A Pacifist's Thoughts on Memorial Day

On this Memorial Day, I take my traditional, tried-and-true, consistently conflicted position. A Quaker and a pacifist, I am never sure how to commemorate military service. Many Friends find today an incredibly difficult, awkward holiday, especially when combined with jingoistic platitudes about glory and honor. Ours has been a minority view for years.

The holiday was originally known as Decoration Day, and sought to honor the dead of the Civil War. Today I aim for the magnanimous. I would like to believe, as Abraham Lincoln himself noted in the Gettysburg Address, that our dead in any conflict shall not have died in vain. In my more judgmental moments, however, I believe that the ultimate sacrifice of one’s life is foolish and immoral. In my best moments, I can empathize with the severe belief in duty and devotion that spurred men on to pick up a gun.

In school, I excelled in history. As part of my studies, I read accounts of great battles, notable generals, and deft military maneuvers. A skillful retelling of warfare holds the interest of its audience well. Battle narratives often sensationalize human struggle. The fact that others risked life and limb only adds to the fascination and engagement of the reader. Still, I’m supposed to find war deplorable, an ancient, shameful practice of barbarism and violence regrettably not yet obsolete. And yet, today I find once again that there is something irresistibly compelling about the very idea of armed conflicted.

As is true with many Americans, I find something very fascinating, but also heavily tragic about the Civil War. Today, those who served in combat will be rededicated once again, in remembrance of their toil and struggle. Following the war’s most decisive battle, Confederate and Union veterans met on the battlefield of Gettysburg every Memorial Day to commemorate the Herculean human struggle of both sides. This year, they come together again for 145^th time.

There is something more to war than maneuvers and strategy, iron and blood. The hopes of an entire people can be caught up in a valiant struggle, one waged against all odds. History is written by the victors, but it is remembered by the losers.  William Faulkner, in a 1948 book entitled Intruder in the Dust, wrote in part about the Lost Cause of the Confederacy. It is a concept that seems incomprehensible to those not reared in the South.   

For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it's still not yet two o'clock on that July afternoon in 1863…Maybe this time with all this much to lose than all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world, the golden dome of Washington itself to crown with desperate and unbelievable victory the desperate gamble, the cast made two years ago.

The romanticism inherent in this description only makes sense when it is a byproduct of the humiliated and vanquished. Stark odds against the continued persistence and longevity of the Confederacy existed from the outset. It would make sense, then, that the war is a footnote outside the rebellious states and an everlasting topic of cultural fascination in Dixie. A defeated people built a mythology around themselves, to deflect the humiliation and destruction left behind.

150 years later, Faulkner’s description of a defiant, unbowed, belligerent region was passed down to me and for many I knew. This persistent legacy has never completely died out. A belief in state’s rights, one that challenges perceived meddling by the Federal Government is still a Southern tradition. Former Republican Presidential candidate and Texas Governor Rick Perry invoked the specter of secession under this same persistent regional mentality.   

Our Civil War, or for that matter, any Civil War holds a special poignancy for its country of origin. Other wars our nation fought involved mostly foreign participants, often Europeans. Here, Americans engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with their countrymen, giving rise to a thousand ironies great and small. When taking the field with divided loyalties from the beginning, it’s more difficult to resort to dehumanizing propaganda. When it is we who are across battle lines from each other, vilifying one’s enemy is more complicated. Siblings, cousins, fathers, and sons all took up arms against each other.

The United States in the late 19^th Century was an extremely religious nation. North and South both used Old Testament language to justify this bloody conflict. The Union and the rebelling South believed that they were the Israel of ancient days, their cause vindicated by a vengeful God.  The Almighty would forcibly destroy the idolatrous invaders, in the minds of the South, and force out the treasonous secessionists, in the minds of the North. In Lincoln’s words, given a month before the formal surrender of the South, the prayers of neither were answered.

I return to the meaning of Memorial Day. War may be hell, but it has existed since the dawn of humankind. Why does it remain so persistent, with any number of loyal believers? When will we rid ourselves of the need for what I and others see as senseless slaughter and needless suffering? Following the battle of Fredericksburg, Confederate General Robert E. Lee summarized well the conflicting emotions I experience every holiday in which we place a singular focus on armed conflict. “It is well that war is so terrible,” Lee wrote, “otherwise we would grow too fond of it.”      

