Characteristics of an Artist

The word, artist, has had its meaning and value worn off by excessive use–misuse, abuse–especially in the world of popular music–“recording artist.” An artist is someone with extraordinary sensibility, uncommon sensitivity. He senses that which the most of us miss. He sees what Picasso said, “the eye of habit misses.” The artist hears the wind, the creek, the Carolina wren, the tone of voice differently than we do. She sees shapes, colors, textures, contrasts, balance, and repeated patterns that ordinary people fail to notice. The artist detects emotional states that we who are insensitive are unaware of. This kind of sensitivity is necessary before one can be an artist, but it alone is not sufficient. Many non-artists sense the same things. Psychiatric counselors, mothers and other lovers, naturalists, and just plain folks may have the same sensibility that painters, poets, sculptors, dancers, or architects have, yet lack the rest of what it takes to become an artist. An artist is a person who has the kind of mind that can give definite form to what they sense. As he walks across the barnyard listening to the simultaneous sounds of clucking chickens, the wind suddenly gusting through the cottonwoods, and the resonant baritone of the friendly farmer, it all comes together in his head as the unified melody, harmony, rhythm and timbre of a concerto for string quartet. She listens to her sobbing friend’s story of moral failure and the consequent loss of family, and involuntarily finds herself composing a stage play: the setting, characters, number of acts and scenes fall rapidly into place, along with costumes and dialogue. The drama would somewhat parallel the anguish of her friend’s story, but would not at all be a literal re-presentation of what she has heard. A poet might hear the same story and work it into a sestina-form poem. It is not that the artist has a more intelligent mind than others, rather, the artist has a mind that works in a different way, just as an accountant has a mind that works in a unique way. Again, although this kind of mind is a necessary element in the makeup of an artist, it alone is not enough. The artist is a person who has developed skill in the manipulation of some medium of communication: the fingering of the violin, piano, flute, or banjo; the handling of a paintbrush and an eye for mixing and applying pigments; the construction of sentences, the language of rhetoric, the ear for linguistic rhythm and harmony. These are only a few of the possible useful skills, but without them, a person can be sensitive to all sorts of subtleties, and be able to form in their mind a genuine work of art, yet if they cannot translate the mental image into a tangible form, they will never become an artist. On the other hand, they may have, as many popular singers, writers, and painters do, excellent skills in manipulating their chosen medium, and thus become a virtuoso. And perhaps therefore, become known as an “artist.” These three characteristics that I have named as necessary elements in the makeup of an artist are not original with me. I read these ideas somewhere almost forty years ago, and have never been able to give proper credit to the source. Meanwhile, I have bought into it. Almost completely. My memory is that the original source claimed that the possession of these three characteristics constituted a person as an artist. I take issue with this conclusion. I do concur that all three–unique sensibility, unique kind of intelligence, and skill with a medium of communication–are necessary elements in the makeup of an artist, they are not sufficient. One additional element is necessary: the person must actually produce a work of art. They must take it from the heart and mind and actually use their skill to produce. I suspect we would be surprised at how much and how great would be the art that might have been produced by those who had these three essential elements, but never gave them actual form. With some, they intended to do it, but procrastination or laziness kept it from ever being realized. Others were so overwhelmed with responsibility for their family or others that there was neither time nor energy left to pursue art. Some sensed a divine calling and made good use of these characteristics in a spiritual ministry to others. Many an artist has forsaken all sorts of responsibilities, sacrificed all sorts of values so they could devote themselves to their art. I don’t know how to judge their decision. Facing conflicting values and commitments, some chose art, others chose to ignore art. Thus, some artists, some great artists, lived with a broken soul. Some, people of character, highly respected and responsible, lived with a frustration that no one ever knew. No one can have it all.

Musical Rests

I’ve finally figured out, I think, what musical rests are about. Whether it be a brief eighth rest or a whole note or whatever, the rest serves two fundamental purposes. For years I thought the function was so the performers had a chance to breathe. But the rests do not come with adequate frequency for that. The rest provides an opportunity for the listener to assimilate what has just been played and then to anticipate what is to come. I suspect most of this takes place unconsciously. It might seem that a rest of a mere eighth note would not be long enough for both assimilation and anticipation, but the unconscious mind can work with marvelous speed. In the first place, the rest allows the listener to take in and partially digest the music produced since the last rest. It gives a brief respite from listening and allows the music to begin to be absorbed. The longer, unmeasured rest (maybe five to fifteen seconds) that occurs between the movements of concert hall music furnishes opportunity to get a feel for the entire previous movement. On the other hand, with the melodic line with its harmony and tempo broken by the rest. The listener’s ear leans forward in expectation and building anticipation of what will come next. The rest supplies dynamic accent to the music, adding a distinctive liveliness. Is this what all healthy rest is about? I think so. Whether it is the rest that comes at bedtime, or the ten minute break at work, or God’s Sabbath, the rest gives us time to assimilate what we have been doing. After only relatively brief time, we begin to feel ready for what is to come, we begin to think and plan for what we will do next. Rests are essential to the movement of human life. Without the rest, we don’t comprehend the meaning of what goes on in our lives, nor do we adequately prepare ourselves for what is to come. Enough writing. I need to rest awhile.

