Saints of the Latter and Latter Days

There are worse publications to be beaten by than The Atlantic. But I do feel disappointed that McKay Coppins published first something that's been on my mind for some time: the Americanness of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints ("LDS").

McKay's article is worth reading not only because it observes (accurately, in my opinion) an intersection between LDS faith and American culture but also because he writes from an insider's perspective. He is an active member of the LDS church and writes with both sympathy and honesty. Give it a read.

Since I had the blessing of several conversations with a pair of LDS elders many years ago I have had great respect for the LDS faith. It also struck me how the combination of exceptionalism (Joseph Smith discovering the lost seed of true Christianity) and merit-based rewards (one's divine reign in the afterlife) lined up with the character of the European-American narrative: the United States as the defining lamp of democracy in the world and the belief that anyone can achieve greatness through hard work. I mean to make this observation as just that: an observation, rather than a judgment. My perspective as a Presbyterian American leads me to disagree with the LDS doctrine about the nature of God (I am solidly trinitarian) but also to admire (among other things) the discipline with which the LDS takes Jesus' directive to tell the whole world the good news.

I wrestle weekly with the reality that I carry the faith of a community founded 2,000 years ago in an ancient near-eastern culture under the thumb of the Roman empire, which context had vastly different understandings of the cosmos and the nature of humanity than I have. I try, weekly, to listen for how God speaks a consistent word of love and justice to that age, to my age, and to all ages in between. It seems strange--but very American!--that a community of faith would be called (allowed?) to hit the "reset" button in 1820 and start afresh, as if the intervening 1,797 years were a just a botched trial run of premodern western society.

I suspect that for many nations on the globe the United States seems strange for all the usual reasons but especially because it insists that all the other nations look up to it. Even if the United States, at 244 years of age, has landed upon the best way of being a nation, how could it expect its elders to follow the U.S. so quickly when they have up to 2,000 years more experience? I see a similar distinction between the LDS church and the denominations of faith that tie back to the first century AD. But since they all profess the name of Jesus Christ--our common Lord and Teacher--I don't think there's a better response than to listen, watch, and perhaps share some of the journey with them.

I always tend to think that the Truth--the concept and the being--stands somewhere in the middle. Just as I wonder where this grand project of democracy will lead, I wonder where this young branch of faith, the LDS church, will go. And in that McKay Coppins and I have something significant in common.

~ emrys

photo: mine, taken in St. George, UT, 14 Nov 2020 (waiting in line for a covid test and thus having some spare time to meditate on the LDS church represented by the pictured structure)

Legacy in a Library

As the highway miles droned by yesterday, I got to thinking about presidential libraries. Specifically, I got to thinking about our current president's legacy library.

As someone who enjoys libraries very much, my mind jumps to libraries as homes of books, quiet reading time, and learning from the billions of words penned by other people. When I think about those features of a library, it occurs to me that they do not resonate with what I know about the character of our current president. So I got to thinking: Perhaps his legacy space will not be a library.

Will he have a presidential golf course? This would seem to jive with the leisure-of-the-wealthy glitz and glam attempted by the president's personal brand. Or perhaps a presidential gun club? If he is going to persist with his persecuted-by-liberals persona, then such a venue would seem to endear him best to his commiserating base. Or, in closer parallel to the world that brought him to power, perhaps he will found a presidential media network; if he is president of that network then he can continue to be addressed a "Mr. President," lending weight (if deceptive) to his assertion that he should still be president of the United States for at least another four years. Such a network, dedicated to the alt-right cause, would allow him to continue megaphoning his opinions to the world, whipping up conspiratorial sentiment, and firing people at least weekly on camera.

After ruminating on these ideas for a bit, I had the opportunity to look up some basic facts about presidential libraries. Their central purpose, it turns out, is to serve as collections of papers, records, and memorabilia from past presidents--things that would not be easily accessible on the golf course or at a gun club.

But then: What kind of documents would stand on center stage at a presidential library for our current president? Copies of the First Step Act and the tax reform bill with his signatures on them may appear there. (Or should Congress get the historical credit for legislation?) I suspect that he doesn't write many letters or correspond in any way that would be historically notable or edifying for future generations to read. There is, however, a treasure-trove of tweets that have been screen-shot by journalists over the past four years. Will there be a digital archive of those tweets? And will the archivists footnote those tweets (and perhaps his speeches, etc.) with fact-checking? (Perhaps, in order to attract younger visitors to this presidential library, the archivists could devise a true/false trivia game based on his tweets. Prizes might include a coupon for $5 off a Mar-a-Lago membership.) Will lawsuits filed against the president during his incumbency be included? Or letters of resignation from and letters of dismissal to all of the officers that departed under duress during his administration?

The more I think about it, the more fascinating this presidential library will be, not because of its similarities to the memorabilia of past presidents but because of its stark differences in tone and medium. I have never been troubled by the thought of Americans largely forgetting the name of their forty-fifth president. But just as we ought to wonder every time we see Andrew Jackson's image on our 20-dollar bill, we ought to have a place at which we can dig deeply into the strange and disturbing events between the January 20ths of 2017 and 2021.

Even if it will not be a place where I can enjoy the scent of old writing and the expanse of erudite ideas, I may just look forward to this eventual presidential library. Retrospect on this past political season will, I expect, help me to be grateful for the present that is soon to come.

~ emrys

A Hopeful Perspective

 The covid-19 pandemic has changed so many aspects of our lives together: social, technological, medical, and spiritual. And it has brought an extra dose of death to our public consciousness. We must always lament death and allow it to drive us toward reflection on our purpose and practices in this world. But presently it seems we also suffer an extra dose of anxiety and panic.

We hear much rhetoric that the present pandemic is the "worst" in all ways. We like to use superlatives, perhaps to get each other's attention, but saying something is the "---est" introduces a logical problem: One must then compare that thing to all others that have come before. So if we are going to hear statements about the present pandemic being the "worst" or the "most lethal" or and other "---est," let's practice setting it up against another historical plague.