Quote of the Week

"Why don't they pass a constitutional amendment prohibiting anybody from learning anything? If it works as well as prohibition did, in five years Americans would be the smartest race of people on Earth.”- Will Rogers

Saturday Video

Weed and bach and bach a monaural
Weed and bach and bach a low

Gotta do get and get it over.
Gotta do get and get a low.

Diggy diggy da mona mon
Diggy diggy da mona mon
Diggy diggy da mona mon
Oh I
Diggy diggy da mona mon

Oh I

Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come

Well, western boys and highs mow, oh no.
Ah western boys and highs a low.

Gotta do get and got it all over.
Gotta do get and get it and get it alone.

Diggy diggy da mona mon
Diggy diggy da mona mon
Diggy diggy da mona mon
Oh I
Diggy diggy da mona mon

Oh I

Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come

Well westen bach and bach a mona roll.
Westen bach and bach a low.

God, do you get and gotted it over.

and get it and gotten it and got it alone.

Diggy diggy da mona mon
Diggy diggy da mona mon
Diggy diggy da mona mon
Oh I
Diggy diggy da mona mon

Oh I

Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, come a come a come
Say dare I, coma a come a come
A come a come a come a cause

Happy Memorial Day Weekend

It's summertime and the living is easy
The fish are jumping and the cotton is high
Your daddy's rich and your mama's good looking
Won't you hush, pretty baby, don't you cry

One of these mornings you're going to wake up singing
Then you're going to spread your wings and take to the sky
But till that morning ain't nothing, nothing going to harm you
With your mommy and daddy there standing by

It's summertime and the living is easy
The fish are jumping and the cotton is high
Your daddy's rich and your mama's good looking
Would you hush, pretty baby, don't you cry

________________

Words and Music by George Gershwin, Du Bose Heyward, Dorothy Heyward, Ira Gershwin

Radical Acceptance: When an Attender is a Sex Offender

At the end of last year, a man began arriving every First Day at our Meeting. I noticed him because he kept plain dress. As is true with many houses of worship these days, the preferred style of clothing for most of us is casual. The tall, bearded man I saw downstairs prior to First Hour was clad in white shirt, black pants, and suspenders. He appeared deeply uncomfortable, shuffling back and forth uneasily.

Because my introversion usually keeps me anxious around people, I made an extra effort to be friendly. He stared at me as though unsure of what to do with the gesture. I thought nothing of it and made my way upstairs to Meeting for Worship, like usual. Perhaps he was a visitor from another Meeting. We have so many, after all. Washington, DC, is a haven for tourists and a few of them are traveling Quakers.

The mysterious man turned out to be a registered sex offender. He had reached out to our Meeting some weeks before via an old-fashioned letter in the mail. Sad to say, we’d displaced his correspondence for a few weeks, the first of many mistakes later to follow. In the letter, he explained his situation and circumstances. He was to be released in a few days from prison after a lengthy sentence for molesting a child.

He found Quakers because of a Conservative Friends Meeting in his place of incarceration. Their prison ministry had reached out to him. With the zeal of the new convert, he had become a Friend, idealizing his new found faith as many do in the beginning. Eager to start a new life, he followed the letter of the law to a T, desirous to follow the many requirements and restrictions placed upon all registered sex offenders.

His correspondence did not hide the nature of his crime. A native of the area, finally returning home, he wished to Worship with us. Due to his conviction, correspondence from his parole officer was a mandatory part of the process. Since nothing quite like this had ever been taken on by the Meeting, no one was sure how it ought to proceed.

Two Meeting committees were assigned an exceeding delicate task. Quaker process is slow as molasses in the best of circumstances, but this matter was sensitive and potentially toxic, especially if it got out of hand. The man met frequently with our Personal Aid committee for several weeks. Later, Healing & Reconciliation was incorporated into the process. Deliberation followed deliberation. Two months passed.

