Open Up the Tired Eyes

Something different for today. The photo is mine, but the words are not.



Well he shot four men
in a cocaine deal

And he left them
lyin' in an open field

Full of old cars
with bullet holes
in the mirrors.

He tried to do his best
but he could not.

Please take my advice,
please take my advice

Please take my advice.
Open up the tired eyes,
Open up the tired eyes.

-Neil Young, 1975

Short Story, Part Five

A work of fiction, with a few elements of truth.

Thus far, you have viewed my better side, my better qualities. I would be negligent now if I did not show you a few glaring mistakes. Forget your perfect offering. A crack, as Leonard Cohen notes, is how the light gets in. You shall see the darkness and the light and judge for yourself.

In the beginning, it is as if every relationship exists in isolation to the rest of the world. Infatuation drowns out everything else. But sometimes the outside world interjects itself rudely and action is necessary. I made the perfectly excusable mistake of inadvertently stepping into a long-running marital feud raging between two of our mutual friends. She was lonely and wished to talk, so I struck up a separate conversation with her upon a visit to their home. We spoke about nothing especially memorable, parted ways, and I thought nothing of it.

His behavior towards me changed overnight. I could feel the anger and resentment radiating off of him in the way he walked past. A year’s worth of jovial discourse was cast aside in an instant. If I tried to initiate the most banal of discussions, he ignored me and quickly departed. I wasn’t quite sure what to do aside from keep my distance. As is often commonplace, the source of the conflict had nothing really to do with me, per se. I was merely a dual projection of animosity and jealousy. It's never comfortable to be in such a situation, but I made it clear through surrogates that I didn't find it especially fair to be caught in the middle. Once the gunfire died down, I assumed that their troubled marriage had resolved itself, but found that only a brief armistice of hostilities had been declared.

It was when they started advertising their feud via Facebook that the tension reached a raging boil. The petty churlishness was on display for the world to see, or at least self-selected friends. There were no shortage of red flags now, but I regret that an impulsive part of me sometimes enjoys playing with fire. I should not have interceded in someone else’s civil war. One of my weaknesses is a desire to vindictively force the shoe on the other foot of someone who has wronged me. Maybe I’ll always be the lonely little boy, the easy target for bullies. Getting even has been the downfall of many and I ought to have known better. I can recognize my motives but not excuse my foolishness.

A relationship is in trouble when both parties start keeping score. Bitterness leads to a thousand impulsive decisions, few of them anchored in good sense. I was hoping she’d jump at an opportunity for retribution. I made the most innocent of inquiries, suggesting she might wish to meet for coffee to talk it over. She got back to me quickly and a time was established. My e-mail had dropped a thousand subtle and a few not-so-subtle hints. I knew what I wanted, but I have learned since then that we’re not nearly in control of the process as we think. Courting danger only promises to release the furies. A jealous man is never a trifling matter, but my irrational side won out.

Once we’d said a hello and selected a table, our talk was by turns flirtatious but also cagey. She saw right through my intentions from the outset, though I had not disguised them. It is clear she enjoyed the attention, but in her mind, I had never been much more than a chess piece. Staring across a table from each other, she moved forward a space, then sideways, then sideways again. I chased her around the board for most of an hour, and then conceded the game based on weariness. When asked if I’d like to meet again, I mumbled something indecisive, than left the table with some haste. I wasn’t interested in another lengthy period of courting. I did not and had not ever envisioned this as a romance or a multi-step process. I wanted instead to see if I could achieve a particularly childish form of evening the score and some harmless pleasure as well.

I recognize you may think less of me now. My motives were a means of seeking to punish the past, to give it a good lashing, if you will. It was payback for every schoolyard taunt, every instance of omission, every hurtful remark based in ignorance. It’s not as though the present is a particularly effective target, but it happens to be the only one available. An eye for an eye is one of the easiest of motivations. After this experience, I watched the continual disintegration of the marriage from a semi-detached point of view. My interest remained, but with most of the mystery removed, the pleasure of idle speculation was no longer possible.

They put their divorce proceedings on Twitter. I know few people who would choose to broadcast such a thing in such a way, but they did. Along with an updated progression of the case, seemingly to the minute, the two also gave running commentary. Never before have I seen such a copious display of He Said/She Said. By the last rap of the gavel, I found it impossible to understand who shouldered most of the blame. They were, at a base level, a supremely bad match who had gotten married for all the wrong reasons. By the end, I regretted I’d stooped to their level. I’ll call it a lesson learned.

