Elder Macarius of Optina

This morning after Matins, we were reading from Elder Macarius of Optina. I was very moved by some of what we were reading, so much so that at lunch today I looked around on the internet for some more. I found Letters of Elder Macarius of Optina and was reading through some of them. Apparently it is a collection of snippets from letters (the context is usually apparent) he wrote to various people in various situations, organized by the themes of the Beatitudes. If you have the inclination and time, I recommend you spend a little time there. Here's one quote that jumped out at me, probably because it speaks (tangentially) to the thing I've been rambling on and on about over the last few posts.

"I am glad that you have come to see that a life lived in the world can be as good, in the eyes of God, as one spent in a monastery. It is indeed only the keeping of God's commandments, love of all, and a true sense of humility that matter, wherever we are."

Hissing Old Ladies

And then there are nights like last night. . .where you go to an open mic at a dingy little bar and everybody else's got their posse 'cept you cause, well, you ain't got no posse. The longer you hang out, waiting your turn, the more paranoid you become. . .somebody's bound to recognize your picture from the wanted dead-or-alive posters in the bathroom and try to collect the bounty. You manage to keep cool, all steely-eyed and flint-jawed, and finally the moment arrives and you reach for your 6-stringer and blaze your way across the stage. When the smoke clears you realize nobody even noticed. Your gun was loaded up with blanks. So you pack 'em up, ego wailing like a newborn and say to yourself, out loud. . .why do I do this? And nobody answers back, which is a good, since you ain't got no posse.

However, on the bright side, I ran into Rollie again last night and he and I sat around talking for about a half-hour. This guy is the real deal. . .very good slide player. I found out last night he won the National Guitar Slide Guitar championship a few years ago. . .he's very humble about it, saying it's really no big deal. . .but I've heard him play a few times and I can tell you. . .the guy is a pro. We got to talking about open mics, and he was telling me about one of his first paying gigs. . .in Nashville. He was living in upstate Michigan and somehow got an agent in Nashville, who flew him into town and booked a bunch of bars. He got right off the airplane and headed out to his first gig. . .a bar across the street from the famous "Tootsie's". There was a cover band on stage playing Allman Bro's tunes better than the Allman Bro's ever did them. The drummer had to go take a pee, so the bar-keep jumped up on stage and proceeded to play drums better than anyone Rollie had ever heard before. That town is like that. . .everybody and their brother is an accomplished musician. Rollie had to follow this act, got up on stage, and bombed big-time. He had played mostly open mics before this, and didn't even have complete songs. He said he actually got hissed off stage by two old ladies sitting over in a corner. Ouch. He only stayed in town a couple more days before hopping on a Greyhound for a little impromptu tour of the United States since he figured he needed to go back home and get a real job and forget this music thing. He didn't play his guitar again for about a year and a half. He eventually started doing open mics at the insistence of a friend (friends are great) and rebuilt his confidence. . .but it took a while. I'm glad he had some resilience. . .because he plays from his heart with a lot of skill. If you ever get a chance to hear him, go do it. You won't regret it.

Pick up the Pieces

In a comment to (Monasteries and Taverns), Jim N. asked me what exactly I was trying to figure out. I gave him a quick answer, but I suspect it is not quite enough of an answer to explain the obvious passion I feel about this struggle. So, if I'm going to blog at all, I might as well blog with some measure of open-heartedness and transparency.

In my response to Jim N's comments I said, "Can I be a singer/songwriter and Orthodox Christian at the same time? And if I can, what does that look like? I'm well aware that to the non-Orthodox out there, that may seem like a really silly question. It may even seem like something akin to the Amish fear of technology. But that's not it at all. Orthodoxy does value tradition and is very reluctant to change practices handed down to us. . .but it is not "prudish" or "elitist" or "out of touch". On the contrary. It is the most real thing I have ever experienced. It is the most in touch thing I have ever experienced. It is "authenticity" incarnate. . .and that is the source of my conundrum. Hang on. . .I'll try to explain.