The bubonic plague (aka the Black Plague, the Black Death, etc) struck the world about 700 years ago. The germ theory of disease (the understanding that microscopic organisms caused disease) would not dawn on the world for another 400 years, so no one knew that a bacterium spread by fleas and rats caused the disease. Antibiotics would not be conceived or invented for another 500 years, so there was no medical (in our understanding of the term) treatment for it. A "scientific method" which would allow people to examine cases of the plague and figure out by experience the best ways to mitigate its effects, was also at least four centuries away.

The Black Death killed between 45 and 60% of the population of Europe. Read that again: between 45 and 60% of the population died of something it did not understand, didn't know how to prevent, and could not treat. The world lived and died at the mercy of the disease.

Today we face a life-threatening virus. But we have the tools of science, the understanding of viral pathology, the biochemistry of vaccine creation, and a vast array of medical technologies. Let's balance our respect for the dangers of covid-19 with reason, gratitude, and respect for the capabilities at our disposal.

We will never come to a time when we will be able to ignore death. Facing disease and death is a task not for science but for faith--if you'd like to know more about my journey in that direction, look me up. I'd love to talk. In the meantime, let's keep a hopeful perspective.

Knowing that masks slow down the transmission of microscopic viruses is a blessing. Having vaccines is a blessing. Having access to medical care that can treat respiratory infection is a blessing. Having digital communications to mitigate isolation is a blessing. These were not always so. Be thankful for them.

And continue to thank God for those who further the advancement of science and medicine: medical professionals, scientists, and the funding that makes their work possible. They are all great blessings.

Pray for those who suffer disproportionately from the pandemic: the poor, people of color in the United States, and countries with less money and less-developed scientific communities and infrastructure. Advocate for ensuring that they are given access to better treatment and vaccinations. As Christ has ensured that we have access to the fullness of God's reign after death, we are called to bring the fullness of God's power and love to this world. Part of that task is seeking to heal and reduce suffering wherever possible. The present pandemic provides an opportunity to do so again.

Let no opportunity pass by to bring hope, peace, joy and love in greater measure.

~ emrys tyler

On Death (II)

 It's worth me typing it again:

"It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death--ought to decide, indeed, to earn one's death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us."

~ James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time 

Preachers have a popular trope in sermons in which they dwell on the bible's comparison of God's people to sheep. (Full disclosure: I am a preacher and have used the trope.) The Hebrew Scriptures refer to the Israelites as the sheep of God's pasture; Jesus describes himself as the good shepherd with us as the flock of his pasture. Many a time have I heard the preacher launch into the offense of being called sheep. Sheep, after all, are stupid creatures--so the trope goes--who follow mindlessly and get their heads stuck in fences.

Or it's the opposite. I have also listened to preachers and teachers who have spent time with real sheep declare that they are quite smart animals who have admirable, or at least serviceable, instincts. Having not done research on the intelligence of sheep relative to cows, ducks, or goats, I do not know whether these testimonies offer a condemning corrective to the "sheep are stupid" narrative or simply a warning to judge sheep on their individual merits.

But I do know that, in the context of the Ancient Near Eastern realm from which the bible arose the sheep had but one destiny: death.

Though the wool of sheep can be harvested without harm to the animal, it is clear from many references in the Hebrew and Greek scriptures that when it comes time for ritual sacrifice, feeding your festival, or serving honored guests in your home, the sheep is going to give up its life. This is the end of sheep: to provide for worship and for food. And the sacrifice of an animal for religious rites ended in consumption of most of the meat, so we can simplify that end to "food." (Thanks are due right here to Allen Presby, for bringing the stark reality of this before us in the Tuesday morning group.)

Those who keep flocks are, of course, interested in the health and contentedness of those flocks (factory farms notwithstanding) so they will do what they can to ensure the health of the sheep. This should be read into the scriptural narratives of the people of God as sheep. However, the reason that herders keep sheep is in order one day, swiftly and respectfully, to kill them. When sheep have gone to the altar or the table they have fulfilled their destiny.

I think that when we consider the trajectory of our own lives we ought to reflect on the fact that we have been born in order to die. (And to pay taxes. We mustn't forget that other necessity. Pay your taxes. Especially if you plan to run for president.) As followers of Jesus, who went to death as a protester against a power-hungry temple cult and a practitioner of love and justice, we ought to consider to whose table we go when the world slaughters us. When we have surrendered our last breath to this hungry world, whom will our lives feed?

Here I find James Baldwin's concept of "earning one's death" intersects with the call of Jesus to take up one's cross and follow him. This following is precisely on the road to death: There is no cross that does not kill. But in Jesus' crucified body is life, broken and offered to feed the world just as the Church does in the Lord's Supper (the Eucharist, Communion, the Mass) every time she celebrates it. Jesus' continued feeding of the Church--and the world through the Church--made possible by the Resurrection functions both as a denial of the finality of death and a defiance of the powers that do the slaughtering. We give ourselves to the banquet table in order to feed those who need the strength to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. When it is time, they must give themselves to the banquet table in order to feed more folks who need the strength . . . and on.

I am less concerned about the sheep metaphor referring to my intellect. I am more concerned about embracing a life which, through the shearing, serves the needs of others and at last, through the slaughter, feeds the lives of those who come after me. I have but one destiny, one door through which I will pass on the way to eternity: death. I do not want to be a sickly sheep who dies in the paddock, to be picked apart by the ravens. I do not want to be a rebellious sheep who breaks through the fence only to be eaten by wolves. I want to be a sheep who, when Christ's family gathers at the table, commits the singular greatest act of provision and hospitality.

Perhaps by keeping an awareness of this final purpose I can make my decisions more wisely, serve more humbly, and love more earnestly. And when the time comes for a life to be poured out on the altar of the world, perhaps I will earn the privilege of being chosen.

~ emrys

On Death (I)

 "It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death--ought to decide, indeed, to earn one's death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us."

~ James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

The State of Colorado just added a new level to its Covid-19 "dial." Until last week, the highest level of danger in a county from Covid was Level Red. This level put in place the most restrictions and the tightest recommended changes to travel, gatherings, and so on. Now the worst is Level Purple.

