tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84337192024-03-19T01:01:35.334-04:00The Eagle and ChildSeeking the true, the good, and the beautiful -- and how they point to God.Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comBlogger466125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-91234612837096279122010-01-12T21:43:00.002-05:002010-01-12T21:57:30.793-05:00Prophet of the Sun Chapter 4Welcome back for this next installment. For those of you just joining us who wish to catch up on backstory, here is a link to the <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2009/12/chapter-index-for-prophet-of-sun.html">Table of Contents</a>.<br /><br />Chapter Four<br /><br />The Pharoah examined the row of statues he had commissioned, each one larger than life and elegantly carved of dark black rock. They were identical: a seated woman with a lion’s head topped with a disk. Her eyes looked serene, yet the black rock emanated ferocity -- like charcoal concealing embers underneath. Pharoah reached his hand toward a statue, not touching it. A man in a headdress quietly slipped beside him. “Over three hundred more, just like these, have been ordered.” he said “They are fine works; a glorious offering for Sekhmet.”<br /><br />“Double it,” came Pharoah’s curt reply, “We must honor her lest she visit us again.” Pharoah’s belly fluttered. The stories told that Sekhmet had almost devoured all the inhabitants of Earth … and she was the expression of the wrath of Ra. The horrors unleashed upon the land could only have been expressions of her displeasure. He had to restore <em>ma’at</em>, the balance of harmony, to the land. It was his destiny.<br /><br />The man in the headdress held his silence. Pharoah turned to face him “What else have you to show me, Amenhotep?”<br /><br />Amenhotep led Pharaoh to his work table, scattered with scrolls, writing instruments, measuring tools, and inkpots. He gently moved the inkpots to the side and unrolled one great papyrus scrolls. “The plans for your great temple, my lord. See, this will be greater than the temples of your predecessors. The entrance is flanked by two colossal statues of you enthroned as king of the united kingdoms. We shall call it ‘The House of Millions of Years.’” He paused to let the flattering title sink in. “We’ll work gold all throughout the complex. Here is the sanctuary. We’ll purify the floors with silver – for here you will be worshipped in perpetuity. We will build it on the other side of the river, near the tombs of the kings.” Pharoah examined the plans and nodded “Well done… Well done, Amenhotep. You surpass my greatest expectations. How long will it take to complete.”<br /><br />“I’m not sure, my lord. The master craftsmen are working on estimates for supplies – We will need timber, and our supplies are low due to the rebuilding work in the lower kingdom. The repairs there are costly, my lord.”<br /><br />Pharoah’s face was a blank mask – the official face that he used when receiving dignitaries in court or in negotiating the complex agendas of his courtiers and officers. Finally he spoke “Can we ever recover our glory?”<br /><br />Amenhotep nodded, “Yes, my lord, you will only be remembered for glory – glory and your dedication to the gods.” Pharoah stood unmoving. Amenhotep broke the prolonged silence, “You were tutored in the secrets just as I have been. Your great-grandfather, Thutmosis Menkheperre, erased the memory of the greatest shame the two kingdoms has ever seen – the witch Hatshepsut is remembered only by a few who must know, lest we repeat the errors of history. The past is as fluid as the future – no shame cannot be undone. By your decree, you will erase this shame.”<br /><br />Pharoah had turned back to look at the statues in the middle of Amenhotep’s speech. “Hatshepsut…” he mused aloud, “Yes, you are right, we can learn from the past.” Pharaoh seemed lost in thought when a linen dressed man with a shaved head came into the room. He stood by the door quietly for a long time. Amenhotep coughed quietly. Pharoah broke from his thoughts. Amenhotep slightly inclined his head in the direction of the waiting messenger. “Come…speak” Said pharaoh in his official voice.<br /><br />“My lord,” said the messenger, “Ramose is here, and he is prepared to present the reports for the day.”<br /><br />“Send for him.” The messenger turned to depart, but already, the entourage had arrived. Led first by a man dressed in linen, head shaved and eyes decorated. He strode with purpose, a man accustomed to command. He was escorted by a retinue of clerks carrying scrolls, writing instruments, and papyri.<br /><br />“Ramose, I read your proposal for a second <em>Heb Sed</em> festival – it has great merit.”<br /><br />Amenhotep’s eyebrows arched slightly, a sign of great surprise for him. “My lord, it is quite unusual to have a festival of rejuvenation so soon after your last one. It is against custom.”<br /><br />“’The past is fluid’, you said. Ramose has proposed an entirely different festival – an aquatic festival.” A smile flickered across Ramose’s face. “We live in times that defy custom, so let us have a second <em>Heb Sed</em>, even a third if must be – we must restore the confidence of the people.” Amenhotep bowed his head slightly in acceptance of Pharoah’s wishes. “Ramose, see to it that Amenhotep has a full report on our timber supplies and funds available for construction.”<br /><br />Ramose gestured to one of the clerks who began to write on a scroll. “Also, search the records of Hatshepsut. I remember in my studies reading of a festival of Sekhmet – there was much drink and dancing and feasting among the people. See if we can include such celebrations as part of this aquatic Heb Sed.”<br /><br />Ramose gestured to a second scribe, who left the room immediately. “My lord, such measures will be very expensive.”<br /><br />Pharoah turned to his two advisors “By my decree, I will erase this shame.”<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Calvin awoke to the sound of the telephone. It was mid morning. “Calvin, I didn’t wake you, did I?” came the voice from the other end – Judge Hamilton, an old family friend and Federal Judge on the Atlanta circuit court.<br /><br />“No, not at all” Calvin replied, with the raspy just awakened voice that made him sound like Elmer Fudd.<br /><br />“Son, I just thought you needed to know this. I’m not sure what it means, but whatever it is, it’s not good.”<br /><br />“OK, what is it?”<br /><br />“Calvin, I was talking with your mother about your conversation with the Sheriff’s deputies. She was upset; it sounds like this Parrish fellow really was hostile toward you. I thought I’d give a call to the Sheriff just to check in. Ethically, I can’t interfere, mind you, but I thought I could reassure him about your character….” His voice dropped off.<br /><br />“Thank you, sir. Was there something the matter?”<br /><br />“There is no deputy Parrish nor is there a deputy Collins. There’s no investigation. This was the first that Sheriff Hollister had heard that John Carter was missing.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Calvin and Judge Hamilton talked for a few minutes. Judge Hamilton reassured Calvin that he was going to talk to John’s parents. Calvin was befuddled. He drove to Biscuit Barn to get a fried chicken biscuit for breakfast. Sitting in the front seat of his car, he chewed mindlessly. His head felt light, as though the insides were filled with sticky helium that clouded his thinking. He turned the ignition and drove without aim, turning thoughts over in his brain, hiking the same paths, unable to leave worn spots that his mind had thoroughly covered. He became aware of his surroundings, realizing that on instinct, he had driven half-way to John’s house. <em>Perhaps I can get some clarity of mind there</em>. He continued on.<br /><br />Pulling in the driveway, he saw no other cars. He got out, walked the steps, crossed the wide wooden porch, and tried the handle. Not locked. The door creaked as he opened the door. Stale air met him, begging him to throw open the windows. His fingers tingled, a slight whine rang in his ears, and his heart thumped as though he were entering a mausoleum at midnight. Try as he might, he couldn’t control his breathing. He gulped deep breaths, making more noise than he intended.<br /><br />Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. <em>Nothing to be afraid of</em> – he thought -- <em>it’s the middle of the day</em>. This calmed him somewhat.<br /><br />A glance about the foyer showed no change. On a hunch, Calvin ascended the stairs, drawn to the upstairs library. The banister felt cool to his palm as he gently ascended up the center carpet runner. At the top of the landing he turned the corner and stood in the doorway to the library.<br />Books lay scattered across the room. The totem pole that had seemed so solemn before had been knocked over and cracked open to reveal a hollow chamber – fifty-dollar bills scattered all around, and a portfolio file with all the papers dumped out. The cushions of all the couches had been torn open. The desk drawers were emptied out onto the floor. The only thing untouched was the green plaster face of the leaf man, his lips pursed as though ready to bellow forth “There is no deputy Parrish”. Calvin stood still. His mouth dried. He was in way over his head.<br /><br />Slowly he stooped down and gathered the scattered papers: copies of John’s passport, copies of newspaper articles from the New York World dated in the 1870s, a diagram of what looked to be a tunnel network underneath a building, a printout of an old photograph of a portly serious looking man in a suit. Underneath the papers lay a small green book, small enough to slip into a coat pocket. In gold lettering on the cover was the title “The Circle of the Green Man” and beneath these words, a small image of a man’s face emerging from leaves. Calvin looked to the plaster face on the wall. They were identical. The hair on his arms and back tingled. <em>He’s mixed up with these nut-jobs? He’s in deep</em>. He folded the papers inside the cover of the book and stuffed them in the back pocket of his jeans.<br /><br />A car door slammed.<br /><br />Calvin’s heart lurched. For one moment he stood unsure what to do. By instinct, he ducked through to the front hallway and into the guest bedroom. Struggling to control his breath, Calvin peeked through the shade of the window looking out over the front yard, taking care not to cause it to move. A nondescript maroon car had pulled up next to his. A man knelt down behind his car, while another man was coming out of the driver’s side of this new vehicle. Calvin recognized the driver as deputy-who-wasn’t-deputy Collins. The man behind his car stood up – it was Parrish, holding a wicked looking bowie knife. Calvin could see that the visible rear tire on his car was deflated. Parrish pointed two fingers toward the house; Collins reached behind his back, pulling something from what appeared to be his beltloop. He brought it around front quickly and jerked his hand back and forth once over top of it. Parrish walked in front of Calvin’s car, knife still in hand while Collins slowly moved up the steps to the front porch. A quiet Clomp….. Clomp sounded from the front porch.<br /><br />Calvin pulled back from the window. He gulped air over his dry tongue…<em>Are they looking for me? Or just back to tear up more of the house?</em> Whatever the answer, Collins and Parrish looked to be in no mood for answering questions. Quick as he could, He went back into the upstairs hallway, plastered his back against the wall, and peered around the corner of the landing to see the entrance foyer. The front door creaked open. He saw the nose of Collins’ pistol come through the door, followed by his arm. Calvin pulled back two steps out of view. He took a quick look at the four doors behind him: the guest bedroom, John’s bedroom, the bathroom, and the library. Only one had an exit to the back stairs down to the kitchen – the library.<br /><br />Calvin reached around and locked the handle of the guest bedroom from within. He quietly pulled that door shut. He did the same on John’s bedroom. All the while his ears were tuned to the slightest sound coming from the foyer. Collins’ cowboy boots made a gentle tap tap tap on the tile. He was moving slowly and deliberately down there. He hadn’t made it to the carpeted staircase. What if he doesn’t come up the stairs? – if Collins went to the kitchen and came up the back stairs, Calvin would be trapped. Calvin went back to the edge of the landing and peered down. Collins was almost immediately below him looking into the dining room. Calvin’s mind raced – out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Windsor chair and lampstand sitting in the middle of the landing. <em>I sure hope this works</em>.<br /><br />As Collins poked his way into the dining room, Calvin picked up the Windsor chair, lifted it aloft, and hurtled it flying down at Collin’s back. He didn’t know if he hit his mark, for Calvin was back up the hallway when he heard it crash and Collins cry out with a string of expletives. Calvin heard Collins’ boots clap clapping across the tile and the first thump of him hitting the stairs. Calvin pulled the library door shut and locked it. I hope those other closed doors throw him for a second. Calvin was at the far end of the library when he heard a sound like muffled thunder once, and then a second time with a bang. Collins had just burst into one of the upstairs bedrooms. Calvin flew down the stairs to the kitchen. He searched for anything he could use to defend himself. The kitchen mocked him with it’s sterility: steel appliances, unused copper plated kettles hanging from a rack from the ceiling, the all too neat countertop, sporting a few empty flour and sugar jars and a butcher block with kitchen knives. He grabbed the big center chopping knife.<br /><br />A muffled bang sounded upstairs.<br /><br />Heart pounding, he took a deep breath, ready to run out the back door and take his chances with Parrish. Suddenly his eyes caught a wooden billholder and keychain rack – truck keys still hanging from the pegs.<br /><br />A thunderclap came from the library upstairs, as Collins burst through the locked door.<br />Calvin grabbed the keys and flung open the garage door. Dashing down the steps, he knocked over a shovel. He fumbled with the keys of John Carter’s heavy pickup for a moment, panicking as he heard boots clattering down the stairs to the kitchen. He got the door open and vaulted in, slamming the key in the ignition, turning it and throwing the truck into drive all in one neat seamless motion. As he crushed his right foot down as far as he could, he heard the deafening squeal of tires. Collins appeared in the doorway and leveled his gun.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />Parrish waited in the sun, unmoving. The crash from within the house set all his senses on high alert. He heard Collins cussing and smashing about the house. For a moment, he wondered if he should go in. <em>No, that idiot’ll drive whoever’s in there straight to me</em>. He walked to the center of the yard, eyes cutting from right to left to see if a figure came around the corner. He heard more crashes within the house. Parrish rolled his eyes. He startled when he heard a roar from the garage, followed closely by a high squeal. Before he could move, the door blew outward, splintering as an oversize mud splattered pickup truck came barreling toward him. Shots fired from inside the garage. Behind the wheel of the truck he saw the adrenaline crazed face of the driver. <em>Poteat</em>! Parrish dove to the side just as Calvin swerved to avoid him. He hit the ground with a hard thud, knocking the wind out of him, while the truck swerved around the parked cars to head for the main road. Within a few seconds, the truck was gone.<br /><br />Collins was beside Parrish, and kneeling down to help him up. “C’mon, we can catch him.”<br /><br />Parrish coughed as he stood. “No. We know that he’s got to go home. We’ll catch him there sooner or later. You drive, I’ll check in.”<br /><br />“He’s not going to be happy.”<br /><br />“I know, we didn’t find the diary or anything we didn’t already know. And now Poteat knows more than he ought to.”<br /><br />Collins looked worried. “This is getting complicated – I wonder why they didn’t hire professionals to do this?”<br /><br />Parrish burned. “They don’t need professionals!” he snapped, “I can handle this better than any of your so-called professionals.” He glowered for a moment, and then, getting hold of himself, he began to lecture: “The Green Man teaches that when your mind is cleansed, you have more insight than the unenlightened,” Collins looked like a child being chastised by a teacher. “Don’t ever forget that we’re smarter and better because we’re initiated into the mysteries of the natural rhythms of the universe.”<br /><br />Collins didn’t say it, but he thought that Poteat had an easy time escaping for someone who wasn’t initiated into the mysteries of the natural rhythms of the universe. He also began to suspect that this adventure might take more vacation time than he’d allotted for. He’d have to call his secretary and get her to cancel some appointments, after he had a clearer idea of how long this would take.Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-45971623797615621322010-01-05T21:57:00.002-05:002010-01-05T22:12:09.649-05:00Prophet of the Sun Chapter 3Here is the long awaited chapter 3 ... sorry, the Christmas rush got in the way.<br /><br />For those of you just joining us, you might want to read earlier chapters, available through the <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2009/12/chapter-index-for-prophet-of-sun.html">Table of Contents</a><br /><br />Chapter 3<br /><br />The interview had the sterility of all the expected questions: what they had done that night, the last time Calvin remembered seeing John. Deputy Collins asked most of the questions. He was stiff with an awkward formality, as though he was auditioning for the role without ever having prepared for the part. Parrish, meanwhile, remained quiet. Only once did his leopard-like eyes betray a hint of predatory readiness: when Calvin described the conversation about Hurlburt’s diary. Then Parrish cocked his head, and interrupted smoothly.<br /><br />“What did he say he was going to do with this diary?”<br /><br />Calvin shrugged. “Some kind of treasure hunting – an old lost tomb of Egypt.” A swell of guilt grew as Calvin recalled his inattention to his friend’s plans. “I really wasn’t following the story too closely.”<br /><br />Parrish pursued, “Did he tell you about any plans?”<br /><br />Calvin shook his head. “No, he just said that he had a few associates involved – never mentioned who they were.” Parrish’s upper lip bulged where underneath he ran his tongue over his teeth, sucking them. He sat back, again turning his attention to the rest of the room, surveying every corner. Collins resumed his monotone questioning straight from a bad 1950’s tv cop drama. After what seemed to be an eternity, Collins concluded. As the deputies stood to leave, Collins gave Calvin his business card. “If you think of anything else that might be of help, please give me a call.”<br /><br />“Yessir. I certainly will.” Calvin said, ushering them to the door and opening it for them.