Those on committees contributed lots of extra time, establishing a support committee alongside other efforts. Each of these was conscious of a need to control the news and present it in a responsible, sober fashion. This man’s past was a liability, and not just for strictly legal reasons. A very different letter through the mail shared the news with the Meeting, urging discretion. Members and regular attenders were requested to keep the words of the letter to themselves. However, as Robert Burns wrote, the best laid plans oft go awry. And awry was a generous word to use under the circumstances.

The parents went into full out panic mode. Why had they not been told of this man’s presence in the Meeting until he had been actively attending for two months? What if he stalked their children? Skittish, frightened parents expressed anxiety after anxiety. What was thought to have been handled sufficiently by two committees spilled out beyond its intended borders. Once the cat was out of the bag, hurt, fear, and pain were on full display.

Meetings can be fast asleep in matters such as these. Business placed before us must season, we say, and so we adopt a deliberative approach. In emotionally intense situations, we have no choice but to act swiftly and firmly. In this setting, insistence upon strict secrecy meant that multiple, conflicting versions of the truth leaked out, much like a giant version of the game Telephone.

It was discovered that two regular attenders had also been convicted of child sexual abuse. One of them had once even served as a clerk of a committee. A child safety task force was hastily formed. Alongside it, a punitive system of strict supervision and boundaries not to be crossed was eventually adopted to apply to sex offenders. In part, it was drafted to comfort worried parents. In reality, it did not begin to address the multiplicity of issues that this crisis situation had brought forth.

The input and involvement of the most vulnerable was overshadowed by worst case scenario. Parents will sometimes lose all sense of perspective when their own offspring is concerned. The stridency of discourse omitted essential considerations.

Basic protection aside, children need to be taught to speak up on the own behalf. They must be told to assert their own rights as individuals. Should they be left alone in a room with an adult who is not a RE teacher, for example, they should vocalize their discomfort and tell other adults. No amount of punishing the offender in a preemptive fashion will stop the possibility. Legalistic language and adopted protocol is purely a panacea. Absolute security simply does not exist.

I’m adamant about this debate for a very specific reason. For the past several months, I’ve written in great detail about a part of my own early life. Or, to put it another way, I was molested because I had been taught to do exactly what other adults told me to do. My parents instructed me that, out of respect, I ought to have obedience and respect for my elders. When an older man directed me to do exactly as he said, I obeyed. Though what I was asked to do felt uncomfortable and somehow wrong, I believed that, as someone my parent’s age, he knew best. Then only a child, this was all that I knew.

In the meantime, the man whose intended presence among us had sparked the firestorm withdrew his intention to join us. The vituperative nature of criticism led him to believe that he was unwanted. Among some, but not all, I believe that he was. Many Friends felt as though their effort to accommodate him in fellowship had failed. The process had been emotionally draining for almost everyone.

The Meeting continues to deal with the fallout. Three listening sessions have been scheduled. A majority of voices have resolved to allow a sex offender to Worship with us, albeit with severe strings attached. Yet, questions remain. How will we handle something like this in the future? How can we confront a topic that is severely verboten for many, especially for survivors? To me, the truth lies in our willingness to wake from our slumber.

My Thoughts Exactly

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

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

'Cause I'm just a soul whose 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

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

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

Cause I love you,
Oh,

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

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

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

Life

Editor's Note: This is the story of everyone past the age of 30.

Grown-up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Another Lost Generation

We may well be another lost generation. The first Lost Generation struggled through a World War in Europe only to feel disillusioned and uncertain for the future. Soldiers, ambulance drivers, and nurses all returned to a very changed country. The lost generation I inhabit has had to live in the shadows of a new American reality. No longer can hard work and ingenuity alone provide a stable paycheck or substantial livelihood for anyone. What passes for the American dream is a supreme fiction.

The fortunate in this age are well-connected and lucky enough to not slip through the cracks. Those with jobs either possess the exact skills and precise training to suit fickle employers, or they find themselves consigned to occupational Purgatory. In a buyer's market, those hiring can afford to wait for the perfect fit in every way, shape, and fashion. Whether they attended a liberal arts college or a state school, graduated with honors or not, few applicants find their skills in demand.

