Circling Back Around . . . to Hope

 Sometimes being a little behind the times brings a helpful perspective.

The inside flap of my copy of The Audacity of Hope states this about its author: "Barack Obama is the junior U.S. senator from Illinois . . ." Published in 2006, this book served as Obama's political manifesto, the document that launched him into the graces of the Democratic literati and therefore into the White House. In hindsight, of course, it is easy to see with 20/20 vision the roots of Obama's work as president--the promises and designs that got him elected and the decisions that caused such disagreement with the Republicans during his two terms.

But the book provides so much more than a political platform. With witty and revealing personal narrative, Obama connects both the universal and unique aspects of human experience with a calling to public political service. With honesty and wisdom he reveals both why the work of politics is so hard and why it is necessary for the thriving of a nation.

I appreciate especially Obama's penchant for a diachronic approach: He delves into specific political issues that face us in the present and digs back in time to assess the historical roots of those issues. The Audacity of Hope clarifies the author's position on a host of issues facing the United States (in 2006, but also strangely still today), but also gives readers a series of instructive history lessons about the sources of those issues and the disagreements that plagued them from the beginning. We remember, with Obama's encouragement, that the United States has always been a place of public disagreement and political tension.

Though unabashedly Democratic in terms of its political leanings, the book does not condemn the opponents of the Democratic party. Obama, in the lines and between the lines, makes it clear that he respects the positions his opponents may take, even when he disagrees with them. Audacity thus serves as both a textbook on political theory and an example of civility in political discourse. I found myself thinking as I read it that it would serve well as a textbook for high school U.S. government courses.

I consider it providential that Audacity came into my hands as a gift just at this moment, as the 45th president disappears from a term wracked by extremes, incivility, and bitterness and the 46th president (as if simply stepping from vice-presidency to presidency) attempts to lead the country with calm, civility, and a gentleness that some have bewailed as boring. No doubt Democrats and Republicans will continue to disagree on--well, perhaps most things. One's foundational assumptions about the role of government, politicians, and individuals force mutually exclusive choices that only seem to be weakened by compromise. Therefore strength as commonly conceived will continue to breed staunch and intransigent opposition in America's political bodies.

But maybe, just maybe, when we can be clear-eyed and articulate about the experiences and reasons why we hold our assumptions and come to our present conclusions, then we can actively seek to work with our colleagues from across every aisle in order to develop a more perfect union. This possibility--that underneath our most foundational assumptions about politics lie even more basic assumptions about goodness and love--might be what resonated most in me as I read Obama's book. That in spite of disagreement we might still be able to uphold the good together I will continue to be audacious enough to hope.

~ emrys

What Could We Have Done?

The pandemic has wrought havoc on small businesses across the United States (and, I assume, all around the world). Some businesses, like the outdoor equipment suppliers we have in our town, have made record sales since everyone started trying to get out and away from other humans. Others, such as the businesses that focus on bringing people together--to eat, work out, or socialize--have been struck with huge deficits.

As I listen to the stories of struggling business owners and operators I hear the pain and suffering that results from having to cut payroll, take on debt, and wonder how to plan for every next month with all of its uncertainty. I am an operator of a very small business myself, and we have experienced the pain of covid's economic impact.

At the conclusion of a good commiserating session, when we're about to shrug and get on with our days, several times now I have heard the question, "But what could we have done?" It's rhetorical. The implication is that there is nothing anyone could have done. The appearance of a fast-spreading disease requiring people to stay out of each other's air space brings an inevitability of damage. No, there's nothing we could have done about the slowing of all things in-person.

But from a business perspective, and from a personal perspective, I don't want to give up on that question so fast. What could we have done?

Businesses define life and death financially. If there's enough money, the business carries on. If there's not, it goes under. If the income stream dries up for a time--for 6 months, 12 months, maybe 18 months--then for a business to survive it needs to have cash reserves. If it's going to survive a covid drought of customers, then it's going to need savings.

