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)

Short Story, Part Four

Part Four

You are not their father. My kids have a father. At least that’s what I was told. Adults make plans and children fail to understand them. God laughs. Kids tend to live in the present, with much less of an eye to the future. When you are among them, you might as well be a parent, regardless of how you might choose to qualify your role. No one found this more initially terrifying than me. But it was a responsibility I seem to have adopted more smoothly than I ever thought.

I assign it to simple biological response. We are, after all, often inclined to be adaptive to children, if not to birth them. Biology often intercedes where intellect cannot. Had they both been holy terrors, I think my patience would have evaporated and weariness descended in its place. But they really were good kids. One boy, one girl. Despite what they had been through with the divorce they were playful and fun-loving, two qualities I thought I would never regain myself. And while surrounded by them, their earnestness and innocence gave me permission to be free-spirited once more.

The ways of the adult world had taken hold on me. My voice once was musical and lilting, but now had adopted the same robotic tone that most people dubbed “serious professional”. I had never been a fan of stiff handshakes and stiffer starched collars, but playing follow the leader was basic protocol. I dwelt in a world where a curt terseness was the lingua fresca. But now I didn’t have to be so guarded and, honestly, so miserable. What force decreed that this must be the way of things? Human beings are not supposed to be driven by anxious inter-office politics and leap frog.

Brushing off a few cobwebs, I suddenly remembered I could do a few plausible vocal impressions, which both children loved. Its success gave me the confidence to ad lib, and ad libbing in general was how I typified most of my conduct in their presence. Once I learned to trust myself, I had no need to plan out what to say or how to react. This wasn’t work, after all, and I found that children are far less critical. I wondered what made us all so reactive, insensitive, and short-tempered. Which isn’t to say that I romanticize childhood. I still bear emotional scars to disprove that. But for someone who had shied as far away as possible from even the thought of parenthood in any form, I found my prior assumptions challenged and in some ways entirely invalidated.

My efforts were apparently a success. One of the children, the boy, aged eight or so, developed a severe case of hero worship. He started to use many of the same turns of phrase as I did and even chose to part his hair the same way I do. I very nearly had a panic attack at the recognition, because I felt I could never live up to an impossible standard. Should anyone place me on a pedestal, I always recite the phrase that I’d very much like to be taken down, because I’m scared of heights. If I could ever get my anxiety to subside, I knew I should take the child’s response as a high compliment. I did gather that I must be doing something right, but all of those old phobias and fears of fatherhood came rushing out of the woodwork.

Being an unintentional step-father was not nearly as difficult as having children of my own. I could always look forward to the times that they spent time with their father, leaving me alone with their mother. When they were gone, we could pretend, as lovers often do, that the very world itself revolved around our romance and that pairing. Every other weekend this fantasy was allowed to grow and flourish. She did love her children, but also loved a break from them, too. And I always looked forward to our times alone, though every now and again I did miss the kids. What was most difficult for me was the awkward transition from the ways of childhood into the ways of adulthood. It felt a bit like immersing oneself in a new language, only to cast it aside entirely, returning to a space where nothing carried over or was even applicable.

On the Subject of Quaker Week in the UK

Kindly follow this link.

Baltimore

Baltimore, a set on Flickr.

Live music at the club.