What does Level Purple mean? The principle trigger for Level Purple is that a county's hospital capacity is close to being exceeded.

Since March, hospital capacity has been the real looming specter of Covid-19. It's one thing if my community has a lot of people who are being treated for the disease. It's an entirely different thing--and existential problem--if my community's medical system cannot treat all of those with symptoms that require treatment.

What if five new patients with life-threatening (or potentially life-threatening) symptoms appear, and the local hospital only has one bed left with treatment capacity? Which patient do the physicians, nurses, and administrators choose? We have now crossed from the libertarian prattle about rights not to wear masks to the stuff of graduate-level ethics courses.

I am in my mid-40s. I have a job. I am white and male. I am married with two children. I have good quality health insurance and reasonable life insurance. I am fairly healthy. I have a family member who is immunologically high-risk. If our county were in Level Purple and I manifested life-threatening or potentially life-threatening symptoms--it need not be Covid-19 to blame--and our local hospital had neither adequate bed space or sufficient staff to transport me (to . . . where?) then would I be told, "Sorry, friend. You'll just have to tough it out at home"? Or would someone else be kicked out of the hospital so that I could have a bed?

I suspect that communities faced with insufficient medical care for a spike in Covid-19 cases (on top of the usual load of heart attacks, pneumonias, traumas, and so on) would have a sudden and startling wake-up call. The call would direct our attention not only to the nature of our medical system, but also to our relationship with death.

When James Baldwin wrote the words above he was meditating on the problem of racism in America. (The entire book, The Fire Next Time, deserves your attention. Read it.) But this concept of "earning one's death" would come jarringly to the fore in the case of health care capacities collapsing under the weight of Covid-19. If five of us lay on gurneys outside the Emergency Department, and only one bed was open inside, how would we earn our deaths?

Would I have the capacity to say, "No, don't take me in. Take her"? Without trying to imagine "reasonable" justification (she's 7 months pregnant; he's 18 years old with "his whole life ahead of him"; I made a mistake and didn't wear my mask to a party; and so on--this is a rabbit-hole) I am left with the bare question: How would I "negotiate this passage nobly"?

Most of the behaviors of American life either assume that death is not a factor or spend considerable energy running away from the specter of death. These behaviors include what we expect of our medical systems. We may be in a situation, unique in our generation, of having to stare that "terrifying darkness" in the face and "confronting it with passion." How shall I prepare myself such that any decisions I make will be done out of virtue rather than fear?

I find language and passion in the knowledge of Jesus Christ's resurrection. While the thought of leaving behind loved ones--especially the young ones--gives me sadness, I take comfort and courage in the conviction that my death will usher me into glory and perhaps offer someone else an opportunity for fuller life. To lay hold of this comfort and courage, however, I find I must practice saying, "Yes, I know that I'm going to die," and "Yes, I am willing to put my life on the line for this--for you."

Just saying these two phrases seems to put the rest of life into perspective. Not the syrupy perspective that serves only to make me appreciate more the things that I have, but the perspective that forces me to evaluate whether I want the things that I have or am told I ought to pursue.

It is a strange intersection that Level Purple should appear in our common language at the same time that the liturgical Church enters into the Advent season, whose liturgical color is usually purple. Advent recalls that Jesus Christ will return to get the twin works of judgment and glory done. In this season the Church meditates on the question, "How do I want this life to end?"

I think that, should someone go to the cost of etching something on my headstone, I should like to see both "He lived well" and "He died well." I would like to "negotiate this passage nobly," and in love. Anything less would be unworthy of the Prince of Peace.

~ emrys

Just a Game

I have a dirty little secret. Well, actually I've got a lot of them, probably on account of being human. But I have one in particular that I'd like to get off my chest today. (Thanks for hearing my confession.)

I hate the game of Monopoly.

I know: You can't believe it. How could any freeborn American hate a game that so beautifully encapsulates the American dream and its pristine dynamo of capitalism?

Well, since you asked, there are a few reasons. First, while I appreciate games that have a randomness factor established by dice (see this great Uncle George gift: Unearth), Monopoly relegates all motion on the board to the roll of the dice. That's too much for me. Second, it just takes so blooming long for the whole course of the game to play itself out (i.e. "the winner" to be realized). I have played my share of Risk in my younger years, and I'm spent on that bleary-eyed "but we have to finish it" experience. Adding to this downside, the "first loser" is going to be ejected from the game table for so long, and I like to have game sessions in which losers can come back into play sooner rather than later. Third, the Parker Brothers version of Monopoly, which is the one that we still play today, emerged in the midst of The Great Depression (specifically 1935), when American society struggled with economic collapse. I am struck by the cruel historical irony that a game in which the one who bankrupts opponents first and fastest became so popular when so many had been bankrupted. It's naive to blame Parker Brothers for this, but the game symbolizes for me a bitter cancer in our system.

(By the way, for a fascinating dive into the original, original version of the game by Lizzie Magie, check out the wikipedia article on Early Monopoly.)

However . . .

My kids like Monopoly. They like the full version, they like the Junior Version (a much faster, but even more boring version meant for elementary-age kids), and they like their own home-made "Stuffie Monopoly" that they produced by reclaiming my old French version and adapting it with paper, crayons, and glue sticks. They come by it honestly--I thought Monopoly would be a good format for an semi-educational game that I invented called "Ecclesiopoly: Profiting from Church History." (It has not taken off.)

So we play Monopoly with some frequency. And therefore in spite of my antipathy for the game. I try to be patient and joyful . . . and try at least to find some helpful teachable lessons in it. In the spirit of appreciating the lessons that come even from difficult experiences, it occurs to me to share some important pieces of wisdom that Monopoly puts into sharp relief.

1. Going into debt costs more money than the debt itself. I have had to point out to my kids several times that the cost to get a property out of mortgage costs significantly more than the cash received from mortgaging it. It's like the $300,000 we would have paid to the bank for our old house that was "valued" at $187,000, or like the 10-20% (compound) interest that we pay on credit card expenditures after the first month.