It occurs to me then that "What could we have done?" is answered by "Save." We could have saved money. We could have operated within a business model that assumes there is a chance, no matter how small, that at some point we'll be crippled for a year or more. So we save up a year's worth of payroll, of electric bills, of essential supplies so that even if the customers aren't coming in right now we can keep telling the world, "We're open and ready when you are!"

Saving is hard. Look at the miserable statistics of Americans' saving habits and see that we're not very good at it. Certainly not good enough that most of us would feel stable if we suddenly fell out of work for a year or more. But life and economics are such complex animals that we ought to assume that we'll suddenly have a break in our income at some point. So saving makes sense.

It's just as hard for small businesses, I think. So much of business is running to catch up with the mercurial interests of a market that always wants something newer, faster, shinier. Every penny must be spent, or else tomorrow's client may not come in through the door. But to be on the edge of bankruptcy all the time makes something like a pandemic fatal. Market anxiety cannot choke out the mandate to save.

We had a surge of interest on our staff last year in the Dave Ramsey phenomenon. What a cool thing: having a group of college students thinking about how to lower their debt, save money, and be in a stronger financial position for the long haul. It takes discipline, and saying "No" to a lot of spending. It sometimes requires feeling like the spendthrift world is passing you by, macchiato in hand, while you're stuck at home drinking drip coffee. It means deferring that dopamine hit of shopping and spending until the frontal lobe says it's wise. It's hard work.

But it makes the difference between riding the tide of a pandemic with a little tighter belt and going under. "What could we have done?" We could have saved money. We could have held back our insatiable desire for cheap and numerous goods in preparation for a couple of lean years. We could have planned for this.

Will we plan for the next one?

~emrys

Passing Thoughts

I just finished reading a translation of Aulus Gellius' Attic Nights, a sort of journal compiled by a member of the upper-class Greco-Roman literati. His reflections span a wide field of philosophical inquiries, grammatical inquisitions, legal observations, and social and cultural critiques. Reading it gives a disjointed, snapshot view of life in the Mediterranean in the second century AD--sometimes affording tantalizing one-offs regarding the values undergirding that society.

Since my level of historical knowledge about that provenance is limited, the thin slices of detail about Gellius' world serve mostly to inspire reflection on our own time. In one brief passage, Gellius records the name of the "first Roman ever to secure a divorce" from his wife, on the grounds that she could not have children. In order to secure said divorce, apparently he had to cite the fact that upon his marriage to her he had sworn an oath that the purpose of the marriage was to have children. What a strange thing--to me, of course--to bind and delimit a marriage by oath to having children.

At that time, as in too many others, women were legal property of their husbands, so I suppose it would be the equivalent of winning a civil suit for the price paid for a "lemon" vehicle. I bought the car not because I wanted the vehicle itself per se, but because I needed it for transportation. Therefore if it does not run (or breaks down to often) it is not fulfilling its function and therefore the transaction can be nullified.

I wonder if this is why a commonplace set of vows has husband and wife declare "for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health"? Perhaps husbands had taken to divorcing wives because they were not successful entrepreneurs for the household or because they took ill and did not fully recover? Thus the vow at the altar had to ensure (for the wife and her family) that the husband would not see those "failures" as breach of contract.

Gellius also records that a Roman of high political office ("censor") was disciplined by the senate for owning an excessive amount of silver tableware. This excess signified too much luxury for said political position. The event seems even stranger to me given that Roman culture was not renowned for its austerity or elective poverty and simplicity.

How would politics change if "excessive luxury" were considered a punishable offence for public servants and elected officials? The cynical part of me thinks that the luxury would simply go underground. And it begs the question: Who determines what is too luxurious? I suppose that determination would have the usual legal channels, like any other law. An interesting idea nonetheless, that at some level a republic would officially declare a limit on the wealth owned or displayed by its ruling members.