<br /><br />“Thank you for your time, Rev. Poteat.” said Collins mechanically as he turned and walked out the door, putting his hat back on in one smooth motion. Parrish looked Calvin in the eye for a moment longer than comfortable. “We’ll be in touch” he said flatly. He nodded and left.<br /><br />Calvin closed the door and returned to the couch. He stared at his now closed laptop, replaying the interview in his mind. The shock of John’s disappearance only now settled in. Calvin picked up the telephone, intending to call John’s parents. Three numbers into dialing, he stopped. His shock gave way to understanding, and he closed his eyes, letting out a long slow breath in an attempt to release the grip that had encased his chest. Calvin hung up the phone, went to the kitchen, found the telephone book and searched the yellow pages, continuing to exhale long and slow to keep fear at bay. He found the number he was looking for and dialed – it rang one, two, three “Law offices of Artemus Jordan, may I help you.” Came the bored sounding voice.<br /><br />“Yes, I need to speak to AC immediately – tell him that Calvin Poteat is calling.”<br /><br />“Sir, he’s in a meeting. May I take a message?”<br /><br />“Just tell him that Calvin Poteat is calling and that I need to speak to him immediately.” Calvin said forcefully.<br /><br />“Yes sir” came the frosty reply. Calvin heard the click of being put on hold. It was no more than ten seconds that he was on hold. But all during it, Calvin bounced on his heels, as though that would make AC pick up sooner. The phone clicked again.<br /><br />“Cal, good Lord, what’s so important? I’m here with another client.”<br /><br />“AC – I just had two Sherriff’s deputies here in my apartment. They were asking me questions about John Carter – John has disappeared, and they didn’t say so, but I think they suspect I did something to him.”<br /><br />A moment of silence. “OK – here’s what we do. I’ve got to finish this up – it’ll take me another twenty minutes. In the meantime, you come on down here and be ready to tell me everything that happened, got it?”<br /><br />Calvin felt relieved “I’ll be there before you know it.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Calvin sat in the office lobby of Artemus Cleanth Jordan, attorney at law, thumbing through the year-old magazines: <em>Fish and Line</em>, <em>Wilderness Treks</em>, <em>Backwoods</em>, <em>Newsreport</em>, <em>North Carolina Legal Review</em>. On the wood paneled wall hung two oversize prints framed with a grassmat backing – one a scene of hunters shooting at a covey of quail, dogs on point, and the quail bursting from beneath an old shrub. The other was a pair of mallards soaring over a lake at sunset. The secretary, a surly twenty something with teased bleach-blonde hair and a permanent tan, did her best job of ignoring Calvin. Her telephone buzzed. She answered, nodded, and said “You may go in now” with all the emotion of a zoo bred cat, bored in a cage.<br /><br />Calvin stepped into the back office. AC was behind an elegantly styled mahogany desk. On the walls were his diplomas and photos of AC in the jungle, AC on top of a mountain, AC whitewater rafting. He stood up to greet Cal, his 6 foot 2 inches packed with a little more girth than Calvin’s shorter yet leaner body. He took Cal’s hand in his own, squeezing it with just the right pressure – firm but not bone crushing. One of the keys to AC’s success was his capacity to read people, and then lead them through instinctive body language. He could have been a gifted salesman or personal counselor, but he had opted to use his gift for reading people in the legal profession. Within a millisecond, he knew that this was no time for the customary half hour of pleasantries demanded by southern protocol.<br /><br />“Cal, it’s good to see you – tell me what happened to John.”<br /><br />They sat, and Calvin told his story while AC leaned back, bringing his fingertips together in a steeple just touching his lips. From time to time, AC nodded to encourage a continued flow of words. He mentally noted Calvin’s every twitch, eye movement, and tremor. He gently pressed leading questions: “Did you tell the deputies everything?” “Tell me more about what John was planning.” “What did he say about these associates?” Finally, AC brought the interview to a close: “You’ve told me everything?”<br /><br />Calvin felt spent. Telling his story had relieved anxiety, but the catharsis had drained him. “Yes, everything.”<br /><br />AC stood and returned behind his desk. “Sounds like just some routine questioning. Based on what you’ve told me, I can’t think of anything they’ve got against you. If they call you again, make sure to not answer any questions until I get there.” He jotted notes on a legal pad. Not taking his eyes from the paper, he continued “Strange about John though –You have no idea where he might’ve gone?”<br /><br />“I’ve said before that I don’t know.” Calvin spat with desperation and frustration – he felt like cursed king Midas or that comic book heroine Rogue –his touch bringing disaster to those he loved. “I just don’t know.” He said quietly, with a faint plea for help in his voice.<br /><br />AC bit the inside of his cheek, pursing his lips to one side. “Do Mr. and Mrs. Carter know yet?”<br /><br />Calvin felt a blanket of failure settle upon him. “I don’t know, I meant to call them, but …. well, I didn’t.” <em>Some friend…Some minister I’ve turned out to be</em>.<br /><br />AC nodded. “I’d better give her a call, then.” He made another note on his legal pad. “Tell you what. Let me buy you lunch – you look like you’ve been through it today. I’ll give the Carters a call and check in with them. You run on down to Biltmore village and get us a seat at that tex-mex place that just opened up there by the church. I’ll meet you there in about half an hour. OK?”<br /><br />Calvin agreed. AC had always had the aura of command about him. He had felt that back in high school, when he was three years ahead of John and Cal and captain of the track team. Even now, twenty years later or so, he still breathed authority. Calvin felt that with AC looking into it, he could rest from his worry about John’s disappearance.<br /><br /> <br /><br />It was three days later when Calvin returned to John’s house. Deputy Parrish had called and asked to meet him there – he had a few more questions and thought that being on the property might help jog Calvin’s memory. Calvin immediately called AC and asked him to meet them there. When he arrived, he saw that AC had beaten him, and was standing on the front porch conversing with Parrish, who held in his hand a stuffed manila folder. Calvin smirked at the sight of AC’s height and power towering over the slender and small Parrish. Yet Parrish seemed ready to spring, like a mongrel dog pouncing at the neck of the bear.<br /><br />Calvin swallowed what spit he had and got out of the car. Walking up to the porch, he said “AC, I see you’ve met deputy Parrish.”<br /><br />AC chuckled “Yes, it turns out we know some people in common.” Parrish snorted.<br /><br />“Do you mind if we go inside?” Parrish barked. AC glanced at Calvin and then back to Parrish with a grin. He gestured with an open palm. Parrish opened the door and all three went into the main foyer.<br /><br />“Why don’t you tell me again what happened the last time you and Mr. Carter saw each other?” Parrish said.<br /><br />“Yessir. I had driven up here to stay the night – John and I are old high school friends and we had some catching up to do. So we stayed up late into the night talking. When I woke up the next day, John was gone. I checked the garage and his truck was gone. I thought that he’d gone to buy donuts. After about an hour, I figured that he wasn’t coming back, so I left him a note and told him I’d be in touch. I called a couple of times later in the week and left messages, but no answer.”<br /><br />Parrish reached into his folder and flipped through a few pages. He pulled out a page from a yellow legal pad. “Is this the note you left?”<br /><br />“Yessir”<br /><br />Parrish looked it over. “What kind of epiphanies were you looking for?”<br /><br />Calvin’s jaw tightened. He swallowed. AC frowned for a moment, and took the initiative to respond for Calvin: “His wife and son were killed in an auto accident about two months ago. My client came back home to recover from his tragic loss.”<br /><br />The deputy looked up at AC with an unflinching face. His voice lowered just the slightest bit as he said “I’m sorry,” only moving his eyes to Calvin as he said “for your loss.”<br /><br />Calvin said quietly “I called up John because I needed to talk – we’ve been friends since the fifth grade. He knows me better than anyone else – or at least longer than anyone else. For the most part, he spent most of the night listening to me talk. I guess the epiphanies I was looking for were breakthroughs in how to move on.”<br /><br />Parrish bobbed his head curtly. “Would you step upstairs and show me just where you stayed?” Calvin nodded and led them upstairs. He showed them the room in which he stayed – the bed still unmade, his towel still hanging over the back of the chair. He led them down the hall into the library, giving a play by play of the evening, conveniently omitting the amount of alcohol consumed. He then walked over to the bookshelf, running his hands along the titles. A puzzled look went across his face.<br /><br />“That’s funny. I thought I put it right back here.”<br /><br />Parrish’s blue eyes bored down on Calvin as he said “Put what there?”<br /><br />“The book …. This diary that he’d gotten hold of. He was talking about it being a kind of pirate treasure map to some kind of archeological find under a monument in New York. It sounded like a childish fantasy – in the morning as I came my way back through here, I remember picking up the diary and putting it back on the shelf right here.”<br /><br />Parrish’s eyes scanned the walls, coming to rest on the face of the man emerging from the leaves. He focused on the green-painted plaster eyes, as though searching them for answers to his questions.<br /><br />“Rev. Poteat – how much did you and Mr. Carter have to drink that night?”<br /><br />“To drink? I….”<br /><br />“We found several empty wine bottles down in the recycling bin in the kitchen.”<br /><br />“well, yes we did have a lot to drink….”<br /><br />“and perhaps things got a little out of hand?”<br /><br />“I’m not sure what you mean.”<br /><br />Deputy Parrish took his eyes from the leaf-man and turned them upon Poteat. He pressed on, panzer-like. “I’m not sure I mean anything. Rev. Poteat. It just seems odd that you two spent the night here by yourselves drinking heavily and then Mr. Carter is never seen from or heard from again. That’s kind of strange, don’t you think.”<br /><br />“Listen, if you want affidavits from my neighbors that I was where I said I’ve been all this week, that’s fine. I haven’t been around here at all.”<br /><br />“No, I reckon that would be a bit too dangerous if you had somehow disposed of Mr. Carter’s body. Likely he passed out and you piled him in his own truck and disposed of him and the truck. I just can’t figure out why.”<br /><br />Calvin felt tingles over his body. A slight high pitched whine rang in his ear. He had that familiar sensation of being an observer to events going on around his own body. <em>I’m in deep – way over my head</em>. AC interrupted at this point “Deputy, don’t you think you’re going a bit too far?”<br /><br />Parrish grinned mirthlessly back at AC. “Sorry, counselor, I’m just trying to figure out why one of the richest men in North Carolina would suddenly disappear without any word to his associates.”<br /><br />A flash went off in Calvin’s mind “Associates… John said that he had a few associates involved with him in this treasure hunt scheme.”<br /><br />“And did he mention any of the associates by name?” asked AC, “anyone helping him look under this obelisk? Anyone he might be staying with?”<br /><br />Calvin shook his head, “No, no names. I’m sure if you could find his address book, their names might be in there. But he didn’t say anything to me.”<br /><br />AC nodded. “It seems like you have all the information you need, deputy. I think you can leave my client alone and concentrate your search on the property. You can refer any more of your questions through me.” With that, AC steered Calvin downstairs and out of the house.Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-68253385582518983512009-12-06T14:28:00.003-05:002009-12-06T14:44:25.715-05:00Prophet of the Sun Ch 2Link: <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2009/12/chapter-index-for-prophet-of-sun.html">Chapter Index for Prophet of the Sun </a><br /><br />Hope ya'll are enjoying Prophet of the Sun. Leave a comment and let me know what a good interval between chapter posts might be .... I like to have at least a few days to give people a chance to read (and to build some suspense), but I don't want it to be so long as to lose people. <br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Chapter 2</strong></span><br /><br /><div align="justify">A boy, scalp-shaven save for a braided tassel of hair dangling from the left side of his head, looked upon a crimson sky. Swirling black clouds spit cinders that grew into skull sized balls of flame. Between the explosions the boy heard cries and shrieks arising from the city. His eyes widened, his soft skinned jaw grew slack. </div><div align="justify"><br />A black line snaked from the river below. The line doubled and tripled and quadrupled in width, growing into a phalanx of frogs, pitiless in their advance through the city. They poured over the walls, splashed in the basins, knocked over his mother’s perfume bottles and jars of ointments. They crowded through the hallways, and when he walked, they squished wet and jelly like under his feet. His enraged father, kicked them about, jabbing at larger ones with his spear – impaling them one two three four. His brother, the senior by far, dressed in leopardskin robes, chanted while holding a basin of libation above his head. </div><div align="justify"><br />And darkness came over the household and the steps and down the street and across the land. No natural darkness, it chilled beyond the skin to muscle and bone and even the marrow– an enduring chill. His pulse throbbing in his ears, the boy looked to his father’s eyes for some sign that this horror might end. He saw only floating disembodied circles, straining to open wide enough to capture the hint of glow that emanated from the slave ghetto. He saw nothing of his brother – only hearing murmuring of prayer from where he stood. </div><div align="justify"><br />A slice of air, sounding like an exhaled breath, whipped past the boy. He saw his father kneel before a crumpled form cradling its figure head, – its leopardskin robe stretched by the contortion of its body. “My son, O Thutmosis my son!”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Calvin woke in confusion -- his heart thumping against his ribs. <em>Am I that far gone? Have I become as hard as pharaoh?</em> Calvin, feeling the drilling pain behind his eyes, blinked four times, as though he could dispel the nightmare and the pain both. He rolled over to look at the bedside clock, an old fashioned radio alarm with the numbers that flipped. Half past noon. He ran a dry tongue over his lips -- he needed asprin, Tylenol, a replacement head – anything. </div><div align="justify"><br />Stumbling out of bed, he scratched his chest and rubbed his scalp as he walked to the guest bathroom. He pulled the little metal tab on the side of the mirror only to find empty metal shelves. “Hey John,” he shouted, immediately regretting that he had done so, “you got any painkillers?” This time he spoke a little softer so as not to jar the pain too much. “My head feels like it’s declared war!” He turned on the faucet. Cupping a hand, he scooped cold water on his face once, twice, then sipping some on the third time around. He turned off the faucet and unfolded a washcloth, lying atop a step-pyramid of symmetrically folded oversize bath and hand towels. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin had a natural propensity for remorse – he felt guilt about his anger; guilt about his rudeness to his friend; guilt about his out of control drinking the night before. He held the sides of the sink, staring down at the drain. He wished that he could re-do the previous night – wished he could re-weave the strands of the last three months of his life. His mind stuck on this wish, circling around it like a dog leashed for so long he’s worn the grass down. Calvin felt disembodied, as though his life were a movie and the credits were ready to roll and the popcorn would be swept up and discarded. His body had no reality for him as his own – it was a prop, a thing to be discarded. </div><div align="justify"><br />He had no idea how long he stood there, holding the sink wishing his wish, lost in his movie, but the pain in his head stabbed with clarity. He closed his eyes, exhaled long and slow through pursed lips, opened his eyes again, and released his grip. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin walked to the back staircase and called “John, you down there?” No answer. He descended the stair to the kitchen. In the center of the breakfast table sat a bowl of fruit – oranges and apples hinting at dietary redemption for the previous night’s foolishness. Wine bottles were arrayed on the counter, empty and hollow -- their best contents spent. The kitchen, decorated in a country yellow that made Calvin’s head hurt all the worse, looked otherwise undisturbed. No empty glasses in the sink. No cereal bowl. No note indicating that John had left. Calvin bit his lower lip, not wanting to delay in making amends for his sour behavior, but his headache compelling him to seek food and some painkillers. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin opened the fridge, took out milk and Ducky Dawdle Orange Juice (“I’ve loved it since I was a kid” John had always said). He poured a glass of juice and a fixed a bowl of the most sugary cereal he could find. Following instinct, he opened the cabinet right above the microwave – there he found a neatly arranged row of plastic containers: <em>Vitamin A,</em> <em>Vitamin C</em>, <em>Ginko Bilboa</em>, <em>Ginseng Extract</em>, <em>Multivitamin</em>, <em>Asprin</em>. He gulped down two asprin with a large glass of water. Then, after finishing his hasty breakfast, he peeked into the garage – John’s truck was gone. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin ascended the stairs and detoured back to the library. Hurlburt’s diary still lay on the couch where John had left it. Calvin picked it up and thumbed the pages, breathing the aged-paper smell that was released. He held it reverently, as though he could capture John’s enthusiasm simply by osmosis. Then he gently replaced it on the shelf from which John had taken it. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin returned to his room, stripped his pajamas, and walked naked to the bathroom. He turned the tub’s handle for hot water and held his hand under the stream, the temperature changing almost imperceptibly, until the water was warm enough. He stepped into the tub, pulled the curtain and bent down to pull the shower knob. Steamy water wet his hair and ran down his body. He stood still for a time, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth like an embrace. <em>The Spirit intercedes with groans too deep for words to express</em>. His mind lingered on <em>groans too deep</em> – as though he might sink into the words and wallow there for a time.