heart accepts commands” (Prov. 10:8), “a wise man listens to advice” (Prov. 12:15). In each case, wisdom influences an individual. Wisdom is never impersonal (even the Proverbs compare it to a woman)—it comes to us through people: fellow believers, a spouse, a parent, and the Holy Spirit as he is at work in these people.

When we seek someone’s advice or counsel, we are granting him or her a level of influence over us. The degree to which the advice and counsel of that person has proved wise in the past is the level to which his or her influence increases (or should). This illustrates one of the key differences between power and influence (as it pertains to conflict)—namely, that power is sought while influence is granted. People may have power over us in some regard or another without our consent, but they only have influence over us insofar as we have granted it to them. That is why the sought-out counsel of a mentor is of much greater value than the persistent (and unsolicited) recommendations by an over-involved parent, older sibling, or nagging friend. And who among us is not encouraged when we are sought out for counsel, when we are perceived by others as wise?

Because of these realities, the loss of power—while threatening and undermining—is very different from the loss of influence. Loss of influence deeply affects us. When power is sought and obtained, it is done so with the knowledge that it can also be lost (such is the fear of every dictator). But when we are granted influence—slowly, incrementally, in the day-to-day interactions of advice sought and counsel given—it affirms a much deeper human reality: who we are as individuals, our purpose, and the significance of our lives. A parent who controls the actions of a child primarily by the threat of discipline is never as fulfilled as the parent who finally has the satisfaction of having a child say, “Dad, can I get your advice on something?” A husband who dominates his wife into submission will never have the satisfaction of experiencing the respect that comes from “submitting to one another out of reverence for Christ” (Eph. 5:21).

Influence: The Story of John the Baptist
A scan of Scripture reveals passages aimed at the misuse of power. Jesus says, “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones exercise authority over them. It shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your slave, even as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matt. 20:25–28). (As an aside, the term “authority” is significant in how it functions throughout the book of Matthew, demonstrating the Kingship of Jesus.)

We are a little slower in being able to identify passages that deal with the idea of waning influence. Consider how many passages call us to submission, obedience, and humility (“For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned,” Rom. 12:3). Such calls instruct us to allow Christ’s Spirit—through the Word and through fellow believers—to influence us.

And yet, the life and testimony of John the Baptist illustrates the nature and impact of influence gained and forfeited. John 3:25–30 recounts:

Now a discussion arose between some of John’s disciples and a Jew over purification. And they came to John and said to him, “Rabbi, he who was with you across the Jordan, to whom you bore witness—look, he is baptizing, and all are going to him.” John answered, “A person cannot receive even one thing unless it is given him from heaven. You yourselves bear me witness, that I said, ‘I am not the Christ, but I have been sent before him.’ The one who has the bride is the bridegroom. The friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice. Therefore this joy of mine is now complete. He must increase, but I must decrease.”

Now compare that to the events of Matthew 11:

Now when John heard in prison about the deeds of the Christ, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?” And Jesus answered them, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them. And blessed is the one who is not offended by me” (11:2–6)

What prompts John to send his disciples to Jesus? This is John, remember—who must have known from his mother Elizabeth and his relative Mary the story of his and Jesus’ conceptions—who was reluctant to baptize Jesus, and who declared, “After me comes he who is mightier than I, the strap of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie” (Mark 1:7).

At the very least we are safe in seeing John’s actions as expressive of uncertainty and doubt. John is in prison, and many of his disciples are now following Jesus. John’s waning influence is clear—and even self declared: “He must increase, but I must decrease.” Ironically, what can be confessed with humility at the apex of influence can nevertheless be doubted (and painful) in the valley of irrelevance.

While influence is often gained incrementally (perhaps over a lifetime), it can be lost in a very short time. Consider the elder who, over the course of 20 years and three pastors—perhaps through internal conflicts and external challenges—faithfully sought to serve and lead the flock under his care. At some point, perhaps in the later years of his eldership, he honestly acknowledges the church’s need for new and younger leadership. But the influence that he has gained through the seasons of church life, he may lose in as little as five years, to a new, young pastor. And with waning influence comes a deep questioning of personal significance—doubt, fear, insecurity, loneliness, sadness, and a profound sense of loss.

