Holy Redeemer Lutheran Church
1948 The Alameda
San Jose, CA 95126
San Jose, CA 95126
When an athlete gets "in the zone," or begins to play his position better than he or she has in the past, people frequently say that the game has slowed down for the athlete. I think that means that they are seeing things better than they have in the past, that they have (seemingly) more time to accomplish what they want to do, and that it all make sense at a heightened level.
I have never totally understood what the announcers were saying, not having experienced the game slowing down in this manner. When I played baseball, I hid in left field and hoped that the ball would not come my way. When I played football, I tried to find a place on the field where there would be no activity. On a few occasions, while running track in my high school days, I did feel things slow down (and I remember those rare occasions as being euphoric). But, that was long ago.
When I returned from a recent trip, ministry "slowed down" for me. Suddenly I was amazed at the amount of work that I was able to get done in a day. I was mesmerized by the vision of what we should be doing and how it would work. Progressive theology fit together in a new way - and it made sense, on many different levels.
It doesn't mean that I don't still get bogged down at time. I do. It doesn't mean that I accomplish everything that I want to accomplish. I don't. It doesn't mean that I manage to meet every deadline for an article or for worship planning or for getting things done. I will never do that.
But, it does mean that I feel a new lease on life - and ministry - and that things in the world are much better than they have been for quite some time. One can only hope that this lasts for a long time.
I have been reading (re-reading, after a great deal of time) Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. In his section on Reading, he writes the following:
However much we may admire the orator's occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds. There are the stars, and they who can may read them. The astronomers forever comment on and observe them. They are not exhalations like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath. What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the study. The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and heart of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
God, through the angel Gabriel, called on Mary to do what, in the world's eye, is impossible, and instead of saying, "I can't," she replied immediately, "Be it unto me according to your Word."
God is always calling on us to do the impossible. It helps me to remember that anything Jesus did during his life here on earth is something we should be able to do, too.
When spring-fed Dog Pond warms up enough for swimming I often go there in the late afternoon. Sometimes I will sit on a sun-warmed rock to dry, and think of Peter walking across the water to meet Jesus. As long as he didn't remember that we human beings have forgotten how to walk on water, he was able to do it.
If Jesus of Nazareth was God become truly man for us, as I believe he was, then we should be able to walk on water, to heal the sick, even to accept the Father's answer to our prayers when it is not the answer that we hope for, when it is No. Jesus begged in anguish that he be spared the bitter cup, and then humbly added, "but not as I will. Father, as you will."
In art, either as creators or participators, we are helped to remember some of the glorious things we have forgotten, and some of the terrible things we are asked to endure, we who are children of God by adoption and grace.
The chief job of the teacher is to help us to remember all that we have forgotten One of the great sorrows which came to human beings when Adam and Eve left the Garden was the loss of memory, memory of all that God's children are meant to be. Perhaps one day I will remember how to walk across Dog Pond.
Ever since I was a boy in Northern Minnesota I have read Native American legends. Some of them are very similar to scripture, some are vastly different. They seek to answer questions, as do our stories. Recently I have decided that I would like to share some of my favorites with you (or at least some that I have read recently that I find to be interesting). This time:
Tobats is the greatest god. There is no god like Tobats. Tobats made the world. He made the Indians and he put the fish in the water. He made tu-ee, the deer, and cooch, the buffalo. He made qui-ak-ant, the bear. He made quan-ants, the eagle. He made all the animals.
Shinob is the second god in power and greatness. He is brother to Tobats and friend. They live together at Tobats-kan. Tobats is old. He was always old, but Shinob is always young. Shinob dances the sun dance and he runs Tobats' errands.
Tobats made tu-weap, the earth. He made the rocks, the mountains and the streams of water. Then he returned to Tobats-kan, his home, to rest.
Shinob looked at the world Tobats had made and said, "It is good. It is strong. It is pretty. It is in a good place. It is useless."
Then Tobats answered, "It is not done. It is not finished. I will go back and finish my world, then you can look again. I will make trees. I will make flowers. I will make grass. I will make willows and brush. I will finish all that I have made.
Tobats did all that he said. He came and made all these things. He made them of solid stone so they would endure forever, for he never wanted to be bothered with them again. Then old Tobats made the Indians and all the animals and returned to his home to rest.
To Shinob he spoke, "Go now and see how you like tu-weap, the earth. Shinob came and looked. The world looked much improved and Tobats had made everything so strong and solid. Shinob noticed also that the living things were not happy and he knew the reason why.
Shinob went to Tobats and said, "Tu-weap is beautiful and very strong. But the living things you have put there will die. They are very poor and unhappy. You forgot to give them food to eat. They are very tired and they cry all the time. The wind blows and the rain falls and they have no shelter from the elements. There is no fire on tu-weap for your stone trees and brush will never burn. There is no grass or fruit for the living things to eat. They can only drink water and eat each other.