What Is Water?

What is water? HO, that’s all, an oxide of hydrogen, a ubiquitous chemical molecule. That’s water. Or is it? Upon analysis, is that all there is to it? No, at least not for me. What is water? When I take a long soaker in a hot tub, I’m enjoying something more than a mere chemical. When I have a tall glass of cool water on a hot August day, I experience something beyond a formula. So, with a gentle shower on a June afternoon, or the sounds and sights beside a shady babbling brook. HO may be an accurate objective definition, but the full truth of water is known only in subjective experience. Life cannot be explained away by objective analysis, however valuable that may be. Life is known and felt to be real only subjectively. Both are needed. What is water? I’m going to stop writing and get a drink.

Snow in Central Texas

My neglected back yard looks like a cross between "Sanford and Son" and Pa Kettle's yard. It is ugly and looks hopeless. But this morning it is covered with three inches of pure white snow (and still falling). Snow bending bamboo low, Firethorn weighted down, trees and vine-covered arch accented. All in a symphony of silence, peach, and beauty. But as for me, I'm feeling "woe is me for I am undone." I feel as if the Lord will "depart from me for I am a sinful man." But as for God, "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow." Gospel.

Love?

Sir Ronald, responding to Cordelia in P D. James' novel, AN UNSUITABLE JOB FOR A WOMAN, exclaims, "Love! The most overused word in the language. Has it any meaning except the particular connotation which you choose to give it?" Sir Ronald likely speaks the truth, and raises an appropriate question. Love may well be the most overused word, and it used in so many ways as to almost divest it of any, except subjective meaning. I suggest a few layers of definite and distinguishable meanings. The title of the movie, "Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing," helps us to be aware that love is not one single thing; it is many-faceted. At one level, to love is to enjoy. It is to enjoy that which satisfies personal need. At a low level it is almost indistinguishable from sexual lust, but at another level it is that which brings sheer enjoyment. Often this degenerates into sheer sentimentality and mush. Always, this kind of love is self-centered. A step up speaks of the mutuality of appreciation and enjoyment. Love is a two-way street. This is a shared interest and concern--and enjoyment. Again, love is a desire and action for an other, the desire and effort to help an other reach its fullest, its richest and most satisfying development. It is purely other-directed. Love, in the fullest sense, includes elements of all the above. Nonetheless, it is a most over-used word in its slick-worn commonality. The deed is needed much more than the word.

The Power of Commitment

This is not the place to discuss the etiology of my psychological condition. I have been more or less lonely all my life. I never learned to relate well to people in groups. I do okay with one or two, but even then we must have some common interests–and I share few of the interests that occupy the time of most people. I am more comfortable with the outdoors and nature. From the time I was about ten until I was twenty-four, my primary interest was livestock. Soon after I learned that I was expected to attend college, I learned about Oklahoma Agricultural and Mechanical College, and knew that would be my school. Studying their yearbook during study hall time in highschool, I learned they had a highly prestigious livestock judging team. Although I had always lived in town, it became my ambition to become a member of that team. Early in my freshman year, the Animal Husbandry Department–my major field–held a Freshman Judging Contest. I participated, completely clueless as to how to go about judging these twelve classes of cattle, sheep, and hogs–four of each to a class. At the end of the day, I ranked 125th out of 141 participants. Discouraged? Yes. But not enough to give up. I was committed to be a member of the team. The next chance came when I was a Junior. Now I could try out for the Junior Judging Team. Seventy of us showed up. All except me were from farms and had been on 4-H or FFA judging teams in highschool; several had been state winners. Mr. Bratcher, the retiring coach spoke to us that first day. He said any of us could make the team if we would do three things: 1. Take our girlfriend out for a coke and tell her we would see her again at the end of the semester (easy–my girlfriend was seventy miles distant and neither of us had transportation); 2. Settle for a grade of C in all our classes except Junior Judging (I didn’t like most of them anyway); 3. Spend all our spare time at the college livestock barns sitting on a fence studying what we saw in the pens (I had no social life anyhow). Most of the guys ignored Mr. Bratcher’s dicta; several dropped the class. The team entered three contests our junior year: Denver, Fort Worth, and Oklahoma City. I didn’t come close to making the team for those contests. By our senior year there were only about twenty-five of us still in the running. The senior team entered two contests. I didn’t make it for the Kansas City Royal Livestock Judging Contest. I was coming in about fourteenth in our workouts. As the time neared for Chicago’s International Livestock Judging contest I was running in tenth place most of the time. Once, on a hard, all-day workout I did come in second. In Chicago, the team won first place in the International Contest: a bronze bull, about two feet high and, maybe, thirty inches long. A picture of the bull with the 1954 Oklahoma A&M Livestock Judging team standing behind it, hangs in the Animal Science Trophy Hall today. My picture is included. The bridge that carried me from ignorance to the top of the livestock judging world was a bridge that several fellows, better prospects in the beginning, chose not to cross. Commitment was all I had going for me (except–big exception--support and encouragement from the young lady I later married).