I used to attempt to squeeze some of my "self-worth" out of identifying myself as a "singer/songwriter". It used to make me feel like "somebody". I did the same thing with my status as a "professional engineer". . .as my status as a "husband and father". . .as a "seminary student". . .etc. I won't go into the gory details, but every one of those attempts to "find myself" was unsuccessful. God, in His great mercy, did not allow any of them to work. I was left standing in a pile of my own excrement. . .miserable in my career, failed attempt to finish theological studies, failed marriage, wounded kids, and hardly any inspiration (beyond irony and cynicism) for songwriting. That was my state when I entered the holy Orthodox Church. I had been a Christian for a long time, about 30 years, so Christ was no stranger to me. . .but His Church was. The wonderful traditions that have been preserved in the Orthodox Church completely overwhelmed me, body and soul. There was nothing I wanted more than to be standing in Church immersed in the ancient hymns, prayers, and icons of Christ and the saints. It was only my continuing responsibilities as a father and my accumulated debt that kept me out of a Monastery. Which in hindsight was all a part of God's mysterious providence as well. I was not ready, or able to be a monastic. I was not called. . .I was infatuated. Callings last, but infatuation does not.

One by one I have picked things back up. I'm remarried, I have a new attitude about my profession, and lastly, I'm writing and singing again. (I never ceased being a father, by God's grace.) But I'm so used to doing all these things because I needed them for self-authentication, that to attempt them with dispassion is very weird. . . .especially music, because that one is treacherous under the best of circumstances. Way too much opportunity for self-absorption in that one. I'm trying to pick up the pieces without getting cut, and I'm finding it a little tricky.

Good and Scary

What's so hard about accepting reality? What's so difficult about getting up in the morning, thanking God for being God, and taking my place as a created being? Why is contentment so elusive? You'd think nothing could be easier, especially if you believe in a good God. I know, I know. . .there is the problem of evil. . .but as a spoiled, affluent, insulated and distracted American, I don't see that kind of evil up close too much (yet). Which may be the problem, as morbid as that sounds. Perhaps all this insulation, although useful in deadening the discomfort of life, inevitably deadens life, period. It's life on prozac. . .no big ups, no big downs. No legs blown off from stepping on land mines, just the aggravating irritation of walking around with sand in your shoes. It's the price I pay for opting for the "safe" god who has all the warmth of an insurance policy, instead of entrusting my life to the good, but scary God who exists. You know. . .Aslan.

Monasteries and Taverns

You may not think there is much in common between Orthodox Monasteries and playing an open mic night at a local tavern. There's not. . .on the surface. But yesterday I had a chance to do both, and so I conducted a little experiment while playing at Mock Crest Tavern in Portland and found out there is a connection.

Let me set the stage: Mock Crest is a neighborhood Tavern frequented mainly by middle-aged locals. . .clean, bright, and friendly people. Rollie Tussing was running the open mic and so he kicked things off with three traditional blues tunes played on his cheapo Kay guitar and a jangly thingy tied to his foot which provided a little do-it-yourself-hi-hat-action. His forte is slide playing, and he ended with a rollicking number that got a few people's attention in the bar. I was up next, with my acoustic guitar. I don't do blues. I do melodic, slow, ballad singer-songwriter stuff, and this is where the experiment occurred. For some reason. . .maybe because I had just downed a beer rather hastily. . .I was completely calm and confident. I knew my music was going to come off as rather low key compared to Rollie, who is a local fave, but I didn't care. I was into what I was doing. So I just did it. During the first song, nobody much paid attention. I didn't care. During the next song, a few people started quieting down and looking my way. I still didn't care. By the third song, Rollie and at least a couple other people were paying close attention to what I was doing. I still didn't care much, but I was pleased that I had connected with a couple people.

So, how does this relate to a Monastery? Well, it struck me that when you go to a Monastery, they don't change things to make the pilgrims more comfortable. That is, they don't cater to us. They just continue their life as they usually do, which is much more sober and without all the exclamation points those of us in the world live with every day. They invite us into their world, and if we are able, we enter a little and benefit from the calm they live in. In a more prosaic way that's what I did last night. I invited the people in the bar into my world, which is reflective, subtle, and somewhat quiet. A few people came in for a few minutes and we connected. It was nice.