Then Tobats said to Shinob, "Go back to tu-weap and give the Indians fire. Put fire in everything. Put fire in the ground. Put fire in the rocks. Put fire in the trees so they will burn. Pout fire in the grass, in the willows, in the brush and in the flowers. Put fire in everything." "If I do that," Shinob answered, "everything will burn up." Tobats said, "Then you can put water with the fire in everything. Put water in the trees and in the brush, in the willows, in the grass and in the flowers. Let all the things that grow out of the earth draw water from the earth, so the fire they hold will not burn them up. Tell the animals to eat the things that grow out of tu-weap and they will be fat and happy. The animals can all be friends for they will not have to eat each other. Go now and do all this. Go quick."
Shinob did all the he was told. He came and called from far off to all the tribes of Indians to send men to him for fire, ten strong men from every tribe.
It was done as Shinob requested. As the Indians came he handed to each group a stick with fire on one end which they were to carry back, to their tribe. They must not drop it. They must not lose it. They must not let anyone else get it. They must carry it back to their homes as quickly as possible.
When the Indians started homeward Un-nu-pit, the bad medicine maker, found them and began to make trouble for them. He tried to steal the fire or to kill it, for fire belonged to his world. He called many warriors to help him. But each Indian who carried a torch fought the bad ones with all his might and held stoutly to his fire. Very fiercely he fought and he ran as fast and as far as he could, and when he gave out another Indian took up the torch. Thus they fought all over the face of tu-weap, the earth.
For many days the Indians fought Un-nu-pit and his warriors, but Shinob helped them and they all got their fire home. Then the Indians were happy. The deer and the buffalo ate grass and grew fat. Every kind of animal ate grass and the plants that grew out of the earth and all became friends. The Indians cooked their food and were warm. Every man built a shelter for his family to live in, for the poles and limbs would bend and not break. The women made willow baskets sealed with gum to carry their food and water.
When the grass, the brush and trees were dry the Indians could strike the fire from the rocks into the fire in the grass and start a blaze, and when the dry trees were put on, the bigger fire would come out of them and make everything warm and cheerful.
During the great battle between the Indians and un-nu-pit's warriors, ashes and sparks were flying everywhere. Whatever was touched by them partook of their fiery nature. Fire went into the trees. Fire went into the rocks. Fire went into the grass, the flowers, the willows and brush. The trees and willows and brush and grass got most of the sparks and they give out more fire now. Tu-weap, the earth, got most of the ashes and not much fire. The rocks caught may sparks, but they locked the fire up. Hit them hard, and they let a little out, then shut it up quickly again.
In the big firth that went on all over the face of the earth a few trees here and there were missed. You may find them yet in the old forests. Some stumps are standing and some big trees are fallen and broken, but they still are stone. They are the trees that Tobats made in the very beginning and Shinob's fire never touched.
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Is it possible for a Kennedy to be overlooked and underappreciated? If you're inclined to agree with or admire Senator Edward M. Kennedy, a viewing of HBO's Teddy will certainly lead you to an affirmative answer.
Teddy begins in Denver, at the 2008 Democratic Convention. In terms of sheer artistry, vigor and conviction, his 1980 speech had this one beat. In filling out the Odyssean narrative that has been Teddy's life, it couldn't be more fitting. The speech, relatively soon after Kennedy's being diagnosed with a large brain tumor, serves to sum up the man rather than the youngest brother. While it is true that simply being a Kennedy must define a person in many ways, Teddy is larger than that. A little thing like a brain tumor isn't going to silence, stop, or even slow this fighter down.
That irrepressibility is the oil that lubricates the endearment of his fans and the ire of his detractors. Teddy Kennedy has a long list of formidable foes, from Nixon to the generation of conservatives after him to many in his own party to the vagaries of fate itself. No one would sooner assent to his life of privilege than the man himself, but even the fiercest of composers of enemies lists would grant that the senator from Massachusetts isn't going to shy away from a fight.
To those detractors, there isn't much in Teddy to like. The film, narrated by Kennedy, sticks its toe right to the hagiography line. Like everything else regarding Kennedy or politics in general, whether that line is crossed depends entirely on one's persuasion. Chris Matthews will likely give this work an enthusiastic five-star endorsement. Rush Limbaugh's review is surely to be more reserved. Though it goes far to illustrate the courage, convictions and strength of character Kennedy prides himself on, Teddy doesn't avoid things that aren't exactly comfortable subjects. Naturally, there are the untimely deaths of his siblings - Kunhardt and Nevins deserve much respect for treating the shootings of Jack and Bobby with the propriety so many have chosen to discard - his son's bout with bone cancer, a plane crash, the wreckage of which would lead one to surmise that the passengers hadn't a chance of surviving, let alone walking again, a few tips of the bottle, a failed campaign for the Democratic nomination and
O, that Chappaquiddick thing.