2. The baked-in goal of the game is to get more while others get less. It's zero-sum. Within the written rules of Monopoly, my getting Park Place means that no one else can benefit from it. It gives us the chance to reflect: Is this the way property ownership is best viewed in our life together?

3. Money accumulates in a snowball effect. That is to say, aside from the admittedly powerful effect of a series of "lucky" dice rolls, the player who gets ahead in possession of property and money will continue to get further ahead faster. No matter how wise the later decisions of players with less money, they are fairly well doomed after a certain point of inequality. (But it's so tempting to keep playing, because maybe the dice rolls will change that . . .) Though we often don't see it starkly, America's economics works in similar fashion, especially where land acquisition is involved (see #2). Do I want acquisition at others' cost to be central to my life and achievements?

4. We must be ready to lose. This is, of course, a lesson for all games, but I find in Monopoly both because of the gradual, scraping decline of the losers and because of the massive discrepancy apparent when we're about to go bankrupt (witness my pile of mortgaged properties and three $1 bills and my opponents' rainbow of property groups and stack of $500 bills). Seeing that loss is coming (very different from, say, Spoons, in which winning and losing are 0.5 seconds apart) from a distance and its crushing inevitability can be tough. But maybe this trains us up for times in life when it's clear that we must depart from a road of long-held hopes. We might be faced with the question: If I'm clearly going to lose this game, why am I sitting here at this table?

5. I can watch on my kids' faces--and still feel in my own soul--the anxiety that rises when I realize I'm about to land on someone's Boardwalk With A Hotel. This observation is the emotional flip-side of the intellectualized #4. If I want the positive emotions of winning, how will I deal with the negative emotions of losing? Whence do those arise, and what do they reveal about my sense of success and value?

6. I watched my kids discover that they could make extra-legal deals. For instance, one agreed to a property trade that was less advantageous on condition that s/he be given rent-free passage on those properties. A few turns later, the one who had guaranteed rent-free passage got walloped by rent on the other's well-developed property. The cry was immediate: "But I give you free passage over here!" It turns out that offering grace does not guarantee reciprocal grace. In Monopoly grace doesn't trickle down or spread around. (There's a more specific lesson here, I suppose, on the boundaries of contractual relationships, too . . . for another time.) We had to take a time-out from this game and talk (again) about how Monopoly is designed specifically for the emerging winner to financially drain the other players.

7. Sometimes you might just decide not to play in the first place. There's no way really to play Monopoly in any meaningful way (as with all games) without buying into the assumptions and structure of the rules as written. There's no "community development Monopoly." (That would be "The Game of Polypoly"? But do try cooperative games like Pandemic or Forbidden Island!) I try to opt out when my kids clamor for Monopoly, but my reasons for being at the table don't generally involve winning--they involve refereeing and trying to squeeze learning opportunities out of these situations. And being a cheerleader when they make good choices and show good player ethics. So whether I want to be a part of the game per se is usually irrelevant. However, games being what they are, I usually need to remind myself of the pitfalls of Monopoly and take lots of deep breaths.

It's not about winning or losing this board game. It's about whether I can help my kids win in the larger game of following Jesus. And whether I can convince them to choose Spot It! instead.

~ emrys

Witnessing Ruby Bridges

 Today my family watched Disney's Ruby Bridges, a 1998 episode of "Wonderful World of Disney" that tells the story of Ruby Bridges, a 6-year-old girl in New Orleans who, in 1960, was the sole black student in a school resisting desegregation.

Though the movie has all the characteristics of a Disney family-friendly live film--a comical musical score, pedantic and moralistic lines, and characters that border on stereotypical--it packs quite a wallop for a family with young children. (IMDB advises not showing it to children under 10; our family has an 8-year-old.) Although it avoids the curse-words that would earn it an "R" rating, it does employ "nigger" in an honest historical way, as well as other racial slurs. And given the happy-go-lucky vibe of most Disney films, the emotional strength with which segregationist sentiment appears struck me deeply.

What struck me even more powerfully was the way in which the film portrays the complexity of blacks' struggles in the fight for desegregation. Though a 90-minute Disney film can only get so nuanced, as an adult I saw clearly the themes of blacks' desire to avoid additional suffering, the cracking of relationships with mutually oppressed groups (like Jews), and the divides between working class blacks and those more financially secure. I was left with the clear image of a richly layered history and society represented by, but also standing behind, Ruby Bridges.

All of these features in one film made it an excellent choice for watching with my family. My children could ask questions about what the characters said and why; I could add commentary on what we saw in order to clarify or emphasize what I thought was important. And the focus on schoolchildren seemed to hold the interest of my kids better than an all-adult cast would do.

Kudos to Disney for producing such an honest, enlightening, and accessible depiction of the desegregation crisis of 1960. Kudos for encouraging Americans to watch it on this day, November 14th 2020, the 60th anniversary of Ruby Bridges' (and her mother's, and the black community's) bold grasp of the promise of desegregation. I hope that by watching it we may gain new resolve to change America into a better place, especially for children of color.

~ emrys

Sanctioned Gossip

 "We took her out skiing for the first time, and she yard-saled on a green run!"

It's the most natural thing in the world for a parent. We talk about our kids' lives. Especially with other parents, it's a prerequisite to any other significant conversation. And we have a certain proclivity to talk about the bad things.

"I really don't approve of this new girlfriend. The family she comes from . . . well, let's just say . . ."

And then we say it: the attention-getting thing, the thing that sets our judgment nerves a-twitching, the thing that the other parents should receive with an "Oh, yeah!" before sharing their own stories of children running afoul.

"She just spends so much time on her screen! She says she's doing her schoolwork, but when I come in the room I hear something from TikTok!"

The parental tendency to talk about their kids brings credibility in the parent community. It is almost socially necessary to be able to complain about the strange, difficult, or negative events which children inevitably bring upon themselves and about which parents rightfully stress and worry. Airing our kids' misdeeds might even serve as a pressure-release valve. There is, after all, comfort in knowing that we're not the only ones suffering mishaps and malfeasance from our offspring.