Often they have had to borrow money from parents to stay afloat. Returning home to the womb for a few tours of duty, also known as their parent’s house is all too uncommon. We've been sold a bill of goods. Everything we were told was factual and true is totally wrong.

To best illustrate my point, I thought I might now tell the stories of a few of my friends. Each is in his or her late 20’s into the early 30’s and lives in Washington, DC. Though economists have told us that we are in recovery, whatever that means, it surely doesn’t feel like it to us. We’ve had to be creative in marketing ourselves to employers who can afford to be picky.

We’ve had to accept the subtle, but essential details that mean the difference between employment and unemployment. It’s humbling, to say the least to learn how worthless our educational training, resumes, and prior work experience can be. Twisting ourselves into pretzels for the sake of fitting into a narrowly defined skill set might as well be our stock in trade. When we’ve finally found employment, we’ve often taken jobs completely at odds with the work to which we assumed we would give our lives. We had absolutely no say in the matter.

One of my friends was hired by a non-profit right out of college. She enjoyed the work immensely, but knew her tenure was time-limited from the beginning. Contract work has become more and more prevalent with employers who wish to keep costs down. She spent the next eighteen months out of work, diligently searching for a job.

Employment finally arrived in the form of a Federal Government job in the same field as before. However, her new employer worked exclusively in policy, a complicated profession, to say the least, one she had never before even contemplated. On-the-job training was a necessity and, to her, the experience reminded her of cramming for the toughest examination she’d ever taken in her life.

Another friend spent about the same length of time on the unemployment rolls. He, too, found a job with the Federal Government, the only offer he was given. Within a few months of working there, he discovered that upper level management was highly incompetent and the agency itself was badly run. The institutionalized dysfunction influenced hiring practices and compromised morale. His co-workers were not adequately vetted before starting work and routinely were entirely unsuited for the nature of the work.

He dealt with all of it as long as possible, and then tendered his resignation three weeks ago. Once again unemployed, he has two months’ worth of savings to tide him over until he begins another one. Because he voluntarily resigned, unemployment compensation was flatly denied. He has filed an appeal and waits nervously for a decision.

Still another friend graduated after four years from a prestigious university, one with the most expensive tuition in the country. After periods of chronic underemployment, she has now achieved full-time work, but with severe strings attached. Her wages are low, granting her the ability to survive, though without the income she would really prefer. She spends everything she makes and laments the ability to be unable to save for a rainy day. Lacking health insurance, she worries about potential financial catastrophe should she need emergency medical treatment someday.

She’s been looking in frustration for another career for two months, having interviewed for two or three openings. Nothing seem to pan out in the end, a common denominator with the people in each of these stories. Each opening for which she obtains an interview draws a minimum of 100 applicants, most of whom have the identical qualifications she does. The odds are not exactly in her favor. I could tell at least ten more stories that follow the same basic frustrating trajectory.

Each of the persons mentioned above is highly qualified, highly educated, and struggling mightily to stay afloat. Place of origin does make a difference. Compounding the problem is that even in the best of times, Washington, DC, is an expensive place to live. Though booming in some sectors, our Nation’s Capital can be a stressful place for ambitious young adults.

Though a certain hyper-competitive quality is attached to the city by its very nature, employment opportunities nonetheless once existed in sufficient quantity. Now they do not. Regardless of how motivated and driven job seekers may be, they rapidly learn two particular truisms: 1. patience is a virtue and 2. there is no such thing as fair. For those in partnered relationships, the dynamics are slightly different, but related to those of singles. Often only one person holds down full-time work and functions as the primary breadwinner.

With heterosexual couples, the traditional gendered arrangement of a primary male breadwinner frequently reversed because of sheer necessity. Without the existence of dual incomes, sexism aside, the monetary imbalance can lead to tension within a relationship; one person often has to make a barely adequate inflow stretch for two. Should the sole source of money lose his or her job, a disaster would be left in its wake. 