Sweetie: A Review

New Zealand director Jane Campion’s debut 1989 film Sweetie is a portrayal of a slowly imploding dysfunctional family. Along with two sputtering relationships are the hijinks of mentally ill daughter Dawn, whose nickname doubles as the title. The more conventional sister, Kay, is as buttoned up and emotionally remote as her sister is impulsive and unrestrained. In the movie’s first half, the screenplay provides no answers to Kay’s repressed character. It is only after the introduction of her black sheep sibling that we begin to feel the sympathy that comes from honest understanding. But it is only through what we observe that this occurs; Kay never seems to care whether we or anyone else likes her or hates her.

It is, in fact, difficult to easily relate or feel favor for any character, male or female, young or old. Kay’s distant behavior endears her to almost no one at her job, which leaves her exposed to a lot of workplace teasing. Her meditating, Buddhist, attractive boyfriend Louis recognizes over time that the two of them are a terrible match. Only a year after they moved in together, she has retreated to a separate bedroom and shows no interest in sex. Shortly before, she managed to win his hand away from one of her co-workers, after he had been previously engaged to someone else for all of an hour. Her sister Dawn/Sweetie has consistently wound the rest of the family around her little finger over the years, resorting to childish tirades to win attention, approval, and her own way. The two long-suffering parents are having their own problems, which could be as a result of being their daughter’s perpetual caretaker. Discerning motives is challenging because they are never plainly spelled out.

As someone with a similar disability, the film’s depiction of Sweetie made me very uncomfortable. It wasn’t because I thought the artist’s rendition was unfair or unrealistic, but rather that I have encountered people similar to her in my own life. Mental illness can best be explained as a spectrum disorder, with extremely varied diagnoses, presentations, and intensity of symptoms. In most psychiatric hospitals, however, patients are grouped together in one or two units, regardless of specific ailment or severity of illness. I have known people like Sweetie, and found it equally difficult to not let my frustrations taint my perception of them. Some people, sadly, use their illness as a means to obtain what they want, entirely as a means of manipulation. Sweetie has made a conscious decision to not act in her own best interest, and based on the family’s response, this is a regular pattern for her.

What is difficult to discern is the role of the father. Is he a delusional enabler, an incurable optimist, a man unable to view his wayward child beyond fond memories of her as a girl? Or, does something darker exist between a daughter and her biggest champion? Some reviewers have suggested the two may carry on a discreet incestuous relationship, one consigned to the shadows. While this theory would not seem out of order in a film of this nature, neither it is for certain. Sweetie’s father may simply, like many parents, be unwilling to entertain the notion that his daughter has significant limitations. Acknowledging Dawn’s flaws might force him to contemplate his own mistakes in parenting.

By the end of the film, a somewhat meandering journey by the entire cast ends in catastrophe. It is not an entirely unforeseen conclusion, mind you, since patience has worn thin with Sweetie ever since she arrived on the scene. Part of the film’s overall theme involves the mystery of fate and destiny and humanity’s inability to make sense of it. Kay consults a psychic early in the film to provide her some assured insight regarding the future. The mystic literally reads tea leaves to make her predictions, with decidedly mixed results. It is a visit to this clairvoyant that bookends the beginning and the end. An otherwise hyper-rational human being like Kay would never be thought to trust in something so improvable, but her veneer of fastidious control shows cracks in the foundation. Her personality may be a well-practiced poker face. It is those who feel they have the most to lose who must seek to control the present and what is later to come. And in short, they are afraid.

Time To Go

Thanks to everyone
for everything you've done
but now it's time to go

You know it's hard
we've had some fun
but now we're almost done

It's time to go

Who could ask
for more?

Thanks to everything
for everything you've done
but now it's time to go

You know it's hard
we've had some fun
but now we're almost done
it's almost done

Who could ask
for more?

Who could ask
for more?

Is Mormonism a Cult? It Depends on How You Define It

In response to the controversy surrounding Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney’s faith, let us consider the same question that sparked all the controversy. Is Mormonism really a cult? When I was much younger, I attended an Evangelical, essentially Baptist church, where this was the view of most people with whom I worshiped. I must admit that to this day, I still entertain severe doubts about some of the religion’s beliefs, seeing them as silly and incomprehensible. In a recent interview, a Baptist minister and supporter of Rick Perry disqualified Latter Day Saints from the Christian based on his own standard of purity. By this logic, any movement that does not trace its heritage back to the original First Century Christians and Jesus’ ministry before that cannot possibly be authentic. Those who do not use this starting point as their own cannot be authentic believers. However, this interpretation entirely depends upon whose standard and definition we use as we make our judgments.