Looking at the bare facts of this behavior, though, reveals that what parents do is simply sanctioned gossiping. The long, distinguished pedigree of this behavior does not remove its essential character: We air the dirty laundry of someone else in front of third parties in order to cause our bond with those third parties to strengthen in the mutual embrace of humor, disappointment, shock, and scorn. All from credit drawn on someone else's reputation.

In the face of such a long and permeating history you might feel driven (like me) to shrug and move past this 1,600-pound cultural gorilla. But this beast has given birth to another which does not sit in the corner so quietly.

I was recently reminded of the debate about whether to post pictures of one's baby(ies) online. It's not just babies of course. As our children grow up there grows an endless litany of events to report to the wider world. But as our children get older they become responsive to their own digital presence--a shout-out to Gwyneth Paltrow's daughter for calling this to mind so beautifully. While her example was not one involving negative behavior, I'm quite sure most of us can think of times we've seen embarrassing or strange footage in social media about someone's children.

Technology, or media, does not invent content. It simply conveys, and amplifies, content that already exists. Parents have been relaying the foolish choices of their children to other people (via in-person speech, telephone, and letter) for aeons. Our current digital media allow that same communication to go farther, faster, and in more directions than ever before. And the reports have the capacity to stay in cyberspace--available to be searched--for a long time. The gossip is the same as it has been--and always will be? But the speed and reach of that bad news gets faster and farther with every new technological advance.

As a parent who has the ability to affect my children in so many ways, far into the future, I want to recognize the root of the tendency to gossip about my kids. I want to recognize that parents seem to have been given the right to gossip about their children, and the habit becomes ingrained very early, from the time I told that story about how my infant son chose an electric cord as a teething toy. And I want to recognize that, especially with ever-advancing technologies, the impact of that gossip will become greater and greater. What may have begun as the formation of a small-town social reputation that could easily be escaped will become a 5,000-pound beast that follows my child around--around the globe--for the rest of her life.

The amplifying power of social media brings to light a convicting thought that applies even to the human beings that I helped bring into the world, for whom I have sacrificed so much, and in whom I have invested so much: There is no good gossip.

Even if it seems that it must cost me social capital as a parent, I want to publish to the world only encouragement and blessing for my kids, no matter the technology, no matter the medium.

~ emrys

Two Strange Discoveries (Two Days Before Election Day)

One.

This morning I listened to a radio broadcast of one of my favorite political commentators, Mara Liasson. The content of the show revolved around all the political drama of this election week. But one assertion Ms. Liasson made struck me especially: She summarized a Trump and Republican party position that greater voter turnout hurts the Republican party. She indicated that there exists some wide agreement in the GOP that taking actions to limit voter turnout serves as an important party strategy.

Perhaps I have heard this before, but just this morning--maybe because of this election sharpening my political senses--it really sunk in. What a strange thing! In order to assert that limiting voter turnout is better for one's party, it seems that one must necessarily believe something else about the citizenry. For instance, that a majority of citizens cannot--are truly unable to--see what's best for the country (which, if one is Republican, one must believe about Republicanism). Or, as another possibility--closely aligned with the first--that a minority of citizens have the de facto right or privilege to determine governance (because they're Republican). And thus, in either case, the proper thing to do is to limit the right (to vote) of a significant portion of the population.

What an odd thing, to believe that in order to best safeguard the country founded upon basic freedoms like voting is to limit voting.

* * *

Two.

In another interview during the same show, Shelley Moore Capito (Republican Senator from West Virginia) declared that it would be important for a Democratic president and Democratic House to have a Republican Senate as a "firewall"--because government needs "checks and balances."

Color me naive, but I learned (in middle school) that in American governance the phrase "checks and balances" refers to the checking and balancing functions of the three branches of government: executive, legislative, and judiciary. Regardless of the party composition of each, their task is to test each other's work against the Constitution. Internally, their tasks are done as a whole: the legislature makes laws, the president executes administrative tasks, and the judiciary judges. Together. But Capito's statement reveals something radically different.

Rather than working together to devise laws that will serve the majority or totality of the American people, the legislature's task, according to Capito's "checks and balances," is to serve as an arena in which Democrats check Republicans, and vice versa. By logical extension, the task of an individual Supreme Court justice is not to collaborate with her fellows to produce a unified decision for a case, but to "check and balance" the opinions of the other justices who have different political leanings.

Take it one step further, and we might say that these neologized "checks and balances" indicate that we don't elect representatives, senators, and presidents to represent our communities at the federal level; instead we send them up to oppose the other party. So instead of governance by reason, cooperation, and compromise we get governance by opposition, conflict, and martyrdom (or filibuster).

Should we change our middle school curricula to redefine "checks and balances"? Shall we teach our children that the opposing party is our enemy? Or do we have another way?

~ emrys

Part of a Greater Community

 A thick strand of Christian theology begins with an assertion from Psalm 8: "O Lord . . . .what are human beings that you are mindful of them . . .? Yet you have made them a little lower than the heavenly ones, and crowned them with glory and honor . . ." When set next to the Genesis creation stories, this passage paints a picture of humanity as the pinnacle of the created world. Humanity is to have "dominion" (Psalm 8:6, Genesis 1:28) over creation, but also to "tend" it (Genesis 2:15). On this knife's edge between dominion and caretaking much Christian thought on creation care has bled. Sadly I think that the conviction that God will replace the present creation with a new one at the end of history has bent Christian ethics largely toward a view of "dominion" and "tending" that embraces maximum exploitation of natural resources.

As a Christian who does not believe in maximum exploitation, I think often of how Christians might rally to a less consumptive view of creation. In the United States at present there is much ado about Native American land ethics. I have encountered mostly oversimplified versions of First Nations ecological ethics, usually romanticized and told from a third-person perspective. Robin Wall Kimmerer's book Braiding Sweetgrass brings something deep, thoughtful, and challenging into view from the Native American perspective.

This part-memoir, part-science lesson, part-spiritual primer weaves together elements that produce a robust proposal for how to live responsibly in the world. Kimmerer reflects on her own experiences as a woman, a mother, and teacher in powerful and poignant vignettes. She also presents in a poetic and accessible way a scientific understanding of ecology and especially botany. And with the same poetry and gentle grace she lines out her Potowatomi spiritual inheritance and how it shapes her view of the Beings that surround humanity.