What is often not discussed is that the Great Recession only exacerbated existing trends. For a decade or more before 2007, underemployment was the frequent lot of entry level workers who had just left college. Now, if recently published statistics are to be believed, 1 in 2 recent college graduates can expect to be unemployed upon entering the workforce. Living with one’s parents past college was once considered embarrassing and shameful: a denial of formal adulthood. The stigma may still be in place, but even achievers and hard workers have had to return to the nest when money is tight.

Allow me to make a sharp distinction. I am, of course, writing about a very particular group of people. All are white, each has been raised in middle class households, and each has also graduated from college with good grades. I imagine the climate is even worse for those who don’t have a certain amount of financial support, parental support, and privilege to back it up. For those without the good fortune of these material advantages, the future is even more uncertain, confusing, and difficult. Across the country, young men and women have similar stories to tell. No one knows how much longer we will exist in a state of fiduciary limbo.

Politicians promise recovery, but no one yet has provided a coherent plan. Recent Congressional efforts to reduce if not altogether eliminate financial aid debt will help, but they don’t address the primary problem. Where are the jobs? The forthcoming Presidential election will swing to a large extent on that very issue.

Until change comes to America, young adults will be unable to invest in their country. Until then, we sit and wait, soldiering along because we have no choice but to accept a recession era lifestyle. We’re surprisingly far less aimless and directionless than often believed. Our needs will be surprisingly well met and our distress will be soothed by the simplest of acts; we want work and we want to feel worthwhile and productive.

We are the future leaders of this country, but unless we can get a firm toe-hold with our foot in the door, we aren’t doing anyone much good. One single campaign issue unifies us together, regardless of where we call home. When is it our turn to begin building a future?

Lotta Love

La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La
Ooh, Ooh,

It's gonna take a lotta love
To change the way things are
It's gonna take a lotta love
Or we won't get too far

So if you look in my direction
And we don't see eye to eye
My heart needs protection and so do I

It's gonna take a lotta love
To get us thru the night
It's gonna take a lotta love
To make things work out right

So if you are there waitin'
I hope you show up soon,
'Cause my head needs relatin' not solitude

Gotta lotta love
Gotta lotta love
La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La
Ooh, Ooh

It's gonna take a lotta love
To change the way we are
It's gonna take a lotta love
Or we won't get too far.

It's gonna take a lotta love
To change the way we are
It's gonna take a lotta love
Or we won't get too far
Or we won't get too far

Quote of the Week

"In externals we advance with lightning express speed, in modes of thought and sympathy we lumber on in stage-coach fashion."- Frances Willard

Saturday Video

If lust and hate is the candy,
if blood and love tastes so sweet,
then we give 'em what they want.
Hey, hey, give 'em what they want.

So their eyes are growing hazy 'cos they wanna turn
it on,
so their minds are soft and lazy.
Well, hey, give 'em what they want.

If lust and hate is the candy,
if blood and love tastes so sweet,
then we give 'em what they want.

So their eyes are growing hazy 'cos they wanna turn
it on,
so their minds are soft and lazy.
Well... who do you wanna blame?

Hey, hey, give 'em what they want.

If lust and hate is the candy,
if blood and love tastes so sweet,
then we give 'em what they want.

So their eyes are growing hazy 'cos they wanna turn
it on,
so their minds are soft and lazy.

Well... who do you wanna blame?

It's So Easy

It's so easy to fall in love.
It's so easy to fall in love.

People tell me love's for fools.
So, here I go, breaking all the rules.

It seems so easy,
Oh so doggone easy,
It seems so easy.
Where you're concerned, my heart has learned.

It's so easy to fall in love.
It's so easy to fall in love.

Look into your heart and see,
What your love book has set apart for me.

It seems so easy,
Oh so doggone easy,
It seems so easy.
Where you're concerned, my heart has learned.

It's so easy to fall in love.
It's so easy to fall in love.

Life with a Chronic Illness (Or Two)

Chronic illnesses are, by their basic definition, long-lasting. Some, like Bipolar Disorder, I expect to have forever. I would be utterly shocked if a cure for any of the major psychiatric ailments is discovered during my lifetime. Metabolic and autoimmune disorders, however, are more fixable. If not put aside altogether, they may be controlled with the proper course of treatment. Addressing even the most basic problems of each is not nearly as easy as it may first seem.