<br /></div><div align="justify">After finishing his shower and grooming, he dressed and packed his duffel bag. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he went back downstairs to the kitchen where he poured another tall glass of water. Still no sign of John. Calvin felt out of joint – like a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces had been forced. He didn’t want to leave with the unfinished business of apology; he wanted to assure his friend that he truly was interested in crazy Allan Quartermain schemes. </div><div align="justify"><br />Following instinct once again, Calvin opened a kitchen drawer – neatly ordered boxes of tin foil, wax paper, plastic wrap, and sandwich bags all stared up at him. He tried the next drawer beside it – a phone book, yellow legal pad, and a long thin container of ballpoint pens. <em>Not even junk in his paper drawers – how does he do it?</em> He tore off a sheet from the pad, accidentally leaving a small tear where the paper did not separate at the perforation just right. Sitting at the table, he wrote: </div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">John,<br />Thanks for your time – a good one as always. I’m sorry I was a bit of a jerk there at the end of the evening. Your Egyptian treasure hunt sounds like a great adventure. I’ll give you a call this week, and I promise I’ll listen better. I’ll let you know if I’ve had any epiphanies on my end.<br />Cal</span> </div><div align="justify"><br />He let himself out of the house, locking the door behind him. After fumbling with his keys, he got the car door open, hefted the duffel bag in. One last look up at the house before he closed the car door. He turned the ignition and drove home.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />“Mike, I promise – I really didn’t mean to drink that much.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Cal, it’s OK” the voice on the receiver reassured, “given what you’ve been through, I think I’d have tied one on weeks ago. You’re not planning on making it a habit, are you?” </div><div align="justify"><br />“No.” Calvin said, still embarrassed. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Then don’t worry about it. Jesus is still pretty fond of you.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“I know – but I still feel guilty.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Fine.” Said Mike with resignation, “You are guilty – guilty as sin. Confess, repent, move on.” A pause as Calvin switched the phone from one ear to another, “How’re you doing otherwise?” Mike continued. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin paused again – he felt the need to report progress, but didn’t know what to say. Though it was not a trait natural to him, he opted for bluntness. “Awful.” He paused for a moment, “I don’t know how to be with myself – when I’m sitting in the apartment, I ache because they’re gone. When I jog, I make it about a mile, and then run out of steam – I just want to come back to the apartment and sleep. Three days ago, I found myself walking the aisles of Buy-Mart – just puttering about, picking up a magazine here, a DVD there. When I turned down the toys aisle – there was this Spider-Man action figure – it was what we got Calvin for Christmas this past year. It was all before me, fresh as if it were happening. He tore open the present – shouted “Wow, thanks Dad!” He ripped open the box and began to run around the house, pretending that Spider-Man was web slinging from the chandelier.” Tears burned behind Calvin’s eyes, and he struggled to keep them in. “I almost broke down in the store.” He said with a quiver, “I’m a mess.” </div><div align="justify"><br />Mike’s voice reassured. “It’s OK to be a mess. You’ve lost your wife and your child – no-one expects you to keep it together. You yourself have said many times that everyone grieves in their own way – some folks take longer than others.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Yeah – well now I say ‘doctor, heal thyself.’” </div><div align="justify"><br />Another pause. “Cal, what are you doing to take care of yourself?” Mike said, concerned. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Oh, I still jog every day – just not very far. I talk to momma at least once a week – and my sister tells me she’s coming up for a visit soon. I’m hardly eating, but when I do eat, it’s mostly vegetables.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“You able to pray yet?” </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin paused for a long time and then said quietly “No – no, I’m not on speaking terms with Him. Not yet.” </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin asked Mike how the church was doing in his absence. Mike reassured him that things were improving: the temporary supply minister was good, but not nearly as good a preacher as Calvin. On his end, Calvin smirked. He had tried to bear up nobly after the funerals. Everything seemed fine for a couple of weeks, but then crises slipped from whatever dark recesses in which they had been fermenting: The chairs of building committee and the worship committee began to openly undermine one another; complaints were whispered in coffee hour that the youth director was too “flippant”; once enthusiastic supporters whispered that Calvin’s preaching was “not what it used to be.” Mike, one of Calvin’s best friends in the congregation, had astutely observed the strain that was building during what should have been a time of mourning. He suggested to the elders that a sabbatical was in order. On the surface, Calvin was going away to heal. But he wondered if he would ever return…would he drift to a new line of work and lay the vocation of ministry into soft earth as he’d laid down his wife and child? </div><div align="justify"><br />“And tell the elders – tell them I really appreciate their giving me the time off.”<br /></div><div align="justify">“Wish we could do more. You call me if you need anything, OK?” </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin smiled, “Sure will.” </div><div align="justify"><br />After hanging up, Calvin tried calling John again. No answer. It had been four days, and still no answer, no return call. He didn’t bother leaving a message this time. He hung up and busied himself about the small kitchen. Half empty coffee cups sprung up across the apartment like mushrooms. He collected them all on the countertop beside the sink, pots piled up, crusted with spaghetti sauce from last night. A few dishrags lay on the counter, damp and crumpled. A roll of paper towels stood in the corner, the bottom end swollen with absorbed water that had rebounded off the pots in the sink and spread across the countertop. Calvin emptied the dishwasher, put a few coffee cups in, then walked into the living room. </div><div align="justify"><br />Instead of an office, Calvin had set up his laptop on a cheap coffee table made out of light white pine slats attached with thin tacks to a frame with legs. Every so often, one of the boards would rebel and pop out of place. Cal would have to get the hammer from the basket under the counter and bang it back into place. The table was big enough for him to spread out his Bible and a couple of commentaries. He had a stack of books on the corner: <em>The Dictionary of Biblical Imagery</em>; <em>Exegetical Dictionary of the Gospels</em>; <em>Manners and Customs of Bible Times</em>; <em>Intermediate Greek Grammar</em>. A disordered pile of CD-ROMs lay beside the laptop – on top of <em>The Anchor Bible Dictionary</em>: complete on 1 Volume. </div><div align="justify"><br />He had bought a used couch from the Salvation Army – it was just wide enough for two to sit on: terrible for napping. He did this by design, for he was afraid that if he’d bought a long couch, the temptation to lie down and sleep would be overwhelming. Already it was hard enough to fight against the gravitational pull to stay in his bedroom and sleep. He still tried to lie down on the couch every now and again, and for that reason, one arm had become loose and wiggly, threatening to break off altogether. </div><div align="justify"><br />On the floor, Calvin had a small TV, but no cable. He could only receive 3 channels well – one of them PBS, so he was satisfied. The circular dining room table was on the other end of the great room that doubled as living room and dining room. It was covered with mail, little flyers that kept getting stuck in his doorframe, newspapers, both from Asheville and from Cincinnati, and bags from the most convenient fast food restaurants near his apartment: Taco Casa, Burger Barn, and Hot and Fried. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin returned to the couch, and picked up a book: <em>Commentary on the Gospel of Mark</em> by RS Blanchard: </div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Church tradition, dating back to Eusebuis, tells us that the apostle Mark brought the gospel to Egypt. Mark supposedly wrote his gospel in Rome as a summary of Peter’s teaching. Legend has it that when Mark arrived in Alexandria, his sandals broke – he went immediately to a cobbler to have the sandal repaired. The cobbler, named Ananias, drove an awl into his hand and cried out “God is one!” Mark was startled by such an unusual exclamation; he had not expected to find monotheism in Egypt. He healed Ananias and began to talk with him. He went home with him that night, and soon Ananias and his family were the first converts of Egypt. Most scholars believe this story is apocryphal at best. </em></div><em><div align="justify"><br /></em>Calvin looked up from the book, letting it dangle in his hands. He had been away from his church for two months, but he still felt a compulsion to write sermons. If he didn’t have it done by Friday night, he was fidgety all weekend. He could no more break the habit than a pack a day smoker. He used to enjoy feeling the thrill of knowledge coming together with insights on application of the Biblical text. He had once delighted in weaving jokes, anecdotes, historical and grammatical tidbits, and sprinklings of Greek or Hebrew into a presentation and then delivering that sermon. He remembered feeling connected with his congregants as he told stories and presented truth – as though for a brief moment in the midst of the sermon there was a union - time was lost for a little while and hearts were melded to one. But since Bethan and little Cal’s deaths, it all had gone stale and wearisome. There was no joy in the task. Now, it had degraded to nothing but a compulsion and he wished it would let him go. </div><div align="justify"><br />The doorbell rang. Calvin rose and peeked through the eye-hole. Two men in uniform, round hats signifying they were either highway patrol or sheriff deputies. Calvin unlocked the bolt lock, and opened the door. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Hello, officers, can I help you.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Rev. Poteat?” said the larger of the two – a thickset linebacker type. His hazel eyes set in a recruiting poster face. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Yessir.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Rev. Poteat, I’m Deputy Collins and this is Deputy Parrish. May we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Certainly, officers,” said Calvin, stepping back and extending his arm toward the couch, “come in and have a seat.” </div><div align="justify"><br />Deputy Collins went straight to the couch and stood waiting. Deputy Parrish, a slender man with a hungry look, took off his thick mirrored sunglasses to reveal sharp blue eyes and a bridge of freckles across his nose. He scanned the room, sized up Calvin, and moved to stand beside Deputy Collins while Calvin brought a chair from the dining room table. As he sat, both the deputies took their seats, Collins taking his hat off and holding it in his lap – Parrish leaving his on his head. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Is there something wrong, officers?” </div><div align="justify"><br />Collins begin “Rev. Poteat – you’re a good friend of John Carter’s aren’t you?” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Yessir, I am – at least I like to think I am.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“And you were at his house on Sunday night?” Collins continued. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Yessir, I was. We were catching up on old times.” Deputy Parrish’s eyes narrowed just slightly.<br /></div><div align="justify">“Have you talked with him since?” Collins continued. </div><div align="justify"><br />“No sir. I’ve tried calling and left several messages, but no answer and no return calls.” Calvin had the feel of being a chess piece, so he broke in with a question, “Is there something wrong? Is John OK?” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Rev Poteat,” Deputy Collins said, “John Carter has been missing for four days – and it seems that you were the last person to have seen him.” </div>Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-49280373899326191242009-12-03T22:54:00.004-05:002009-12-06T14:42:56.366-05:00Prophet of the Sun Chapter 1<div align="justify">Link: <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2009/12/chapter-index-for-prophet-of-sun.html">Index of Chapters for Prophet of the Sun</a></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">Back a few years ago, I started writing a novel .... a spiritual action-adventure of sorts. I've shared it with some friends. And now it's my pleasure to make it available online, one chapter a week. I look forward to hearing what you think. My friends, enjoy.... Prophet of the Sun.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Chapter 1</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br />Common sense says that alcohol makes you more of what you are. In some cases it makes you akin to what you once were: like some spectral impression, hanging on at a crossroads haunt, hoping the past is more than memory. Calvin had hoped for twenty years to melt away so he and John could recapture the easy cadences of years gone by… nights spent on Calvin’s rooftop trading thoughts not as profound as they imagined; hours wasted driving the mountain roads faster than their parents would allow. On this night, Calvin hoped to numb his pain by retreating to a time before it. The treasures of John Carter’s wine cellar were but vehicles to that end. For the moment, the strategy was working. </div><div align="justify"><br />“John,” said Calvin, “ – you have corrupted the morals of an honest and upright man.”<br /></div><div align="justify">“I can hear your mother now.” John affected a lowcountry drawl, accentuated by alcohol borne slurring “John Canarvon Carter, what have you done to my boy!” They crumbled into breathless laughter. </div><div align="justify"><br />“She’d – she’d be horrified if we broke into Monty Python,” Calvin wheezed. He began singing, John quickly joining in, a half measure behind: </div><div align="justify"><br />“Immanuel Kant was a real piss ant<br />Who was very rarely stable<br />Heidigger Heidigger was a boozy beggar<br />Who could drink you under the table<br />David Hume David Hume<br />Was a hmmmm hmmm hmmm (for here neither could remember the words)<br />Hmm hmmm hmmm hmm hmmm hm<br />And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart<br />I drink therefore I am.” </div><div align="justify"><br />They collapsed in laughter again – “I think Graham Chapman would have been proud,” Calvin said between gasps. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Oh no, the ratings are plummeting – viewers are tuning out in droves!” exclaimed John in mock horror. They enjoyed the easy comfort of old rehearsed banter, relishing inside jokes that had baffled their parents and annoyed their friends. They needed no new material. </div><div align="justify"><br />Catching their breath, each collapsed into his seat, John reclined on an overstuffed brown leather couch facing a cold fireplace, Calvin in the matching chair. Photos of John’s family were neatly arranged atop the mantelpiece, bracketed at one end by an old Colt revolver in a box and at the other, a framed two cent bill from the State of South Carolina dated 1845, discolored in the lower right hand corner with a smudge that might be blood. Across an open space at the other end of the room was another couch and wingback chair, stiff with formality, before a stern antique mahogany desk, topped with a green shaded banker’s lamp. A neat stack of manila folders lay to one side of the darkened flat screen monitor, to the other side was a glass mug filled with pens, rulers, pencils, bits of glass, half used erasers, paper clips, and commemorative pocket tokens. The desktop was otherwise spotless and dust-free. Even the wires for the computer and lamp were bundled and tucked away under the desk, their chaos hidden from sight. No disorder was evident. The room was clean and bright. </div><div align="justify"><br />Spanning the length of the room was a wall of built in bookshelves, filled with volumes from different eras – some still bearing the glossy dustjackets of contemporary thrillers, others having the worn binding and dusty sweet smell of books past their prime. It was a wall filled with portals of escape: stories of love, loss, and pain – all the great stories that call to you to fall forward into the page and be absorbed into the world, emerging again hours later refreshed and clean and good. </div><div align="justify"><br />The other wall was a row of windows that looked out on darkness –hints of tall sentinel straight pine trees just visible from the interior light spilling out onto the lawn. On the walls above the desk hung a neat arrangement of black and white photos of jungle-hidden pyramids, crumbling classic ruins, and megalithic stone circles. In the center of this arrangement there hung a green-painted plaster bas relief sculpture. It’s wild masculine face emerged from a background of greenery – the leaves forming hair, moustaches and beard – looking vaguely like an arboreal Mark Twain. In the windowside corner by the fireplace stood a replica Pacific Northwest Indian totem pole, faces mysterious, the wings of the eagle at the top jutting out, stuck in an uncomfortable wooden pose. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin blew a long exhale between pursed lips – then in quiet contrast to the preceding hilarity, he said “Thanks for letting me vent. It’s been a …. a hellish couple of months.” </div><div align="justify"><br />John averted his eyes. “I’m glad you came. I wish there was something more I could do.” A few moments passed, longer than either felt comfortable. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Well….. Enough about me,” Calvin said to break the silence, “what are you doing to pass the time in early retirement?” </div><div align="justify"><br />“It’s not easy when you’re a self-made millionaire,” John said with mock arrogance. