Growing up Anglo-Catholic, I had theorized that when my family moved to a new town, they would drive around on Sunday morning with the windows down. When they could smell incense, they parked the car because we had found where we would go to Church!
Years later I would hear the axiom, "There are only two smells associated with the afterlife: Sulfur and Incense-- you better get used to one of them!"
I recently came across the item, below, which suggests an alternative to the popular notion that incense came to be used in the Church because the ancient Roman government used it in the Senate for the simple reason that people had an odor.
Incense Found To Be Psychoactive
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24 May 2010
26 April 2010
The Homeless Heart
So, what do we know about the causes of chronic homelessness-- the factors which can predict that a person is trapped on the street?
I look on the homeless with despair because they do matter, but I will always be a mere surrogate of that truth—the only persons whose demonstration of that truth which mattered, did not believe it themselves.
Stopping homelessness requires never allowing a person to have no value in the eyes of any. Once a person learns they can live on the street, in a car, or in the woods with no one (family, friends, neighbors and former co-workers) looking for them, their trauma is lifelong. Compassionate strangers cannot fill that vacuum because the human heart knows the difference.
Who knows, but maybe someone else will start to believe that the homeless are human beings because they see you acting like you believe it?
- We have persons running from warrants—e.g., failed probation drug tests after a DUI—they have no ID, and to get one means jail time, jail time means stigma which impacts career choices for life, and no ID means no job—often, it means no help will be given by a charity.
- We have persons with jobs, buried under garnished wages for child support, back taxes or both. The courts know, but the paper says it is “in the best interest of the children” and so it must be true—society calls them “Deadbeat Dads.” Law abiding, full-time employed, but living in the woods, in their cars, or on the street, they are therefore unable to accept their children on their weekends and deemed "criminals--" facing jail time for missed payments. They grieve unseen, alone, and broken.
- We have persons with addictions which both absorb income as well as prevent it.
- We have persons with criminal records which forever flag them as “unemployable.”
- We have mentally ill persons—bi-polar being particularly tragic because few will chose to take medication (if they can get it) unless monitored by persons who know them and care.
- We have runaways who had good reason to believe that someone would value them when gone—but no one did.
- We have castaways who learned that they never were valued.
- We have a police force which equates an impoverished person with a criminal, to whom sleeping in public is none-the-less, a sign of drunkenness rather than homelessness, and so will insure a criminal record will be created with unsubstantiated PI charges.
- Count the homeless you see before and then during "Parents Weekend" at UT, or before and during a Congressional Session here in Austin. If you do not have questions after doing this, you soul has probably given up on you. I am pretty certain the homeless are not on vacation.
- We have persons who collect napkins from fast food places to use as toilet paper in the woods and urinate in alleys. These persons know how far away from home they are.
- We have persons who stay at bars until closing only because that is the last bathroom they will have access to.
- No phones, no baths, no sink, no closet, no file cabinet, no address, no car—how does a potential employer contact a person? How does a person prepare for an interview?
- We have a culture of “givers” who save whales and trees, but not persons.
- We have families, neighbors, employers, and friends who watched a person fall and did not know what to do about it, and the inaction was understandably viewed by the homeless person as not being valued.
- We have naive society believing (and even taught) that poverty is punishment from God, and so the person deserves it.
- We have first and last months rent, utility deposits, connection fees, and “residence history” forms—all impossibilities. Did you know you cannot get a PO Box without a physical address?
- We have persons with broken hearts, broken dreams, extreme grief and an unspeakable loneliness.
- We have people who see the agony of the homeless person but who then hear a wicked voice inside say, "There must be more to the story than I am hearing" and so decide that the homeless person "deserves it."
- Having no home, also means having no close relations—the homeless person has a secret which cannot be hidden from close relations for long—a secret , if discovered, which will stigmatize as “troubled” and therefore the homeless person is forever to be avoided. Friendships and romance are no longer to be hoped for. Loneliness must be embraced and so the heart dies.
- We have smelling like creek water, dryer sheets, or human sweat—and shower times at the shelter is limited to normal working hours. Soup kitchens, too, operate during normal working hours. Work or bath; work or eat-- but not both.
- We have clerks yelling, “No back-packs in here!”
- We have signs which read, “Restrooms for customers only.”
- We have rain, which means showing up for work wet.
- We have heat and cold, which means showing up for work exhausted.
- We have thieves, which means showing up for work with a “rig.”
- We have persons who believe that a minimum wage job is enough to afford a home simply because they never cared enough to do the math, so rather than charity, offer only, “Get a job!”
- We have a society which believes that there are government agencies to take care of these people—and therefore, that the persons simply choose not to better themselves.
- We have persons who drink, snort, smoke, and shoot-up because they must escape what cannot be escaped. You want the person sober? Why? To what end? The homeless persons will still wake up with frost on their hair, and hearts which beat but have no purpose and which no one values.
- We have persons who are angry because the world around them is complacent with their state, and if they show that anger, the world around them believes it is, therefore, justified in its complacency.
I look on the homeless with despair because they do matter, but I will always be a mere surrogate of that truth—the only persons whose demonstration of that truth which mattered, did not believe it themselves.
Stopping homelessness requires never allowing a person to have no value in the eyes of any. Once a person learns they can live on the street, in a car, or in the woods with no one (family, friends, neighbors and former co-workers) looking for them, their trauma is lifelong. Compassionate strangers cannot fill that vacuum because the human heart knows the difference.
A ray of hope:It does nothing to heal or to reconcile the homeless, but it matters: Feed someone, clothe someone, visit with someone who is homeless, buy someone a cup of coffee and talk about anything, stop and smoke a cigarette and give as many away as you can so all can stand and talk together out on the street-- you get the idea, be a human being.
One Sunday morning, the clergywoman at the Church I was attending at the time, began a political activism agenda lecture under the guise of being a "sermon;" so, not being a stranger to this, I stood up and walked out the door and walked down the block to have breakfast at a fast food restaurant on the Drag.
I noted about a dozen homeless "Drag Rats" sitting in a circle behind the restaurant as I entered. Inside, there were only two or three other customers. About half-way through my meal, I looked up from the book I had brought just in case the sermon would again, as it did, fail to feed me spiritually. I noticed several bags laid out on the counter and the workers stuffing burgers, fries and even drinks in them, assembly line fashion.
The care in which each bag was folded and creased at the top was unusual. They never bothered to close, much less carefully crease my order in a bag. Instead of the bags being handed out the drive-through window, I saw all them being carried out the door by employees, taken across the street and set, with great care, down inside of a dumpster. The employees returned, saying nothing.
I watched the dumpster
After a minute or two, a homeless man came from an alley, looked around nervously, and then opened the lid to the dumpster before climbing in. Every few seconds, his hand would appear out one of the lids and set a bag on top of the other lid to the dumpster. After all of the bags were lined up, he climbed out, gathered as many bags as he could carry and darted across the street with them to the circle of waiting companions sitting in the circle. One of those sprinted across the street and retrieved the others, bringing them back to the group.
As they began to eat-- more food than I suspect they could consume at one sitting-- they smiled and chatted happily. The employees who had done this never even looked out the window, but they glanced at me as I did so.
Two or three minutes after they had began opening the bags and choosing their favorites, a police car pulled up next to the dumpster. A policeman got out, opened the lid and shined a flash-light inside. I knew that no one was in there-- and the policeman closed the lid when he realized this.
I finished my own meal and ordered a cup of coffee to go. When they served me, I tanked them, and the girl taking my order nodded. I said, "No. All of you-- Thank you." One man grinned sheepishly. The others looked more guilty than proud. They were breaking the law, and would lose their jobs if caught-- the restaurant would be shut-down. They took a big risk.
My soul was fed.
Who knows, but maybe someone else will start to believe that the homeless are human beings because they see you acting like you believe it?
21 April 2010
The Failure of the alter-Christus
What follows is a sermon I preached in 1999, almost a year after being appointed the Vicar (a.k.a., Priest-in-Charge) of a small, mostly poor, rural mission church in Alvarado, Texas. The year before, I had been the Curate (a.k.a., "assisting priest") at a large, wealthy, suburban parish church literally on the sea shore in Carlsbad, California. The transition from one extreme to the other was an easy one for me. It was a relief.
But, before the re-post of an old sermon which still means much to me, I must admit that I post it to inspire me to write about something more important. I have a blog where I am posting all of my old sermons, but I am posting this one here, because of what I write next, belongs in this blog-- about the transcendent life.
The typical parishioner of the California parish church was of the same social "class" (and like it or not, our culture is very much divided by class) into which I had been born, raised and which I ultimately rejected. I rejected it because it was a distraction for me. Personally, I could have managed both the pleasant distractions of the upper class with my vocation to the priesthood. It was the constant resistance of my friends and associates which led me to decide that most of them had decided that the spiritual life, if it was to actually be lived rather than merely acknowledged, was incompatible with the temporal life and all it had to offer.
My first parish after ordination was in upscale Fort Worth and I, there, served under a charlatan priest-- a politician and career-minded man, who, and for example, kept the wealthiest elderly "shut-in" parishioners as his own own, private parishioners to visit. When he was forced into a vacation by our Bishop, his apparent motive for maintaining a private set of these well-to-do elderly persons became clear to myself and to my associate, the other assistant priest under the vacationing Rector.
At the end of the of the first week with the Rector away, the other Curate asked me if I had noticed anything unusual about my experiences visiting the sick and shut-in which the Rector had kept to himself. After comparing notes, it became clear that these were the richest, and we had each had at least two of those ask each of us if it was really true, as our superior had been telling them, that naming our Rector as a beneficiary in their will was the same as naming the parish church? The answer, of course, was "No!"