The endocrine system is complicated. Its diseases and illnesses interconnect and interlock with other bodily processes and functions. For me, hypogonadism (abnormally low levels of testosterone) was only the first layer of discovery. Over the past year and a half, tests have slowly eliminated potential problems and shed light on others. A patient begins treatment at a big picture setting, and then focuses inward slowly, steadily, zeroing in on the likely culprits.

It’s never just one particular problem. I’ve been a patient so long that I stopped expecting swift resolution in any context around fifteen years ago. From the very beginning, my parents took me to specialists. This started early in childhood. By now, I can converse with doctors like a medical textbook, with note-perfect recall and flawless accuracy. A recent doctor even assumed that I had gone to medical school myself, based on what I knew already. When it’s your life at stake or at least sorely out of balance, one learns to do one’s research. I’ve memorized jargon instinctively.

You’d do the same thing, I promise. As it stands, I have a concerted interest in reading through voluminous, stodgy online medical journals. When a new medication is released, I’m the first to know. My life has been modified a thousand times, literally and figuratively held under a microscope, and filtered through a billion lenses. And still I’m here, a survivor, clinging to the scattered remains of a few substantial shipwrecks. In the middle of everything, especially the bombast and drama, one can only live in the moment.

Kurt Vonnegut put it well in his famous novel Slaughter-house Five. Vonnegut’s been on my mind a good bit recently. In researching an article I wrote, I’ve learned much about his biography. He spoke about the burden of expectations and outcomes, especially when they seem to be played on an endless loop.

My name is Yon Yonson, I work in Wisconsin, I work in a lumbermill there. The people I meet when I walk down the street, They say, 'What is your name?' And so it goes.

Trying to explain what happened this week would fill an entire page. I’d probably lose you in the complicated procedural soup. I’m used to having phlebotomy wounds where my bicep joins my forearm. Small plastic cylinders of urine have been hastily dropped off in front of lab technicians. Last night, I had a plastic mask strapped over my nose and mouth for eight hours. The remains of where the electric leads were attached underneath my ears and stuck to my ankles left behind a greasy residue. It was only washed off with a badly needed shower.      

This is my life. If I can articulate myself well to you, it’s because I’ve meticulously described symptoms, feelings, and impressions long before now. Medical practitioners likely breathe a sigh of relief with me once properly introduced. I like my doctors, usually. Once or twice, a few have been afraid I was trying to trap them into a malpractice lawsuit. They were mistaken. I want to be well, not to make trouble.

Without being dramatic, I wake up every morning next to ten prescription bottles. By now, I’ve lost count of how many medications I take daily. My best guess would be around seven or so. That total has shrunk to four and swelled to as many as ten. It often bothers me wondering how many prescriptions I’ll take when 

I’m fifty, considering that many people who are fifty often take the same drugs I do.

I would not have chosen this life for myself. I can’t imagine many people would, if given the option. What gives me comfort is a friend who also struggles with chronic illness herself. We commiserate over lab visits and griping about the still sky high cost of medical treatment. Another thing that brings me great comfort is belief in God. The laws and logic of humanity have never provided me consistent answers. As far as I’m concerned, trusting in something larger than me has made perfect sense.

Even now, I do admit that I sometimes lose patience. There are certain days where I obsess about my disabilities and nothing can comfort my mind. Fortunately, it’s not always this way. My strengths usually overshadow my weaknesses. And it is on that note that I’d like to draw this extended soliloquy to its fitting end.     

Busy Week

Pardon for the light posting this week. I'm getting over the flu and have had lots of medical appointments. Next week should be more prolific.

Shameless Self-Promotion

My essay, entitled "FGC and FUM Types of Worship", has been published in the new June/July 2012 edition of Friends Journal!

Movie review: The Red Shoes

The creative partnership of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger created many notable British films from the 1940’s to the late 1950’s. Known collectively as The Archers, The Red Shoes was the duo’s first resounding box office success. It also made a star out of redheaded Scottish ballet dancer and actress Moira Shearer, who later was given the title Lady Kennedy. A marvel of three strip Technicolor, The Red Shoes is an expensive but visually stunning motion picture.