I believe John’s actions—sending his disciples to question Jesus—reveal these emotions. At one point, John confidently declared, “I am not the Christ” (John 1:20; 3:28). It was declared of him at another point, “Among those born of women none is greater than John” (Luke 7:28). Talk about honor! What kind of significance should such a man feel? Yet there remains an uncertainty, a doubt—and not a doubt expressed by John that is not “concern for others,” but expressed in a very visceral, personal way.

Jesus doesn’t reprove John or his disciples, nor does he send back the rebuke, “John, come on. You know better. This is me, your cousin. You baptized me. You saw the Spirit descend upon me. You heard the voice from heaven. You know better than to doubt.” For John, imprisoned and waning in influence, ending a life of ministry in a most undignified fashion—his fears, loneliness, and sadness are personal. Jesus’ answer is personal—oriented toward his Kingdom. Jesus says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them” (Matt. 11:5–6). This is the promise of redemption, of salvation, and of a Kingdom that dignifies every member—with value, significance, and certain love. With waning influence comes fear and uncertainty, but the answer of God is Kingdom.

Influence: Systems and Organizations
An elder and his wife who have gained influence slowly, over years of faithful service, and who are first to advocate a new pastor, will often begin to express doubts and uncertainty as the scales of influence tip away from them. Where at first they can say, “He is the pastor: ask him,” (e.g., “I am not the Christ”) and later say, “I could not bear it all,” (e.g., “I must decrease)—later, they may well express fear, uncertainty, doubt, sadness, and loneliness in the face of waning influence.

And this applies not just to faithful elders, but to faithful parents as well. How do parents feel when—having raised their children to be equals in the Lord—Mom and Dad find their influence waning in the eyes and lives of their adult children? How does a small-business owner feel when—after a season of great success, and “going public with the company”—he is slowly excluded from any discussion of the company’s vision and direction? In fact, I can think of no relationship save one where influence does not diminish naturally over the course of the relationship. That one relationship is—marriage. Presidents, chancellors, vice-presidence, CEOs, CFOs, elders, deacons, pastors, parents, businessmen, politicians, and dignitaries alike will wane in their influence. Only in a healthy marriage does the influence between a husband and wife continue to grow deeper and more pronounced over the life of the relationship.

Studies show that conflict in the local church follows predictable patterns—three years, seven years, and twenty years. At three years, a pastor will begin to have influence over smaller (or more minor) decisions people make in their own lives. He will be sought out for counsel on decisions of occupation or education, and maybe family dynamics—Where should I go to college? What should I do about this relationship or that? What should I consider before accepting this job?
At about seven years, he will begin to have influence over the course of the congregation as a whole—direction, dynamics, vision, budget, etc. Up to this point, power has either remained with those who held it before, or else has become a power-sharing arrangement (think balanced scales). But around year seven, there is a tipping point of influence from those who have historically shouldered those responsibilities to the “new pastor.” And if a pastor and church leadership survive that tip in influence (without capsizing), there will often follow a great period of growth lasting ten years or so, until a new tip in influence comes with the rise of new, younger leadership (driven by some crisis).

These periods of shifting influence need not capsize a congregation or organization—though sadly, they often do. The question is, what will we do when we begin to wane in influence? The model of John the Baptist is for us, “I am not the Christ.” I am not the Christ. I am not the Christ. I am not the Christ! It behooves us to say this aloud to ourselves at least daily. Regardless of the level of influence that the Lord has brought us to, we must ever remember that we are not the Christ. There is but one Christ, one head of the Church, and we are not him.

For the young pastor, the encouragement is to consider the great “identity crisis” that may well be going in the lives of certain members as their influence wanes. Such crises often arise over seemingly insignificant issues—starting worship 10 minutes earlier, moving the women’s Bible study to the evening instead of mid-morning, whether or not a guitar is used in worship, or building a cypress fence to hide the unsightly plot adjacent to the church property. Not that these issues always point to crises of identity, but they often do. These ultimately are expressions of influence on the wane—a loss of a deeper sense of purpose, meaning, and significance.