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, “But I’ve got a project that will help me do it.” He would have seemed much more serious had his right elbow not slipped as he said “project”. He caught himself and fixed his eyes on Calvin, silently begging him to ask for more. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Yes?” Said Calvin, only half curious. </div><div align="justify"><br />John thrust himself off the couch, lurching for a moment until he was steady. He walked to the far end of the bookshelves. “I can’t believe I found this. I was browsing the sale rack at the Captain’s Bookshelf when on a whim, I looked over in that old glass case where they keep the expensive rare books. The binding on this caught my eye.” He pulled an old leather book, tied round the middle with a strap “I paid more than I ever thought I’d pay for a book, but it was worth every penny.” He walked back to Calvin, and held out the book to him, a little too close to the eyes, making Calvin lean back uncomfortably in the chair. John’s eyebrows danced for a moment “See if you can tell me what this is,” his tone suggesting that Calvin would fail. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin cautiously took the book, as though it might crumble to dust or perhaps come alive and snap at him. He fumbled at the leather strap, but finally got it open. Within were yellowed pages filled with the compact cursive of another era – cursive that took effort for his modern eyes to decipher. </div><div align="justify"><br /><em><span style="font-family:georgia;">After reviewing the precursors to disaster that were the other submissions for the contract, I have commissioned Lieutenant Commander Gorringe to retrieve my obelisk. His proposal clearly marks him as the man for the job. I have the utmost confidence in his resourcefulness….<br /></span></em></div><div align="justify">Calvin, regretting that he’d started this conversation, quickly gave up reading, “You’ve got me – what is it?” </div><div align="justify"><br />Retaking his seat and leaning forward, John replied: “That, sir, is the diary of Henry Hurlburt.” Then, breaking out with a Christmas day grin, John said, “Now, ask me who Henry Hurlburt is.”<br /></div><div align="justify">Calvin sighed, “All right, who is Henry Hurlburt?” </div><div align="justify"><br />John’s eyebrows continued to dance as he talked, “Henry Hurlburt was the editor of the New York World in the late 19th century, and a friend of William H. Vanderbilt.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“And this is important because?” </div><div align="justify"><br />“He would be completely forgotten to history but for one thing…while having a conversation with the Khedive of Egypt about improving relations with our country, Hurlburt suggested that one way would be to present America with an Egyptian obelisk.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“An obelisk.” Calvin said flatly. </div><div align="justify"><br />“A tall thin spire carved out of solid rock ….” Replied John. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Yes, I know what an obelisk is,” interrupted Calvin, “Ancient Egypt – pharaohs and Cleopatra’s Needle and all that.” He was annoyed, unprepared for this burst of earnestness; he had been enjoying the pity of his friend, and was not prepared to release John from the hold that pity had. Perhaps if he had not drank so much, he would have been better prepared to politely go along – he might even have been intrigued by his friend’s plans. But now, Calvin was simply annoyed.<br />John, oblivious to Calvin’s body language, clapped his hands together, pointing them at Calvin’s chest. “Exactly! Cleopatra’s Needle! In Central Park – right behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art! That’s the obelisk that Hurlburt is talking about!” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Mmm Hmm” murmured Calvin, wondering how long this was going to take. </div><div align="justify"><br />“It was a marvel of diplomacy – the Khedive was Isma’il Pasha – he was working to modernize Egypt. He built railroads, made deals with all kinds of European powers. Queen Victoria even made him a knight!” John leaned back in his chair, having the look of a college professor absorbed in his subject, forgetting the student in his office. “But his modernization schemes bankrupted his country and he was forced to abdicate his rule to his son.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“… and the obelisk?” Calvin asked weakly, trying to move the story forward. </div><div align="justify"><br />John, stoked by the question, extended a finger in the air. “Ahah,” he said with triumph, sitting forward again. “Pasha didn’t really want to give up the obelisk, but Hurlburt and Vanderbilt pressured their connections in the state department to force the issue. Pasha agreed. But the sly devil knew that the French had taken 50 years to figure out how to move an obelisk from Egypt to Paris – these things are huge you know – hundreds of tons of solid granite. And half a football field in length or more. It took the British almost 75 years to work out a plan for moving the obelisk they took to Trafalgar Square. Pasha was confident that the Americans would never move the obelisk in his lifetime.” </div><div align="justify"><br />John leaned forward again, narrowing his eyes. His voice took on a dramatic hush, like a campfire storyteller weaving a spell about his young charges; Calvin, despite himself, felt pulled back from the slumber he had been slipping into. “Pasha didn’t count on Henry Honeychurch Gorringe.” His eyes pursued Calvin’s attention – his head jutted forward at the end of his sentences. “Gorringe was unstoppable. The Italians tried to stop him with lawsuits – and failed. The Egyptian crowds met him with hisses and insults, and he moved in like a conquering Ceasar. French creditors tried to seize the obelisk as collateral for loans to Egypt. Gorringe hung an American flag from the top and declared he’d shoot the first man who tried to take it down.” Admiration radiated from John as he became lost in the story, his own enthusiasm overcoming his intoxication. “When his team had assembled the mechanism to lift the obelisk from its platform, a huge Egyptian crowd surrounded the worksite, as though to disrupt the proceedings. But Gorringe was too clever – he’d spent years as a navy officer in the Mediterranean. The night before he’d called upon an admiral in the Russian navy he’d befriended years before. As the Egyptian crowds circled about, in burst hundreds of burly Russian Marines, encircling the entire worksite, not letting anyone in or out without Gorringe’s say so.” </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin, wearied of the story, switched from polite tolerance to sarcasm “So you’re going to bronze the diary and embed it in a monument to his memory.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“I don’t have to.” Replied John, “there’s already a monument – it’s on Graywacke knoll in Central Park. The obelisk he brought back.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“So you’re going to impale this very expensive diary on top of said obelisk.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“No,” John continued unflappably, “but the diary tells us what’s inside the obelisk – or rather its pedestal. Before Gorringe could erect the obelisk in New York, he had to reassemble the pedestal that it stood on. The pedestal is made up of giant blocks encased by steps – and between the blocks were gaps that had to be filled. Gorringe and Hurlburt issued a call for people to send items to be sealed in lead boxes which would then be used to fill the gaps. Stuff came from all over the country – bibles, tools, medals, instruments of trade, catalogs. But Hurlburt also contributed a single lead box – the contents known only to himself!” </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin smirked, “Probably copies of his newspaper.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Very funny – maybe I didn’t make myself clear” John said, beginning to sense that his audience lacked enthusiasm, “Hurlburt put some secret in the pedestal, and then Gorringe erected a 200 ton obelisk over top of it, and now nobody knows what was inside that lead box.” John punctuated those last words, jabbing his finger on each syllable. </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin made their tennis match conversation as a kind of game: “So your task is going to be to sneak in by night and blow up the obelisk” he came back with mock excitement, “Then you’ll remove the lead box, bring it back to your secret laboratory and open it to discover ….” He paused dramatically, “that Hurlburt had packed his teddy bear in the time capsule.” Calvin threw himself backward in the chair with a hard laugh “I’ll bet he even said ‘rosebud’ on his deathbead.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“This was before the teddy bear had been invented, ” John said with a surly tone, trying to regain his momentum. Calvin felt he had scored a point. “Now stop interrupting – this is where Hurlburt’s diary comes in. He tells us that Gorringe was shown the remains of an old Egyptian tomb.” John snatched the diary from where Calvin had laid it. Flipping through pages, he said. “Listen to this.” He found the page he was looking for and read: </div><div align="justify"><br /><em><span style="font-family:georgia;">Gorringe described to me what could only be a tomb of such antiquity that it predates the historical record. Apparently his guide showed great discretion, wanting to keep the location a secret. Why he led Gorringe to this spot was known only to himself, I’m afraid. Gorringe spoke of rooms filled with wooden chests. He hadn’t opened the chests for fear of damaging the contents, but he was told legends that they contained a great treasure. Strangely, Gorringe seemed unconcerned about the chests – he said that the inscriptions on the walls were what interested him. He wouldn’t reveal much, only that he hoped to return with scholars and experts to more scientifically explore the find and record his findings. He predicted that his find would be more important to our understanding of antiquity than the Rosetta stone….<br /></span></em></div><div align="justify">John flipped pages. “Now get this…” He read again: </div><div align="justify"><br /><em><span style="font-family:georgia;">What great tragedy – Gorringe’s accident has robbed us all. To memorialize his great achievements, I have taken his notes and drawings for his planned expedition and have bound them and sealed them beneath Gorringe’s obelisk. I do not think it right that any man of this generation follow through on his quest of discovery. May Gorringe rest in peace knowing that this undiscovered tomb will always be his.</span></em> </div><div align="justify"><br />“Did you get that – Gorringe died before he could go back to Egypt. I found out that it happened while he was hopping on board a train in Philadelphia – possibly on a trip to raise funds for his expedition. Hurlburt took all his writings about the lost tomb and put them under the obelisk – likely in that very same mysterious lead box that he’d placed earlier.” </div><div align="justify"><br />Calvin saw another opportunity to score again: “So you’re going to blow up this 200 ton historic artifact to retrieve another dusty old diary.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Stop it… I’m serious.” Another point scored. “Hurlburt says he placed it under the obelisk after Gorringe died – that was three years after it had been erected.” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Oh, so you’ll just get irradiated with gamma rays and become a gigantic green monster and lift the obelisk up?” </div><div align="justify"><br />Frustration edged into John’s voice. “That’s not funny. I’m really serious about this.” Yet another point. “If Hurlburt was able to hide Gorringe’s papers under that thing, then there must be an easy access beneath the pedestals. If I can find that access, I can find Gorringe’s papers – don’t you get it – Gorringe describes a lost tomb filled with treasure that hasn’t yet been found. If I can get hold of the papers, I can find a treasure trove of Ancient Egypt!” </div><div align="justify"><br />“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Calvin said brusquely. “I’m sure your investment banker thinks you’re insane. Who else have you brought into this little Allan Quartermain scheme of yours?” </div><div align="justify"><br />John hesitated for a moment. His eyes drifted left; and he said with a smile “Just a few associates….” His gaze lingered upon his desk. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Goody for them – I’m sure they’ll love digging up King Solomon’s mines. Well, this has been wonderfully entertaining – I think we should have Tom Cruise play you in the movie. But I’m going to bed before I get the spins. Think you should too.” At this, Calvin headed up to the guest room, angry that John had something to fill his life – angry at himself for his drunkenness and poor manners – angry at Bethan – angry at God – angry at anger. </div><div align="justify"><br />John, meanwhile, stayed slouched in his chair for some time, nursing his bemused hurt and cradling the diary in his hand. <em>That’s not the way it was supposed to go.</em> Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Half an hour. He stood up and looked out the window, seeing nothing, his mind still flooded by the confusing ending of the evening – muddled up with thoughts about his plans. <em>What am I doing? Am I this much a fool?</em> </div>Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-11823011774223043492009-12-01T14:39:00.002-05:002010-01-12T21:58:31.985-05:00Chapter Index for Prophet of the SunLinks to the Chapters of Prophet of the Sun<br /><br /><a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2009/12/prophet-of-sun-chapter-1.html">Chapter 1</a><br /><a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2009/12/prophet-of-sun-ch-2.html">Chapter 2</a><br /><a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2010/01/prophet-of-sun-chapter-3.html">Chapter 3</a><br /><a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2010/01/prophet-of-sun-chapter-4.html">Chapter 4</a>Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-46392792536391897472009-11-04T11:53:00.001-05:002009-11-04T11:54:51.056-05:00Smoke on the Mountain Review from 2007Some clown used the comments to advertise nasty stuff on an old post. I can't find a way to delete comments ... So I'm deleting the old post and replacing it here.<br /><br />We were blessed this weekend by a generous couple who gave us tickets to see Playhouse in the Park's production of <em><a href="http://www.mikecraver.com/smokehome.html">Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming</a>.</em> This third play in the trilogy about the musical Sanders family brings the beloved combination of old-time music (think guitars, banjos, mandolins, bass viols, and tight harmonies that tug at memories of celtic roots) and winsome and wistful storytelling that makes Garrison Keillor read like the yellow pages.<br /><br />Set in 1945, just a few months after the victory in Japan, the play depicts one last gathering with the Sanders family singing a church service at Mount Pleasant Baptist church before they split up to head in different directions. Mama Vera Sanders is visibly upset that her daughter June is moving to Texas with her husband Mervin -- who is taking a pastorate of a small Baptist church on the frontier. However, son Dennis Sanders will be taking over the ministry there in Mount Pleasant. Meanwhile uncle Stanley Sanders has returned from his career in Hollywood to be a part of the homecoming -- but something is obviously troubling him.<br /><br />What is nice about this production is that is played entirely straight -- no irony whatsoever. The characters are earnest and winsome, at times a little daft. But there's no mockery of these people or this time. The helpful contrast might be with <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0190590/">O Brother, Where Art Thou?</a></em> In that film, George Clooney mugs the whole time at the head of an eccentric cast cutting the Odyssey down to size to fit into depression era Southern purgatory complete with klansmen politicians, strange riverside seductresses, and a psychotic mono-optic bible salesman. All sense of the people and time are blurred into the strange and darkly comic. Simply put, the film drips of irony and the arched eyebrow. About the only thing that <em>Smoke on the Mountain</em> shares with <em>O Brother Where Art Thou</em> is really good music.<br /><br />We have an elderly lady in our church -- a real tough cookie who served with the <a href="http://www.history.navy.mil/photos/prs-tpic/females/wave-ww2.htm">WAVES</a> in World War II. She's told me several times "I feel sorry for children today. When we were growing up, there was so much goodness about -- and they don't have that today." Smoke on the Mountain evokes what I believe she's talking about: earnestness, family, a love of home. This was an era when people made music rather than simply listening to it. Each monologue carries its own poignancy:<br /><br />First comes patriarch Burl- he explains why he and Vera are retiring from music to work the old family farm. It's a wistful story straight out of EB White depicting a love of the land (complete with rich lush descriptions of farm life in each of the four seasons). However, a touch of reality hits as he tells of his emotional struggle against taking out the loan, an action that violates his religious principles (I remember well my grandfather talking about how he lost a bundle of money co-signing a loan during the 1930s -- loans were not for common people then -- they were for the wealthy. That's why George Bailey's Building and Loan is a threat to the Bank in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0038650/"><em>It's a Wonderful Life</em></a><em>). </em>We see how he is gradually persuaded that this loan won't put him at risk and that he can enjoy the new prosperity of post-war America.<br /><br />Comical monologues come from Denise, the sister who has married and given birth to out of control twins, and mother Vera, who delivers a fine example of a hyper-allegorized children's message. Brother Stanley talks about sin and redemption while June, preparing to leave for Texas gives a brief but heartwarming monologue about following God's call and knowing that wherever God is, there is home.<br /><br />But the piece that tore me up was Dennis. He had just returned from war. He spoke of how some think that the call to the ministry is for the weak, but he knew it was for the strong. And then he spoke of a man in his Marine company who had a call to ministry. This soldier dropped to his knees every day to pray -- he didn't work on the Sabbath -- he endured the insults and threats of his fellow soldiers. They stole his pocket bible from him and played keep away, but he never responded in anger. But when they were assaulting the heights on Okinawa and were beaten back, it was this bible believing praying soldier who stayed atop the heights, gathering the wounded and lowering them down the cliffs with a piece of rope and a prayer for each of them. Dennis said that was the kind of toughness that ministry required, and that was what he hoped to bring to his ministry.<br /><br />It was a tearjerker for me because I knew the story. It's not a made up tale for a play. Desmond Doss was his real name -- he was the only Medal of Honor winner who was a consciencous objector. He was a medic who refused to carry a gun because of his religious beliefs. And that day in Okinawa, he saved 100 lives. I knew his story from <a href="http://www.darkhorse.com/profile/profile.php?sku=33-642">a comic book </a>(someone tell <a href="http://blogotional.blogspot.com/2007/06/comic-art_16.html">John Schroeder </a>to do a feature on that!) I'd read about Medal of Honor recipients (no-one "wins" a Medal of Honor). I <a href="http://www.desmonddoss.com/">found a site for a documentary </a>about his life that just recently came out. The major modificaiton in the play -- the hero dies, whereas in real life Desmond Doss lived to a ripe old age. <a href="http://www.chattanoogan.com/articles/article_82513.asp?imgID=14010">He died just last year</a>.<br /><br />In Sum: Great Music, Good laughs, and honoring that which ought to be honored. It's no wonder the first Smoke on the Mountain is already the most produced musical in America right now. I have high hopes that this production of the third musical will rate just as highly.<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-16786199890495324812009-07-21T11:54:00.001-04:002009-07-21T11:54:40.343-04:00Why ancient philosophy?