I have never been the tattle-tale type. Perhaps because of my awareness of having a priestly vocation as early as age ten-- probably even earlier-- I had an awareness that persons usually did the best they could do under the circumstances presented them, so judgment in the form of punishment was rarely a concern for me. If someone had seen the injustice of poverty and how it weighed so heavily on the spirits of loved ones, one might find it tempting to justify stealing from the rich to give to the poor. In this instance, "stealing" may be too strong a word, but the situation stunk none-the-less.
I don't know if my associate reported any of our discussion to our Bishop, but I do know that soon afterward, the Bishop's chaplain told me that he had heard that the superior under which I served was in a position to "ruin a perfectly good priest," only a year out of seminary, and therefore, he had been instructed by our Bishop to "rescue" me and find a more nurturing parochial setting for me to complete the two-year diocesan program for "baby priests."
I spent the next two years in another wealthy parish in Fort Worth. I can characterize it fairly well with the exchange I had with a Vestry member in my front yard. I lived in the house adjacent to the church called "the Curacy" or, more simply, the Curate's house. Across the street were mansions from the 1920's. Down the street were very modest frame homes built in the 1940's. One Saturday afternoon, I was out mowing the lawn when a physician who also happened to be a community activist came out of his mansion and crossed the street to chat.
He wanted to ask me, his priest, a question which had been weighing on his mind. He asked me,
Doesn't it really come down to that all Republican's are damned, and all Democrats are saved?
He elucidated on his stated hypothesis for some time, making it clear that he was not intending humor before restating the question and leaving me standing there wondering where to begin.
The community activists had infiltrated that parish long before I had been called on to serve there. Literally, infiltrated, is the correct word. Persons, like the man asking me to respond to his theory of the salvific merits of the DNC, who had no belief system which they had not already rejected, joined the parish, sought and mostly obtained leadership positions, and then set out to use their power, influence and money to subvert and destroy that which was perceived by their associates as "the enemy."
As I stood there, letting the mower wind down, I was aware that the this was a "sign up with us or be destroyed" moment being presented to me by one of their members. The man was on the Vestry-- and that meant he had some control over my stipend (the word for "salary" used by priests due to an implicit acknowledgment that there is a distinction between a job or career and a priestly vocation).
I also knew--- although he believed, wrongly, that I was forbidden from knowing --that he had pledged exactly $12.00 to the church (out of his hundreds of thousands of dollars of annual income) whereas, I pledged $1,300.00 a year (out of my $22,500 stipend, out of which I first paid thirty percent in self-employment tax). Guess what he later considered to be the scandal-- the amount of his pledge or that I knew the amount of his pledge? Therefore, I knew that this was a man who could help me, I knew that he had come out to ask me the ridiculous question for the very purpose of determining whether I was for sale, and I knew that I was dealing with a man who was ready, willing and desirous of causing me to suffer. I was not for sale, never have been, and never will be.
My answer was one of pastoral concern for that man's soul, cautioning him from allowing his temporal concerns to demonize those with differing ideological views, and furthermore, asking him to guard his soul from presuming that God approved of, much less cared about, his politics and methods.
Later, his community activist group, going under the front name of "The Council of the Laity" approached me and made it clear that if I was willing to cooperate with their short-term goal of getting rid of the Rector (my superior, and a truly holy priest) that they had the ability to elevate me to succeed him. I asked why anyone would seek to be a priest of persons whose spiritual pursuits were always slaves to their worldly power. They didn't need to answer, and I offered it it rhetorically anyway.
There is an old joke about who really matter in the Church. The way I heard it is a Rector (head-priest), a Curate (assistant Priest) and the Choir Director- Organist are alone before the Altar and with pious intonation, chanting the following:Rector - "I am the Rector of this Church and I make $70,000 a year."Curate - "I am the Curate of this Parish and I make $25,000 a year."Choir Director - "I am the Choir Director of this place and I make $110,00 a year" and then, after letting the solemn intonation linger at the end, with the flamboyance a la Ethel Merman, sings, "and... there's... NO Business, Like SHOW Business!"
The community activists got rid of the Parish Secretary, the Organists and me, in that order. Four months lather, they achieved their goal and sent the Rector packing. I ended up with an office overlooking the beach of southern California. I was jaded. Jaded with the Church and jaded with the rich and powerful.
I found my delight and joy of being a priest quite by accident. I smoke.
I would go outside to smoke several times a day during the week, and so became a familiar and regular fixture in the courtyard often traversed by the indigenous homeless persons who were dependent upon the generosity of the tourists. Quite a few of them were surprised to learn that while I did not often have any money to give them, I was happy to make coffee and sit and listen. Based upon the time these homeless men (and a very few women) would spend sipping coffee with me and asking questions or simply telling me their stories, it seemed to me that they were far more interested in spiritual things than they were worldly things. I began to wonder if, perhaps, their poverty was more indicative of a dissatisfaction with things temporal than a mark of failure.
Secondly, because of the high cost of real estate in southern California, I rented a home inland, in the desert, near what is locally known as "the back gate" of Camp Pendleton, the United States Marine Corps base. Most of my neighbors were either active Lieutenants or Captains with families, or retired Marines not wanting to stray far from the men and women they had learned could be trusted. I, too, learned why those men and women were deserving of trust.
So it is that the Marines, the homeless, and the least wealthy in my surroundings became my friends, my neighbors, and my flock. Between those three classifications, there ceased to be any meaningful distinction, and with that realization, so did the disconnection between flock and a church structure.
I am loathe to claim any edge "over" any priests who have not come to share my realization in that regard. None-the-less, I do take it to be a wisdom which I have gained as a Priest, and one which I believe has made become more like the Priest I had come to hope I could be after witnessing and reading about such Priests. That wisdom, and so I claim it to be, has served me well; and, I trust, it has served others. I have a vocation, but I have no Altar.
As I wrote before, I am jaded. I remain haunted by the distraught young man who showed me his priestly credentials one day in my Fort Worth parish office, explaining that while his marriage fell apart, he had suffered greatly, been asked to leave his work at the Altar so as not to scandalize the church and now found himself ill-equipped and obviously unable to recover from such an unexpected shattering of his world. I write, "obviously unable" because the man was living in his car. He asked me for help.
I sat there behind my desk, not yet two years a Priest myself, listening to his story, seeing that his need was so much greater than my resources that anything I did would be insufficient. I took him to my Rector's office and introduced the two. Father Twyman, the truly holy priest I mentioned before, met with the destitute man for about an hour. During that time, I sat in my office and the haunting feeling began-- the one which is still with me to this day.
Something is wrong. How could a priest, so closely linked with the Church-- in some ways, being the embodiment of Christ-- the alter-Christus-- how could he be so un-valued?
Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.
Father Twyman and I spoke about our visitor later that day. He and I both agreed that his needs were far beyond merely giving him money (and the Rector virtually emptied his discretionary fund in helping the man), but both of us were so astounded as to how such a man could be so utterly cut-off from the Church. It turns out that the Church into which I was ordained does this habitually-- no man left behind is a concept that, at best, draws blank stares from the hierarchy. Father characterized the cast-away Priest as an innocent who the Church let fall through he cracks and which he feared would forever remain forgotten because to restore the man to the fold would require the Church to admit failure, and such was not likely to happen.
I often carry a "holy card" with an image of St. Martin of Tours. It represents for me, my hope and my penance. You see, if I knew, then, what I know now, I would have moved heaven and earth to have restored that man. After he left, and the haunting began, my intuition was telling me that there was more to story than I was hearing. I know what that story is now, and I, myself have heard, "There must be more to the story than I am hearing" many times-- always to mean-- "you did something to deserve this from your family, your friends, your neighbors, your employer, an dfrom God-- otherwise it would not have happened"
What I know of the missing story is that persons, not believing in evil, are complicit with evil; and such persons will go to great effort to deny their culpability in allowing evil to "pick-off" an innocent.
Martin of Tours was a ranking soldier who met a poor elderly beggar one day in the snow. Instead of passing by, he stopped, drew his sword and cut his own cloak in half. He gave the half to the old man. Upon looking back, the old man had changed in appearance. The man was Christ Jesus.
Maybe it was Christ Jesus in my office and his needs were so great that I did not know where to begin to meet then. Maybe it was "merely" an alter-Christus who sat in my office. Either way, the man left my office with nothing of value and left me his haunting-- a constant reminder that giver and taker are each an alter-Christus.
Not many Priests, in my experience, ever give a thought to their being an alter-Christus. God help me if I ever allow myself to forget.
Now, because my friends and associates are not priests, and because it addresses the giver and taker which exists, spiritually, in all mankind, here is the sermon I began this blog to share:
"Whose likeness and inscription is this?" They said, "Caesar's." Then he said to them, "Render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Last year, not long before I brought my family back to Texas from Southern California, there was an article in the San Diego paper which contained a particularly sharp social commentary for that region. The emphasis was on the high profile charitable giving of the high profile persons who spend their lives in front of cameras.
Night after night on the evening news the antics of Hollywood stars would be showcased, and so often these dealt with the generous donation of time and money given by the busy actors and actresses. What the columnist noted so well in his article was that the ample generosity of the movie stars tended to have a common emphasis, and a common lacking.
He choose several illustration which were then current public events, but the list included such things as the SPCA, those against wearing fur, my all time favorite, "Save the Whales" and the similar "Save the seals" Why so much attention to animal rights? Why such a common focus among the Hollywood elite?
The author suggested that what they had in common, was more readily identified by what they all lacked. Virtually all of the causes put forth and funded by Hollywood stars, by political persons, and by virtually everyone else in public positions showed a trend to give charitably to institutions which did not require themselves to change. That is, none of the charities supported require the givers to make any personal sacrifice, any change in how they lived their lives—in that they continued to do as they pleased, and would be personally unaffected if their charity was successful in their aim due to their efforts or if it was a dismal failure.