Had Jesus answered John’s doubts (could we say challenges?) as I did above (i.e., “Come on John!”), it would only have served to create further insecurity for the struggling disciple—for now he is rebuked in the midst of his doubt. That response is a recipe for disaster. And here, Christ is the model for the pastor—gentleness, compassion, understanding, and a directing of one’s eyes toward the Kingdom. A wise pastor will pay attention to those times when influence shifts from those faithful saints who have led the congregation to himself (earlier in a ministry), or from him to others (later in a ministry)—and he will react accordingly. A wise pastor will continue to seek every opportunity to encourage, support, praise, and ask advice (e.g., seek counsel—and according to Proverbs, only a fool does not seek counsel) of those longtime faithful servants of the congregation. He will seek avenues for their continued influence—discipleship, service, and continued leadership in appropriate areas. But even when the opportunity for these have passed—a wise pastor will direct the eyes of all toward the Kingdom: “the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them.” This will look somewhat different today—those with AIDS are loved, those who are shut-in are cared for, those who are ill are treated, those who are orphans are adopted, those who are widows are served, and those who did not know the good news receive it and believe.

And a pastor will also recognize: I am not the Christ. There is often a fear in young pastors, an insecurity that expresses itself as insistence and over-confidence—a bristling at being called “the new pastor” after ten years, or the calling of “unspiritual” those members who seem tangled up over what the church grounds look like on Sunday morning. Fear in older pastors expresses itself similarly—bristling over some “new idea” for outreach and evangelism, unwillingness to change some long-standing tradition of the congregation to accommodate ministry, or suspicion of a younger pastor who himself is beginning to grow in influence with a younger, more vocal portion of the congregation.

Two Responses: Offense or Union With Christ
I believe this is why Jesus says, “Blessed is the one who is not offended by me” (Matt. 11:6). When a man or a woman begins to see the effects of lost influence—her counsel is sought less by the younger women of the church, or his input is less often included in decisions regarding the upkeep of the grounds and expansion plans—there is the risk of offense. We are offended, aren’t we, when someone “plays” in our areas of responsibility? But as influence shifts so does responsibility, and during such times we are called not to be offended.

No new people can know the full history of an organization or institution. No new pastor will ever have enough “information” about the events that have shaped the church. And yet we are offended—when newcomers show up with ideas, suggestions, and dreams that don’t fit our own; or when leaders come in and make changes that go against our sense of prudence. We take offense when we grow bitter about waning influence. This is why Jesus says that we are blessed when we are not offended by him. He must increase.

If our response is to be other than “offense”—we must look to the Person of Christ. One way this can be done in the life of a congregation is by regularly focusing on our union with Christ. Through repeated emphasis on our unique relationship in and with Christ, the fibers of our being—made up of our experiences and beliefs—find fullness in our union with the Divine (by the Spirit). Far from the loss of influence resulting in a rending of our sense of identity, as we hold before us our great union with Christ, we are empowered to risk the loss of everything, even our influence.

The challenge for the pastor in this is great, because it involves both high self-awareness and others-awareness—an ability to name his own fears and intuit and perceive the fears of others. The wisdom of Proverbs gives guidelines of grace for us in these endeavors. Likewise the constant proclamation, “I am not the Christ.” For as we recognize the full extent of that truth, our blind eyes do receive sight, and far from being offended, we are delighted to see how the influence of Christ is conveyed through all members of his Body.

There may yet be sorrow and tears—as the tears of a father giving away his daughter, all grown, for marriage; tears as of a mother at the moving out of her last child, and the echoes of an empty nest; even the tears of the aged at bitter-sweet memories of bygone days, or opportunities missed. There must always be a place for tears within the reaches of the Body of Christ. In this life, there will be sorrow and tears—but the Lord is the one who wept even when we could not, and who promises to greet us at the gates of heaven to “wipe away our tears” (Isa. 25:8).

INFJ

2008-06-27T10:55:00.001-07:00

Is it me—this chasm void
that hangs in shadowed clouds
like distance folded, folds again
and makes this little space
a distance none of us can bridge?

The guarded silence in your eyes
tells more than all the bolstered words
poured out, and pouring
fuel the contradiction in your voice.

It’s not the skeletons I fear—
buried in the self-defense
of systems laid and structures made—
the untold truths you wear
in smiles free of doubt.