Feast Day at Goldendale Monastery

I spent the day at the Monastery in Goldendale, WA with my wife, a few people from our parish and a couple hundred more Orthodox Christians. It was the feast day of the nativity of their patron saint, John the Forerunner. My main impression of the day: I'm so grateful for the souls of these virgins who have traded all this world has to offer for that one thing needful. To be among them, even for just one day, puts life into better focus. Check out John's post to get a flavor of some of the elements of the Vesper service for this feast. Here's a few pictures from the Monastery. . .


The faithful filing into their small Church for Holy Communion.


Hieromonk Paisius, abbot of St. Anthony's Monastery (Florence, AZ) was the main celebrant. (Low light because I didn't want to use the flash during services)


A few of the nuns from St. John the Forerunner Monastery processing with the feastal icon (out of frame) to the food which the nuns had prepared for all the guests. They prepared salmon, rice, peas, salad and assorted cakes. All very good.

Big Time

It's hard to live in a small world when you have a big head. After Matins in the morning we get together to read from a spiritual book and eat toast and drink coffee. On the days when the swelling is down a bit and my big head will fit into my Priest's humble kitchen, I attend. This morning we read from Saint Silouan, the Athonite on humility. The whole time we were reading, Big Time was playing in my head. :

I'm on my way, I'm making it
I've got to make it show, yeah
So much larger than life
I'm going to watch it growing

The place where I come from is a small town
They think so small
They use small words
-but not me
I'm smarter than that
I worked it out
I've been stretching my mouth
To let those big words come right out

I've had enough, I'm getting out
To the city, the big big city
I'll be a big noise with all the big boys
There's so much stuff I will own
And I will pray to a big god
As I kneel in the big church

Big time
I'm on my way-I'm making it
Big time big time
I've got to make it show yeah
Big time big time
So much larger than life
Big time
I'm going to watch it growing
Big time

My parties all have big names
And I greet them with the widest smile
Tell them how my life is one big adventure
And always they're amazed
When I show them round my house, to my bed
I had it made like a mountain range
With a snow-white pillow for my big fat head
And my heaven will be a big heaven
And I will walk through the front door

Big time
I'm on my way-I'm making it
Big time big time
I've got to make it show-yeah
Big time big time
So much larger than life
I'm going to watch it growing
Big time big time
My car is getting bigger
Big time
My house is getting bigger
Big time
My eyes are getting bigger
Big time
And my mouth
Big time
My belly is getting bigger
Big time
And my bank account
Big time
Look at my circumstance
Big time
And the bulge in my big big big big big big big

-Peter Gabriel, Big Time

It was fitting background music for Saint Silouan's counsel:

The lowly soul enjoys great peace, while the proud soul is a torment to herself. The proud man does not know the love of God, and is far from Him. He is proud of being rich or learned or famous, but, alas, he is unaware of his own poverty and ruin, for he does not know God. But the man who struggles against pride, the Lord will help to overcome this passion.

I can add nothing of value to either of these quotes.

The Beginning of my Repentance

About 14 years ago I had an epiphany that changed the direction of my life. At the time I was living with my family in a beautiful house located in a rural area of southwest Washington State, a little town called Brush Prairie. The house was surrounded by tall fir trees and looking out the windows, especially on a misty winter's day, was like watching the opening credits of Twin Peaks. The state of my soul at the time was like watching an episode of Twin Peaks. . .nothing much made sense, but there was hope the director would eventually resolve all the loose threads. On the day of my epiphany I was sitting in my bedroom struggling to write, and wrestling with an intense feeling of disappointment about my life. I think this happens to all of us sooner or later. . .something brings us face to face with the transient nature of everything in this life and we panic. There was a volatile mixture of hope and despair in my heart that had been brewing for some time. But on that day as I looked through my bedroom window at those tall, unyielding fir trees. . .I saw myself quite clearly. I saw myself as the only one of God's creatures that fought Him. The trees never complain. They never grow bored. They never look for another job. They aren't mean to their neighbors. They never refuse to produce seed. They are more righteous than me. Way more righteous. They accept their "being-ness" in humility and serve God with no fanfare. On that day in Brush Prairie I was shamed by the fir trees that surrounded me. I was shamed by all of God's creation that serves Him faithfully and without complaint. I hope that at the end of my life, when I am judged, this epiphany will be deemed by God as the the beginning of my repentance.