It would be irresponsible of a filmmaker endeavoring to present a fitting biography of Senator Kennedy to omit the death of Mary Jo Kopechne. The word Chappaquiddick has taken on a sort of mystical quality among hard-core right-wingers in the United States, resulting in a call-and-response reaction for reactionaries. Ask your closest conservative acquaintance the first word that comes into his (or, who knows, her) head with the mention of Kennedy's name. If Chappaquiddick doesn't spring into the conversation in less time than Christopher Hitchens clutches a sherry glass, the subject's bona fides should be in question. Teddy doesn't linger on it, but chooses to proceed to the next set of difficulties. It isn't a stretch to ruminate on whether Teddy Kennedy is the most fitting Job analogue our politics has available. If the film has missed a trial or a triumph, this reviewer can't find it. There's a moment in the film when Joan's battle with alcohol comes up. The first thing that strikes the viewer is the seeming omission of Kennedy's own legendary dipsomania. That nagging question is eventually addressed, as is virtually every twist and turn on Teddy's road.
If there is a missing piece to lament, it is the brevity of clips from his 1980 Convention speech. Among his trials and triumphs, that speech is what cements his legacy. It rings as true today as it did in 1980, and the speech in its entirety is compulsory supplemental viewing.
Around this time, Kennedy was finding the dominant theme in his public policy career: health care. Like so much else involving him, the timing of this film falls right in the center of things shaping our future. At the moment, he seems poised for vindication on his battle of more than two decades. The victory will be worthy of Pyrrhus of Epirus, as the Obama Administration seems hell-bent on capitulating to the criminal syndicate that makes the American health care apparatus the Aunt Sally of the developed world. Teddy has taken on those recreants in the insurance industry. His fight has been noble if thwarted by his closest allies. Though the outcome is likely to be far from sufficient, Kennedy deserves great credit for working to keep this national shame in focus. It is quite imaginable that his crusade for adequate medical access among those who weren't born into vast fortunes is the primary reason this woeful status quo is being challenged.
How Teddy, and his brothers and sisters, arrived at such a profound understanding of noblesse oblige must be credited to his parents. The Kennedys weren't the first limousine liberals, but they're easily the most ubiquitous. It is perplexing to conceive of how a person from his class could empathize so completely with the lower orders; however he does it, it is without question that he does. In the end, the story of Edward M. Kennedy is one of ordeals and outcomes. Long languishing in his brothers' shadows, he is deserving of the hero's treatment this film bestows upon him. Ask anyone from the civil rights movement, the women's rights movement, the anti-war movement, or any of a host of others that defined the Democratic Party before the Clinton Era. If the word hero doesn't come up regarding Teddy Kennedy, it should. Given the torments he has endured in life, even the staunchest neocon blackshirt must agree that Kennedy meets every possible literary standard of heroism. Perfect? No. Neither was Hamlet or Henry or Huck. That Kennedy is imbued with an almost Falstaffian countenance must contribute to the universal respect he receives on the Hill.
Teddy: In His Own Words allows the story to unfold and return to his moving moment in Denver. As the end loops the beginning to some of the bounteous footage provided in the film, it is clear that there'd be no other way to finish. After a barrage of images and events, after delivery of far too many eulogies for one man to bear, after accusations and innuendo, Teddy always comes back around. Back to Cape Cod, to his skiff and his water dog, to the ethics and ideals of Joseph, Rose, Joe, Jack, Bobby and Kathleen. Back to the fight for those left behind. Always back to the fight, because, as Teddy illustrates in perfect detail, if you can't bring yourself to call him a hero, he will gladly settle on fighter.
"The biblical character Job asked: 'If a man [or a woman] dies, will he [or she] live again?' My answer is 'Yes!' Now let me take you on this journey that I have walked, which took me both beyond religion and even beyond Christianity, as it is traditionally understood, but a journey that has brought me to a new vision of eternity, to the place where I can give that 'yes' answer to Job's question with both conviction and integrity."
With these words, John Shelby Spong, one of America's most popular and controversial religious authors and thinkers, opens his new and penetrating study of life beyond death. Combining science and theology, he examines the 3.7-billion-year human journey from single cell life into the complexities of modern self-consciousness and his own personal journey from a fertilized egg cell to his eighth decade of life. Weaving the story of life's radical interdependence, Spong charts the similarities and the breakthroughs to stunning new transformations that all life-forms seem to share. It is the nature of human life to seek meaning, purpose and victory over mortality. Human beings convince themselves that they can find these things in the practice of religion, but now many people feel a great disillusionment with religion since its basic presuppositions are under assault from the knowledge revolution of the past 500 years. In a not-always-comfortable manner, human beings are now being drawn beyond religion in their quest for answers. They are also moving beyond religion's traditional theistic definition of God as a "supernatural being," a miracle worker or an exalted parent figure. This image of God has died, Spong argues, and with it any sense of purpose, meaning or immortality that is outside life.
The modern experience, to quote Meister Eckhart, is that of "taking leave of God." For Spong this death of theism opens new doorways into life, into timelessness, and into the mystical experience of being one with the presence of the holy. This is the most exciting, most profound, and for some of his readers, most troubling book of Spong's storied career. It is also the book for which he will be most remembered.