It is this last--the assertion that maple trees are Maples and bloodroot is Bloodroot--which has caught my attention most. How would my life be different, and how would our life together be different, if I viewed the rest of creation as Beings rather than objects? I mean (and Kimmerer means) something more than viewing cute pets as surrogate children. I mean, as Kimmerer displays, believing that a stand of Aspens has something to say about which or how many of its members may be cut down for fire mitigation or harvested for other human use. I mean believing that one needs to honor wild Leeks, to ask their permission before harvesting, and to be grateful to them for their presence in our meal.

As a consumer at the "top" of the food chain I have been taught to think of plants and many animals as, at best, producers of something that I consume. At worst, they are simply objects. I am the subject, with sole meaningful ethical input and agency, and the created world contains objects on which I act. To borrow Martin Buber's categories: I have an I-It relationship with the world. Kimmerer's challenge is to envision myself in an I-Thou relationship with the world. This challenge does not supplant the I-Thou relationship we have with God, the Creator. Rather, because God chooses and I-Thou relationship with me I choose an I-Thou relationship with all the beloved handiwork of God, down to Sparrow and Leek. Sustaining that relationship becomes more important than my desire to consume.

In Christian sacred writings, there are suggestions about the spiritual personhood of creation. Psalm 148 sings that mountains and hills, fruit trees and Cedars, creeping things and wild birds all give praise to God. How can one give praise to God unless one is a being capable of some sort of declaration? Jesus states that if people don't laud him, the stones will cry out (Luke 19:40). We could understand these as more than literary "devices" and as a way to view the world around us. We Homo sapiens are not a species that stands on top of a laboring pyramid of inferior species. We are members of a greater community for whose welfare we have a greater responsibility because we can think, adapt, and use wisdom.

Braiding Sweetgrass does a beautiful job of opening up to the reader both the complexity of the biological world and the interdependence between all species, including humanity. It also gives us a language for honoring that interdependence and making choices that will contribute to the flourishing of the whole. For this new language I am deeply grateful for Kimmerer's work.

I recommend this book to you in the hope that reading it will draw us all closer to a simpler and healthier life together. I think that our ability to love not only our fellow humans but all the Beings with whom God has surrounded us is part of our training for heaven. Love is an essential ingredient in Kimmerer's book, and it is the essential ingredient in the Christian life. Perhaps love ought to go further than our consumerist ethic tends to allow. After all, if we cannot do well in this creation, why would God want us in the new creation?

~ emrys

The Democratic Mess

For the past two months I have driven past many yard signs that tout political candidates whom I favor. I have driven by lots of signs trumpeting candidates for whom I will not vote. And I have investigated the platforms of candidates on the ballot whose names I do not see at all on local signs.

When I drive past the adverts for candidates who will not receive my vote, I am tempted to think that somehow those "opposing" voters have missed something. I am easily drawn into the fantasy that if only they would see the world more completely--in other words, the way I see it--then they would agree with me. Then so much of our political rancor would recede into reasonable agreement.

I suppose that many of those who would never vote for my favored candidates think the same way about me.

I cannot depend on "reason" or "enlightenment" or "patriotism" or "sanity" leading us all to the same candidates. The reason we have two opposed main parties and a plethora of candidates in every election is, I think, precisely because we cannot agree on what characteristics or principles make a candidate or a governmental system good and effective. The only common feature among us as voters is the fact that "we" are all voters.

"We" are a collection of "I"s living our lives, having our thoughts and experiences, and forming our political opinions. And since we are independent "I"s, we are living, having, and forming those things independently. But each of us will vote from our foundation of "I."

So the process of voting, of politics, is an assertion of my thoughts, desires, and ambitions. Voting is the most selfish of political endeavors. What I want, what I think, what I believe is important will guide my vote. Some of us will vote one particular way because we hope to get more money (from the government, from our business, from tax breaks) as a result. Some of us will vote one particular way because we hope to fight climate change, or help immigrants; some because we hope that the government will just do less and therefore give us more freedom.

But all of these motivations to vote as we do come from a sense of selfishness: my gain, my principles, my goals.

This is the seed of democracy: that the one thing we can all agree on, politically, is that we're all pursuing our own interests. The only thing we can depend on, as free Americans, is that we're in it for ourselves. This might sound like a downer--elevating selfishness, and all--but in fact it is part and parcel of the American project. The moment I am not allowed to pursue my self-interest to the fullest is the moment I am no longer free.

"Life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness": These words describe the character of freedom and mandate that politics become a scrum of self-interested individuals. Those individuals may clot up for a while--out of self-interest, to get their needs met--but when a party's direction no longer aligns with their interests, they're off and away. Freely.

In fact, as Americans the distance we go as "we" is very short before we become a feline herd of "I"s. That distance is the Constitution, and at the end of that parchment our political unity ends. To prove the point, even the matter of how to interpret the Constitution divides us. But at least we agree that the Constitution is the thing we need to interpret in order to establish our laws. Of course, if enough us believe that the Constitution does not serve our interests then . . . and the American project continues.

So it seems right and proper that the diversity of voices in the United States leads to the political mess of this year's election, and every election in fact. The system is working. Freedom of speech is working. The right to vote--and the parallel sense of entitlement to vote however I want--is working.

I will take comfort in the yard signs whose perspective I cannot fathom. I will worry when we're all in lock-step with a party or candidate and I am pleased by every yard sign. Because then we won't be in a democracy anymore.

Faith and Law

 Reading some of the early commentary on Supreme Court nominee Amy Barrett, I was struck by constitutional attorney Andrew Seidel's reference to Ms. Barrett's "past comments about the conflict between faith and law." (Mr. Seidel works with the Freedom From Religion Foundation.) I have not looked up whence came those "comments about the conflict between faith and law," but the phrase itself gave me pause.