There was no personal investment possible in any of the charities—and that included AIDS research for the most part. In fact, AIDS research might be considered an attempt by some to eliminate a threat which otherwise would require a change in lifestyle.
The author's suggestion was that the most common form of charity was anything that did not have a moral code associated with it—anything that did require looking inward at one self, but might expect others to change.
I had a discussion late last week with another Christian concerning moral teachings of the Church. Yet, my brother in Christ talked about the Church protesting for a global minimum wage, and standing firm against various political intrusions on the Church.
I finally had to stop him, and remind him we were talking about the Church's responsibility to teach morals, and yet he had digressed immediately into speaking of the Church moral activism.
This is where we, the Church, have erred so often in the past. It is perfectly in keeping with the social commentary on Hollywood. We seek to act rather than teach. We seek to want the Church to go forward by compelling, and even by constraining others, but without allowing others to be convicted as we are to be convicted by the faith.
Again, I use the School Prayer issue as an example. What about a non-Christian Football Player on the field? He is not edified by our prayer, and his soul seems to be of no concern for us. He is not being taught—instead, he is being separated from us—the Biblical word for being set apart from the Church is accursed. To curse is not the work of the Church.
So what about a global minimum wage? In the name of a descent standard of living, the Jesuits Priests—once known for being the best scholars and teachers of the Church—are now arming South American peasants with Uzis. And they have been for twenty years or more.
You see, nothing is required of us, no changes are necessary in our lives if our social action can be substituted for the work of the Church—and that is true even if we are within the Church and are social activists in the "Name of God".
I tell you the truth, we will not turn one soul to God, if ours is not first turned to Him. We will take no one of the world to become a "stranger in a strange land"—that is an Ambassador of Christ IN, but not OF the world. We will change no one, if we ourselves are not changed. We will not bring anyone to make sacrifice unless we ourselves are making that Sacrifice, and none will come to know God, unless we, ourselves, know Him.
I also am compelled to remind you that we are not building the Kingdom of Heaven. We cannot build it—that is His Kingdom, and it is His New Creation, and it is His work—not ours. "I go to prepare a place for you" He said. He also told us that when He comes to take us into His Kingdom, this world will be destroyed.
Rather than looking at a coin to decide what to do with it, what we need to be doing is looking in the mirror. We need to see that the image there, is a reflection of the image and likeness of God—however distorted we might have made it. But it is His image which He gave us, and we cannot destroy it. When we look into a mirror, what we see belongs to God, and that is what we are to render unto Him.
It costs something of us. Our faith does not—ought not—cost anyone else anything at all—it should only cost us. But for those who pay the price—the price equal to the value of our own lives, we may find that others are redeemed by our paying.
Last week I mentioned that we are a Church that not only has an "Altar call", but that we have an Altar to go along with it. I will go further and tell you something that not many Churches can claim, but this one can. In this Church we have the fullness of the Church as the Church of the Apostles was full. We have all four orders of the Church preserved and in direct succession from the Apostles. Through that we have all seven Sacraments that are called for by Scripture, preserved as they were in the Church of the Apostles.
We have all of the gifts of the Holy Spirit and we have all of the enthusiasm of the Apostolic Church. We have all of the blessings and the beauty of the Worship of the Apostles. We have all of this because those who went before us knew them to be important, and they paid the price so that we could have them and they paid a price because they believed that they were called to pay it.
Furthermore, in this Church we have the fullness of God's word revealed to us in Scripture, without addition, without deletion, and without change. In this Church the teachings of the Apostles and their successors are taught without addition, without omission, and without change.
In other words. here, at this very place, we have everything that God intended us to have as an ecclesia, as a Gathering, as a Church, to know Him, love Him, and serve Him by loving one another in Him and continuing the work of Christ on earth until He comes to take us to Himself.
Those claims are not exaggerated, they, in fact, can be substantiated.
There are only three parts of the whole of the Church on earth which can make those claims, and you happen to be seated in one of them. Whether you know it our not—in fact whether you believe it or not—to be able to make those claims means that this place is the most precious place on earth. After nearly two thousand years of war, of turmoil, of hate, and of all others sins, we are gathered here in the fullness of the faith and the fullness of the practice of the Body of Christ. Not many have made it. Yet, here we are.
In many synagogues, and in many of the Churches around here, to belong to such an assembly, would require that you give a set amount. They can, and do, require that you pay a certain amount of money each year to be a member. By such policies, they may have bowling alleys for their youth groups, they may have vans to pick up their shut-in's, they may have huge and paved parking lots, and they may have wonderful sound systems. But they do not have claim to the fullness of the Church as Christ intended.
In all of Johnson County, only three Churches can make that claim of fullness, and only ours is east of Cleburne. They can have their bowling alleys, parking lots, their vans and busses, their sound systems, and their paved parking lots—I wouldn't trade what we have for any of that if my life depended on it.
But they have one thing that I do want. For the most part, those churches which require a certain amount of money to be a member of their assembly have HUGE memberships. They have huge membership because to pay for something makes it important in a special way.
I was reading a Model Railroader magazine a while ago. A man about my age had a young son who had just destroyed a scratch built scale structure he had completed after hundreds of hours of work over more than a year of evenings. It was exquisitely detailed, and precisely assembled. While at work, his five year old son got it out to play with along with some Matchbox Cars. Apparently the imagined play had something to do with a lot of cars crashed into the thin, wooden walls of the model.
His dad came home to find a pile of little more than sawdust. The man went to the hobby shop with his son, and using the boy's weekly allowance, (and quite a bit of his own money), the two choose a new model kit. They brought it home, and for a half an hour a night, they worked together cutting and painting, and gluing the wood to create a fine building. A few months later, the five year old boy could finally see the completed model that he had helped pay for, and had helped build. The boy would never have dreamed of taking that structure for granted.
His father wrote of the pride they both shared while his son carefully and gently set the scale model on the train layout. He wrote of the skill s his son had learned, and were now his own, and he wrote of the value that the model had gained in his son's eyes—and of course, in his own.
I want you each to consider what this Church means to you. It costs you nothing to be a member, but how much more precious is She if She costs you much—if She is the product of your own giving, your own work, your own hands, and your own lips which build her up? God knows how that is when ever he beholds you—the work of His hands. I want this Church, in all of Her fullness, to be the work of your hands.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
These are the Lessons appointed for that Sunday...
Proper 24 The Sunday closest to October 19
Almighty and everlasting God, in Christ you have revealed
your glory among the nations: Preserve the works of your
mercy, that your Church throughout the world may
persevere with steadfast faith in the confession of your
Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns
with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
Amen.
Preface of the Lord's Day
A reading from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah Isaiah 45:1-7
Thus says the LORD to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I have grasped, to subdue nations before him and ungird the loins of kings, to open doors before him that gates may not be closed: 2 "I will go before you and level the mountains, I will break in pieces the doors of bronze and cut asunder the bars of iron, 3 I will give you the treasures of darkness and the hoards in secret places, that you may know that it is I, the LORD, the God of Israel, who call you by your name. 4 For the sake of my servant Jacob, and Israel my chosen, I call you by your name, I surname you, though you do not know me. 5 I am the LORD, and there is no other, besides me there is no God; I gird you, though you do not know me, 6 that men may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is none besides me; I am the LORD, and there is no other. 7 I form light and create darkness, I make weal and create woe, I am the LORD, who do all these things.
The Word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.
96 Cantate Domino Psalm 96, verses 1-9; page 725
1 Sing to the LORD a new song; *
sing to the LORD, all the whole earth.
2 Sing to the LORD and bless his Name; *
proclaim the good news of his salvation from day to day.
3 Declare his glory among the nations *
and his wonders among all peoples.
4 For great is the LORD and greatly to be praised; *
he is more to be feared than all gods.
5 As for all the gods of the nations, they are but idols; *
but it is the LORD who made the heavens.
6 Oh, the majesty and magnificence of his presence! *
Oh, the power and the splendor of his sanctuary!
7 Ascribe to the LORD, you families of the peoples; *
ascribe to the LORD honor and power.
8 Ascribe to the LORD the honor due his Name; *
bring offerings and come into his courts.
9 Worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness; *
let the whole earth tremble before him.
A reading from the First Letter of Paul to the Thessalonians
1 Thessalonians 1:1-10
Paul, Silvanus, and Timothy, To the church of the Thessalonians in God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ: Grace to you and peace. 2 We give thanks to God always for you all, constantly mentioning you in our prayers, 3 remembering before our God and Father your work of faith and labor of love and steadfastness of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ. 4 For we know, brethren beloved by God, that he has chosen you; 5 for our gospel came to you not only in word, but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with full conviction. You know what kind of men we proved to be among you for your sake. 6 And you became imitators of us and of the Lord, for you received the word in much affliction, with joy inspired by the Holy Spirit; 7 so that you became an example to all the believers in Macedonia and in Achaia. 8 For not only has the word of the Lord sounded forth from you in Macedonia and Achaia, but your faith in God has gone forth everywhere, so that we need not say anything. 9 For they themselves report concerning us what a welcome we had among you, and how you turned to God from idols, to serve a living and true God, 10 and to wait for his Son from heaven, whom he raised from the dead, Jesus who delivers us from the wrath to come.
The Word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.
The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ according to St. Matthew
Glory to you, Lord Christ Matthew 22:15-22
Then the Pharisees went and took counsel how to entangle him in his talk. 16 And they sent their disciples to him, along with the Herodians, saying, "Teacher, we know that you are true, and teach the way of God truthfully, and care for no man; for you do not regard the position of men. 17 Tell us, then, what you think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar, or not?" 18 But Jesus, aware of their malice, said, "Why put me to the test, you hypocrites? 19 Show me the money for the tax." And they brought him a coin. 20 And Jesus said to them, "Whose likeness and inscription is this?" 21 They said, "Caesar's." Then he said to them, "Render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's." 22 When they heard it, they marveled; and they left him and went away.