I Am Back

I'm Back

It has been over a year since I have blogged. I took time off to finish writing a book that I began years ago. The first full draft is now finished. I expect to edit and rewrite for a few months, then publish late this summer. The book focuses on how to become a good or better thinker. I intend to serialize it, a chapter per month, on my “Considerate Thinking” blog. Meanwhile, I am posting snippets of it on Twitter daily. Check Twitter–wallaceroark. http://twitter.com/#home I hope to update at least two of my several blogs (see the bottom of My Profile) each week

Catch as Catch Can

I haven't posted a blog in three months or so. Does that mean that I have given up and quit? No. Does that mean that I have run out of things to say? Far from it. Does that mean that I have lost most of the few readers I had? Probably so. and painfully I regret the loss. What then does a three-month lapse mean? Its meaning lies in the core thesis that drove me to blog in the first place: that God is, by nature, relate-ive, that to think properly about God means to think in terms and the categories of persons in relation. If I mean this, then it means that I must place actual personal relations above the production of blogs. For a long time I have lived in an environment of several serious family illnesses. Some of these became somewhat critical in recent months. If I mean what I say in my blogs, my love, my commitment, my responsibility for family must override my strong commitment to write. To do otherwise would be to render my writing a farce; it would be hypocritical. I think a corner has been turned. I cannot project the future, so I cannot speak of when I will again write with regularity. But I believe I can write two or three, five or six times a month. They will be shorter than in the past. I will not attempt to get as much said at one time. Always what I do write will be parts of a larger whole. They may be fragments but eventually--if eventually ever occurs--they will coalesce. They will have coherence. I hope they will also be creative, alive, provocative of new considerations. I am humbly aware that they will never be comprehensive.

Be Careful about Threatening, Part One

"Rebel, for two cents, I would whip you right now!" _____________________ You are going to threaten someone? Think about it first. Then think about it again. Consider the other hand, or maybe even another. You never know how your threat will be received or what response it might draw. _____________________ Their disagreement was getting shorter, temperatures rising. It was James who said: "Rebel, for two cents I would whip you right now." Does that sound like a threat to you? Rebel, James, Karcher, Jesse, and I were "barn boys." We were college students who worked at the college livestock barns. We lived in the barns. That was a way to insure that we would not be late for chores at 5:00 a.m. James, who was majoring in campusology, didn’t show up for chores one cold October morning, The beef herdsman, a no-nonsense man of few words, asked where James was. James had come in too late too many nights and had been too sound asleep for the rest of us to get him up. Someone answered: "James is still in the sack." Mr. Dehay filled a bucket with water, walked in to James’ bunk, emptied a five-gallon bucket of cold water on James, from toe to head, then simply said: "Time for chores, James." Mr. Dehay didn’t threaten. It was this same James who told our Arkansas "Rebel," that for two cents he would whip him then and there. Hot-tempered Rebel turned around, walked across the room to his desk drawer, found a dollar bill, and walked back across the room. He extended the bill to Jams and with a fiery voice announced: "You owe me ninety-eight cents change!" Their conflict had been over something relatively trivial. James was so struck by humor of Rebel’s overreaction that he burst out laughing. Poor Reb didn’t know what to do now that James had defused the threatened explanation. You never know how someone will respond to your threat. You may wind up looking like a fool. Think before you threaten. Part two will follow.

The Good Life

In Leider and Shapiro’s, Repacking Your Bags, they suggest that we write, in a single sentence, our own description what would constitute The Good Life. I thought it sounded like a good idea, so I made the following attempt. I acknowledge that I have written a long and complex sentence and used some abstract concepts and terms. I saw no other way to get it into one sentence. The good life--as I see it and can, in one sentence, express it–is one that is: “The good life--as I see it and can, in one sentence, express it–is one led by the Holy Spirit, at peace with God, the world, and themselves, and is melodiously, harmoniously, and with dynamic rhythm loving those whom and working with that which they have found to be their appropriate others.” What follows is a brief commentary on the statement. • led by the Holy Spirit, Apart from attunement with the creator of the universe, and following his–the conductor’s–lead, a truly good life cannot be found. • at peace with God, the world, and our self, and is The good life never comes until we actually accept–heart, mind, body, and soul–God’s ways; that the world is like it is; that we are who and how we are. • melodiously, harmoniously, and with dynamic rhythm Our life must develop and follow a line that has meaning; it must blend appropriately with all we touch; it must have a pulse: systole/diastole, ebb and flow, activity and dormancy, something that gives it a measure of regularity, but flexible enough to modulate the music of our life in the evolving ways our love and work calls for. • loving those whom and working with that which Freud correctly said that the good life consists of love and work. We must have both. • the person has found to be their appropriate others. We actively love everyone. Love takes time and makes demands. Led by the Spirit, and patiently allowing time for development, we will come to see that those we can and should truly love will be clearly disclosed to us. Similarly, we must have tasks that have meaning, that bring joy, and that are fitted to our ability to perform them. Here again, the work that is ours to do will sort itself out only as we patiently adjust to life’s change. Our appropriate others are long-term commitments, but some will find fulfilment and completion and be followed, sometimes surprisingly, by new appropriate others. Some of our others will be appropriate for the remainder of our good life. ________________________________ Such would be a life of peace and joy. Stated differently, it would be a most satisfying and enjoyable way to live.