Don't pick up Attic Nights unless you're ready to skim over large bits about Latin and Greek grammar. Gellius was very concerned with esoteric questions of language, translation, and poetic usage. (This is why I enjoyed the book so much, I think!) Even passing over some of those, I appreciated the little oddities of ancient life. In the midst of the oddities, however, one will be rewarded with edifying meditations such as whether virtuous life necessarily brings happiness. Does it?

A dear friend once remarked that the famous ancient and Medieval authors "never had to wash their own socks." An overarching theme that surfaced for me was how much time Gellius had to walk around Rome and Athens, going to dinner parties, chatting with people in high office and station. He tries to put a great deal of weight on these matters of speech, writing, and society; but his are--to use a contemporary turn of phrase--first-world problems (wealthy problems). Gellius makes no reference to work or managing patron-client relationships in order to stay afloat. He is upper-class, it seems, and the life that allows literacy and time for ruminating on philosophical squabbles belongs perhaps entirely to the rich. It might be the same in every generation, though I hope that in the present-day United States we have come somewhat closer to allowing anyone in any stratum of society access to learning and discourse like Gellius'.

Maybe I can be an agent to extend the reach of that learning to another generation, whether of humble or luxurious means. I hope that perhaps the good work I do and the conversations I have are not limited to the ivory halls and wealthy dinner parties, but include anyone who wants to consider the deeper questions of life.

~ emrys

In the Name of Jesus

 I have a dear friend who has trouble considering following Jesus because of the harmful attitudes and actions she has seen on the part of many Christians and churches. While in our conversations I continue to try to point her toward the person of Jesus and how he himself critiques those harmful attitudes and actions, I understand that in her experience the voice of the humans on this planet drowns out any still, small voice of Jesus or the voice of the bible.

Then two days ago a rioting mob attacked the Capitol building with signs and words that made it clear they wanted their actions to be done in the name of Jesus.

More perhaps irreparable harm has now been done to the effort of inviting many into the glorious reign that I have experience in Jesus Christ. I fear that now when I say "Jesus is Lord" my hearers will hear a call to violently dismantle and elected government.

I believe the rioters at the Capitol two days ago were not citizens exercising their constitutional right to peaceful protest. I do believe that Jesus often calls us to peacefully protest wrongs in our society, in our government, yes even in our churches (for no humans are immune to the dangers of sin). I believe that the Spirit uses our presence and our words, spoken always in truth and love, to change the world.

I believe in the model of protest offered by Jesus is his own ministry: teaching truth, healing the sick and suffering, and offering his very body as both witness and response to the evils of the world. (This was the model of non-violent civil rights workers and protesters in the mid-20th century.) I believe that his resurrection is the example of entrusting vengeance to God and thereby empowering peaceful action.

As someone called to address the Church from the pulpit regularly, I expect every pastor and preacher to join me in condemning the actions of that rioting mob and make it clear that Jesus did not call for that act of violence.

I will admit that Jesus calls my brothers and sisters around the world to do different things than I am called to do. I will admit that I disagree in many cases with brothers and sisters around the world about what our faith in Christ calls us to do, but I cannot condemn those brothers and sisters for coming to different conclusions than I. However in the case of January 6th, any assertion that following Jesus Christ called these rioters to commit the violence they did is, in fact, condemnable. Followers of Jesus will reject and condemn those actions, pray for the repentance of the perpetrators, and anticipate that the structures of law and order in the United States will deal with them suitably.

Meanwhile, I hope that my brothers and sisters in the faith will seek understanding of why the rioters did what they did and use every peaceable means to introduce them to another, gracious, way to address those concerns. Just as God wrought life from the death of Jesus, I hope that Christ and his Church will discover how good can be brought from this evil.

Maybe, just maybe, some time from now those outside the Church will grant more credibility to the peaceful work of Christians in response to the tragedy of January 6th than to the banners carried by the mob.

~ emrys

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