Yes, I've been incommunicando for a while. We've had a lot going on at church, at home, and I've been in the throes of my advanced studies in Ancient Cultures through the University of Stellenbosch in South Africa. <br /> <br />Right now I'm working on a module on ancient philosophy. How do such studies help the church? My primary reason is to make me a better interpreter of scripture. Hellenistic philosophy oozes through the New Testament, and for me to better explain the New Testament, I'd best have a working knowledge of how Hellenistic philosophy was actually practiced. A little tidbit of what I'm working on right now as an example. I'm reading an essay on the contrast of friendship and flattery in the Epicurean schools of philosophy. Apparantly Epicureans were criticized by adherents of other schools (such as the Stoics) for being flattering sycophants to the great leaders and powerful men of the day. Epicureans saw no problem with a philosopher attaching himself to a powerful man as a "house philosopher" for that man. Of course the Epicureans defended this practice, making a distinction between being a sycophant and being a court sage. Now put this context as background to the Paul before Roman Governor Felix (Acts 24: 24-27). The passage tells us that Felix was waiting for money. This of course is true. The whole Roman economy functioned on patraonage, bribes, kickbacks, loans, favors .... from Findlay's depiction in his work The Ancient Economy, it seems like the Roman economy looked ahead to Don Corleone rather than Adam Smith. <br /> <br />But the passage also tells us that Felix kept bringing Paul to speak with him over the course of his two year assignment. Could it be that Felix was treating Paul as his own captive court-philosopher? It was the mark of great men to surround themselves with men of learning. Was Felix trying to offer Paul opportunities to continue on as a court philosopher if he would but tone down his rhetoric? Was he grooming Paul to be part of his entourage? Does any of this background make the tragedy of Felix's incomprehension even more pressing? Soli Deo Gloria <br />Russell <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://russellbsmith.posterous.com/why-ancient-philosophy">russellbsmith's posterous</a> </p> Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-83490041223844568522009-07-10T23:40:00.001-04:002009-07-10T23:40:28.931-04:00Trying out Posterous
I'm trying out a new social media app called posterous... a way to manage updates to multiple social media applications via one email. More to come later. Russell <br /> <br />Russell Smith <br />Covenant-First Presbyterian Church <br />513-621-4144 <br /><a href="http://www.covfirstchurch.org">www.covfirstchurch.org</a> <br /><a href="http://www.russellsmusings.blogspot.com">www.russellsmusings.blogspot.com</a> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://russellbsmith.posterous.com/trying-out-posterous-156">russellbsmith's posterous</a> </p> Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-86811538282405028142009-03-12T16:54:00.002-04:002009-03-12T17:22:30.547-04:00On Friendship: Can we have some categories pleaseMeredith at YPulse put up <a href="http://www.ypulse.com/how-younger-facebook-users-can-cure-friendaholism">this post </a>about friendship status on Facebook. She suggests that some "reverse mentoring" is needed for younger users to teach older users what it means to be friend. Her assertion that friend on Facebook roughly means "someone you know" and we still intuitively have categories of friendships. She writes about:<br /><blockquote>How in the same way there are people in your life you consider "bona fide BFFs" and others "you air kiss at a party once a year," on Facebook there are some friends you have a "Wall to Wall" conversation that runs on for multiple pages, others you post a message once a year on their birthday, and others still whom you forget were even born. In short, if you interpret "friends" as<br />Facebookspeak for "people you know," you can pretty much assign the same value system for friendships that you always have. Without cheapening the meaning.</blockquote><br />She has a point. I hear moaning and gnashing of teeth about how social media are destroying our capacity to relate to one another. Meredith's point is that social media (at its best) simply extends what naturally happens. We all intuitively have a range of relationships: compadres, companions, and colleagues; mentors, proteges, and advisors; acquaintences, amigos, and intimates. We have confidantes and we have hangers on. All of these categories and more are under the rubric of "friend" in Facebook.<br /><br />The problem of "friendaholism" is not that the technology cheapens our relationships. The problem is that of understanding the categories. Of course it would be unseemly to ask people to categorize types of frienships on a tool like Facebook; the question is do people have an understanding of different categories at all? I'm not convinced we do. A cursory scan of the shelf at my local Mega-Book-Mart reveals lots of books on "relationships" -- meaning romance, intimacy, and sexuality. There are shelves of books on working relationships and personality profiles. It's really hard, however, to find books on Friendship. <br /><br />To offer a contrast, a quick look at Amazon reveals over 400,000 titles with friendship as the theme. The main themes in these titles tend to be 1) stories of great friendships 2) about the friendships of women 3) spiritual friendship. So clearly there's interest in understanding what friendship is and how it operates in our lives. <br /><br />A look through my own library revealed some stuff. CS Lewis has some stuff on Friendship in <em>The Four Loves</em>. Of course Cicero has a definitive classical treatment on it. Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics speaks of it. Richard Baxter in <em>A Christian Directory</em> gives instructions about friendship. <br /><br />But perhaps the best way to get into this is to ask my friends (no matter what category you place me in... acquaintence or compadre or... well you get the idea): how do we think about friendship?<br /><br />Comment box is open.<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-9457513240510688322009-01-21T22:08:00.003-05:002009-01-21T22:43:25.991-05:00From the trenches of study: The Bronze Age CollapseI'm sure I studied about it in seminary, but it was likely from the tangential perspective of establishing the reasonableness of the exodus. Never did I consider it from the perspective of the interconnected cultures of the Ancient World. I'm talking about the biggest historical sea change that you've never heard of: The Bronze Age Collapse.<br /><br />Of course we're familiar with the disintegration of the Roman Empire (though James O'Donnell's latest book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ruin-Roman-Empire-New-History/dp/0060787376/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1227282709&sr=1-1"><em>The Ruin of the Roman Empire</em> </a>presents the case that popular understanding about said disintegration is seriously flawed -- more on that book in another post). The Reformation radically transformed Europe, and thus the Americas. The Industrial Revolution plundered the countryside for laborers to move to cities, and certainly we're living through the turmoil and abundance brought on by the electronic information age. But the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bronze_age_collapse">Bronze Age Collapse </a>seems to overshadow them all.<br /><br />The scenario was this: for about a millenium, villages had been coalescing into city/states and then into proto-empires. We see the rise of the great Sumerian City States, the Hittites (in modern day Turkey), the Myceneans in Greece, and of course, the granddaddy of them all -- the Egyptian Empire. By around 1500 bc, we see great powers jousting on the global scene and engaging in international trade and diplomacy. Civilization and culture were on the advance. This would be the backdrop for the Biblical Patriarchs.<br /><br />And then starting in 1200, there's a collapse all around the Mediterranean. For the next 200 years we have evidence of destruction of cities from Troy (Northern Turkey) all the way down to Gaza. Egypt retreats it's armies from Syria and the Levant and Nubia. Society crumbles in Greece and Asia Minor to the point that literacy seems to have been lost for 200 years. The Mesopotamian kingdoms retreat their forces. The sparse records we do find from Egypt and Mesopotamia talk about "sea peoples" in the Mediterranean and "Arameans" in the east. We can imagine other people groups taking advantage of the chaos to plunder and claim other peoples property for their own. <br /><br />This era makes the dark ages look like a twilight game of capture the flag. <br /><br />And it is the historic backdrop to the Illiad and Odyssey and the books of Exodus and Joshua and Judges. Truly it could be said that this was a time when there was no king in the land and everyone did what was right in his own eyes. <br /><br />Historians debate the causes behind said collapse: a natural disaster, a migration of peoples, an exhaustion of the potentcies of empire? Yet on the other side of it, new stronger political forms arose. And on the other side, we also see the establishment of the united kingdom of Israel. <br /><br />Looking back we can see the hand of Providence turning the collapse of human empire into the seed bed out of which the state of Israel would arise. And perhaps in that knowledge we can find comfort for our own tumultuous times: that indeed all the nations of the earth are like a drop in a bucket; they are but dust on the scales of God. But as nations rise and fall, the word of the Lord endures forever.<br /><br />Excelsior<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-67088781302092609732009-01-19T09:53:00.003-05:002009-01-19T10:18:09.024-05:00New Species found -- the heavens and earth resoundI see, from time to time, news stories about the discovery of heretofore unknown creatures in remote places. Whether they are <a href="http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/pages/ShArt.jhtml?itemNo=721895&contrassID=1&subContrassID=7">cave dwelling critters </a>hidden away for centuries or bizzare entities <a href="http://www.seasky.org/deep-sea/giant-tube-worm.html">living in the deep sea</a>, they all capture my interest. That's why <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20090118/sc_afp/scienceoceansanimalswarmingaustralia">this article </a>on today's Yahoo News caught my eye: yet another discovery of heretofore unknown creatures, this time in a deep Australian reef. <br /><br />I find these discoveries encouraging for several reasons. First, from my theological perspective, God created all things as instruments of His praise and glory. No matter what your perspectives on the <em>process</em> that God used to create, it still holds that in His Providence, He establishes these creatures that have existed for thousands of years outside the knowledge of mankind. And what have they been doing all that time? In their own humble way, they have been living as unique distinctive expressions of God's glory, creativity, power, and goodness. In their own little ways, these creatures have been living Hallelujahs tucked away in the remote corners of creation.<br /><br />Second, such discoveries never fail to stir a sense of wonder and humility in the hearts of even the most hardened skeptic. As humans we seem to have in inborn sense of awe before the unknown. Such discoveries continue to remind us that this universe is far vaster and more astonishing than we heretofore grasped. Such wonder should serve to expand our understanding of God. God is indeed far bigger and far more grand than we like to admit.... yet His attention to such small details as these creatures shows forth his affection and delight in creation (I'm mindful of the creation story as told in Proverbs 8 -- wisdom alongside God as God forges all of creation -- and doing so in rejoicing and delight in all that is made).<br /><br />Let us rejoice and be glad that the Creator continues to hold surprises for us in this universe ... and that we may delight in them.<br /><br />Previous posts of interest on this topic: <br /><a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2007/05/biodiversity-to-praise-of-god.html">Biodiversity to the praise of God</a><br /><a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/11/instinct-to-care-for-animals.html">The Instinct to Care for Animals</a><br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-8593555618434288802009-01-16T15:15:00.002-05:002009-01-16T15:47:41.505-05:00Will the real John Calvin stand up please?John Calvin has taken on an odd kind of personality disorder. If you follow the popular renderings of Calvin, you get the impression that he was a very brilliant and very angry man. William Manchester plays into this stereotype in <em>A World Lit Only By Fire</em>. And as I talk with people about Calvin, I hear this kind of impression: "Calvin's Geneva was a dark place." or "Calvin burned Servetus" or "Calvin was a wrathful pessimist who taught that all people are evil."<br /><br />Contra that are the hagiographies: Calvin was the greatest theologian since Augustine. Not only was he brilliant, but he was an excellent stylist. He was a humble man who always fought against having authority thrust on him.<br /><br />I suggest that both portraits are vastly skewed. As we enter into the 500th anniversary of Calvin's birth, we have an opportunity to re-assess his heritage and legacy. Calvin was a man, a human subject to frailty, foibles, and folly. He would likely be the first to admit that. Calvin would have us look first and foremost to the sovereign God and his majesty. However Calvin was also blessed with great talents and giftedness ... and he would likely rejoice if in our celebration of those talents, we gave thanks to God for the witness of a saint who has gone before. <br /><br /><div align="justify">Volume 5 of <a href="http://www.pcahistory.org/periodicals/spr/bios/warfield.html">BB Warfield's </a>collected works focuses on that great scholar's writings on Calvin and Calvinism. In his biographical sketch of Calvin, he demonstrates that Calvin's early training as a humanist scholar played out in his later works. Calvin, like Erasmus and other minds of the day, marinated their minds in the classic works of Greece and Rome, and this affected his work. He saw himself first and foremost as a "man of letters" - a writer and commentator on the great issues of the day. Hence his voluminous literary output. Whether we look at the Institutes of Christian Religion (Calvin's great systematic theology, which is still highly readable today -- and which focuses on the practicality of a living faith, rather than a purely cerebral faith) or his large corpus of letters, we find Calvin to be a man using his pen and rhetorical gifts to persuade, encourage, challenge, and confront. Warfield demonstrates Calvin's deft use of satire as a rhetorical tool.... showing Calvin to be a man with more humor than is popularly thought. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">What we see in Calvin's Institutes is a "positive programme" for Protestantism. The Protestant cause began in criticism, and might have remained there but for Calvin. However in his Institutes, Calvin presents a vision of faith that is illuminated by a supremely majestic God who lays claim to all of creation. Calvin presents all of life as the sphere of service to God. His comprehensive understanding of Christianity as a whole life endeavor was his great contribution to the Protestant cause. The critics focus on the frailty of the man without recognizing the positive life affirming vision for Christian life that he presented. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">I hope this year we'll all give Calvin a closer look .... and perhaps take up the task of reading some of his work. The Institutes are a great place to start.... well worth reading and profiting from the insights of this great teacher. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">Soli Deo Gloria</div><div align="justify">Russell</div>Russell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-81795635383368693102008-12-02T16:02:00.003-05:002008-12-02T16:45:04.677-05:00The Hundred Year PlanWhile in Orlando, I heard about a church that went to the trouble to develop a one hundred year plan. Back then, I thought the idea to be audacious and indeed a bit silly. How could we dare to dream that far into the future? How could we burden our children's children with visions not their own? It seemed to me to be an exercise in hubris.<br /><br />I've tempered my views a bit. Dramatically changed them, in fact.<br /><br />Maybe it was reading <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Brunelleschis-Dome-Renaissance-Reinvented-Architecture/dp/0142000159/ref=pd_bbs_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1228252261&sr=8-1">Brunelleschi's Dome</a>, </em>the story of the construction of the magnificent cathedral in Florence Italy: there I learned about the multigenerational effort involved in completing the project. The building was started with plans for a dome. However the engineers at the time had no idea how to actually construct a dome the size that would be required.... they left that problem for the next generation. Blessedly, Brunelleschi figured it out and designed what none of his contemporaries thought was possible. <br /><br />Perhaps it was in reflecting on the US Constitution ... a document designed by the founders to last for generations.<br /><br />Maybe it was from reading <a href="http://gongol.com/research/economics/100yearplans/">this article </a>about 100 year business plans: Medtronic, Toyota, Nestle, SC Johnson are all names that come up as having (or likely having in some internal documentation) 100 year plans. <br /><br />It could have been <a href="http://www.crawlspacemedia.com/blog/2008/08/05/how-buildings-learn-oxford-oak/">this video </a>about the oak beams at New College Oxford. Though the story is completely false, it's still a lovely parable that just makes me think "well, even if it isn't true, it ought to be."