The Gospel of the Lord.
Praise to you, Lord Christ.
These are the notes from my Bible which I once printed out with the appointed Lessons as part of my week-long preparation of a Sunday Sermon...
Notes:
1 Thessalonians: Paul went to thessalonica on his 2ndMJ with Silas (49-52) after leaving Philippi in the summer of 50. (Acts 17:1) The city is now called Salonika and was a trade center in Paul's time on the Egnatian Way.
The city was highly pagan, and archeologists have unearthed many idols as well as statues of priestesses. Inscriptions indicate that they had no real concept of life after death.
When there, Paul stayed in the house of Jason (See Acts 17:1-15).
As the Jews persecuted the new gentile converts (as the did in Jerusalem--as did Paul before being knocked off his high horse), so Timothy became the bishop to them so that their instruction and support could continue after Paul's departure.
Once Paul reached Corinth, he wrote them this letter to respond to questions they posed to Timothy from there in the winter of 50. Most of the questions and problems dealt with the concept that Jesus was to return at any time. Paul believed this, as did all Christianity, but the way in which the Church in thessalonica dealt with it was unusual.
The date of late 50 or early 51 makes this the oldest letter of Paul's in Scripture. (Letter 2 was written a few months later). Only Matthews Gospel is known to be older. This is only about twenty years after the First Easter.
Believe it or not--=even the 19th C German scholars have not disputed Pauline authorship! The second letter has had some speculation as to authorship suggested but on very loose arguments.
The model by which the Gospel should be proclaimed is taken from Paul's work there. (Selfless, God Centered, without regard to popularity, society, the world, the government, or anything other than the Truth).
That Paul, as Greek speaking, could go anywhere in the empire and preach is something that is marvelous, as well as a something that later empires would try to recreate with less holy results.
The miracle that all of the empire was so easily accessible because of roads, and language, has led other generations of missionaries to begin the evangelical work by first bringing the western culture, then the western language, and then, finally, the Gospel to primitive or barbaric peoples. This forcing of Culture has not been as effective as Paul's taking advantage of the situation which existed apart from his own work.
The forcing of Latin upon the converts and thus the requirement (lifted only in the 1960's) of the Liturgical use of Latin was (I believe) a leftover of the concept that the "Christian Empire" was to spread the Gospel and Culture of the Roman West throughout the world as the Romans and Greeks had done since Alexander.
Note that the early writing does not diminish the doctrine--in fact, basically the entire Apostle's Creed is found in these two letters.
Issues of Christian living (not just faith) are also included--and the tie between the two is, as it has always been, that what one believes dictates what one does. Holiness is that which we have hope of attaining through the Blood of Christ Jesus, and living in holiness is that which we attain by being part of His Body.
The thrust of the theology in this letter is eschatological, and it is the instruction to them in maters of life after death that become the focus of the second letter as well.
1 Thessalonians 1:1: One commentary suggests that this opening is in keeping with an official letter (as opposed to family letter) and thus the two "witnesses" which are in accord with Deut 17:6.
Silvanus is also Silus, mentioned as a prophet in Acts 15:22(32); 17:4. Silus is Greek name, Silvanus is Latin.
1 Thessalonians 1:3: Steadfastness in hope is an expression that might makes us suspect at this point that Paul is writing to a Church under persecution.
Note Faith, hope and love all appear here. With them is work.
1 Thessalonians 1:5: Manifest by Chrismation? Manifest by their acceptance? Manifest by their steadfastness under persecution?
1 Thessalonians 1:6: Infliction confirms the suggestion that Paul writes to a persecuted church.
1 Thessalonians 1:7: Remaining faithful even under persecution is the example of which Paul speaks. It is not that they were any nicer, or any better at theology--in fact--their instruction was not completed because Paul left before completing it.
1 Thessalonians 1:9: Their conversion seems to have been heralded. Consider that it may have been so well known due to irony, as in--even those wicked Thessalonians have accepted the Word, and turned away from their ways.
1 Thessalonians 1:10: The Parousia, is a theme of these two letters. Also, eschatology is connected to persecution in that the "wrath to come" has a certain reality for a persecuted Church, and thus their minds are set on what they hope.
Note: Jesus is Son, in heaven, raised from the dead, and will come again.
Caprica
I watched the Battle Star Galactica series in fascination. That a finely produced, 21st Century series would have a plot which is, at essence, spiritual delighted me. With the (apparently rushed) final episode ending with a disappointing Planet of the Apes moment, I was reminded of the hollow content of the original BSG series after it switched from the telling of a very human spiritual journey to a shoot-‘em-up children’s show-- complete with the robot dog and with an eye toward toy sales in lieu of the hard work of telling an important story.
I had, therefore, low expectations of Caprica. I did not bother to watch the first two episodes when they were originally aired due to the grudge I held after the final BSG episode which seemed to seek to make the point, “it doesn’t matter, it means nothing.” So, I was ready to take the writers at their word, and assume that Caprica would, in the end, mean nothing.
However, it may be that Caprica is determined to tell an important story after all:
In the midst of a culture in which humans begrudgingly hold to old traditions for the sake of the tradition rather than purpose and meaning, the seed of envy is planted in a new self awareness of being in the Cylons. But this is not the classic “robots are people, too” sci-fi theme ever since Stanislaw Lem [e,g, I Robot, the HAL 9000 in Clarke’s (and Kubrick’s, really, since he saw more in Clarke’s story than was written in the novel) 2001: A Space Odyssey and Asimov’s, Bicentennial Man]; rather it is a spiritual tale of the desire for transcendence. The Cylons, imbued with the essence of a human soul from the start, envy the hope of transcendence which is possessed by natural beings (but all but discarded as irrelevant) by these creators.
It is a conservative story, told in a classical liberal manner. Conservative, in that the search for meaning includes a sense of “from whence we come” and liberal in that the change which the answer demands requires the individual to act—not some vague “others.”
I’ll try to undergird that last thought. A columnist in San Diego back in the late 1990’s wrote a piece about Hollywood liberalism. In his piece, he noted how the charities and causes which are most popular among the Hollywood elite were of the type which required no personal commitment—no change in ones own life and habits-- apart from writing a check.
Using a Christian illustration, the popular Hollywood causes could not (and would not) include feeding the hungry, visiting the sick or in prison, clothing the naked, or doing anything else which required personal interaction with other human persons in need. Rather, the emphasis tended to be on trees, whales, oil drilling, politics, unions, and so on. I am reminded of one of the Dallas Cowboy football players saying that the players were going on strike for “human rights” which (of course) was ultimately defined by the number of zeros in his already hefty paycheck.
You get it, right? Spiritual Beings (that would be us) denying the obvious so that they (we!) may pretend to be simply “beings” of no spiritual nature. Those are the persons who make up the Caprica society.
Knowing the BSG story line (not counting the cheapening final episode) we know that the self-awareness combined with the unproven spirituality of the Cylons in Caprica will become an increasingly desperate inner conflict forced outward against humans, but all for the purpose of demanding to share in the spiritual nature of their creators—not their freedoms, not their rights, but their souls become treasured.
I wish.
In the ancient Church there was a heretical sect known, colloquially, as the “two-thirds-ers.” They have another formal name, but this one serves my purpose. What got this sect in trouble with the rest of the Church was that they sought to define Christ as fully God, but only partially human. They claimed that Christ had only two of the three components of the classic tri-partied person: body, mind and soul.
We now, in our post-enlightenment age, have dimmed our view of our own selves to the damning definition of humanity as being merely body and mind.
I think it shows.
I had, therefore, low expectations of Caprica. I did not bother to watch the first two episodes when they were originally aired due to the grudge I held after the final BSG episode which seemed to seek to make the point, “it doesn’t matter, it means nothing.” So, I was ready to take the writers at their word, and assume that Caprica would, in the end, mean nothing.
However, it may be that Caprica is determined to tell an important story after all:
In the midst of a culture in which humans begrudgingly hold to old traditions for the sake of the tradition rather than purpose and meaning, the seed of envy is planted in a new self awareness of being in the Cylons. But this is not the classic “robots are people, too” sci-fi theme ever since Stanislaw Lem [e,g, I Robot, the HAL 9000 in Clarke’s (and Kubrick’s, really, since he saw more in Clarke’s story than was written in the novel) 2001: A Space Odyssey and Asimov’s, Bicentennial Man]; rather it is a spiritual tale of the desire for transcendence. The Cylons, imbued with the essence of a human soul from the start, envy the hope of transcendence which is possessed by natural beings (but all but discarded as irrelevant) by these creators.
It is a conservative story, told in a classical liberal manner. Conservative, in that the search for meaning includes a sense of “from whence we come” and liberal in that the change which the answer demands requires the individual to act—not some vague “others.”
I’ll try to undergird that last thought. A columnist in San Diego back in the late 1990’s wrote a piece about Hollywood liberalism. In his piece, he noted how the charities and causes which are most popular among the Hollywood elite were of the type which required no personal commitment—no change in ones own life and habits-- apart from writing a check.
Using a Christian illustration, the popular Hollywood causes could not (and would not) include feeding the hungry, visiting the sick or in prison, clothing the naked, or doing anything else which required personal interaction with other human persons in need. Rather, the emphasis tended to be on trees, whales, oil drilling, politics, unions, and so on. I am reminded of one of the Dallas Cowboy football players saying that the players were going on strike for “human rights” which (of course) was ultimately defined by the number of zeros in his already hefty paycheck.