It pinged for me the remembrance of many conversations in which folks asserted that the United States is a "Christian nation," or that somehow being American intrinsically allies one with Christian faith and ethics. And with that ping in my grey matter came a thought that I've been mulling over for some time: the references (or lack thereof) to Christ in the founding documents of the United States.

The Constitution has no reference to Jesus Christ, or even to God. It is a non-theistic document. If the authors wished to somehow ground the Constitution in some sort of theological foundation, we would expect that grounding to appear in the Preamble at least. But no reference to the divine appears there. The only god of the Constitution is "the People."

Our next search for a Christian basis for the United States would be in the Declaration of Independence--not, strictly speaking, a document founding this nation but justifying its separation from Britain. Here, at first glance, we might think we had found our proof.

"The Laws of Nature and of Nature's God" figures in the first paragraph as the authority determining which peoples may become their own nation. The term "God," however, is without explicit content. In contrast, Christians stake their lives on the assertion that the God of the cosmos is the God who is filially connected to Jesus Christ (see 2Cor1:3, et al). The name Jesus Christ circumscribes the nature of God. Not only did the authors of the Declaration omit the name of Jesus Christ, they may also have indicated that they were only interested in invoking the God belonging to Nature, that is, the God who is known through Nature. That God is not known through revelation, whereas the God of Jesus Christ is known only through revelation. The authors of the Declaration may have intentionally set their document apart from the Christian God.

The second paragraph references a "Creator," and the final paragraph mentions both a "Supreme Judge of the world" and "divine Providence." These three serve as ambiguous pointers to something above humanity but indistinct and certainly not connected to Jesus Christ. In fact, the "authority" on which the Declaration rests is expressly "the good People of these Colonies." Given that the founding authors were intellectually astute, literate, and raised in a Christian culture, the omission of a connection between Jesus Christ and the God in the Declaration could not be happenstance. They did not intend for the document to be "Christian" in any meaningful way. They intended it to be literally "democratic": ruled by the People.

The sole authority for the governance of the United States, as per the Constitution, is the People. We may well argue whether or not the founders assumed that all People would cast their vote, legislate, execute, and judge based on Christian values. The final texts with which they left us, however, produce no such mandate.

If the god of the United States is the People, then we the People of the United States are doomed to encounter conflict between the Christian faith and American law. The God of Jesus Christ does not accommodate any other gods. We Christians are living the Mosaic dilemma: We discover God's commandments on the summit only to learn that the masses (to which we belong) are doing their own thing at the bottom of the mountain. The dilemma gets rehashed in Jesus' lifetime: The crowds that listen rapt to Jesus' teaching call for his crucifixion.

The only alternative to this conflict would be the establishment of a Christian theocracy (or bibliocracy) in the United States. I suspect that the founders sensed that such an establishment would have resulted in a far more contentious and bloody national life than the vicissitudes of rule by the populace. Here is the genius of making the People the supreme ruler of a nation: The successes of the nation will be ours and the failures of the nation will be ours, no matter our creed.

Mr. Seidel is right to insist that those examining Amy Barrett for the Supreme judicial bench ask her about her religious beliefs. Doing so will reveal conflicts between her Christian ethics and the ethics of the People. All Christians will experience conflicts between their ethics and the ethics of the People, as will Muslims, Baha'i, Hindus, Jews, and every other faith besides the faith in the People.

Supreme Court justices take an oath of office swearing allegiance to the Constitution. It would seem unfair to ask justices to set aside their core convictions about the world as they do their job. So perhaps our quest for good justices should not seek out those who believe the way we do. Rather we ought to call for justices whose only god is the People; otherwise will not their oath of office be hypocrisy?

Of course, the answer to this leads us into the question of whether Christians, beholden to trust only in the God of Jesus Christ, may swear allegiance to another entity. That's a topic for another time.

~ emrys

The Doom of Education

 "Sesame Street ruined education." So said a friend of one of my family members, a seasoned educator of elementary children. His assertion was that in joining entertainment and learning at the hip, Sesame Street (and now Dora, Diego, Prodigy, Reflex, and so many others) had established an expectation that education must be entertaining. The idea that learning can be complemented by entertainment, especially on the screen, morphed into the expectation that learning without entertainment will not work.

I presently oversee a good deal of my children's learning because we chose to enroll them in online education this term. The saintly teachers at our local school district mediate the curricula and online learning platforms, but the bulk of monitoring and question-answering falls to my wife and me. As a result I have been given a window into the media that convey lessons to my kids.

There are a lot of cartoons.

There are a lot of expanding and shrinking stars that dance across the screen at the completion of a lesson.

And in the case of, say, Prodigy (a math game designed to "encourage a growth mindset and foster success"), there is a whole lot of clicking an avatar character around a cartoon map with a few math problems thrown in.

As you brace yourself to tolerate another "back in my day" diatribe, let me say that I have fond memories of when my teachers discovered that PowerPoint allowed them to make a Jeopardy game out of course material. (Take a moment to figure out my age. Then keep reading.) I experienced lots of Fridays at school in which we played games with our vocabulary and problem-solving skills. And we sometimes even got candy for prizes.

Let me also put to rest your suspicion that I'm going to say learning ought to be a drag. I find education, by offering new vistas of understanding and by building new skills, a positive experience. I think discovery itself is fun and success in learning brings its own joy.

But I want to draw a distinction between the joy of learning and entertainment. I want also to draw a distinction between receiving some form of entertainment as a reward for learning and receiving entertainment as the medium through which learning is expected to occur. I use the word "medium" here pointedly, as in Marshall McLuhan's "the medium is the message." I think it is dangerous to embed learning in entertainment precisely because we will gain the implicit understanding that if something is not entertaining it's not worthwhile to learn, or we will excuse ourselves from the learning with something about "learning styles" or a lack of ability. Learning will become a subset of entertainment.

I believe, as I wrote, that learning brings a reward. We receive the satisfaction of correctly completing a geometry proof. We finally figure out the key to a wiring diagram on a Zetor tractor so we can fix the heating fan. We work over an obscure bit of Schleiermacher until we grasp its meaning and it opens up our world. We practice suburi with our bokkens until we memorize the flow of the sword blade.