Shut it Tight

Before The Strawmen released Saving Faded Dreams last year, while working on the artwork for the CD, I asked Mark and David if they would mind me putting the following quote from St. Silouan in the liner notes. "Keep your mind in hell, and despair not." They were OK with it and neither said much. For better or worse, they give me almost complete control over any words that show up,in, or around our music. . .and I return the favor by not interfering too much with the music. Basically, we trust each other having recognized long ago that each of us bring something unique to the mix.

I had more than one reason for wanting to put that particular quote in the artwork, with the usual mixture of intentions. For one thing, I thought the quote may give people insight into the lyrical content of the CD. For another, I wanted to identify myself as an Orthodox Christian. I also thought the quote was "odd" enough to pique people's interest. But it turns out that nobody seems to give a rat's ass about it. Or if they do, they keep it to themselves. I can recall only one person asking me about it. . .maybe two. It makes me laugh at myself. . .for thinking that printing an obscure quote in the middle of a jangly guitar-pop CD booklet would elicit profound conversations. I admit it. I'm a nerd.

But nerdiness aside, I happened to be reading from St. Silouan this morning and ran across his account of how his soul "acquired" the thought, "Keep your mind in hell, and despair not." I had never read this particular account before. . .so in a way, I guess I'm setting the record straight. Whatever my perverted reasons were for putting it in the artwork. . .the story surrounding how St. Silouan came up with this quote is a study in humility:

A certain deacon once told me that Satan had appeared to him and said, 'I like proud men, and they belong to me. Thou art proud, and I shall take thee to myself.' But he answered Satan and said: 'I am the worst of men;' and Satan straightway vanished.

I, too, had a like experience when devils appeared to me. I was somewhat afeared but I said: 'Lord, Thou seest that devils prevent me from praying. Tell me what I must do that the devils go from me.'
And the Lord said in my soul:
'Souls that are puffed up always suffer from devils.'
And I said:
'Lord, shew(sic) me what I must think on that my soul may be humbled.'
And in my soul came the answer:
'Keep thy mind in hell, and despair not.'
Thenceforth I began to do this, and my soul found rest in God.

It's easy to put that quote in the liner notes of a CD. . .it's hard as hell itself to get it inscribed in one's heart. But like T-Bone Burnett said, "I ain't gonna quit (trying) until I'm laid in my tomb. . .and even then they better shut it tight."

Sometimes I Dream of Tornadoes

Sometimes I dream of tornadoes. This has been going on since about 1973. . .or at least that's the first time I recall dreaming of tornadoes. For a number of years I thought these dreams meant something because it seemed like every time I had one, there was some upheaval in my life. That was before I realized upheaval was a fairly regular feature of life, and so I don't put much stock in a dream's predictive powers nowadays - I leave that for holier folks. Regardless, I still find these dreams intriguing because they are usually a little bizarre.

I had one last night. It's probably because I am absolutely fascinated by thunderstorms and we've had a few move through the area in the last couple days. . .somewhat of a rarity out here in the non-humid West. In my dream I was sitting in a service station awaiting my loan approval so I could fill up. There was a gigantic bank of brilliantly white clouds to my left while above me the sky was turning deep, deep blue. It was changing from a normal-sky-blue to deep blue very rapidly. It didn't stop at deep blue but kept changing until it was black. . .then back to deep blue. . .then back to black. Needless to say I couldn't take my eyes off it. I was just about to say something to someone when a voice yelled out, "There's a tornado!" and sure enough, I looked to my left and a thin rope of a tornado was visible, seemingly moving parallel to our position. It didn't interest me all that much. . .I was mesmerized by the changing color of the sky. Then something rather odd and a little scary happened. A passenger airplane, which seemed to be on fire, came streaking by at a very low altitude and attempted to land on the freeway which ran past the gas station. It's wings were clipped off by an overpass as it attempted the landing. I woke up right after this so I don't know if anyone survived.