You get it, right? Spiritual Beings (that would be us) denying the obvious so that they (we!) may pretend to be simply “beings” of no spiritual nature. Those are the persons who make up the Caprica society.
Knowing the BSG story line (not counting the cheapening final episode) we know that the self-awareness combined with the unproven spirituality of the Cylons in Caprica will become an increasingly desperate inner conflict forced outward against humans, but all for the purpose of demanding to share in the spiritual nature of their creators—not their freedoms, not their rights, but their souls become treasured.
I wish.
In the ancient Church there was a heretical sect known, colloquially, as the “two-thirds-ers.” They have another formal name, but this one serves my purpose. What got this sect in trouble with the rest of the Church was that they sought to define Christ as fully God, but only partially human. They claimed that Christ had only two of the three components of the classic tri-partied person: body, mind and soul.
We now, in our post-enlightenment age, have dimmed our view of our own selves to the damning definition of humanity as being merely body and mind.
I think it shows.
03 April 2010
Concerning the Harrowing of Hell:
A Warrior's Prayer from a fine book, written by a great man.
Lord of all power and might, Who art the Author and Giver of all good things, mercifully grant us grace valiantly to fight in Thy grace. Give us the sure conviction that Thou art ever by our side. Grant us in battle unflinching courage and an unconquerable spirit, so that no hurt nor obstacle may ever deter us from our duty. And in victory, O Lord, grant us to be worthy of thine everlasting love and to continue Thy Faithful Soldiers and servants unto our life’s end, and in this we beg for Jesus Christ, His sake. Amen.
[Taken from Thud Ridge, Colonel Jack Broughton, 1985, page 39, in which it is attributed (page 33) to “an old prayer of the Church of England, from the Middle Ages.”]
27 March 2010
Code to Zero
My mind would not turn loose.
That was a problem.
I had made it through forty years of living, and I counted on my mind-- had learned that I could count on it.
I think through things differently than most people-- sometimes better and sometimes not. It was all in the exercise of the purist forms of logic that I began to realize that other persons went about some (not all) logic problems differently than I did.
I remember sitting at my desk in first grade, being exposed to math for the first time. I remember envying those who "got it" right away, and then the beauty of the logic appearing when I joined them in that understanding. It was not the accomplishment-- it was the beauty of math.
The only pre-school I had been exposed to was a short stint with the Sisters at the Tuller School in Fort Worth and if there was any academic preparation I was given, the only preparation I remember having received was spiritual. It was there, at the Tuller School, that I existed in the world alone for the first time and learned that love existed there as well. Something of a false lesson looking back, but one that made me bold.
But sitting at a desk in Mrs. Shields' first grade class at Northwood Hills Elementary School (my Sunday School teacher the summer before had been Mrs. Sword!) I first realized I was behind the game. Some of my classmates knew how to read, and I had not even tried. With vivid recollection, I stared at this flip-chart Mrs. Shield's was using on the third day of class.
Some of my classmates read the dozen or so words on that page readily. I was impressed and wanted to do it too. I distinctly remember a drawing of an orange, colored in, with the letters o-r-a-n-g-e next to it. There was something "tricky" about the displayed objects and words next to each, and while several of my classmates were guessing, the trickiness thwarted their attempts. In the minute or two in which I studied the board, and noted who had the correct answer, I was trying to sound out the word printed by whichever the teacher was pointing at when the student answered.
I remember the orange, because that was the one I used to de-code the trick. If there was a picture of an apple it may have had printed next to it, a-p-p-l-e or it may have had the letters r-e-d. After a couple of wrong guesses by classmates, I knew that the printed letters would be descriptive, but that it could be the thing or the color. Mrs. Shields noticed my intent concentration, I guess, and she pointed at one item and asked me if I knew what it said. I didn't.
She was pointing at a banana I think it was, but I said, looking at the orange, "I know o-r-a-n-g-e is orange, but only because the fruit and the color are the same. I don't know why those letters spell 'orange' and so the one you are pointing at must be 'banana' because the first letter is a 'b' and not a 'y' I think it would be."
"And if it was a 'y?'"
"It would be the word "yellow?'"
"Good. You are just where you are supposed to be."
She went on and vetted the rest of the students. Ultimately, we were each assigned to one of three groups. I don't know how she described them, but the groups were obviously equivalent to "readers," "clueless," and "ready to read."
Those who had been guessing, "red" when it said "apple" were in the "clueless" group. Those who obviously could read were sent to sit on a corner with some assistant who was there that day and they sat down with what must have been "Fun with Dick and Jane--" taking turns reading through it.
The clueless were sent to the opposite corner and I think they were helped by another helper to work on the alphabet. I don't remember.
About six of us were brought up behind the teacher's desk and she read from a book as we watched her finger trace across each word in a way that made it "click" with me after a couple of minutes watching. She stopped, and asked what the next word was now and then, and asked me to try as her second time of prompting one of us. I said, "Not yet, ask someone else, I think I am getting it."
In truth, I was humiliated. I had no idea anyone my age knew how to read-- none of my friends did and I had been looking forward to starting first grade for the very purpose of learning how to read and how to do lots of other things my big brother could do. On day three of school, I was horrified to find many others already knew how to read. Besides, three minutes before, the moral lesson had been manifest to me: Guessers are cheating when they try to act like they can read, but really just don't want to be exposed as ignorant. It wasn't enough for me to have won a moral victory-- I wanted to be with those reading aloud to one another in the corner, but I knew I did not belong with them. My little ego was in dangerous peril, and it took me a little bit to focus.
But after Mrs. Shields prompted a few others, some who sounded the word out correctly and some who did not, she came back to me, and I read the next word. She asked me to continue, and I managed the next several words.
Something about symbols and meaning and the written word is miraculously apparent in such moments. Mrs. Shields' knew it and it showed. Her face showed joy! I got it and she knew it and she was filled with joy that she saw it happen. She had probably done this with others-- been there prompting as a student read their first words and then a whole sentence-- hundreds of times, but the joy always came. It came when I did, and it came when the others did it. She had one or two that didn't do it that day.
The next day, to my immense relief, I sat on the carpet with my own copy of a book, and took my part in reading aloud with the others.
A couple of years before, the story goes, I was excited for my father to come home from work. I was four, so I was always excited for him to come home, but more so because that day I had found out how the picture got inside the television set. That is what I told him: "Daddy? I know how the picture gets into the TV set."
"You do?"
"Yes. It comes in through that cord in the back."
"Oh. Well, Hoss, actually those metal things on top are called antennae and they pick up the signal from the air--"
"No. I'll show you."
I walked back behind the television and unplugged it. The picture went away, and I said, "See?"
My Dad was one of those who was "scary smart." You know? The kind who gets things so far ahead of everyone else that it seems unreal? So smart was my father that he knew when he was licked. Just as my mother had decided earlier in the day when I made public my findings regarding the great mystery of television picture source; smiling, my father said, "Oh, well, I guess you must be right." The family loves telling me of that story.
I plugged the cable back into the wall and the television picture flowed through the narrow pipe right into set as before. I went to my room triumphant. The next day, I was let down in the best way possible. My Dad unplugged the antennae and then began explaining radio waves. As we drove around later, he pointed out the radio towers that were sending the signal. Cool!
I did alright up through my junior year in high school. I found my "one true love." Family crises (plural) left me virtually alone to figure that out, but I managed pretty well, working without a net. Then, that false lesson I learned way back with the Sisters in Fort Worth at the Tuller School was exposed as false in the most brutal way. My heart was ripped every bit as deeply as it had allowed the joy of that first and true love to settle into it. No one told me that there was such a risk.
Working without a net, I retreated into books, television, music, and building things. I never came out again until my first child was born. My own life was wonderfully rewarding at the time, but physically and emotionally painful. Better that combination than the inverse, and I knew it. But my son, and soon enough my daughter, got all of that unhealed heart to work as if nothing had ever happened to it. That was bliss. I knew bliss.
And five or six years later, again (still, really is a better word) working without a net, I was shoved out of their life with a treachery-- an inhumanity!-- that few persons are willing or even able to believe exists. Most cannot believe such excruciating evil can be allowed to exist without their own ability to function being jeopardized-- threatened merely by the acknowledgment of the possibility. So they don't. I understand, and it is hard for me to blame them for looking away so as not to see the gore, but... I mange to blame them, none-the-less.
The good people choosing not to look at the human gore allows them to do nothing while it allows evil to do anything. My son doesn't believe his father loves him. My daughter tells me that she remembers me, but mostly from stories. Two innocent results of persons choosing not to look at the gore. Yeah, I blame those who do not look. Yes I do.
Each of such persons are welcome to my anger anytime they want it. I'll rage on them without mercy because I am running very low on mercy these days-- used up most of what I had already and no one ever gives me any, so...
Anyway, at first, I thought there was a solution. I just thought my mind would produce a solution. In my first career, I was a highly paid problem-solver. I was damned good at it. So I set my mind to work on the problem with the false assumption that there was a solution.
Three years later, I was a shell of man. My mind would not accept that there was no solution and day-by-day I began to hate myself and stopped trusting myself because my own mind was failing me when it mattered most. I could not save my children!
I had tried to get help, but everyone who was in a position to help soon told me that there was probably no answer that I could tolerate. It wasn't their children, I told myself, so they gave up when they realized that the problem I was working on might take years to resolve-- shorter if they would help instead of give up.
I was wrong. They wanted to help, but some had experience looking at the gore and they knew there was no solution. They were telling me the truth. The ultimate gore is that evil wins, love does not conquer the consequences of evil, it merely endures it.