College Education

Yesterday, a friend told me that one of my former students had called me the most irresponsible teacher he had ever known, perhaps even the most irresponsible person--but that he thanked God for my irresponsibility because it made my students think. Along another line, he emailed me later in the day, asking what I thought about the purpose of a college education. After emailing my response, I decided to post in on this blog. Whether I am a responsible person, citizen, consumer, or whatever, is an interesting question. To whom are we responsible, for what, and who is to determine these things. Shortly after a new man came on our faculty some years ago, he said to me that propriety was very important to him. My first response was that propriety was not one of my major concerns. Then I got to thinking. Propriety is cognate with appropriate. Most of the time, I say and do that which I think appropriate. That which I think appropriate, right, fitting. Much of the time I believe that socially correctness–propriety–is more concerned with maintaining a simple harmony in the status quo. Much of the time I think the status quo is not anything to quo about. Much of the time I believe that “status quo” is Latin for “the mess we’re in.” [I apologize for not translating the following. The man to whom I was responding is a professional musician, so I used some of his language.] So, it seems to me, it often is time to change the music from a I, V, IV, and back to I harmony, and interject some sevenths, elevenths, seconds, and other seeming dissonances. Some elements of social correctness need to be diminished, others augmented. Sometimes I think the occasion calls for modulation to another key: perhaps minor, Aeolian, Lydian, Dorian, Phrygian, . . .. Maybe pentatonic, blues, or some other kind of gapped scale is more appropriate at times. Propriety is relative to culture, situation, issue, assignment, etc. Responsibility is relative. "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer." None of this is written as personal defense, nor a rebuttal to any of what my former student told you. Rather, it is a line of thought stimulated by your remarks of yesterday, and part of the ongoing effort to understand myself. “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I– . . .” Now, as to your question about the purpose of a college education, who is authorized to give the definitive answer? We have many divergent judgments and opinions. Mine follows. The purpose of a college education is: • To learn how to read. (Most of those who come can do it only after a fashion. A college education should be an advanced study of how to read) • To learn how to write. (Most of those who come can do it only after a fashion. A college education should be an advanced study of how to read.) • To learn how to think. (I’m not sure how many of them can do this at all. If so, they don’t often engage in the practice. A college education should be an ongoing provocation to thought.) • To do a lot of the above. • To learn life’s issues, and the highlights of the past and ongoing conversation about these issues. • To give them the requisite vocabulary, categories, and skills, then the encouragement to join the conversation. • To bring them in touch with standards of excellence, to put them in contact with true excellence. • To let them know that all formal education is merely a course of studies called, “Introduction to Life,” thus, the necessity of lifelong learning if they are to live a good life. • To give them models who are passionate and rigorous about all this.

Grandma Was Churched

Grandma was churched, voted out, kicked out of her church. This was back in the 1920s. My father was then a young fellow in his upper teens, a self-proclaimed atheist. The next day, Uncle Charley, one of Daddy’s older brothers, looked up from his barnyard chores only to see his younger brother walking down the dirt road toward the church, a mile away. He was carrying a pearl-handled revolver. Uncle Charley caught up with his hot-tempered brother and asked: “Harry, where are you going with that gun?” “I’m going to kill that preacher that kicked Mom out of the church.” I don’t know the details of what happened next, but Daddy and the pistol went back to the house rather than to church. A few years later, when I was eighteen-months-old, Daddy left the farm he was sharecropping, and became a preacher himself. For the next sixty years his ministry blessed untold numbers in small churches, a World War II chaplaincy, and in large churches. The last forty of those years brought him great respect and much love. I’ve known the story of Grandma’s being churched and Daddy’s intent to kill the man responsible, but only in recent years have I learned, from one of his sisters, the rest of the story. My grandma, an active and outspoken member of the church, had learned that her pastor was having an affair with a woman in the community. Grandma intended, at the next church business meeting, to inform the church and call for the pastor’s dismissal. However, the preacher learned of her intentions, seized the initiative, trumped up some kind of charges against my outspoken grandmother, and had her voted out of the church before she could act. Thus, her voice was effectively squelched and discredited. I had always wondered why my devout grandmother would be dismissed from a church. Although all of those involved have been long years gone from any earthly involvements, I have written this as a belated public vindication of Emma Roark. This prompted me to do some thinking about strategy and tactics. One of the most effective elements in any kind of conflict is to seize the initiative before you are forced into a confrontation in which you may be at a disadvantage. Another closely related important strategical element is surprise. Grandma lost on this occasion because she did not keep her own counsel. She talked with some others. Who talked with others. Who talked with the pastor. The story would have ended differently if Grandma had done two things: quietly gathered and verified the relevant facts, and then kept it all to herself until she caught the congregation and the minister by surprise. They might not have believed her at first, but since Grandma was a respected member of the congregation, they likely would have listened as she laid out the indisputable facts. As they recovered from their shock, it probably would have been unnecessary for the church to have voted to dismiss the offending minister. I suspect he would have seized the initiative and resigned before it came to a vote.