<br /><br />Whatever the case, I've come to the conclusion that audacious visioning for the future is what is in order. Strangely, now is a great time for it. For we are in a time of cultural fragmentation, declining economic opportunities, and general anxiety. What the world craves is a compelling positive vision. This is exactly what the church needs to provide. And I mean something other than the typical vision for political renewal ... Christians of both the right and the left have put too much hope in visioning around politics. I'm thinking whole cultural visioning. <br /><br />Over the next few days, I hope to tease out this idea in a series of blog posts dealing with some of what I've been reading and thinking. But I'll lay out one principle right now. That hundred year plans necessarily deal more with transmission of values than of specific tasks. <br /><br />The great for-instance in my own family. My grandfather 10 generations back was a Huguenot refugee who emigrated to Ireland. Most of his children moved to America, and as a way of encouraging family togetherness, he wrote his memoirs in which he told the family story going back 3 generations. He also used the memoirs as an exhortation for his children and their children to stick together, to impart the faith to the next generations, and to compact together for the mutual good. 10 generations later, the <a href="http://www.fontainemaurysociety.org/">Fontaine-Maury </a>society still exists to bring together the far flung members of the family. I have a copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Memoirs-Reverend-Jacques-Fontaine-Huguenot/dp/0906100151">his memoirs </a>in my library.... and thus through this artifact, Jacques Fontaine continues to exert multi-generational influence. <br /><br />What are the artifacts that we leave behind .... Andy Crouch talks about this in his <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/search/label/Culture%20Making">Culture Making</a>... and his reflections should give us pause to consider. The hundred year plan finds its root in producing artifacts and customs that will outlast us. And they convey what we find most valuable. <br /><br />Looking forward to your thoughts.....<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-7921012624779153252008-11-07T22:26:00.002-05:002008-11-07T22:43:05.980-05:00Now Available: Covenant-First Advent DevotionalWe're doing something new at Covenant-First for Advent this year. I've asked several of our members, former members, and friends to contribute reflections for an Advent devotinal.<br /><br />The theme of this devotional is The Call of the King. Centered on the major themes of the Sermon on the Mount (which we'll be preaching through for Advent this year), the devotional ranges all over the Bible. It really shows how the sermon on the mount's themes are woven all through the text of scripture.<br /><br />Authors include: me, Nathan Wright, John and Liz McEwan, Rod Ford, Rob Heidenreich, Debby Welsh, Mark Holland, Teresa Bradley, Michael and Rachel Ludwig, June Holley, and Donn Rubingh.<br /><br />And here's the added bonus. As part of our efforts at being technologically saavy, we're printing this devotional through Lulu.com.... which means that all of our extended friends and family are able to order this and go through it with us as part of their Advent preparations.<a href="http://www.lulu.com/commerce/index.php?fBuyContent=4773709"><br /><img alt="Support independent publishing: buy this book on Lulu." src="http://www.lulu.com/services/buy_now_buttons/images/book_blue.gif" border="0" /> </a><br /><br />So, I hope you'll consider purchasing a copy... you can even get it as a PDF download to your hard drive.<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-78626461188547261742008-10-23T15:03:00.003-04:002008-10-23T15:07:11.348-04:00My one political foray this season: No on Issue 6Here's the text of a letter to the editor that I submitted to the Cincinnati Enquirer ... thus far they have chosen not to print it. So, I thought I'd share it with you. It's an article encouraging a "No" vote on Issue 6: the Ohio Casino Initiative. <br /><br />There is an episode of The Simpsons in which a con man comes to Springfield promising a solution to the town’s economic woes in the great benefit of a monorail. It’s part of a rich tradition of popular entertainment that relies on the motif of the smooth talking con-man who plays on the fears of the populace in order to fleece them. Think of Henry Hill in The Music Man and Starbuck in The Rainmaker. These popular stories teach us a basic truth: hucksters capitalize on fear, promise a great benefit, and get us to support their schemes. When they’ve made their money, they skip town leaving the citizenry holding the bag. <br /><br />That’s exactly the sense I get when viewing the advertisements supporting Issue 6. These advertisements appeal to fear: fear that Ohio is missing out on great casino windfalls; fear that we’re falling behind other states; and fear that if we don’t do something – anything – soon then we’ll fall further behind. Their solution is a casino. <br /><br />This primary appeal to fear should be a loud warning signal. Fear shuts down rational thinking. The fear that casino backers try to arouse distracts us from the truth that Issue 6 would create an unfair monopoly in the state for one casino. This same fear distracts us from the truth that our country is already saturated with casinos and gambling establishments. The dream of easy windfall profits is an illusion that will fade in the harsh reality of competing in an overdeveloped gambling market. Again, this fear diverts our attention from the truth that the profits will be leeched mainly out of the paychecks of Ohio’s citizens, rather than out of some imaginary tourist boom. What money the casino does make will be siphoned off out of the state into the pockets of the gambling industry. <br /><br />In his second inaugural address, Franklin Roosevelt reminded us that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. Rather than caving in to our fears, let’s put our energies and our hopes and our thinking into what we in Ohio do well. Let’s invest in agriculture to take advantage of the coming biofuel boom. Let’s work together to make our manufacturing the best in the world again. Let’s encourage entrepreneurs who actually make products that add value. Let’s develop tourism around the areas where we’re already strong: arts, sports, outdoor recreation, to name a few. <br /><br />On election day, say no to the fear mongering of Issue 6, but then let’s get creative about building on our existing strengths.<br /><br /><em>Russell Smith is pastor of Covenant-First Presbyterian Church. These views do not necessarily reflect the position of the church, but his own as a private citizen.</em> <br /><br />Excelsior<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-43322387196946492362008-10-07T10:07:00.002-04:002008-10-07T10:24:28.865-04:00More on Cross-Platform InstitutionsEarlier this year, I put up <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2008/04/hollywoods-new-geek-elite.html">a post about Hollywood's New Geek Elite</a>... how they've transformed the entertainment industry by taking popular TV shows across multiple platforms. The idea was that storytelling would no longer be confined to the TV show itself.... the big arc of the story would be developed online, through gaming, graphic novels, tv, movie spin offs, book deals, etc. I put up some questions about how the church can also use these kind of media options. <br /><br />Since then, I've found the wonderful weblog Museum 2.0, which is asking the same kinds of questions for Museums. How can museums extend their relationships with patrons/visitors beyond the physical visit? How can exhibit design be tweaked to draw more people in to asking questions? How do we engage people in participating in the museum rather than just viewing the museum? <br /><br />At said weblog, they just put up <a href="http://museumtwo.blogspot.com/2008/10/what-cross-platform-gaming-is-doing-for.html">a great post </a>on how Scholastic Books is going cross platform for their new book series 39 Clues. Then they consider what museums can learn about enhancing their online experience: <br /><blockquote><p>But the approach is valuable. It takes humility to acknowledge that museum visits can't--in most cases--accommodate every kind of relationship museums would like to have with visitors. There are content-related experiences and preferences that would be better served in alternate environments. Art museums have always created catalogues to accompany exhibitions, which are one cross-platform way for obsessives to deepen their relationships with content. </p><p>But what about the grazers, the visitors who come once but never make it back to that time- and location-specific experience of visitation? What other engagement platforms could connect those individual museum experiences into a more continuous, growing relationship?The Web is certainly one of these platforms. Too many museums have an overly structured concept of the online pre- and post-visit experience that limit the opportunities for pervasive engagement. Rather than thinking of extending one museum visit with a pre- and post-visit, we should be thinking about linking many museum visits with online experiences. </p><p>Scholastic has the audacious attitude that people will want to read all ten books, and The 39 Clues online experience is unapologetically geared toward that long-term investment. Imagine a museum game that requires visitors to visit six times in a year to connect with six different exhibits that punctuate a more open-ended online narrative. Forget "build the exhibit and they will come". This is "build the narrative and they will return".These narratives need not be crass advertising grabs; they can become opportunities for visitors to educate themselves in a range of ways about museum-related content. Because despite what the New York Times may say, it's not an OR situation. All of the media experiences in our lives--of objects, of books, of games, of video--can be ANDs. We just need a good enough story to help people make the connection.</p></blockquote><br />So the question becomes, how do we build multiple experiences, opportunities that build and provide opportunities to delve deeper..... how do we enhance our online and offline experiences to draw people in deeper? <br /><br />Some practical for instances from Covenant-First. We're putting together a devotional for Advent. I've asked several authors to write individual reflections and we're compiling them and professionally printing it through Lulu.com (I'll put up an announcement when it is available online). This advent devotional can be done as a standalone devotional, but it is designed to support the sunday sermon series we're doing through advent.<br /><br />This in of itself is a cross-platform attempt to get people encountering scripture together. Additinoally, it won't be place bound.... any of our extended family anywhere in the world will be able to order this devotional through Lulu and go through it. Lord willing, we'll have our sermon-audio challenges worked out and anyone will be able to download the sermons as well.<br /><br />The next step? Online interactions. Perhaps we put together a Facebook Group to allow people to discuss insights, or tell their stories online. Enhance the reflections by adding your own... that kind of idea. <br /><br />Your thoughts?<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br /><br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-7117962709452601812008-09-30T13:48:00.002-04:002008-09-30T14:23:26.008-04:00Living in the CrisisTwo years ago, <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/08/fourth-turning-review-is-up_08.html">I blogged through </a>Strauss and Howe's <em>The Fourth Turning, </em>a book written in the late 1990's that suggested, among many other things, that we would be soon entering a culture shaking crisis.<br /><br />And then, a few years after that book came out we had 9/11<br />.... and the war on Terror<br />.... and the rise of China as an economic superpower<br />.... and the immigration crisis<br />.... and the re-establishment of Soviet-like aggression in Russia<br />.... and now the financial market debacle<br /><br />Friends, we're not just entering the crisis.... we are living in the midst of a crisis that is maturing around us as we speak. The voices proclaiming the decline and fall of our culture are many. Consider a few titles on the shelves at your local book merchant:<br /><br /><ul><li><em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Are-We-Rome-Empire-America/dp/0547052103/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1222797339&sr=8-1">Are We Rome: The Fall of an Empire and the Fate of America</a></em></li><li><em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Post-American-World-Fareed-Zakaria/dp/039306235X/ref=pd_bbs_4?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1222797339&sr=8-4">The Post-American World</a> </em></li><li><em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Why-We-Hate-Discontent-Millennium/dp/0307406628/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1222797588&sr=1-1">Why We Hate Us: American Discontent in the New Millenium</a></em></li></ul>Also consider the panic that is setting in: a <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20080930/lf_nm_life/us_financial_psychology">herd mentality </a>driving sell offs in securities, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/30/us/30gas.html?_r=1&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1222797879-qibyScKxf1twoCeyXiR7Ww&oref=slogin">people snapping up gasoline</a> in the South due to shortages, anger over the bailout bill leads millions to call their congressional representitives. Things loook bad.<br /><br />Yet, strangely, this is the great time of opportunity.<br /><br />Strauss and Howe offer <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/07/fourth-turning-personal-preparation.html">suggestions </a>for living in the crisis: build relationships, self reliance, return to the classic virtues of thrift, reliability, integrity, etc.<br /><br />I suggest also that these times ought lead us to prayer, study, fellowship, worship, and a greater generosity. Paul reminds us in 2 Corinthians (that wonderful book of comfort that should be required reading for us all in these times) "For the love of Christ controls us, because we have concluded this: that one has died for all, therefore all have died; and he died for all, that those who live might no <strong>longer live for themselves, but for him who for their sake died and was raised</strong>." (5:14-15). We are not our own, but His. And we will be His and live for His sake in times of prosperity and fatness, and in times of leanness and struggle.<br /><br />Indeed, this may well be an opportunity for many of us (and I count myself chief among all sinners) to repent of our self-centered ways ... to trust in the Lord's provision and be about the business of being a blessing to other people. "For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." (Eph 2:10) Part of living for Him is living for others ... not that good works earns us salvation, but that when we're saved, He shapes us for good works. <br /><br />We'll all be struggling: financially, emotionally, in our homes. This is the time for us to draw closer together .... look at how we can share, help one another out, meet one another's needs as we're able. We'll discover that we can entertain ourselves, rather than relying on the cradle of narcissism that celebrity culture has become. We'll discover that we can make many decisions for oursleves, without relying on experts to tell us how we ought to be. We'll discover our own tastes and styles, rather than being lapdogs to the mavens of fashion. <br /><br />Our culture is not falling apart --- just the high-flying consumeristic element of it that preys upon the insecure. Now, we who build our lives upon the Rock that is Christ have the opportunity to build better culture.......<br /><br />So let's be about it.<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br /><br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-71825172878672620992008-09-18T22:53:00.003-04:002008-09-18T23:19:31.200-04:00Election AddictionYesterday on Talk of the Nation, I heard <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=94704835">a conversation </a>with Megan Daum about election addiction. The idea that she had presented in <a href="http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-oe-daum13-2008sep13,0,2268400.column">an article of the same topic</a>, was that we have moved to an unhealthy obsession with this election. She notes that people are showing all the signs of addiction ... abandoning hobbies to focus on the election, continually logging on to get the fix of the latest election news, etc.<br /><br />I've seen it too. And it just plain bothers me. Yes, Christians ought to participate in the political process, but we ought not be obsessed by it. Idolotry of any form is .... well it's a bad idea. Neither McCain/Palin nor Obama/Biden are my saviors. (and in the interest of equal time, neither are <a href="http://www.baldwin08.com/">Chuck Baldwin</a> of the Constitution Party, <a href="http://www.bobbarr2008.com/splash/?s0820">Bob Barr </a>of the Libertarian Party, <a href="http://votetruth08.com/">Cynthia McKinney </a>of the Green Party, <a href="http://www.cj08.com/">Charles Jay</a> of the Boston Tea Party, or any of those others). The issues are important, but at the end of they day, Christ is my savior. <br /><br />Another tangential issue is that much of what passes as "political news" is actually analysis of strategy, tactic, polls, and campaiging. There's little substantive conversation going on about the issues.<br /><br />And even if there were substantive conversation about the issues, it would have little bearing on the presidential race. Take a look under the hood of the political process in Washington, with it's byzantine collection of committees, staff, oversight duties, symbolic gestures, hearings, votes on procedure, press meetings, and pomp. One person's stand on the issues, while important, gets quickly dwarfed by a candidate's capacity to work through the labyrinth of legislation and administration. Simply put, much of what goes on in the electoral process has little or nothing to do with how governance actually happens. The best thing about the election process is that it gets the candidates out there rubbing shoulders with ordinary people, so they won't forget who it is they serve. <br /><br />So I've turned off most of the news. I've turned my attention back to books and special projects and church and spending time with friends, family, and people in the neighborhood. Sure, I'm taking time to look at candidates web pages and their records; but I'm trying hard not to spend too much time heeding punditry..... I've got a life, after all.