I went to Half Price Books near where I worked and bought an armload of paperbacks, thinking that my mind needed to allow itself to get lost in a story other than my own. One of those books was Ken Follett's Code to Zero. It was a spy novel, and my father got me started reading those when I was a teenager.
The hero in the novel is a rocket scientist who wakes to find himself possessing all of his knowledge, all of his skills, and above all, all of his character; yet, all memory of his relationships with people and his associations-- including where he lived, where he worked, who he knew-- all of that was gone. Spies had captured him and given him a drug to cause all of that.
I made an appointment with a psychologist and went. I told him about my children and how I had been slandered to the effect of being thrown from their lives. He asked me what I wanted him to do for me, and I told him what I had read about in Code to Zero. I said, "I want to know if there is a real drug that can do that, and, if so, can I have it?"
Too often, still, I post on my personal Facebook account, my status using a few words from the lyrics to UB40's Red, Red, Wine:
Love,
Dad
That was a problem.
I had made it through forty years of living, and I counted on my mind-- had learned that I could count on it.
I think through things differently than most people-- sometimes better and sometimes not. It was all in the exercise of the purist forms of logic that I began to realize that other persons went about some (not all) logic problems differently than I did.
I remember sitting at my desk in first grade, being exposed to math for the first time. I remember envying those who "got it" right away, and then the beauty of the logic appearing when I joined them in that understanding. It was not the accomplishment-- it was the beauty of math.
The only pre-school I had been exposed to was a short stint with the Sisters at the Tuller School in Fort Worth and if there was any academic preparation I was given, the only preparation I remember having received was spiritual. It was there, at the Tuller School, that I existed in the world alone for the first time and learned that love existed there as well. Something of a false lesson looking back, but one that made me bold.
But sitting at a desk in Mrs. Shields' first grade class at Northwood Hills Elementary School (my Sunday School teacher the summer before had been Mrs. Sword!) I first realized I was behind the game. Some of my classmates knew how to read, and I had not even tried. With vivid recollection, I stared at this flip-chart Mrs. Shield's was using on the third day of class.
Some of my classmates read the dozen or so words on that page readily. I was impressed and wanted to do it too. I distinctly remember a drawing of an orange, colored in, with the letters o-r-a-n-g-e next to it. There was something "tricky" about the displayed objects and words next to each, and while several of my classmates were guessing, the trickiness thwarted their attempts. In the minute or two in which I studied the board, and noted who had the correct answer, I was trying to sound out the word printed by whichever the teacher was pointing at when the student answered.
I remember the orange, because that was the one I used to de-code the trick. If there was a picture of an apple it may have had printed next to it, a-p-p-l-e or it may have had the letters r-e-d. After a couple of wrong guesses by classmates, I knew that the printed letters would be descriptive, but that it could be the thing or the color. Mrs. Shields noticed my intent concentration, I guess, and she pointed at one item and asked me if I knew what it said. I didn't.
She was pointing at a banana I think it was, but I said, looking at the orange, "I know o-r-a-n-g-e is orange, but only because the fruit and the color are the same. I don't know why those letters spell 'orange' and so the one you are pointing at must be 'banana' because the first letter is a 'b' and not a 'y' I think it would be."
"And if it was a 'y?'"
"It would be the word "yellow?'"
"Good. You are just where you are supposed to be."
She went on and vetted the rest of the students. Ultimately, we were each assigned to one of three groups. I don't know how she described them, but the groups were obviously equivalent to "readers," "clueless," and "ready to read."
Those who had been guessing, "red" when it said "apple" were in the "clueless" group. Those who obviously could read were sent to sit on a corner with some assistant who was there that day and they sat down with what must have been "Fun with Dick and Jane--" taking turns reading through it.
The clueless were sent to the opposite corner and I think they were helped by another helper to work on the alphabet. I don't remember.
About six of us were brought up behind the teacher's desk and she read from a book as we watched her finger trace across each word in a way that made it "click" with me after a couple of minutes watching. She stopped, and asked what the next word was now and then, and asked me to try as her second time of prompting one of us. I said, "Not yet, ask someone else, I think I am getting it."
In truth, I was humiliated. I had no idea anyone my age knew how to read-- none of my friends did and I had been looking forward to starting first grade for the very purpose of learning how to read and how to do lots of other things my big brother could do. On day three of school, I was horrified to find many others already knew how to read. Besides, three minutes before, the moral lesson had been manifest to me: Guessers are cheating when they try to act like they can read, but really just don't want to be exposed as ignorant. It wasn't enough for me to have won a moral victory-- I wanted to be with those reading aloud to one another in the corner, but I knew I did not belong with them. My little ego was in dangerous peril, and it took me a little bit to focus.
But after Mrs. Shields prompted a few others, some who sounded the word out correctly and some who did not, she came back to me, and I read the next word. She asked me to continue, and I managed the next several words.
Something about symbols and meaning and the written word is miraculously apparent in such moments. Mrs. Shields' knew it and it showed. Her face showed joy! I got it and she knew it and she was filled with joy that she saw it happen. She had probably done this with others-- been there prompting as a student read their first words and then a whole sentence-- hundreds of times, but the joy always came. It came when I did, and it came when the others did it. She had one or two that didn't do it that day.
The next day, to my immense relief, I sat on the carpet with my own copy of a book, and took my part in reading aloud with the others.
A couple of years before, the story goes, I was excited for my father to come home from work. I was four, so I was always excited for him to come home, but more so because that day I had found out how the picture got inside the television set. That is what I told him: "Daddy? I know how the picture gets into the TV set."
"You do?"
"Yes. It comes in through that cord in the back."
"Oh. Well, Hoss, actually those metal things on top are called antennae and they pick up the signal from the air--"
"No. I'll show you."
I walked back behind the television and unplugged it. The picture went away, and I said, "See?"
My Dad was one of those who was "scary smart." You know? The kind who gets things so far ahead of everyone else that it seems unreal? So smart was my father that he knew when he was licked. Just as my mother had decided earlier in the day when I made public my findings regarding the great mystery of television picture source; smiling, my father said, "Oh, well, I guess you must be right." The family loves telling me of that story.
I plugged the cable back into the wall and the television picture flowed through the narrow pipe right into set as before. I went to my room triumphant. The next day, I was let down in the best way possible. My Dad unplugged the antennae and then began explaining radio waves. As we drove around later, he pointed out the radio towers that were sending the signal. Cool!
I did alright up through my junior year in high school. I found my "one true love." Family crises (plural) left me virtually alone to figure that out, but I managed pretty well, working without a net. Then, that false lesson I learned way back with the Sisters in Fort Worth at the Tuller School was exposed as false in the most brutal way. My heart was ripped every bit as deeply as it had allowed the joy of that first and true love to settle into it. No one told me that there was such a risk.
Working without a net, I retreated into books, television, music, and building things. I never came out again until my first child was born. My own life was wonderfully rewarding at the time, but physically and emotionally painful. Better that combination than the inverse, and I knew it. But my son, and soon enough my daughter, got all of that unhealed heart to work as if nothing had ever happened to it. That was bliss. I knew bliss.
And five or six years later, again (still, really is a better word) working without a net, I was shoved out of their life with a treachery-- an inhumanity!-- that few persons are willing or even able to believe exists. Most cannot believe such excruciating evil can be allowed to exist without their own ability to function being jeopardized-- threatened merely by the acknowledgment of the possibility. So they don't. I understand, and it is hard for me to blame them for looking away so as not to see the gore, but... I mange to blame them, none-the-less.
The good people choosing not to look at the human gore allows them to do nothing while it allows evil to do anything. My son doesn't believe his father loves him. My daughter tells me that she remembers me, but mostly from stories. Two innocent results of persons choosing not to look at the gore. Yeah, I blame those who do not look. Yes I do.
Each of such persons are welcome to my anger anytime they want it. I'll rage on them without mercy because I am running very low on mercy these days-- used up most of what I had already and no one ever gives me any, so...
Anyway, at first, I thought there was a solution. I just thought my mind would produce a solution. In my first career, I was a highly paid problem-solver. I was damned good at it. So I set my mind to work on the problem with the false assumption that there was a solution.
Three years later, I was a shell of man. My mind would not accept that there was no solution and day-by-day I began to hate myself and stopped trusting myself because my own mind was failing me when it mattered most. I could not save my children!
I had tried to get help, but everyone who was in a position to help soon told me that there was probably no answer that I could tolerate. It wasn't their children, I told myself, so they gave up when they realized that the problem I was working on might take years to resolve-- shorter if they would help instead of give up.
I was wrong. They wanted to help, but some had experience looking at the gore and they knew there was no solution. They were telling me the truth. The ultimate gore is that evil wins, love does not conquer the consequences of evil, it merely endures it.
I went to Half Price Books near where I worked and bought an armload of paperbacks, thinking that my mind needed to allow itself to get lost in a story other than my own. One of those books was Ken Follett's Code to Zero. It was a spy novel, and my father got me started reading those when I was a teenager.
The hero in the novel is a rocket scientist who wakes to find himself possessing all of his knowledge, all of his skills, and above all, all of his character; yet, all memory of his relationships with people and his associations-- including where he lived, where he worked, who he knew-- all of that was gone. Spies had captured him and given him a drug to cause all of that.
I made an appointment with a psychologist and went. I told him about my children and how I had been slandered to the effect of being thrown from their lives. He asked me what I wanted him to do for me, and I told him what I had read about in Code to Zero. I said, "I want to know if there is a real drug that can do that, and, if so, can I have it?"
Too often, still, I post on my personal Facebook account, my status using a few words from the lyrics to UB40's Red, Red, Wine:
All I could do, I've done. Memories won't go. Memories, won't go. I just thought, that with time, thoughts of you would leave my head. I was wrong.