Ku Klux Klan

The Ku Klux Klan? I wonder how seriously they are taken in the 21st Century in the United States? Tuesday I attended a funeral. Several ministers were involved. I met and visited with each of them. One fellow was from up in Arkansas, and when he named the specific “city” he was from, he added that this little town was a “planned community.” He said the people of the county were a very closed group; outsiders were not welcome, nor were they accepted. However, that part of Arkansas is attracting large numbers of “outsiders,” who are not even being accepted in, of all places, their churches. The newcomers like their good jobs, and love the scenic countryside. They did not want to leave. Someone made the suggestion, so they got busy and built a town specifically for outsiders and the unacceptable. They built their own churches. This fellow at the funeral, the one who told this story, is pastor of one of those churches. When I commented that I was surprised at the situation–major commercial activity nearby, economic development, a large influx of people being completely shut out by the natives–he added another element. Then I understood the situation. The county seat is the national headquarters of the Ku Klux Klan. He said there are only eight African-Americans in the county. Wondering about the new “city,” the one built for the locally unacceptable, I asked if any of those African-Americans were members of his church. I expected a negative answer. To my surprise, he said, “Yes, one is a member of our church.” ____________ This world we live in constantly confronts us with the unexpected. Who would expect to find a black person active in a white church in a place such as I have described? In this adventure we call life, we had best be hesitant to name anything impossible. Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? Who knows? Some of us are intent on establishing absolutes, establishing order, and doing all we can to bring everything under our control. Completely under. I know a couple who retired after having spent their unreconstructed racist life in Louisiana. They were raised in a culture of unchallenged racism. They were strong participants in that culture. I wonder why, when they retired, they left their home state and moved to Arkansas. Was it because of the natural beauty? That might be enough for me. Was it because he had a lifelong dream of becoming a country music star, and wanted to be within driving distance of Branson? As a teenager and young adult, he had sung on local radio. He had developed an outstanding voice and distinctive style. And is good-looking. They moved to the hometown of the KKK. There are other locations nearer Branson. Much of Arkansas is blessed with natural beauty. I suspect they have found themselves accepted in the town, the county, and the local church. I have another wonderment. I visited with a fellow, from Arkansas, a friend of this preacher, this preacher whose church accepts all races. This friend lives in the same region as this exclusive county with its inclusive “city” and church. As I visited with the friend, it came up that he (the friend) is a big fan of Rush Limbaugh. I wonder if, among the fans of Rush, you would find many members of the KKK? That may not be a fair question, and I am a person who tries to be fair. Still I wonder. It’s just a thought that, from somewhere, came to me.

Can Online Religion Be Real?