I can think of any number of odd practices and customs that Mormons hold. Baptism of the dead, for example, is a big one. Having one’s family retroactively converted without their consent is another. Mormon men wear sacred undergarments beneath their clothes to protect them from evil. Still, I would call it a Christian sect sooner than I would call it a cult. Some of its basic premises are somewhat suspect in my eyes, like the presence of gold plates bearing a strange language found in a hillside in Western New York, plates that have never been found since. The Mormon kids I grew up with always had a mysterious quality to them, as though they were all hiding something. This sort of secrecy did not do much to dispel the “cult” label.

Three hundred and fifty years ago, I’m sure there were many in England who saw Quakers as cultists. To most, our ways were idiosyncratic and bizarre. Like Joseph Smith, our own founder, George Fox, received a vision on a hilltop, this being Pendle Hill in England. “From the top of this hill the Lord let me see in what places he had a great people to be gathered,” Fox wrote. Quakers did not make a neutral impression upon 17th Century English society. Many took great offense to the fact that women were allowed and encouraged to preach, but others viewed the practice as merely sensational and quite harmless. Believing they were privy to something intriguingly eccentric, if not altogether disastrous, the spectacle of women’s voices in worship was entertainment for many. An observer of the time, the author and learned man of letters Samuel Johnson said that it was like watching a dog walk on his hind legs. It was not done well, but one was nevertheless surprised to see it done at all.

A few other commonalities exist between Quakers and LDS. George Fox dashed off Epistle after Epistle, letter after letter to forcefully push back against those who claimed that Quakers were not really Christians. Religious movements are, to this day, trusted based on their own age first, and then measured by their adoption of even older theological beliefs. The Religious Society of Friends, often known as those people named Quakers, sought to return to the roots of Christianity in its pre-Nicene form. Some forms of tradition were retained, but others were replaced altogether. A Worship based in silence, not in spoken or sung liturgy already separated Friends from most other Protestant groups. This was Primitive Christianity revisited, designed to mimic the times when small groups of believers conducted worship without hymnals, readings, or even basic literacy.

But what both groups do very much have in common is a history of violent persecution, leading to a mass migration. The first generation of Quakers were jailed and sometimes killed for practicing their religious beliefs. The colony of Pennsylvania in the New World was designed to be notable convert William Penn’s Holy Experiment and Quaker homeland. Mormons were killed by the intolerant and fearful around them and its casualties included Joseph Smith himself. This sort of bigotry necessitated the migration of the entire flock out to Utah. And, if I am to be fully honest, both Mormonism and Quakerism were founded by charismatic young men of modest birth who saw faith very differently. But then again, the same is true for Christianity.

In the beginning, Christianity itself was said to be a cult, an offshoot of Judaism. In the early days, it fought for its legitimacy against heavy odds. Many Jews found the new religion threatening, and there were even some believers who chose to preserve certain Jewish traditions by mingling them with newer Christian ones. They were known as Judaizers and sometimes Jewish Christians. What separate the early Christians from the Judaizers was the latter’s reliance on salvation by works. And it is a works-based philosophy that drives Mormonism. Quakerism, by contrast, stresses individual guidance between Holy Spirit and believer. While it does include a handful of Testimonies to be followed, these are to be individually applied, in place of dogma or doctrine. One person’s interpretation of the Peace Testimony, for example, might be very different from that of another Friend.

No single standard of religious faith and belief exists in all the land, despite those who argue to the contrary. Some Baptists I have met act as though they are the only people who will ever get to heaven. In any purity battle like this one, the determining issues become those of metrics. Whose qualifying factors do we use as a divining rod? Mormonism is at times a peculiar faith, but it is worth saying that Quakers define themselves even now as a peculiar people.

When I first joined, years ago, a long-time Friend asked me a particularly blunt question. “How did you ever find such strange people?” He meant it as a critique of himself as well, but I will say in response to the question that any space dominated by introversion rarely takes the form of society’s definition of normal. The lack of transparency that Mormonism seems to insist upon seems to be its primary problem. If you assume you will always be misunderstood, you likely always will. And even if it were to define itself more readily, it still may never be considered kosher to Evangelical Christians. Even so, what is often viewed as an odd and perhaps remote faith group might wish to reward its favorite son by beginning a campaign towards greater outreach, should he be a serious candidate for the highest office in the land.