Love,
Dad
06 March 2010
Mission City, something new and not so clear
Something, in my minds eye, only seen from averted vision, is bothering me.
To the North. A new reference point not on the map: The old "Showdown." Somewhere north of there and involving friends and acquaintances from the "Showdown." I don't know where Showdown is in Mission City, but it seems as if it is adjacent to or perhaps even a part of the ever-morphing "home"which is just east of downtown.
To the north of there is that troublesome place-- new to me, but repeating, not changing, and always "north." My intuition is that this represents a real place, that truly is north of the old Showdown at 27th & Guadalupe in Austin.
It is a modern place, smooth white plaster walls-- that hard and cold plaster found in aluminum framed office buildings of the last few decades. It has a brown tinted glass front lit from within, only one or two stories high, and in a part of town which few buildings are as modern. Inside it is a large place. I am not certain what it is, and I intuit that it is connected with games-- like computer games, video games, and maybe even old-style board games. Pool or shuffleboards tables may exist there, I am not sure.
Even so, gaming does not seem to be the real purpose for those who gather there. Unknown to some, I think: There seems to be a sinister element of strangers. So much so, that the strangers and the malevolent real purpose of the place are inextricably intertwined-- defining the place. All of the persons inside are at least ten years my junior, and the few I know there are good people, but I am concerned that they either chose to ignore the threatening feel of the place or are complicit, believing they won't get hurt.
Kind of sounds like drugs, doesn't it? Yet, I don't think that is what it is. Could be, but I feel it is something else. As with all, or nearly all, missions I find myself on, I merely find myself at a location when the vision dream begins. Unlike most of the missions, I am neither with someone, nor am I cognizant of any purpose-- so I begin to explore the place. I am delighted, at first thought, to see some people I know and like, but who I will not name because of my doubts about sharing this mission, here.
In fact, so obscure are the repeated (and mostly brief) encounters with this place, that I only decided to write because I think perhaps that there is nothing more for me to do that post this and let anyone who knows what it means take warning. I doubt I will ever know, but I am hoping that after posting this, I will not return there. I don't like the place, and I do not like having no feeling of mission there. Moreover, I didn't like having my "tail" handed to me the first time I was there.
I'll start there, as a means of providing detail for a reader who I hope finds something here meaningful.
It was dusk, a beautiful evening following a warm day. I am inside the place-- brightly lit, making it impossible to see out the tinted windows. The inside includes a wide curving and inclined main hall that leads to no place that can be seen from the entrance. I am just descending and curving out of view from the main doors which lead to the street when I come across an acquaintance I know and like. He seems happy, or maybe amused, to find me there as he passes me in a hurry-- having some plan of which is of the essence.
From that bright white, and wide entry ramp, and without transition (i.e., no door that I recall) I am in a much darker room, vast, I think. Colorful lighting against near black. Neon lights? Florescent pigments under black-lights?
A few more I know are there. Unlike the first familiar face, these look concerned for me (not of me). I sense the darkness and unnatural light of the place was chosen because it fit the purpose of the owners-- it said what is felt-- that is that the ambiance was intended to cooperate with the meaning, not provide it, not cover it, but to be an acknowledgment. I do not believe it was spoken, although we did speak-- none of the words spoken recalled by me, but the sense was felt by me that my friends down in that room were sharing a concern that I would be unwelcome there, and that they were in no position to help me. More specifically, that they knew that I would not cause them harm even if I knew what the place was about but that the strangers there would no ask questions. The strangers would simply identify me as a threat and take what actions those strangers believed to be necessary or prudent to protect themselves.
I explored the downstairs, some rooms brighter with light and easy activity around me-- nothing specific, but the sense of competitive benign game playing being share amongst the "patrons" of the place. Many of the "patrons" seemed like people I would like, and some of the women attractive. No sooner did a sense of comfortableness with the place begin to suggest itself to me than a warning appeared. A large man with dark hair wordlessly confronted me. A wordless, passive-aggressive challenge. The actual event is not distinct to me, but something like standing cross-armed and staring at me, or positioning himself so as to require me to slightly change my stride as I roamed the facility.
The gaming then became casino-like in my mind. I used to "have to go" to Las Vegas on business trips, and held user group meetings at the casino hotels-- because Vegas would boost attendance which was good for the company I worked for back in those days. The mob, the power, the money, the usually benign but omnipresent security and surveilance-- all of that seemed suddenly a fit comparison, However, while the danger in Vegas, while palpable to me at all times, never seemed to be directed at me, or even threatening to me, the appearance of the dark-haired man did seem to be targeting me.
I can only say that he was something of a "bouncer" and also something more-- the tip of the iceberg-- no, the pointman. Yes, that is it. The dark-haired man was on point, and had an unseen squad behind him. I don;t know how I had been vetted so quickly, and remember being bothered by the fact that whatever or whoever determined me to be a threat, did so and acted upon it before I realized I was being threatened. PTSD has its advantages-- you are almost always the first one to be ready-- you know a fight is coming, from whom and when before the person targeting you has completed the thought which will bring them to act against you. You feel, from experience, their bodies preparing to act. You have some reasonable certainty of their final decision-- act or not act-- before their muscles tense or relax in keeping with the decision they make.
As I said, I was greatly bothered by being behind the action in this place. I did not know why I was a threat, and said so at some point in the chaos which followed, but the pointman's squad was on me and overwhelmed me before I had even begun to consider my tactical situation. I did not like that feeling at all. I was bit roughed up in the process and literally thrown to the ground outside some secondary entrance, or in this case, exit, onto the sidewalk. The men of the squad looked no more "professional" than I do, but I fear they may have been better. I really did not like that feeling, and I really do not want to go back.
I still have no clue what the strategic purpose of the place is, but the persons of that place (not necessarily those in it) was overwhelmingly certain of its own, and had me "pegged" so fast and dealt with me so easily that I feel like I need to be better briefed before going back again. I have mentioned, in other Mission City entries, that the missions to which I appear to be assigned are known by me no later than the instant when I need to know what to do-- a very intuitive sort of feeling. But that evening, my intuition was working just fine, but was overwhelmed by superior force -- one with foreknowledge of the mission given me.
The sidewalk upon which I was unceremoniously tossed, was a sidewalk on the large block of the "home" when I described it elsewhere as having morphed into some beachfront compound. That connection surprised and confused me as I got back to my feet. The squad surrounded me-- five or six men, I think. Spoken of by them in the third person, there was not a hint that I mattered at all to them, and that repercussions of whatever they decided to do with me also posed no concern for them. Still, the decision was to let me go. The other option was to kill me. Oddly enough, neither they nor I seemed to care much about which decision would be chosen.
It occurred to me that perhaps my indifference as to the matter of being let go or killed somehow swayed the decision made by the squad. I was not paying much attention. I'll end with a bit related to that...
Obi-Wan Kenobi lived in a whitewashed cave in the middle of a hostile desert, just close enough to keep a protective eye on his charge-- young Luke and, vicariously through another, Leia-- all the while invisible and unknown to either of those being protected. I was never the young Obi-Wan, but the older one is a comforting model for me. In the midst of the battle with Darth Vadar, he warns his enemy, "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can imagine." Yep. That is why I took my feet again on the sidewalk, as prisoner, and not caring what happened next. I wasn't going to be out of the battle no matter what was chosen by my captors. It really didn't matter to me. That is not despair, it is faith.
I have been back to that modern building to the north, and cannot make entrance, or if beginning inside, cannot find a way beyond the grand entrance ramp. I don't why. Each vision dream is brief in tos regard-- I am there, no mission, nothing accomplished that I can tell. That is frustrating, and it occurs to me, that perhaps this place in Mission City has nothing at all to do with me.
This leads me to a segue. Oddly enough, of what I had pasted here with a note, before I finished the above Mission City item, and merel;y because I was pressed for time and needed to unload the clipboard...
And, because I am in a hurry, and because I need to post before I have opportunity to save the item which I intended to rework into a more generic passionate plea for someone else (or, knowing God, it may well be related to the a person who knows what this mission city posts means-- I know I don't!), this is a paste from a forum message I wrote this morning dealing with Parental Alienation Syndrome, and those whose rage and fear have pushed them too far for their endurance:
Crews Giles I don't post here often. I think I started when a friend sent me a link to the PAS suicide thread; because she knew of my perspective that we fight evil and endure evil; that a hearty faith is one with mission, danger, and suffering; that this world is the domain of the Enemy and the good souls rage against it; and that the antidote to true despair and hopelessness in this world is the soul's transcendence-- living less and less in and of this life and to and for the next.
If I did not have the faith I was given, I would stop typing and end it now; because without faith, this life is all there is and it isn't worth the pain-- not for me, not for what my heart and soul demand to be worthwhile, purposeful, and full of meaning. But, my faith is real, and beyond "nice to believe", "I hope it may be so," I want to think that" faith-- it is tested, purposeful, and on occasion my Lord is so intimately present in my life, that denying my faith would be an act of insanity.
I would like the life experiences which brought me to this to be different than they have been, because I don't know how to call others to such a robust sort of living out the faith other than through despair in the world I don't want my friends to suffer so that their souls can transcend-- recognize that we are all trapped behind enemy lines and embrace suffering as a mark of our being alienated by this world because our souls long for the next.
None of that has a direct link to parental alienation, but it is the only answer to suicidal thought that I know which is more than a mere pablum.
As parents of children alienated from us, we are in a unique place to experience God the Father's longing and suffering for us-- cut off from direct contact with Him, and so doubting His love. Sharing that with the Father Almighty, Lord God of Hosts, the Most High God, we are also in a unique position to experience our children's pain, and doubts; and to understand their raging:
"Why doesn't my parent love me? Why doesn't my parent rescue me? Why doesn't my parent care?"