Can internet religion be real? I was, for thirty-some years, a university professor of Christian studies (and philosophy); then I retired. From classroom teaching, that is. Thanks to a friend who asked me to move my philosophy classroom from the university to his blog, I continue to teach philosophy. Then I established a few blogs in my own name and continue to teach Christian studies. I must present a caveat: years ago I quit calling myself a teacher, for to be a teacher means there are learners. You can be a professor or instructor without learning taking place, but if no one is learning, teaching is not being done. I am not sure when and where the learning takes place, so, rather than teacher, I choose to call myself one who attempts to set up conditions that facilitate learning. The question remains: can real Christianity be studied by computer mediated communication? Does it not require face to face, eyeball to eyeball, connection? Connection of the kind where tone of voice, facial expression, gesture, and perhaps even a pat on the back are possible. Religion is personal. Can it be electronic and remain authentic? In the School of Christian Studies at the university from which I retired last year, I am told the answer is, “No.” I understand and appreciate where they are coming from. I also believe that Christianity at its best, at its fullest, is something lived out in the flesh rather than in cyberspace. In spite of my appreciation for Karl Rahner’s idea of the “anonymous Christian,” the follower of Jesus can neither remain anonymous nor confine their commitment to the realm of virtual reality. At some point it must enter the world of flesh and blood, the world of physical space and actual rather than merely virtual community. Yet, I must affirm that if Christian studies can, to a certain degree, be conducted in a university or seminary classroom it can be conducted on the web. If it can be done by means of words written on paper–Bible, theologies, pamphlets, etc.–it can be done, to a certain degree, electronically. Eventually, it must get out of the classroom, out of the books, and out of cyberspace, but it can start there. Or it can be educated there. And cultivated there. These have their place. And in the 21st Century, computer mediated Christianity has an incredibly large place, a place in which the School of Christian Studies at my beloved university, should establish a presence. I much prefer teaching in a physical classroom, with less than twenty–preferably only ten or twelve--students. This provides a wide range of conditions that make for better teaching. On the other hand, it touches a quite limited number, which is why the school always insisted on larger numbers in the classroom, classes of as many as forty or forty-five (larger universities hold classes with hundreds in the same auditorium). If we insist of “ideal” conditions for learning, we will cut out most of those who have the need to learn and the interest in doing so. I am aware that I have not yet learned how best to do it online, but I do have, from all over the world, potential students looking in on my virtual classroom. Some of them decide to attend regularly. Some of them study and think. So far their numbers are small, and they come from only ten different countries, but that is far more inclusive than the few who can afford the time and money, and travel the distance to attend university classes. Yes, online religion can be real, as many Christian institutions are aware. I hope it will not be long before my old school realizes they are being “left behind.” It is not too late to play catch-up. Not only can online religion be real, it remains true that religion at the corner church house can be real. From time to time, here and there, I have actually seen it. Old-fashioned “organized religion,” “institutional religion” is not always hypocritical, nor is it always dead. “With God, all things are possible.”

Bedrock Beliefs

I used to carry my own coffee mug to Starbucks. I got a dime discount. More importantly, I prefer to drink coffee from porcelain or stoneware than from paper (or–horribly–from Styrofoam). Nevertheless, long ago I quit taking my own mug. A Starbucks “tall” container holds more coffee than my mug. I don’t drink a lot of coffee. I am not one of the coffee-drinking elite, so I can save about two-thirds of a “tall” for the next day, and often the last third for a third day. Using their container is more economical, at least for the way I drink coffee. The other reason for turning to their “cups” is that I like to read the quotations printed on them. Most are inane, but occasionally I run across one that is quite good. Recently I read the judgment of Rick Ridgeway, World Class Mountain and Rock-climber, explorer. He said: “Most of our bedrock beliefs are established by the time we are young adults–the ones we use to make our choices, and therefore direct our lives.” For more than forty years I have made it a point to review my “bedrock beliefs.” I know what I believe, and why, but I had never considered when those beliefs were established. So, I went back to those early years to see what of my “bedrock beliefs” were established by the time I was a young adult. I list them pretty well in the order they developed. • Jesus is “the way, the truth, and the life.” • Church is the place. • I am a social misfit. • The status quo is somewhere off-center, not to be accepted uncritically. • Carol is my “one.” • Reading is my best way of socializing. • Nature restores me. • Life is bittersweet. I appreciate Ridgeway for helping me see myself more clearly. These are, in fact, the beliefs that direct my life. • My understanding of Jesus is, far too much, culturally conditioned. Knowing him is beyond my grasp, but knowing that I am known by him, knowing that I can–and do–trust him keeps me moving the right direction, and gives his assuring presence and strength to keep moving on ahead and on up. • For near about forty years I have been engaged in a lover’s quarrel with the church. Good ones are not easy to find. Many of them stink. I find that, inside the church building, anger often visits me and is slow to leave. Nevertheless, the church is my home. There my soul is restored. God always meets me there. In this world where all the lights seem to be going out, the church is the only place any hint and hope of The Light of the World can be found. • In social situations, such as parties, dinners, Sunday School classes, and conventions, I wish I were more comfortable, and that I was accepted as a living, active member of the group, but I always remain an outsider, even if I am the honored guest or featured speaker. It was long years before I came to accept my differentness and stopped trying to round off the corners of my square peg and fit into the social circle. Three factors seem responsible for my otherness. When tested by the Myers-Briggs Personality Profile, I was classified as an INFP, a category that comprises somewhere from 1-8% of the population–most sources speak of 1%. I have a life-long condition called dysthymia, which affects only 3-6% of us–again, most authorities speak of 3%. On top of these two personality features that separate me from the vast majority of society, I was moved through the second and third grades in one school year, making me always the youngest in my class, thus a year behind my peers in social and psychological development. Thus, one of my bedrock beliefs is that I am not and will not come to be an insider in the larger society. • As early as I can remember, the status quo, in all realms of life, seemed amiss in my eyes and mind. This was a vague, indefinable perception that the years have brought into clearer and more definite focus. • By the time I reached middle-age, I realized there were only two things I’d never had a single doubt about: that I married the right woman, and that, through Homer White, God had called me to teach (this call came long after early adulthood). I was only sixteen when I realized that Carol was my “one.” That was well over a half-century ago. • Books have accepted and affirmed me just as I am, beginning back when just as I am was a lonely little boy. Through books I have been everywhere, learned something about almost everything, and befriended some the wisest and most interesting, first-rate, quality people who have ever lived. Often I am reading ten or more books at the same time, and on at least a half-dozen subjects. Whether like Poe I have “sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow,” or to visit with a friend, or to satisfy my curiosities, books have always been there. • The out-of-doors, fresh air, God’s good creation is like a restoring tonic. Always. Immediately my spirit is lifted, whether by a wisp of grass coming through a crack in the concrete, a lizard at attention, the prairies, the desert, a swamp or the clouds of the sky. A refuge. • Finally, before I left childhood, the bedrock conviction had come to me that life is bittersweet, a never-ceasing dialectical conflict in which the sweetness of life runs, always, ahead of the bitterness. Some of us taste much more of one than the other, but life is always both. ___________________ All of this from a French-pressed cup of Starbucks Italian Roast. I never realized that, although my eighteen-year-old self would not recognize its septuagenarian fruit, my bedrock beliefs were in place by the time I was eighteen. What about you? What foundations did you lay in those tender years? Do you know? It might be worth exploring.