But the process of learning may not be--I dare say probably will not be--entirely fun. It will not do what entertainment does: allow us to passively receive pleasure produced by someone else. There will be moments of frustration and moments of choice in which we could forfeit the whole enterprise if we do not persevere. Especially in learning the hardest, most important parts of life--like how to be reconciled to someone whom we have injured--I think that entertainment is antithetical to learning and the habits being learned. One who expects learning to be forever fun will never be able to learn those kinds of skills.

I have not reached a place in my meditations from which I can propose a method by which to stem this tide that I see. But perhaps you have and, I hope, are already pursuing it. Or perhaps you can observe with me and discern whether what I'm describing is accurate and, if so, look with me for an adequate response. It would seem to me better to encourage now a culture of joy in rigorous learning than have to cure a culture that rejects any task not entertaining enough.

~emrys

The Shoe on the Other Foot: Noughts + Crosses

I spend as little time as possible in front of a screen. And I have become adept at ignoring adverts that appear as I scroll through the few things I do look at. So it seems providential that I should have paid attention to an advert on my phone for an original tv series on Peacock entitled Noughts + Crosses.

This first-season series imagines a London which, for the last 700 years, has been colonized by an African empire. Sephy, a young woman from the privileged African class ("Crosses"), and Callum, a young man from the oppressed British Isles class ("Noughts"), begin a romantic relationship that is against the law because of their skin colors. Meanwhile city-wide racial tensions continue to rise around them.

At first the narrative trick seems too simple: Invite European and American viewers, so accustomed to seeing (or not seeing) racism in a certain way, to imagine a world in which that power relation is inverted. But the trick works. Simple inversion brings the facts of our world into haunting relief. All the trends of systemic racism, from interactions with police to sexual stereotypes to economic disparities, leap out at the viewer--especially this privileged white viewer--and take hold of the gut in a way that all the books on antiracism do not.

The inversion works because the script and direction present complex characters who could be any of us. Their stories, full of struggles normal and poignant, pull us along so that the offenses of racism stand out with stabbing cruelty. In the spacious homes of the privileged Crosses smiles are easy and comfortable, if often false. In the dilapidated flats of the Noughts faces are tense and conversations fraught, even if familial bonds are tighter. It all leaves this viewer feeling oppressed by a persistent segregation of prosperity, of attitude, of possibility. Of course, I will admit that this effect may be much more intense for me, who have been able to stand aloof from the tension of racism for most of my life. But I suspect that this effect is precisely the intended one.

Noughts + Crosses works so beautifully also because it does more than simply invert the skin colors of 21st-century Londoners. Centuries of domination by African cultures mean that the architecture, fashions, and political structures of the world have a distinctly African theme. London's skyline bows beneath an African woman holding aloft a globe--this world's answer to the pale Statue of Liberty in ours. Speech is sometimes punctuated by phrases from African dialects (think of the Mandarin phrases that popped up in the series Firefly.) The Nought culture includes Celtic symbolism, and as they struggle for political power one hears the echoes of the Irish under British rule. The result of these details is a rich, subtle, and utterly captivating setting for Sephy and Callum to find each other.

Because for all of its power at presenting the realities of racism and racial tensions, Noughts + Crosses is a love story. Here are Romeo and Juliet for the present day. Whether they will make it together moves the plot with irresistible gravity, and makes the dark shadows of their world all the more personal and threatening. When Sephy asks Callum, "What can we do? We're only two people," the threat of despair vibrates through the screen into our world. What can any of us do? We are just individuals.

Noughts + Crosses shows clearly that what Sephy and Callum see in each other must be greater than the hatred and violence of their world. They ache for an ending of happiness and freedom. They echo the hope that we, faced in 2020 with this new surge of resistance to racism, want to have for our own world. So I will keep watching, and maybe from it gain more courage and inspiration for solving the hatred and violence of our world. I want an ending here, too, in which we can all be happy and free.

~ emrys

A Hypothesis

 A drive around our neighborhood treats the driver to the sight of many "Trump 2020" signs. Our neck of the woods even enjoys the ironic proclamation of Trump-supporting flags subtitled "Stop the Bull**it." (I am thankful that I've not yet had to explain that phrase to my inquisitive young children--but I'm sure it's just a matter of time before they read it and ask.)

The plethora of local support for the incumbent president makes me reflect on the desires of voters who have a radically different political perspective than I. In light of the number of false statements made by the incumbent president, it occurs to me that his supporters do not view honesty and integrity as a necessary virtue in a presidential candidate. In light of the president's misogyny, it seems to me that decency, kindness, and respect (not to mention desiring justice for women generally) are not important for his supporters. And for dyed-in-the-wool Republicans, the incumbent president shouldn't have high appeal.

So why vote for Trump? We all vote for reasons that seem good to us. There must be good reasons for seeking his reelection in November.

The simple "not a Democrat" rationale seems initially appealing, but for the drawbacks listed above. A Republican (or anyone else) who respects the value of our constitutional democracy would, I think, be appalled at these toxic characteristics of the incumbent president. The effect of his presidency has not, I think, proven anything about the value of the Republican party or platform over the Democratic one. All it has done, I think, is spread a maelstrom of political damage and destruction--

And at this point in my reflections my present hypothesis surfaced. I hypothesize that the main positive motivation for support of our incumbent president is a desire for political destruction. The call to "drain the swamp" has come to mean "cripple the federal system by whatever means possible, even if those means are themselves awful." The Republican goal, in Trump, has transformed from "limited government" to "hobbled government so dysfunctional that it can't even organize itself to interfere in state and local affairs." Similar to the "any port in a storm" adage, perhaps Trump supporters feel that there exists no reasonable hope to reform the federal government. The solution? Cause it to collapse from the inside by electing someone who will, through malice and incompetence, cause the system to seize up.

We all have complex motivations for our political leanings. But I submit this "executive demolition" motivation as a driving force for those supporting the incumbent president in his upcoming reelection bid. My next wondering is whether the president senses this desire from his base. If so, then his reelection could mean an even more intense and distasteful second term. Could he permanently cripple the executive branch?

~ emrys