It’s that—in pouring—I talk the shape
of every feeling never felt
and wear the trappings of your heart
cast off like clothes asunder.

Taking every smile when you depart,
all the words of confidence—there remains
the echo of words that never
should have gone unspoken,
and I am left to weep these bitter tears alone.

But in the night, when even moths have given o’re
I scrape the barnacles of shale
that—leaching—haunt my gentle sleep
till scale-like fall and leave untroubled:
I rest, content, alone.

Waiting and Sand

2008-06-04T06:39:00.000-07:00

At dawn, the world seems small, and I seem big. Not so the day when the fullness of trouble breaks in upon me, and I am small and frail. The hopeful possibility of those early moments fade—I consider the cry of injustice, war, hunger, and loneliness. What great a response is required?

But a look at the moments of my days, and no such greatness is found among them—moments of an encouraging note, the occasional prayer, and fleeting laughter intermingled with the making of meals and beds, gathering of dust, removal of spider webs, and the hand-washing of a cup. These cumulative acts of my day are sand, sand in a flood of need that cries for a Rock to stem the flowing tide of tears.

And what do we get when we add up all the moments of Jesus’ life in the Gospels—stacking miracle against miracle like some stack of cards—unbroken (like some sleepless never-ending “final’s week”) by fatigue or food. What do we get of all his words and works? Two months? Three? Half a year? And what of the other 35.5 years of Jesus’ life—where are they? We have no record of long walks from this town to that, or the hours passed in fervent labor of textiles in his carpentry shop. Rumor has it that there remained in use—for nearly a hundred years after his death—plows made by the Carpenter Jesus. Never to be gathered by relic-seeking followers, they continued to break the ground year after year in hopes that once again life might come from the barren soil.

The world is full of the unexpected—like the clump of Fescue growing from the top of a slatted moon-gate, planted no doubt by some nest-building bird. Like the doe in Queeny Park, too unawake in her morning breakfast to be started by me. She watches, only half interested in my passing. And there is the man, just standing at the crossroads of two paths in the park—standing, and waiting, as though he had nothing else to do. He gestures a wavy finger at me as I pass, and whether his intention is greeting or warning, I cannot tell. Looking back, I could see him still standing there, as though certain that 5:30 AM in a mist-covered path in some city park was exact place of his arranged waiting. Perhaps he is still waiting now.

I think of Geronimo, the 40-something Belizean who looks 60, oblivious to the mosquitoes that covered him, the silly grin on his face at having killed a deadly Coral snake with one blow of his machete. And he is frozen in the picture I took—waiting. And I think of the Esmeralda, working with the children that live on the streets in Mexico, and how she waits every day for them to come to the shelter. Sometimes they come, and sometimes she just waits. And I think of orphaned children of Peru waiting for adoption, and the widowed Babushkee of Ukraine—just waiting. Waiting for Jesus.

And I think of Sam Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. They waited and in the end what did they get? Frodo got to board the last westward bound ship. Sam got a wife and children and the Shire. But what if someone can’t pick—what if he wants to go west and still have the Shire? Like Paul—wanting to leave and wanting to stay and not being able to choose between. He was waiting.

Maybe that is what heaven is—on that day when men don’t have to stand in early morning parks waiting, on that day when Jesus returns—that we will not have to choose. Maybe the leaving and the staying, the coming and the going will all be the same thing. Maybe it will be like the children of Narnia who—on that last great day when they saw the sun go out and the world grow cold, and watched as Aslan shut the door on Narnia—only to turn and find that in here (that is, in the bigness of the stable-turned-world) is all the true beauty of Narnia retained. Maybe we will climb aboard the last westward bound ship and arrive on the other shore to find it is everything we have left behind. Maybe every goodbye will be a greeting. Maybe, in heaven, every journey out will lead us home again, and we will say to one another, “All roads lead home.”

Until then, we wait, and choose between this or that decision and knowing that all our best actions are sand—sand when what the world needs is a Rock, a Fortress, a Stronghold and Deliverer.

Day ends—I think of the man waiting in the park. Is he still waiting? I have begun to wonder what God will do with all this sand and—with a sigh—take up another cup to wash.