Why I Read

I was asked once, why I read so much. This is the answer I gave. It remains true. ______________ I read because I'm hungry, because I need nourishment, because I want to grow. I choose a very wide range of books to provide a well-balanced diet, to feed all dimensions of my soul. I read every kind of literature, except junk; there is a lot out there. Sometimes I read because it's easier to read than to do; sometimes I find it's easier to do because I have read. Unquestionably, I know myself more completely, understand the gospel more profoundly, and appreciate you more fully because I read. I love God more, enjoy life more, and love you more because I read. Reading expands my world and enriches my life.

Taipei 1995

Summer, 1995

World Vision of Taiwan assembled us, Jirka from Prague, Job from Singapore, me from Texas, and highschool graduates from fifty nations. Jerry Chang assembled us, charged us to seek Universal Life Values and ways to promote them. For two months in Taiwan I led workshops, Jirka rehearsed them for the concert stage, and Job kept it all together. For another month we toured Southeast Asia, dialoguing and singing values, and forming a new, worldwide community.

I remember that summer. I was sixty-one, and had never traveled

Four months in the Far East surprised me.

1.

I remember I fell in love with the Chinese people.

I felt at home, comfortable,

walked city streets and alleys alone

before daylight and long after dark, unafraid.

I remember they were so ordinary--

mothers taking children to school,

Yuppies rushing to work,

old men in unwashed tee-shirts.

No inscrutable mystery,

mere human beings of different tone and culture.

I remember the variety of the Chinese.

Young lady in Taipei,

clearly Chinese, but taller than I

she strode by, wearing faded blue overalls.

I found faces varied as Americans,

and distinguished a dozen shades of black hair.

I remember they dressed

with more diversity

than Dallas does.

High fashion and hippie,

Asian and American,

school uniforms,

all on same sidewalk.

I remember the colors they wore,

muted hues.

Beige, mauve, taupe, tinted grays,

and everywhere pale grayed jade.

I remember the food.

Asia deports bad cooks.

I=m sure of it.

Unexceptional variety and excellence

followed me all the days of summer.

2.

I remember--before they came--

we stayed at the Empress Hotel.

The China Post under the door by 6:00 a.m.

I ordered Chinese breakfast,

almost every day.

Fish soup, steamed turnips, strange bits of pickles,

egg over easy, rice,

a plate of crispy little fishes

the size of a kitchen match--

one big eye shining--

chopsticks, and Oolong tea.

I remember we stayed three weeks in the Academia Sinica,

east edge of Taipei,

earthquake the first hour,

5.1 they said.

Small Chinese farms outside my fourth-floor window,

roosters before daylight,

a later earthquake

shook me from sleep

middle of the night.

I remember two weeks at the New Jade Valley

Resort and Convention Center.

Cook=s pride, his breads.

He made deliberate leftovers,

snacks for sixty all day long.

From our rooms

to lecture and rehearsal hall

one hundred steps

up and down

steep mountainside.

I remember in Manila

the Gilarmi Apartments.

Much older, darker,

with hint of dirt.

Guards at the entryway

held shotguns at ready,

smiled and greeted us always.

Thailand=s boast:

Athe land of smiles,@

but Bangkok revealed the rudest

people of the summer.

Manila was the city of smiles,

even from armed guards.

I remember that clearly.

I remember the Arcadia Hotel in Indonesia.

Fire extinguisher message,

in English, directed us:

AIn case of fire, light the extinguisher.@

I remember I was the only one

provided a private room wherever we went.

Asia honors old teachers.

3.

I remember we filled two buses

with hours of laughter, stories, and sleep.