Air and Space, Dulles

Air and Space, Dulles, a set on Flickr.

A short set.

Discipline Needed for Occupy Wall Street Movements

Liberals are eager for the recent Occupy Wall Street protests to be the harbinger of a greater trend. This is not surprising, since the Left’s ability to inspire massive participation has dimmed considerably in the years since Vietnam. A highly organized, highly coordinated system of street demonstrations, all centered around a core group of issues, devolved by the 1970’s into a means of expressing almost exclusively individual grievances. Or, protesting became relegated to certain specific groups or causes that pushed agitation. Participation on a grand scale morphed into protest culture, a small subculture of progressives with their own peculiarities, often the only sorts of people who can be reliably counted on to show up.

What I observed personally over the weekend more or less fell into the same category. These movements, if one can now feasibly call them that now, were isolated clusters of demonstrators, no more than a couple hundred at a time. At least two existed simultaneously on Saturday. One, Occupy DC, were noisy but unthreatening, with participants bearing signs on the subject of a multitude of causes both great and small. Another, Stop The Machine, was a bit more militant. Its members, protesting the War in Afghanistan, set up shop next to the Smithsonian’s popular Air and Space Museum. It was their intention to speak out against the display of drone aircraft inside, the likes of which have been used frequently by US troops in the conflict.

Stop the Machine’s protest involved actually entering the museum to make a public statement, which managed to get a few activists effectively pepper sprayed and at least one arrested. According to the museum’s account, a security guard was rather aggressively shoved by those seeking to force their way past the doors. Non-violent this is not. I arrived shortly after this happened, observing four to five DC police cars rushing forward ahead of me. If it was the intention of the few hundred people who remained to shut the entire museum down for the rest of the day, I can say they succeeded. However, I am told on Sunday it was promptly reopened.

Twitter feed hostilities between the two groups occasionally flared, some believing the mace attack was senseless. They posted dramatically introduced cell phone camera accounts of what transpired. Others thought the entire concept was incredibly stupid and counter-productive. News reports vary, and it seems to be difficult to know where one group ended and another began. Allegiances were muddled. Which is part of the problem.

A pacifist myself, my sympathies do lie with these protests. But I know that unless a coherent message coalesces with the leadership to follow, these gatherings of the righteously indignant will stay small and never be much more than a curiosity to the media and American people alike. Those who provide boots on the group must also be highly disciplined, not the sort of people who lose their cool when things get heated, if one account is to be believed. The same crunchy hippies or highly motivated, politically informed activists that make up protest culture will need to be joined by others. Though I try not to invoke identity politics unless absolutely necessary, I couldn’t help but notice some commonalities. Those found at the protests were almost entirely white, educated, and middle class. I saw few people of color and otherwise a telling amount of overall consistency.

We might take these protests as a personal challenge to ourselves. Do we believe in the power of marching in the streets these days? If we do, we’re going to need to commit the time and energy necessary to becoming a well-oiled machine, much like the war machine many were protesting. One of the worst possible attitudes to espouse, in my opinion, is Revolution for the Hell of It™. Hedonism is just another form of the pervasive cynicism that always is found in great quantity during bad times. There must be a framework of moral guidance in place, else we will be forever shoving security guards and paying the consequences for it. We should have learned on the playground as children that it doesn’t matter who started it. To be successful, we cannot lose sight of a higher purpose beyond ourselves, one that stretches well beyond our pet issues.

Quote of the Week

And I went down to the demonstration
To get my fair share of abuse
Singing, we're gonna vent our frustration
If we don't we're gonna blow a 50-amp fuse

-The Rolling Stones

Saturday Video

Baby, do you understand me now
Sometimes I feel a little mad
Well don't you know that no-one alive
Can always be an angel
When things go wrong I seem to be bad

I'm just a soul who's intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Baby, sometimes I'm so carefree
With a joy that's hard to hide

And sometimes it seems that
All I have to do is worry
And then you're bound to see my other side

If I seem edgy, I want you to know
That I never mean to take it out on you
Life has it's problems and I get my share
And that's one thing I never mean to do
'cause I love you

Oh, oh, oh, baby, don't you know I'm human
Have thoughts like any other one
Sometimes I find myself alone and regretting
Some foolish thing, some little sinful thing I've done

Yes, I'm just a soul who's intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let be me be misunderstood

You Can See Me

If you like me,
You can buy me,
And take me home.

When you see me,
On your tv,
I’m alone.