I laid in bed for a little while thinking about the dream, a little sad it was over. Dreams are so mysterious to me. There seems to be whole worlds "inside" us. . .and I don't even know what I mean by "inside". Do we "create" dreams, or are we just "viewing" them? Sometimes during my waking hours my mind seems so dull that I find it hard to believe I could come up with such fantastic images and situations. Truly we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Fig Leaves

Macrina looked up into my eyes and before I knew it we were slow dancing to Van Morrison's "Hymns to the Silence" on a Saturday morning. It was nice for about 30 seconds, and then it happened. . .I became self-conscious. I don't think it's about my dancing. . .I have a sense of rhythm and can manage to hold my wife tenderly and avoid stepping on her toes. I don't think it's about the physical closeness. . .I'm fairly comfortable with my middle-agish, out-of-shape body. Nope, it's about the emotional closeness. When I'm naked emotionally, I reach for the fig leaves. In this case I grabbed the first one I could find by saying, "I like this CD because he seems to be singing about things that matter to him." Ouch. . .I was sure I had ruined the moment, but Macrina didn't say anything. From the welling up in her eyes I don't think she even noticed. Sometimes we get away with one. But I knew what was going on. Fig leaves are drafty and the chill was noticible. . .at least to me.

It's Noisy Here

It's noisy here. Every year, when it finally warms up in Portland and we have to keep all the windows open at night, I start noticing it. The noise of the city never stops. Well, maybe between about 3-5 am it dips a little. . .but I'm usually asleep then, so it's a "tree (not) falling in the woods" sort of a thing. It's mostly road noise, but it's also conversations outside the bar at 1am, car alarms, loud shouting matches in the street (not too many), garbage trucks shaking broken glass and what sounds like dumpsters filled with hubcaps into their trucks at 3am, people talking non-stop on cell phones in the parking lot under our window, drunks peeling out of the parking lot, cat fights on the fire escape, etc.

All-in-all it's not bad. It really helps to have an Orthodox Priest and his wife downstairs. The loudest thing that comes from their apartment is his big laugh. But it's hard on my wife. She was born in NYC, but left there when she was a teenager. When I met her she was living in Port Townsend on the Olympic Peninsula, and before that on Orcas Island in the San Juans. I doubt there are many places on earth quieter than that. I hope that some day I can provide her with a quieter place, but for now my job forces us to stay in the general area, and our love for our church community keeps us in this little urban apartment.

Maybe it's a guy thing, but I struggle with a vague sense of guilt because I'm not able to give my wife all I think she wants and/or needs. I want to be the perfect husband. The unfortunate thing is that this vague sense of failure works against us and prevents me from giving her what is in my power to give. . .warmth, attention, affection, tenderness, creative time together. . .and a whole host of things that can be summed up by the word "love". Our love will never be "perfect" this side of the grave. We give what we can, go to bed in peace, get up and give what we can again, and again, and again. . .with all our hearts. Edith Schaeffer put it well: "People throw away what they could have by insisting on perfection, which they cannot have, and looking for it where they will never find it". That's just the way it is on fallen planet earth.

The Heart vs. the Bible

There's a thoughtful post at "Lord Have Mercy" (3x's) worth reading and pondering. It's called The Heart versus the Bible. I'm going to be thinking about this one for a while.

The Rabbit Knows

My son Matthew drew this a few years ago. . .just for himself, in his notebook. I've always thought it to be rather autobiographical. Probably wasn't meant to be. . .but if drawing is anything like writing. . .it probably is.

Perhaps the following quote, which I found at blogosobeniy explains why I (as his father) like this drawing:

People cannot stand the saddest truth I know about the very nature of reading and writing imaginative literature, which is that poetry does not teach us how to talk to other people: it teaches us how to talk to ourselves. What I'm desperately trying to do is get students to talk to themselves as though they are indeed themselves, and not someone else.