Underneath the slowly unfolding drama is unstated, but implied gay subtext. Common to its era, this aspect of the film remained covert and subtle. Svengali Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook) has committed the whole of his life to his work in charge of a ballet that bears his name. Immaculately clothed and sophisticated man of the world, Lermontov jealously guards his talent, particularly protégé Vicky Page (Shearer), a prima ballerina who he has plucked from obscurity. Lermontov is especially keen to control Vicky’s life in every possible manner. One might assume at first that he desires her romantically, but Lermontov’s behavior openly contradicts this.

Lermontov’s closeted homosexuality reveals itself in two crucial lines of dialogue. While witnessing early rehearsals, the impresario responds with ferocity, demanding utter perfection from his star. Expressing the most essential distillation of his personal philosophy, Lermontov’s countenance takes on a steely, driven, wild-eyed look. He speaks with autocratic certainty.

“A dancer who relies upon the doubtful comforts of human love,” Lermontov proclaims, “will never be a great dancer. Never.”  When questioned as to whether or not this defies the laws of basic human desire, Lermontov forcefully responds, “I think you can do even better than that — you can ignore it."

Meanwhile, promising young composer Julian Craster (Marius Goring) has been hired by Lermontov to score a new ballet, an adaptation from a Hans Christian Anderson story entitled The Red Shoes. Vicky and Julian fall in love with each other and begin a relationship, which throws the possessive Lermontov into a fit. The impresario would closely control every element of Vicky’s life if he could. His reaction to their pleadings to be left in peace is cold, harsh contempt. If he can’t have a romantic relationship, no one else can either.

Plot aside, the cinematography of The Red Shoes is as important as the character development. Released in 1948, it is, as noted above, one of the last films to use the three strip Technicolor process. This color motion picture process was notably used stateside for 1939’s The Wizard of Oz and Gone with the Wind, two films now considered classics.

In some ways, the most stunning segment occurs around halfway through the picture. Advanced camera techniques, cinematic slight-of-hand, editing trickery, and brilliant camera work enhance an extended fifteen minute visual sequence, the introduction of the ballet. Without a score of trained hands at work, the audience might have otherwise easily grown thoroughly bored.

The Red Shoes is beholden to an earlier school of film craft than what followed afterwards. UK filmmakers, producers, and writers like The Archers sought to compete with Hollywood by proving that non-American movies could stand on equal footing. However, within ten years, an entire artistic movement would completely disown the opulence on display here.

A fanciful rendering of the aristocracy would be exchanged for the rough-hewn grit of the working class North of England. Stark black and white photography would replace the awe-inspiring but technically complicated (and expensive) shades of bluest blue, greenest green, and reddest red. The British New Wave to follow was more concerned with strict realism, not fantasy, however gorgeously concocted.         

It seems incomprehensible now that The Red Shoes did not achieve substantial popularity upon initial release. Its lush landscapes are almost worth the price of admission in and of themselves. Instead, the film became a sleeper hit. It was made a success primarily by word of mouth. The approach employed by The Archers defied the conventional wisdom of the time. For one, a meta-narrative is at work; the main plotline follows that of the ballet. The tragic ending will be identical both in reality and in art.          

Quote of the Week

"Hypocrisy is a fashionable vice, and all fashionable vices pass for virtue”- Molière

Saturday Video

Your face when sleeping is sublime
And then you open up your eyes

Then comes pancake factor number one
Eyeliner, rose hips and lip gloss, such fun
You're a slick little girl, you're a slick little girl

Rouge and coloring, incense and ice
Perfume and kisses, oh it's all so nice
You're a slick little girl, you're a slick little girl

Now we're coming out, out of our closets
Out on the streets, yeah, we're coming out

When you're in bed it's so wonderful
It'd be so nice to fall in love
When you get dressed I really get my fill
People say that it's impossible

Gowns lovely made out of lace
And all the things that you do to your face
You're a slick little girl, you're a slick little girl

Eyeliner, whitener then color the eyes
Yellow and green, oh what a surprise
You're a slick little girl, oh, you're such a slick little girl

Now we're coming out, out of our closets
Out on the streets, yes, we're coming out
Yeah, we're coming out...