You can call me,
Tell your story, on the phone.

You can hear me,
Over blue seas,
I’m alone.

You can see me,
I’m not running about,
You can see me.
You can see me,
I’m not running about,
You can see me.

When you need me,
Come and see me,
And take me out.

In the evening,
When they’re sleeping,
lay me down.

All the crazies,
Tryin’ to space me,
And I don’t know.

I’m not easy,
Don’t try to please me,
Stay on the phone.

You can see me,
I’m not ready to go.
You can see me,
You can see me,
I’m not ready to go.

If you like me,
You can buy me,
And take me home.

When you see me,
On you tv,
I’m alone.

You can call me,
Tell your story,
On the phone.

You can hear me,
Over blue seas,
I’m alone.

You can see me,
I’m not ready to go.
You can see me,
You can see me,
I’m not ready to go.
You can see me.

You can see me,
I’m not ready to go,
You can see me.

You can see me,
I’m not ready to go,
You can see me.

A Native's View of the Alabama Immigration Law

With a draconian anti-immigration bill now the law of the land in Alabama, news reports have noted that Latinos have begun leaving the state. I recall when they first arrived, now close to fifteen years ago. Migrant Hispanic day laborers began to pour into Hoover, Alabama, specifically because of the housing boom then chugging along at breakneck pace. The city annexed more and more land, much of which was zoned for residential development. Cookie-cutter suburban homes sprang up overnight, in no small part to the willingness of a certain minority group to do the backbreaking labor. Digging foundations and sewer lines, among other tasks, was filthy, dangerous work, and a few even perished from the endeavor. But it still paid more than back home in Mexico, so they kept arriving, wave after wave.

Apartments were affordable in the oldest part of town, along Lorna Road. Sometimes whole families would inhabit a space that had been originally designed for two people alone. And with time, a thriving business district appeared, one where Spanish was the dominant language and the culture one observed was very different from that of the Deep South. Still, its residents and the businesses kept their distance from the rest of us and rarely interacted, except on the job. This was no melting pot, assuming we even believe in such things anymore. We lived fully separate lives.

But in matters where crossing paths was unavoidable, challenges appeared rather quickly. Many of them involved public school education. Boys and girls who could barely speak English could obviously not yet read at grade level. This necessitated the hire of scores of English as a Second Language (ESL) teachers. And, not only were these children deficit in their adopted tongue, they were also below grade level in Spanish. Rural areas of Mexico suffered from the same lack of basic resources as in any other developing country. What may not surprise you is that No Child Left Behind doesn't take this circumstance into account. The school system failed to meet a progress goal, which became the only excuse needed to get rid of a strong Superintendent who would not acquiesce to a controlling City Council.

By now, anti-immigrant settlement was at its apex. Familiar bigoted phrases were heard. The Hispanics were taking jobs away, they were taxing the resources of the city, and they were avoiding paying taxes. A resource center that directed immigrants to needed job tasks among other services had its funding rescinded for reasons based more in prejudice than in money. Long-time residents darkly complained about "illegals" without car insurance who created traffic accidents then fled the scene without making payment arrangements. Other griped about Latinos who had no health insurance and drove up health care premiums for everyone by defaulting on the Emergency Room charges. Naturally, no one talked about the ridiculous and steadily increasing cost of health care in general, but that would have only pointed out the complexity of the problem.

All of this was a microcosm of what was happening throughout the entire state of Alabama, if not the South. Migrant workers found employment in unglamorous places like chicken processing plants, which were eventually raided when it was learned that basic greed drove hiring practices. These workers fully expected to be discovered and have to uproot eventually, turning whole areas into ghost towns. This unfortunate scenario may happen again after the passage of this offending bill, which has survived already one major court challenge. In relatively good economic times, migrant labor is much less of an issue. But today, with persistent unemployment and an economy unlikely to rebound quickly, anything that might be thought to stand in the way will be targeted.

Nevermind that the average Caucasian wouldn't be caught dead doing backbreaking labor for minimal pay. This is a more "civilized" form of conflict, or perhaps an avoidant one. There have been no widespread instances of violence around this issue. Instead, one finds gritted teeth and resentment. The migrants have their advocates and allies, but no voice has emerged among them as their champion, their spokesperson. They arrived quietly and will depart quietly. And behind they will leave a cultural richness that stretches well beyond an improvement in Mexican cuisine in local restaurants. That is the saddest revelation of all. No one seems willing to see it, but humanity has often cut off its nose to spite its face.