- Harold Bloom, Interview in the Guardian 6 March 1999

Matt, keep drawing to/for yourself.

Michael's Magic Giraffe

I stumbled across a link to an article in The Anchorage Press called Stalking the Bogeyman at Orthododixie. It's a rough and graphic first-person account of child "molestation" (polite word for rape) reeking with real human drama which then continues here. Wow is about all I can muster.

OK. . .if you managed to wade through that bit of horror. . .here's some National Lampoonish satire to rinse your brain with. At least I think The National Funeral in Less Pastoral Hands will help.

Surrogate Whiner

Morrissey on the radio, suicide bombers in Iraq, friends out of work, and the daily stream of homeless people on our front porch. . .life continues in spite of our best efforts to stop it. To tell you the truth, hearing Morrissey on the radio this morning was nice. He was my surrogate whiner during the 80s and I can't help but smile a little every time I hear his voice. I never could stomach much of his melodramatic bitchiness. . .but his trance-inducing lyrical phrasing always got my attention for some reason. The combo of his vocal and Johnny Marr's guitar work was synergistic pop at its best. He probably won't ever match that. I haven't heard his newest CD except for the snippet this morning on the radio. From what little I heard it sounded more "Smithish" than other solo efforts so I'll probably give it a listen sometime.

Habit and Skin

There is an inevitable tension between popular culture and traditional Christianity which is not hard to understand. Popular culture is mostly focused on the transient and ever-changing world. Traditional Christianity is mostly focused on the eternal and unchanging kingdom of God. For anyone involved in both worlds, it can be a strain. I know this firsthand. Some days I think it is worth it. That is, I see value in writing, recording, and performing songs in the context of popular culture. Other days I would rather be involved in a more traditional form such as Celtic and/or bluegrass music. Yet other days I would rather break my guitar into little bits and just stand in church singing the ancient spiritual music that has been passed down in the Orthodox Church. I always feel the tension. However, I am certain that at times "A hint of chanted prayer whispers from the fresh night wind to this shattered heart and soul held together by habit and skin." This line from a Bruce Cockburn song (Don't Feel Your Touch), plus countless others like it, demonstrate to me over and over again, that popular music is capable of carrying beauty and truth.

It is a basic tenet of traditional and ancient Christian understanding that God communicates Himself to us in the guise of everyday life. That is, all of life is sacramental. As an Orthodox Christian I believe that Christ's broken body and spilled blood is communicated to me at the celebration of the Divine Liturgy in the humble form of bread and wine. I am not equating this holy mystery of the Church to popular culture. That would be blasphemous. But I am saying that something of value can be communicated in the humble form of popular culture. The tension is not in the possibility of this union. . .it is in the implementation of it. In other words, to the holy, all things are holy. To the profane, all things are profane. That's my paltry understanding of this. . .I'd love to hear what other people think.

"In Heaven, Everything is Fine. . ."

For me, reading Flannery O'Connor has always been the literary equivalent to watching a David Lynch movie. I'm not speaking from an abundance of experience because as a rule, I don't read. . .fiction, non-fiction, or labels. I can't seem to concentrate long enough to remember what the beginning of a paragraph was like by the time I get to the end of it. (Why do you think I like jangly guitar pop music?.) But I have managed to slog my way through a few Flannery O'Connor short stories, mainly because I heard her name mentioned by Bill Mallonee as the inspiration for a song of his. A few years back I got all the way through one of O'Connor's stories, called The Peeler. After finishing it, I felt as though I had been dropped off in Henry's (Jack Nance) neighborhood from Eraserhead. I was messed up. I kept humming, "In heaven, everything is fine." I did eventually recover, but you can imagine my delight when I found a tourguide for The Peeler in the guise of Fr. Joseph on his blog, Orthodixie (sic). If you've experienced any of the psychological trauma I have from reading O'Connor, do yourself a favor and read Fr. Joseph's post called, The Peeler, the Hound & the Addict. Life may return to normal for you as well.