<br /><br />Excelsior<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-24135470639661683922008-09-16T10:18:00.004-04:002008-09-16T10:45:18.782-04:00Now Playing double feature: Lars and the Real Girl and Be Kind RewindI had not planned on watching Lars and the Real Girl. It's the story of a shy upper midwesterner who orders a life-size girl doll (yes, one of those), and carries it around with him everywhere, passing it off as his "girlfriend". However, when an octegenarian says "You must see this movie", well, I sit up and take notice.<br /><br />The film is not crude. Indeed, it's sweet. Lars is so chronically shy, he can't even endure skin contact with another person. He's not insane; he's not dangerous. He's just deeply wounded and trying to process what it means to be an adult. As Lars goes through this delusion, insisting that this doll is a wheelchair bound child of missionaries from Brazil, the whole town rallies around, trying to help him by treating her as though she were a real person. The whole community engages in this elaborate fiction.... even to the point of giving this doll a life of her own separate from Lars's life. This gracious extension of love and imagination becomes the classroom in which Lars learns what it means to grow up from a wounded child into an adult who takes responsibility for doing the difficult things in life. Lars' brother also gets confronted with owning up to his own past failures as a brother and seeking forgiveness. All of it because the whole community rallies around Lars to offer love.<br /><br />And this is why I make the connection with Be Kind Rewind. This movie was something of a disappointment. Mos Def and Jack Black work in an old video store, and through a bizzare series of events, Jack Black erases all the videos. They hurriedly try to re-film all the movies themselves. Watching these two morons recreate Ghostbusters is a riot. Soon the whole neighborhood gets involved in making the movies and enjoying the movies. When the copyright goons come in and shut down the operation, the two heroes understand that they can make their own film. They create a documentary about legendary musician Fats Waller .... bringing the whole neighborhood in on the act. It's a complete work of fiction, but the project of creating the fiction brings the community together. <br /><br />In both cases, we have instances where the community gathers in an act of creative storytelling. In both, we have strange quirky characters who are both annoying and loveable. In both we have a celebration of community, togetherness, and a confidence that even in the face of tragedy or discouragement, the community can write a newer more lyrical reality. <br /><br />It's very telling that Lars is shown reading to his real girl from Don Quixote, the great story of a man who created his own reality of being a knight errant, and he was more alive in his world of fantasy than he was in his world of reality. Quixote understood that the name a man chooses for himself is oftentimes more his own than the one he's born with. <br /><br />It's an interesting trend in film.... parallel with the epic larger than life superhero films, we have these very homey films that focus on the community. These films help us reflect on such community oriented passages as Romans 12:4-5 "For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members of one another." -- come what may we belong to one another. Maddening though we are to each other, we are God's gift to one another. I Corinthians 12 hits at this as well "to each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good." (v 7) and the whole chapter becomes a meditation on how the Spirit grants different roles and gifts within the body of Christ. <br /><br />Strange and quirky as they are, these films help us reflect on what it means to live as the body of Christ. <br /><br />Soli Deo GloriaRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-28257968975544895842008-09-11T12:13:00.000-04:002008-09-12T12:15:01.360-04:00As we sit at the seventh anniverary of 9/11, I simply link to this engaging book review from the Economist, August 23rd issue. It's <a href="http://www.economist.com/books/displaystory.cfm?story_id=11959117">the review of two books </a>from two friends, one a Palestinian, the other an Israeli. The theme however, is music and its unifying power. I think it a fitting homage to the victims of those tragic attacks that in the midst of our remembering, we also look ahead to building anew. <br /><br />I believe that lasting peace is found in Christ alone; I also believe that we are called to be culture makers (following the theme of Crouch's book which I've been slowly reviewing here) and this review has some pertinent ideas for culture making:<br /><br />"We live in a world in which different voices -- different expressions of political will and behavioral norms -- collide and compete. Some struggle to be heard; others seem to be continuously present. In music we have the perfect model of contrasting voices working together harmoniously."<br /><br />The review itself is well worth a read.<br /><br />Excelsior<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-37893922589858873402008-09-03T08:59:00.003-04:002008-09-03T09:53:35.715-04:00Culture Making Ch 4 -- Cultivtion and CreationI truly enjoyed the film <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0255653/">Tortilla Soup</a></em>. Hector Alizondo plays the role of a great chef whose wife has died. Every Sunday, he and his three adult daughters gather for a home-cooked meal. The film dwells on shots of the selections of ingredients and preparation of food .... and we see that this family is bond together by the regular routines of preparation and enjoyment of a great meal. <br /><br />Andy Crouch evoked memories of that film in this chapter on Cultivation and Creation. He makes the argument that the only way to change culture is to make new culture that displaces it. He gives the example of homemade chili. His kids may protest against it now, but with the consistent creation of it, he will teach them that preparation of food is a delight and a valuable thing. They may make their own recipies as a way of doing something else, anything else other than chili, but they still will have been taught the value of making their own meals. <br /><br />Crouch thinks through the other stances toward culture in relation to Creation and Cultivation:<br /><br />condemning culture: does very little... that which is condemned is still there. The show goes on unless an alternative is offered.<br /><br />Critiquing culture: This looks for redeeming qulaities. It may shape the framework of some, but it only has lasting value if someone creates new culture in response (I'm reminded of a drama workshop I attended years ago taught by <a href="http://www.peculiarpeople.com/A/index.html">Charlie and Ruth Jones</a>. Charlie opened with a talk about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ts_eliot">TS Eliot</a>, the great poet who decided that his literary talents were better used in writing essays about the culture. Today, nobody reads the essays, but everyone still has to study <em>The Waste Land</em> in some literature class in their career. The illustration holds... analysis has value....but it's lasting value lies in what is done with the analysis. However, Eliots Criticism did arouse some pretty lasting effects.... that perhaps is a subject for a different article)<br /><br />Copying culture: creation of a subculture is OK and something of a refuge for those in the subculture, but does little to touch those outside the subculture. <br /><br />Consuming culture: Use the power of the purse to shape culture. Crouch uses the example of <a href="http://barbaranicolosi.com/">Barbara Nicolosi's </a>"othercott" against <em>The DaVinci Code</em>. The idea wasn't to boycott going to movies the weekend of the opening of the lackluster film adaptation of Dan Brown's controversial thriller. Rather, the idea was to go see anything but <em>the DaVinci Code</em>. If Hollywood understands things in terms of dollars and cents, then in addition to punishing objectionable fare, positive and healthy fare needs to be rewarded. Crouch shows how this is a good idea, but on the aggregate scale, the kinds of numbers required to really make a difference are staggering.<br /><br />Culture Making, by contrast, requires a decision to participate in the cultural tradition of which we are a part. This begins with Cultivation .... learning the tradition. It begins with the habits of conserving the true, the good, and the beautiful in our tradition and teaching them to the next generation. “One who cultivates tries to create the most fertile conditions for good things to survive and thrive.” (75)<br /><br />Crouch points out that disciplines are simply systematic methods of cultivation. The pianist running through scales. The basketball player practicing free throws. The writer sitting down for his daily 30 minutes of writing. The disciplines we do on the day in day out, week in week out basis are the things that prepare fertile soil for rich and deep culture making. <br /><br /><div align="left">This is one of the reasons Tammy and I have chosen to put our children in a <a href="http://www.marshill.edu/">private school centered on the Classical model.</a> Yes, our children will spend much of their elementary school years memorizing and packing facts into their heads (fortunately they memorize using fun methods like songs, chants, body motion, and a variety of other methodologies).... but the disciplines of learning all these things will become a deep well from which they can draw in later years. Of course, I don't object to christians sending their children to public schools....there are great public schools here in Cincinnati, and many of our congregation members are public school teachers. However, this was a decision that was right for our family. </div><br />Another example....I somtimes get some of our members who say "you must read a lot, how do you find time to read all these books?" Admittedly, I do read a lot. However, I've been reading a lot for over 20 years. Just because I refer to a book (or a film) in a sermon, that doesn't mean that I was reading that particular book last week. Over a couple of decades, I've built up a deep well of knowledge about literature, history, and the arts. I'm not particularly more clever than anyone else, I've just been doing serious study for a long time.... and I've been archiving information in notes and journals so that I can come back to it later. This is just a basic discipline that cultivates the mind. <br /><br />“So underneath almost every act of culture making we find countless small acts of culture keeping. That is why the good screenwriter has first watched a thousand movies; why the surgeon who pioneers a new technique has first performed a thousand routine surgeries; and why the investor who provides funds to the next startup has studied a thousand balance sheets. Cultural creativity requires cultural maturity. Someday my own children will undoubtedly cook me a wonderful meal – but by that time, they will also have learned to love chili. With any luck, they will be both culture keepers and culture makers – both cultivators and creators. And then they will be prepared to both conserve culture at its best and change it for the better by offering the world something new.” (77)<br /><br />However Crouch points out....that is only the first step. Cultivation only sets the conditions. Then there comes the act of Creation. And here, unfortunately, Crouch ends the chapter. Of course he comes back to the call to create, but I would have liked more.<br /><br />I would have liked more on the fears that are involved in creating. Creating seems to be a tremendous act of ego.... and it is terrifying. Bayles and Orland, in their work <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Art-Fear-Observations-Rewards-Artmaking/dp/0961454733/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1220449981&sr=8-1"><em>Art and Fear</em> </a>deal with this very issue. They talk about the fear of not being able to make the art we create match the art that is in our head. The materials are never as supple as we hope they'll be. They never fully respond the way we want. Bayles tells the story of learning to play the piano: After a few months practice he moaned to his teacher “but I can hear the music so much better in my head than in can get out of my fingers.” To which the master replied “What makes you think that ever changes?” (14-15)<br /><br />Bayles and Orland also tell this most revealing story: <br />A ceramics teacher divided his class into two groups – those on the left would be graded on the <em>quantity</em> of the work they produced, those on the right solely on the <em>quality</em> of the work. The second group only had to produce one pot, but it had to be perfect to get an A. “Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the quantity group was busily churning out piles of work – and learning from their mistakes – the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay.” (29)<br /><br />In other words, a significant part of culture making....of the cultivation process itself....is in <em>doing</em>. We need to be producing. <br /><br />So I ask ... what are you working on. What creative disciplines (beyond the spiritual disciplines) have you developed? <br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-1372040120129736762008-08-28T14:43:00.002-04:002008-08-28T15:25:43.116-04:00Culture Making Ch 3 -- Teardowns, technology, and changeI often judge the quality of a nonfiction book by it's capacity to spark within me those "oh yeah" moments of syncrhonicity ... when I suddenly see connections with life and other readings that I've done (thought perhaps, that quality is more a judgment of my mental state at the time, but that is another topic entirely).<br /><br />Reading chapter 3 of Crouch's <em>Culture Making</em> sent off fireworks of connections in my mind. He begins by talking about how change happens.... that change is unavoidable. Sometimes change is subtle in the form of Maintenance (a new coat of paint in the room, new roof, new strings for the guitar).... sometimes it comes in the form of tearing down something ... the tearing down of something may represent a cultural failure. Crouch uses the ideas of Stuart Brand (<em>How Buildings Learn, The Clock of the Long Now</em>) to show that the longer it takes to change something, the more lasting the impact is.<br /><br />For instance, fashion is ephermeral. This year, more modest clothes are in. Next year it will be shorter skirts and outlandish ties. Shaping the world of fashion may not have much impact. We still live with the impact of the political changes that took place in the late 18th century; however the movement from wigs and breeches to loose hair and pantaloons is pretty irrelevant to us. <br /><br />What of revolutions? Even revolutions are the product of a buildup of centuries of ideas and social tensions. They don't happen overnight. In one sense, 9/11 began with the crusades and the Barbary Pirates, and Charles Martel, and a host of other tensions building up over centuries. The American revolution began with the Magna Carta and the British Civil War and the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and centuries of political thought. <br /><br />And even thought revolutions are quick, they're usually more destructive than creative. “And like earthquakes, revolutions are much better at destroying than building. There is an important asymmetry here, whose roots go all the way down to the laws of physics: It is possible to change things quickly for the worse. It only took two hours after the collision between a 767 and the South Tower of the World Trade Center to destroy it. But no one can build the World Trade Center in two hours. The only thing you can do with Rome in a day is burn it.” (58). I'm reminded of John Adams, who was worried by Tom Paine's <em>Common Sense “</em>the writer has a better hand at pulling down than building.” (David McCullough biography, 97). So, Adams in 1775 began writing his <em>Thoughts on Government</em>, already working on building the new government, before the revolution even began. His work became foundation during the Constitutional convention in 1787, over 20 years later. The point is this...that we ought be very cautious in our ardency for radical change....radical change rarely helps. The American Revolution was helped by geniuses who knew how to build and thus tempered the radicals who wanted to watch things burn. <br /><br />I think Crouch would have benefitted from looking at the economics of this, however. In a sense, to create anything, we must destroy something. To make omlettes, we must break eggs. To make guitars and violins, we need to cut down some trees and we need to shape raw materials into varnish and stain and glue. The concept of the opportunity cost is at play here.... to do something, we must sacrifice the opportunity to do something else. I think this is at play when he talked about horizons of opportunity in the previous chapter, but such a recognition would help us when approaching the topic of destruction.<br /><br />Surely there are those who simply enjoy watching the world burn (see my post on <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2008/08/on-thuggery-trolldom-and-joker-ethos.html">Thuggery, trolldom, and the Joker ethos</a>). However, there are some cultural artifacts whose time have passed and they must die. Clay Shirkey, in <em><a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2008/04/off-shelf-here-comes-everybody-by-clay.html">Here Comes Everybody</a></em>, talks about Abbot Johannes <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trithemius">Trithemius</a>, Abbot of Sponheim, who in 1492 published <em>De Laude Scriptorum, </em>a defense of the scribal tradition. He defended the tradition of having professional scribes take copy manuscripts painstakingly by hand, rather than using the faster and more economical moveable type printing press. His argument centers around what will be lost if the tradition vanishes: a profitable use of time that sharpens the mind and bends the spirit toward God. However the irony was, he published the tract using a printing house. <br /><br />Here then is a case of destruction....not out of wanton need to destroy nor out of cultural failure. The Scribal tradition was a grand success, but it was eclipsed by superior technology and a new tradition. It was time for the tradition, as it stood, to die. Even so, it didn't die completely. It carries on in some few enthusiasts <a href="http://illuminations.ca/">who are passionate </a>about calligraphy and hand illuminated manuscripts. <br /><br />All said, I think a more nuanced discussion of this issue of change and destruction might have been helpful. <br /><br />Even so, Crouch is asking all the right questions and wrestling with the right issues. A fascinating read up to this point.