We lived on the bus.

I remember with tight schedules

we often ate on the bus,

fast food--exotic Asia.

Macdonald=s, the staple food of Asia?

I remember Bangkok, world=s worst traffic,

we rode to a school at 5:00 a.m.

in an easy thirty minutes.

The 3:00 p.m. return took four hours.

Creep forty yards, then stop ten minutes.

Plenty of time to savor the city

and afternoon street life.

I remember the night in Manila,

On the buss after concert, Georges

commandeered microphone, and

impersonated the staff.

We laughed, Piedad uncontrollably.

He began to imitate me, but not long.

Later I learned someone pointed to the front, and whispered,

AHe=s on this bus.@

I remember the night Nahed,

sixteen year-old Palestinian

girl, sat with me as we crossed Seoul

on Hyundai bus.

She was our youngest, yet

mature, intelligent, and intense,

but so uneasy.

APlain, ordinary little Palestinian girl,@ she cried.

ANo, Nahed, not at all.

You think, care, and speak with head and heart.

You one day will lead@

I remember we rode from Bangkok south

three hours to the Burma border,

returned later in the day.

I lay in the back seat, both trips, flat on my back,

sick, Adon=t move,@ eyes covered, nausea.

I remember that ride.

4.

I remember we went to the largest church

in the world--

seven or eight hundred thousand members--

Seoul, Korea.

Six cellos in the orchestra,

at least six choices of language

to select on the headphones, .

They fed hundreds a good meal.

That=s my main memory.

I remember the next Sunday,

little Baptist church

I attended alone,

entire service in Chinese,

God=s love warmly shared.

I remember Fram Jihanger introduced me

in huge warehouse auditorium in Jakarta

where a charismatic group expanded.

Crudely groomed young American pastor,

offensive style--

and the Spirit spoke

to me, clearly,

in a known tongue.

I remember often we held our own services.

I found contemporary Christian music

universal among the young.

5.

I remember drinking java in Jakarta one evening.

Live music, three Chinese cowboys wailed,

ABlue moon of Kentucky, keep on shining.@

Exotic Java.

I remember on the Burma border

our project in small Thai village.

The colonel who commanded the Thai Border Patrol

listened to our songs,

smiled, clapped,

and asked permission to sing

ADanny Boy.@

Exotic Thailand.

I remember Hong Kong, our whole group singing,

AI can=t help falling in love with you.@

Shalom caught my eye,

crossed the room, and took my hands.

Others evaporated while old man

and Zimbabwean granddaughter sang,

ATake my heart,

take my whole life through, but I can=t help . . . .@

I remember that.

I remember haunting mezzo-soprano,

acapella, singing,

AGo and leave me if you wish to.@

Deirdre, County Limerick,

left us four days later.

An Irish mother in critical condition

needed a daughter.

And she sang as she walked away.

The lady had class.

I remember Tshepo Ntsala--bass--

so slowly intoning, APraise, praise,

praise the Lord.

Praise God=s holy name, hallelujah,@

while Lindirabe, Shalom, Marlene,

and Ndondo danced.

Alfred, Baffoe, Sebilu, and Isaya joined them.

Tempo picked up,

high-pitched African warbles punctuated Tshepo=s praise,

overtook it, and suddenly introduced

ecstasy to the entire assembly.

I remember two weeks at the Taipei Fortuna Hotel.

Piano player in lobby late at night

played Aour@ song--

mine and Carol=s from forty-five years ago--

AThey tried to tell us we=re too young.@

I remember Mitcy and Felipe arrived two days late,

as we rehearsed APraise, praise, . . . .@

When they entered our practice hall, the forty-eight

began a march, encircling them,

continuing to smile and sing,

APraise God=s holy name, hallelujah.@

Although late arrivals,

they felt our love and acceptance.

I remember we flew Singapore Airlines

serenaded passengers and crew with,

ASingapura, oh Singapura, pretty island set in the sea.@

I remember we sang all summer--

on concert stage, in buses,

hotel hallways, hospitals,

and in prison:

ALove in any language,

straight from the heart.@

Our signature.

6.

I remember time alone, not often.

Alone in seven of

the world=s most densely populated cities.

I remember one evening, alone in a restaurant,

I wanted fish,

So I took pencil and paper,

and drew its picture--

best fish ever I tasted.

I remember one night in China,

in a Burmese restaurant,

I chose Vietnamese rice.

I remember in Hong Kong mall,

I looked down and read the label

on my can of geranium tea,

looked up

and the group was gone.

Alone in a sea of Chinese figures,

I was lost, near panic

for two minutes of eternity,

and then I saw Jules.

I remember brisk autumnal drizzle as

I walked Korean park.

Japanese Red Maples turning color.

I relaxed.

Rare opportunity

I sat and wrote in journal..

And I remembered Carol,

and I remembered I had a return ticket to Texas.

I boarded China Airlines

and came home.