The Other 15

I am a lousy student. Sometimes I don't think I'll ever graduate. I'm dreading the end of term when my grades will be published for everyone to see. It's nobody's fault but mine. I pay enough attention to know what my homework is, but I don't work steadily on it. My study habits resemble a 14-year old learning to drive a stick-shift. I spit, sputter, and jerk until something either stalls or engages with frightening acceleration. A real lack of consistency. I'm not talking about graduate school or continuing education. I'm talking about relationships. God. . .wife. . .children. . .church. . .relatives. . .co-workers. . .homeless folks on my front porch. . .my wife's cat, to name a few. There is no doubt what the criteria for a passing grade is: ",To love God with all my heart, all my soul, all my strength, and my neighbor as myself." Out of those 18 words, I've only managed to master three. . .the first two and the last one. Trouble is, I don't know whether I have 40 seconds or 40 years to make peace with the other 15 words in that sentence. I hope it is closer to 40 years because like I said, I'm a lousy student.

The Lesser Evil

I caught most of the discussion on NPR's Talk of the Nation at lunch today with historian Michael Ignatieff, author of a recent book, The Lesser Evil: Political Ethics in an Age of Terror. Very interesting discussion on the tension between "protecting ourselves from terrorism" and "giving up our civil liberties." One exchange between Mr. Ignatieff and a listener who emailed provided a summary of his basic argument: The emailer claimed she hadn't seen any erosion of civil liberties and so didn't see what all the fuss was about. He responded by saying that if you weren't a Muslim or an Arab-American with an expired work visa. . .you probably haven't seen much change in civil liberties except for broad-consensus stuff like extra security at the airport. But he went on to stress that if those of us who aren't the current "target group" don't stand up and make noise about Bill of Right violations whenever they occur to anyone, there will certainly be an erosion of democracy. I think he's correct. Freedom is risky.

Decisions & Hair-Balls

The trouble with making significant decisions is you can't predict the outcome. Everything is so interconnected with everything else that it is absolutely impossible to know if doing this will turn out better than doing that. And sometimes even the definition of "turn out better" is hard to know. No wonder people go to fortune tellers or consult hair-balls. The task of making a non-trivial decision is so daunting that most of us figure a hair-ball might make just as good a one as we would have. And if it turns out bad. . .well, blame the hair-ball.

I suspect we tend to freeze up about decisions because we're afraid. We're afraid that if we make a "bad" decision, it will ruin our lives. I don't think that's the way it usually is, unless we're trying to decide whether or not to kill the person who just cut us off on the freeway. That sort of decision will ruin your life, but it's obvious. It's the important but not-so-obvious decisions that scare us. Should I take that job offer? Should I get married to this person? Should I change churches? Should I go back to school? Should I have children? I think that in reality (i.e. from God's point of view), there is not all that much difference between the choices for these kinds of decisions. What withers our souls is when we dwell too long in the nether-land of the in-between state. . .being double-minded and torturing ourselves to death over our indecisiveness. A friend of mine, who was giving me some pointers about writing, once said, "You can't edit a blank page." I think that is sound advice as it pertains to decision making as well.

Off-Ramp Etiquette

My car broke down on an offramp yesterday. It was nice. Big retaining wall providing shade, only two miles from the auto repair shop, wide shoulder to park on, and since it was an off-ramp. . .no semi's barrelling by at 1000 mph peeling the skin off my arms. It was during evening rush hour, so there was a lot of traffic. Most people looked tired after a long day at work, and so they didn't dare look my way. I understood. . .that's how I usually am as well. But over the course of about 1/2 hour, four guys slowed down and asked if they could help. I had a cell phone, and so a tow truck was already on the way. But it was nice that they asked. One big burly guy driving a big burly truck was the best. He pulled up behind me, flicked his hazard lights on, and asked me if I needed a cell phone or a lift somewhere. I thanked him and told him that the tow truck would be there soon and he drove off with a bit of a twinkle in his eye that reminded me of my big burly uncle back in West Virginia. I thought to myself that guys like that truly love to help other folks. I don't usually notice these things. And I'm afraid I'm really not one of those guys. But I'm glad my car broke down yesterday so I could meet one.