<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-88078960318890526472008-08-27T11:42:00.003-04:002008-09-03T21:28:47.785-04:00Letter to the Editor re: Kathleen Parker on Rick Warren's Values Voter ForumEvery so often, I take up the mantle of submitting a letter to the Editor. My most recent attempt was in response to <a href="http://townhall.com/columnists/KathleenParker/2008/08/20/purpose-driven_politics">Kathleen Parker's editorial </a>criticizing Rick Warren's Values Voter forum. Though the paper has not seen fit to publish my response, I thought I'd share it with you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">here</span>. Be sure to read Parker's editorial. And then note this caveat that I generally enjoy Parker's writing and editorials....this is a rare case of disagreement. The text of my reply follows:<br /><br />Kathleen Parker cries fowl over the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Saddleback</span> Church Candidates’ Forum. In her August 21 column she writes: “…while, yes, everybody has some kind of worldview, it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">shouldn</span>’t be necessary in a pluralistic nation of secular laws to publicly define that view in Christian code.”<br /><br />Just a little thought shows the intellectual poverty of her argument. The wall of separation of church and state is indeed a brilliant principle. It provides for a robust government and a robust religious climate by separating two institutions into different realms of responsibility. Institutions deal with management of resources, decision making, and setting the parameters of their constituent members. However, faith and politics are not institutions; they exist but in the realms of ideas and worldview. Faith and politics do not have constituent members, for they are inherently personal and held privately. The wall of separation does not apply to them.<br /><br />A cursory glance at the great documents of American History shows that our leaders have always felt comfortable with such a distinction. FDR’s <a href="http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/fdrfirstinaugural.html">first inaugural address </a>was replete with imagery ripped straight from the Bible and a request for prayers of the nation. Lincoln, in his <a href="http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/speeches/inaug2.htm">second inaugural address </a>dabbles deeply in the theology of providence and discerning the will of God. The <a href="http://www.loc.gov/loc/lcib/9806/danpre.html">very document </a>that coins the phrase “wall of separation of church and state” ends with Jefferson asking for the prayers of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Danbury</span> Baptists. Nowhere do the great minds appeal to the coercive power of churches to bind the consciences of their membership (an institutional no-no). Rather, they appeal to the personally held faith of the American citizens and leave it to the citizens how to respond. Historian Larry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Witham</span>’s recent book <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2008/03/off-shelf-city-upon-hill.html"><em>City Upon a Hill</em> </a>shows that the reverse is also true: American citizens have always felt the freedom to bring faith based concerns to the political sphere. Simply put, calls to remove faith talk from political discourse exhibit a reckless disregard for American history.<br /><br />The genius of the American experiment, both in politics and in religion, lies in the right of private conscience. Because we have a wall of separation between the institutions of church and state, Rick Warren’s views, opinions, and questions carry as much coercive weight as do Oprah’s, or Kathleen Parker’s. One may find his views, opinions, and questions to be offensive or distasteful. However we must realize that Rick Warren has no institutional authority over the American public. The only authority he carries in America is the authority people have granted him through the persuasiveness of his faith grounded ideas. What could be more American than that?<br /><br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-69809749902775005082008-08-26T20:43:00.003-04:002008-08-26T21:29:31.549-04:00Culture Making: Ch 2 -- cultural worldsContinuing our reflections on Andy Crouch's <em>Culture Making</em>.... now up to chapter 2<br /><br />I've been re-listening to the <a href="http://russellsmusings.blogspot.com/2008/08/greatest-singersongwriter-youve-never.html">Ed Kilbourne </a>tapes that I have from oh-so-long-ago. He has an outstanding rendition of the Pierce Pettis piece "Grandmother's Song" (enjoy this YouTube performance of Pettis singing it in 1984:<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/b5VG34QIimE&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/b5VG34QIimE&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />It's story of the grandmother who wrote poetry, but didn't share it with those around her. And it illustrates very well what Crouch is talking about in this chapter on cultural worlds. <br /><br />Simply put, not all our cultural artifacts shape culture. “Culture requires a public: a group of people who have been sufficiently affected by a cultural good that their horizons of possibility and impossibility have in fact been altered, and their cultural creativity has been spurred, by that good’s existence.” (38) Indeed, I would suggest that the public is bound together in a special way by that shared cultural artifacts. Consider fan movements --- <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trekkie">Trekkies </a>as a glaringly extreme example. These are people who so identify with the cultural artifact of Star Trek that they write their own fiction, attend conventions, wear costumes, invent rules to the games that were portrayed on the show. And they're bound together. <br /><br />Marketing and branding guru Kevin Roberts applies this very insight to his profession in his book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lovemarks-Future-Beyond-Kevin-Roberts/dp/157687270X/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1219800382&sr=8-1"><em>Lovemarks</em> </a>when he writes: “Today the stakes have reached a new high. The social fabric is spread more thinly than ever. People are looking for new emotional connections. They are looking for what they can love. They are insisting on more choice, they have higher expectations, and they need emotional pull to help them make decisions. And finally, they want more ways to connect with everything in their lives -- including brands.” (36). If brands, as a cultural artifact, can bind people together with emotional attachments, so then can other cultural artifacts.<br /><br />Crouch continues, asserting that: “Culture making requires shared goods. Culture making is people (plural) making something of the world – it is never a solitary affair. Only artifacts that leave the solitude of their inventors’ studios and imaginations can more the horizons of possibility and become the raw material for more culture making.” (40). He tells the story about Steve Jobs speaking with his engineers when they wanted to delay the release of the first Macintosh computer. "Real artists ship." was his reply. He dignfied their work as art, but he reminded them that art, to have impact, must have a public. <br /><br />Put in different terms, my Rotary Colleague Mike Robinson frequently says "Information without action is overhead." In other words, if we don't do anything with the information that we receive, then it's a waste of time. Bayles and Orland have a wonderful little book called <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Art-Fear-Observations-Rewards-Artmaking/dp/0961454733/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1219800417&sr=1-1">Art and Fear</a></em> that addresses the problem of how the Artist overcomes fear and gets down to producing. One of the great fears is the fear of not really having any talent, to which Bayles and Orland reply “The world is filled with people who were given great natural gifts, sometimes conspicuously flashy gifts, yet never produce anything. And when that happens, the world soon ceases to care whether they are talented.” (27). The challenge of the culture maker is to produce and not sit on the blessings God has given.<br /><br />Crouch then shows how this concern for a public immediately leads to an understanding that there are many publics. This blog has a public of a couple of dozen readers. Other blogs have vastly different publics. Different spheres produce different cultural artifacts. I'm fascinated how in the Presbyterian Church USA, we have our little publishing house with our little in house heroes...and just over the way, our Methodist brothers and sisters have their little publishing house with their little heroes....and so do the Episcopalians....and the Catholics....and the Orthodox. Cultural artifacts in each of those spheres rarely leak over into other spheres. And people wonder why we have Red and Blue America?<br /><br />Crouch also deals with scale. He speaks of his favorite local coffee shop, in contrast to Starbucks. It may be small and localized and quirky, “But it is a real enterprise in making something of the world, with real cultural effects, and just because it is small does not mean it is insignificant or simple.” (45) <br /><br />And this insight gives great hope to churches. Small churches need not envy the mega faith-plex that has the barrista, they indoor play place, and the super size communion meal. Bigger isn't necessarily better. If your church has a public, that is a good and it shapes and affects lives. There is dignity and worth in that shaping. <br /><br />Crouch then tightens the lens to the family ... the crucible of culture making. We may not be able to do anything individually about the broader culture as a whole, but we can very powerfully impact the culture of our families and those closest to us. And that may very well have a cumulative effect far beyond what anyone expected. <br /><br />Let me know your thoughts.<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8433719.post-67332744521941235762008-08-22T19:18:00.004-04:002008-08-22T20:18:41.611-04:00Culture Making: Ch 1 - horizons of the possible.In 1988, the summer between Junior and Senior years of my High School career, I attended the South Carolina Governor's School for the Arts as an acting student. It was a five week intensive experience that brought together students from many different disciplines to learn and create together with expert instructors. Part of the experience was living together in the dorms at Furman University.... and one night, a bunch of the guys on my hall were gathered in Shev Rush's room, having conversations that were deeper than anyone would give us credit for, but not as deep as we thought we were. <br /><br />And somewhere we talked about why we make art. I forget all the things that were bounced around, but in that session, I proposed that we make art so that we can be more like God. After all, God made us in His image. God reveals himself as a creator, so therefore it makes sense that creativity is a part of being made in his image. <br /><br />I wouldn't remember this conversation were it not for what happened later. Just a few days later, a famous producer came to speak to the entire school. After giving a rousing speech, he asked the same question "Why do we make art?" .... and one of the other guys (I can't for the life of me remember his name) stands up and says "So we can be more like God." I was grateful that someone else picked up on my idea, but also a little disgruntled that he was stealing my thunder. Until famous producer, puzzled look on his face, said "Yeah...OK...why else?" and the point was forgotten.<br /><br />But not by me. I've stewed on and cogitated on the idea that a significant part (not the totality, but a part) of what it means to be made in the image of God is to be made to be a creator.... not ex nihilo, as God did at the beginning of the space/time continuum, but a creator nonetheless.<br /><br />And this is exactly where Andy Crouch begins his book <em>Culture Making</em>. And so today, I begin my chapter by chapter reflections on this most important book. Crouch looks at God as both creator and ruler: “Creators are those who make something new; rulers are those who maintain order and separation.” He sees that maintaining of boundaries and order are what enable future creation in others. The ruler's job is to set the bounds...and strangely, bounds help unleash creativity. “So in a way the Creator’s greatest gift to his creation is the gift of structure – not a structure which locks the world, let alone the Creator himself, into eternal mechanical repetition, but a structure which provides freedom. And those who are made in his image will also be both creators and rulers.” (22)<br /><br />And we as creatures find ourselves born into the midst of this already extant creation, and we have to "make something of the world" (Crouch borrows the turn of phrase from Ken Meyers). This making something comes in the sense of using raw materials to actually make things (chairs, buildings, roads, farms, dixie cups) and also the sense of applying our minds to make sense of our situation. <br /><br />In this broad sense, culture is whatever we do when we make something of the world. Every meal we cook, every crossword puzzle we work on, every present we wrap, every plant we cultivate, every report we generate....all of it is making something of the world, whether or not we acknowledge it (I suggest that one of the great gifts of this text is to make us consciously aware of all our activity .... liberating us from timekillers so that we can be both purposeful in activity and restorative in liesure).<br /><br />However our culture making also is combined with our capacity for wonder. A chimpanzee can make a tool, a human has the capacity for wondering at the purposefulness of tools and considering how good design can make tools wonderful. <br /><br />Crouch then takes us another step, relying on Peter Berger's work in <em>Sacred Canopy</em>, showing that we enter into culture that already exists. We also must make something of that culture....and that culture shapes our horizons. The culture that my children have been born into, that of an urban American Citizen, is vastly different from the culture of the children of a Kalihari bushman. And vastly different from the culture that my great great grandparents were born into. There is a sense in which culture is a feedback loop....things are transmitted to us and we must make sense of them. <br /><br />He acknowledges that no-one individual makes culture. We make cultural artifacts (and I would add, we create cultural experiences ... like concerts or summer camps or worship services or football games). Some of those artifacts will become big enough to be incorporated into the framework of the culture, and these artifacts (and expereinces) will expand the horizons of the possible for people across a culture at large.<br /><br />For instance: the interstate highway system. in the 19th century, long distance travel was accomplished mainly by river or rail. Any educated person knew the geography of the US rivers and cities (including Cincinnati) grew up as major centers of culture because these were the artieries of transportation. However, when Eisenhower had returned from Germany after World War II, he knew that the United States would benefit from a highway system like the autobahns of Germany (Eisenhower knew this firsthand: in the 1920's, he had led a convoy of trucks from east coast to west, just to see if there were enough roads that could connect the major cities....perhaps this cultural experience primed him for being impressed by the autobahns). <br /><br />Now the interstates are the arteries. They have made possible many things: cheap transport of goods, easy access of travel to millions, Cracker Barrel and Waffle House. However interstates have made other things impossible. It would be very hard to travel from Boston to Philadelphia via horse anymore....the system of inns and boarding houses that accomodated horses are all gone. Horses aren't allowed on interstates. Cultural artifacts (and experiences) not only make new things possible, they make some old things impossible. <br /><br />So Crouch proposes 5 questions to ask of any given artifact in doing analysis:<br />1) what does this artifact (experience) assume about the world (interstates assume automobiles for instance. Cookbooks assume easy access to materials)<br />2) what does this artifact assume about how the world should be (interstates assume that easy travel is better than difficult travel)<br />3) what does this artifact make possible?<br />4) what does this artifact make impossible?<br />5) what new forms of culture are created in response to this artifact (AAA becomes much more popular in response to interstate highway system. profusions of stores at interstate exits. Attractions in various locales. The Billboard industry, etc).<br /><br />Notice that his questions avoid the immediate value judgement....is this good or bad. Crouch seems to lead us to ask a lot more questions before we get into the waters of making a value judgment. <br /><br />So the challenges that come to my mind in this first chapter....the immediate questions that come to my mind.... what kind of cultural artifacts/experiences am I creating for my children/friends/readers/congregation members etc. I do things with my children that I think will be fun, but does it expand their horizons? How do I challenge our congregation members to make culture? How do I equip and empower them to?<br /><br />Consider for instance the cultural artifact of the home .... a home is a constellation of a lot of cultural artifacts and experiences. In some ways, I think of it as a setting, a backdrop to culture making. However the setting sets the horizons for those who dwell in that setting.<br /><br />The home in which I grew up was spacious. The most important setting for me was books. The house was saturated with books. The living room stretched along the back of the house...it was painted white with beige carpet. Windows facing the southeast lined one whole side of the room, flooding it with light. the other side was floor to ceiling bookshelves, including a complete set of the World Book encyclopedias. Books were important. <br /><br />The kitchen was huge, as was the back yard. Cooking and nature were always around me. Mom and dad are extroverts who enjoy entertaining....so I saw a parade of interesting people come through our home...somtimes in big parties, sometimes in intimate dinners. Though at times a 7 year old child might have been bored by the grownup conversation, I learned that having people in the home is "normal" and ought to be relaxed and fun. <br /><br />Just in these two paragraphs, I see how the horizons of my world have been set differently than those of people raised in a different setting. It's not necessarily better or worse (that will depend on what I do with those horizons). I was not raised around farm animals, nor was I raised learning to make handcrafted items with power tools .... my horizons are limited there. That's not good or bad, it just is. <br /><br />The question is, how can I be intentional about the setting, the environment in which I raise my children? In which I work on a daily basis? <br /><br />And there is the value of the book. I hope it raises for you more questions....questions about the hows and wherefores of your own life...questions about how to be faithful even in your choice of home design or cooking choices. <br /><br />More to come.....<br /><br />Soli Deo Gloria<br />RussellRussell Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12211649998381604221noreply@blogger.com