Going Out

If you want to go out,
if you want to go out,

Read it in the papers,
tell me what it's all about, yeah.

If you want to stay home,
if you want to stay home,

Freedom of the papers
All you ever need to know, yeah.

Freedom of the papers
all you got to do
oh no, oh no.

If you want to play home,
if you want to play home,

Freedom from the papers,
all you've got to do is call, yeah.

Freedom from the papers,
all you've got to do oh no, oh no.

If you want to go out,
if you want to go out,

Read it in the papers,
tell me what it's all about, yeah.

Read it in the papers, all you've got to do
oh no, not me.

If you want to go out.

Calls for Truth in Print and Church

Months ago, my Quaker Meeting was promised full inclusion in a very novel newspaper project. The local esteemed daily, The Washington Post, wanted to showcase who we were and what we believed. Or at least that’s what we were told. In a sign of how far newspapers have fallen in recent years, an ambitious offer was routinely delayed and radically modified from month to month. By the end, it appeared as though we were only being given the opportunity to provide the Post with copy for free and on its own terms. We found ourselves disappointed and somewhat offended by the suggestion.

It would be easy for me to launch into a screed about the evils of old media. The journalism classes I took in college were taught and sometimes peopled by highly principled columnists. But the departure of adequate streams of revenue produced an effect not unlike waiting nervously on board a sinking ship. This religion project would have, I believe, in an earlier era been as elaborate and helpful as it had been originally pitched. But the reporter assigned to it kept drastically modifying his deadline and exhaustively revamping the physical form it would take. I’ll choose to give him the benefit of the doubt and say that I believe the Post simply doesn’t have the money for anything beyond the essentials these days.

Looking at an even broader picture, many groups, religious or non-religious, don’t do an adequate job of basic outreach. This is why I was so excited to take part. What I envisioned was a win-win situation for both of us. We would be seen as real people, not an omnipresent face on a box of oatmeal, a perspective largely three centuries out of date. They would have the ability to boost readership through such an expansive and novel approach. But as I said, for whatever reason, the initial plan has been whittled down to something inexpensive and minimal, not especially aesthetically attractive to the reader, and benefitting more the publisher than the published.

I never thought I’d say this, but we may have reached a time where newspapers, at least, can no longer serve the public the way they used to do. Complaining might as well be considered wasted energy. Other forms of media have sprung up to replace an older model, but the fragmentation that comes with internet freedom doesn’t so much bring us together as it places us in our own boxes. Finding pertinent information these days sometimes feels a bit like participating in a scavenger hunt. It also reminds me of grad school, whereby I regularly had to make my way through a cavernous, moldy-smelling library in order to track down a pertinent, and often carelessly filed journal article.

This analogy can often suffice for many faith groups. The Meeting upon which I was Convinced (converted), upon my first visit, provided me with a pamphlet for newcomers that was fifty years old. In speaking with a Friend from another region of the country, he was surprised that it was still being used, since the tract was considered well out of date by many. Likewise, many of the news values I learned in Mass Communications 101 are simply no longer relevant. Things are moving so quickly now that one wonders whether any textbook could keep up with the pace and not date as quickly as yesterday’s news. Programming, software, and development have always proceeded at a lightning fast clip, and now that the media is tied closely to technology, expect the same dizzying tempo.

I won’t begin to say I know how new media ought to centralize itself or how old media ought to respond to its increasing obsolescence. I will say, however, that we all need a crash course in 21st Century trends, regardless of our age. The problems I see around me, no matter whether they’re present in a storefront business or a house of worship are often that 20th Century strategies are still being used to address 21st Century challenges. Familiarity has its place in other aspects of our lives, but after a while, morning coffee while reading the paper in print form will be a ritual consigned to a museum or a fond memory. Unless faith groups can address the concerns of a new age, their circulation numbers will also fall off dramatically. I’m not arguing for total compromise, rather I’m advancing a very radical notion that both ought to speak truthfully. Today’s audience can forgive almost everything, except lies.

Baltimore #2 and Philadelphia

Baltimore #2 and Philadelphia, a set on Flickr.

Something more.

Quote of the Week

"A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain."- Robert Frost

Saturday Video

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files
We'd like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It's a little secret, just the Robinsons' affair
Most of all, you've got to hide it from the kids

Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates' debate
Laugh about it, shout about it
When you've got to choose
Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you (Woo, woo, woo)
What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson?
Joltin' Joe has left and gone away
(Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)