Liberal Quaker Skepticism and the Meaning of Servant-Lead Leadership

After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?"

Jesus replied, "You don't understand now what I am doing, but someday you will." "No," said Peter, "you shall never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no part with me." 

My religious environment is full of seekers, skeptics, and lost sheep. Liberal unprogrammed Friends are the Doubting Thomas’ of Quakerism. The difficulty in ministering to the eternally suspicious cannot be over-stressed. I must admit that often times I feel like C.S. Lewis, trying to distill the most salient talking points as a defense against those who would forever resist them.

Friends have, no doubt expressing their own sentiments, instructed me to be patient. Some took years of contemplation and proper seasoning to make what, for them, was a momentous decision. It has been my understanding that a person doesn’t take one leap of faith in his or her lifetime, but several of them. While I empathize with what for some must be a substantial tussle with the conscience, I am saddened by how much effort must be first undertaken.

Liberal Friends sometimes only pursue formal membership in a Monthly Meeting as a means to some desired end. Perhaps they feel strongly led towards a particular sort of committee membership. Other times, they are interested only in one particular event that best speaks to their own cares. When I was more actively involved in scheduling Young Adult Friend activities, some attenders only showed up for very particular, narrowly defined personal wants and reasons.

It is difficult for me not to feel a little exasperated in contexts such as these. The most recent example that comes to mind is that of a Young Adult Friend who has joined the Meeting to legitimize her occupation. She is an interfaith chaplain and a pastoral therapist. Unless formal certification necessitated formal membership, she would not have pursued this course of action.

In a collection of BBC radio-delivered essays later entitled “Mere Christianity,” C.S. Lewis speaks to this theological confusion.

There are two parodies of the truth which different sets of Christians have, in the past, been accused by other Christians of believing: perhaps they may make the truth clearer. One set were accused of saying, "Good actions are all that matters. The best good action is charity. The best kind of charity is giving money. The best thing to give money to is the Church. So hand us over ₤10,000 and we will see you through." The answer to that nonsense, of course, would be that good actions done for that motive, done with the idea that Heaven can be bought, would not be good actions at all, but only commercial speculations.

The other set were accused of saying, "Faith is all that matters. Consequently, if you have faith, it doesn't matter what you do. Sin away, my lad, and have a good time and Christ will see that it makes no difference in the end." The answers to that nonsense is that, if what you call your "faith" in Christ does not involve taking the slightest notice of what he says, then it is not Faith at all — not faith or trust in Him, but only intellectual acceptance of some theory of Him.

I return to the Friend who desires to be a chaplain. Her work, as envisioned, would speak to those who are squeamish about religion, any religion. Though it pains me to contemplate, I know she will not hurt for business. As has often been addressed in Christian Left circles, the Religious Right has distorted and twisted the true meaning of our faith. The Young Adult Friends with whom I associate regularly follow a highly individual path, one often tortuously protracted. Then and only then can they find complete comfort. It may take five years, and it may take fifty.

Spiritual maturity often requires willful self-reflection and trust in the Holy Spirit to recognize those crucial distinctions. True believers in some areas of their lives, liberal YAFs immediately form negative value judgments around the very idea of religion. Leaders far more wise than me have found the challenge cut out for them extremely daunting.

Reasons for joining a Monthly Meeting, as I have observed, are not holistic, they are segmented. By contrast, I joined because I felt a Divine leading to be present within that congregation. That was the extent of my analysis at the time, and I was so awed by the revelation I asked few questions. God told me I needed to learn life lessons and bolster my Spiritual development, so I listened. My work has unfolded piecemeal, bit by bit. I know enough to recognize that it is not yet been fully revealed. Beyond that, I have no clue what time will offer me.

Now to address the Scriptural passage by which I introduced this post. It is found within the Gospel of John. Shortly before his death, Jesus decided to take on a thankless task usually expected of a servant. His disciple Peter, in his time-honored role, at first completely missed what Jesus’ selfless act implied. Service ought to be for its own sake, without the expectation of something in return.