I don't know the persons contributing to this thread, but the recent expressions have been antagonistic to one another-- baiting. Yep, we are all angry-- we would all be heartless if we were not angry. The anger is valid and even healthy under the circumstances, but the target of the anger (one another) is invalid. Moreover, targeting one another on a thread about suicidal thoughts is not what someone coming to this thread for the first time needs to read.
As an aside, and as clarification. I use the Judeo-Christian Biblical term, "Lord God of Hosts" for a reason. That ascription, "Lord God of Hosts" explicitly describes the Most High God as possessing an army (a "host"). That is important because we need to know that we are at war with the world-- and the unseen powers which conspire to make us and our children believe that unseen love is no love at all, and unseen evil is no evil at all, and unseen war is the same as peace.
I'm not at peace, I am at war, but it is not my war, it is the war of the Almighty against the unseen powers, against evil, again despair, against purposelessness, against injustice, and so on. I chose which side represents truth. I chose for Whom I fight.
Because I am angry, and because I want to fight with my spiritual sword in hand, I am not rushing toward a meaningless death-- not when no one else fights for my children, for our love, for justice. I love too many people in this life (whether they know it or not) to leave them undefended. Not enough are there to fight for us, and we know it.
We are on the same side. Those that believe, fight. Fight for those who despair, whether they believe or not. God loves them whether they believe or not, and I am not going to judge or punish my children for not believing in my love due to a world which seeks to prove to them that I do not, anymore then The Most High God, Father Almighty, would do to any of us, His children-- all of us suffering from being alienated from Him and not able to see clearly His rage and His gathering armies preparing to fight for us and for our children.
That is what I say from my soapbox. If some want to call that an "opinion," or rage at me for living as if I am child of God, because such a detractor is certain that God causes evil, and believes or at least claims in rage that it is the godly who alienated them from both God and their children-- well, I understand where that comes from, but it is a tantrum of tyrant child wanting the plate of peas served to change into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It is still a plate of peas.
I don't know what to say to them-- other than I live because I know the truth in that regard (the unseen battle, not the lack of peanut butter!), and my living it out as best I can includes raging at the world which blinds others from that truth -- the same Enemy which stole our children.
Now, whatever animosity exists between the rest of you, take it somewhere else, please.
I have several Mission City posts written, needing only a proofread before posting. I have, well, enjoyed the power, frequency and excitement of purpose in what I have written to be posted here, as well as matters written for other purposes and venues. This one interrupts with something of urgency, so I am going to cooperate and slap it through the process ahead of everything else.
Just for myself, the necessary thought which allows me to post some difficult items to share when I know only a few readers do not know me-- that "a prophet is without honor in his own home." I mean, what I write of in Mission City related posts is not often even intended for anyone I know. This blog, evocation, is not dedicated to those posts anyway-- merely the place I chose to put them, along side of stuff with posts for intended intimate readers. But this one post, is different, in that I think it is for someone I know-- I just haven;t a clue who that might be. In Mission City, I just try to cooperate with what is created-- I don't create anything. Now back to our regular programming...
To the North. A new reference point not on the map: The old "Showdown." Somewhere north of there and involving friends and acquaintances from the "Showdown." I don't know where Showdown is in Mission City, but it seems as if it is adjacent to or perhaps even a part of the ever-morphing "home"which is just east of downtown.
To the north of there is that troublesome place-- new to me, but repeating, not changing, and always "north." My intuition is that this represents a real place, that truly is north of the old Showdown at 27th & Guadalupe in Austin.
It is a modern place, smooth white plaster walls-- that hard and cold plaster found in aluminum framed office buildings of the last few decades. It has a brown tinted glass front lit from within, only one or two stories high, and in a part of town which few buildings are as modern. Inside it is a large place. I am not certain what it is, and I intuit that it is connected with games-- like computer games, video games, and maybe even old-style board games. Pool or shuffleboards tables may exist there, I am not sure.
Even so, gaming does not seem to be the real purpose for those who gather there. Unknown to some, I think: There seems to be a sinister element of strangers. So much so, that the strangers and the malevolent real purpose of the place are inextricably intertwined-- defining the place. All of the persons inside are at least ten years my junior, and the few I know there are good people, but I am concerned that they either chose to ignore the threatening feel of the place or are complicit, believing they won't get hurt.
Kind of sounds like drugs, doesn't it? Yet, I don't think that is what it is. Could be, but I feel it is something else. As with all, or nearly all, missions I find myself on, I merely find myself at a location when the vision dream begins. Unlike most of the missions, I am neither with someone, nor am I cognizant of any purpose-- so I begin to explore the place. I am delighted, at first thought, to see some people I know and like, but who I will not name because of my doubts about sharing this mission, here.
In fact, so obscure are the repeated (and mostly brief) encounters with this place, that I only decided to write because I think perhaps that there is nothing more for me to do that post this and let anyone who knows what it means take warning. I doubt I will ever know, but I am hoping that after posting this, I will not return there. I don't like the place, and I do not like having no feeling of mission there. Moreover, I didn't like having my "tail" handed to me the first time I was there.
I'll start there, as a means of providing detail for a reader who I hope finds something here meaningful.
It was dusk, a beautiful evening following a warm day. I am inside the place-- brightly lit, making it impossible to see out the tinted windows. The inside includes a wide curving and inclined main hall that leads to no place that can be seen from the entrance. I am just descending and curving out of view from the main doors which lead to the street when I come across an acquaintance I know and like. He seems happy, or maybe amused, to find me there as he passes me in a hurry-- having some plan of which is of the essence.
From that bright white, and wide entry ramp, and without transition (i.e., no door that I recall) I am in a much darker room, vast, I think. Colorful lighting against near black. Neon lights? Florescent pigments under black-lights?
A few more I know are there. Unlike the first familiar face, these look concerned for me (not of me). I sense the darkness and unnatural light of the place was chosen because it fit the purpose of the owners-- it said what is felt-- that is that the ambiance was intended to cooperate with the meaning, not provide it, not cover it, but to be an acknowledgment. I do not believe it was spoken, although we did speak-- none of the words spoken recalled by me, but the sense was felt by me that my friends down in that room were sharing a concern that I would be unwelcome there, and that they were in no position to help me. More specifically, that they knew that I would not cause them harm even if I knew what the place was about but that the strangers there would no ask questions. The strangers would simply identify me as a threat and take what actions those strangers believed to be necessary or prudent to protect themselves.
I explored the downstairs, some rooms brighter with light and easy activity around me-- nothing specific, but the sense of competitive benign game playing being share amongst the "patrons" of the place. Many of the "patrons" seemed like people I would like, and some of the women attractive. No sooner did a sense of comfortableness with the place begin to suggest itself to me than a warning appeared. A large man with dark hair wordlessly confronted me. A wordless, passive-aggressive challenge. The actual event is not distinct to me, but something like standing cross-armed and staring at me, or positioning himself so as to require me to slightly change my stride as I roamed the facility.
The gaming then became casino-like in my mind. I used to "have to go" to Las Vegas on business trips, and held user group meetings at the casino hotels-- because Vegas would boost attendance which was good for the company I worked for back in those days. The mob, the power, the money, the usually benign but omnipresent security and surveilance-- all of that seemed suddenly a fit comparison, However, while the danger in Vegas, while palpable to me at all times, never seemed to be directed at me, or even threatening to me, the appearance of the dark-haired man did seem to be targeting me.
I can only say that he was something of a "bouncer" and also something more-- the tip of the iceberg-- no, the pointman. Yes, that is it. The dark-haired man was on point, and had an unseen squad behind him. I don;t know how I had been vetted so quickly, and remember being bothered by the fact that whatever or whoever determined me to be a threat, did so and acted upon it before I realized I was being threatened. PTSD has its advantages-- you are almost always the first one to be ready-- you know a fight is coming, from whom and when before the person targeting you has completed the thought which will bring them to act against you. You feel, from experience, their bodies preparing to act. You have some reasonable certainty of their final decision-- act or not act-- before their muscles tense or relax in keeping with the decision they make.
As I said, I was greatly bothered by being behind the action in this place. I did not know why I was a threat, and said so at some point in the chaos which followed, but the pointman's squad was on me and overwhelmed me before I had even begun to consider my tactical situation. I did not like that feeling at all. I was bit roughed up in the process and literally thrown to the ground outside some secondary entrance, or in this case, exit, onto the sidewalk. The men of the squad looked no more "professional" than I do, but I fear they may have been better. I really did not like that feeling, and I really do not want to go back.
I still have no clue what the strategic purpose of the place is, but the persons of that place (not necessarily those in it) was overwhelmingly certain of its own, and had me "pegged" so fast and dealt with me so easily that I feel like I need to be better briefed before going back again. I have mentioned, in other Mission City entries, that the missions to which I appear to be assigned are known by me no later than the instant when I need to know what to do-- a very intuitive sort of feeling. But that evening, my intuition was working just fine, but was overwhelmed by superior force -- one with foreknowledge of the mission given me.
The sidewalk upon which I was unceremoniously tossed, was a sidewalk on the large block of the "home" when I described it elsewhere as having morphed into some beachfront compound. That connection surprised and confused me as I got back to my feet. The squad surrounded me-- five or six men, I think. Spoken of by them in the third person, there was not a hint that I mattered at all to them, and that repercussions of whatever they decided to do with me also posed no concern for them. Still, the decision was to let me go. The other option was to kill me. Oddly enough, neither they nor I seemed to care much about which decision would be chosen.
It occurred to me that perhaps my indifference as to the matter of being let go or killed somehow swayed the decision made by the squad. I was not paying much attention. I'll end with a bit related to that...
Obi-Wan Kenobi lived in a whitewashed cave in the middle of a hostile desert, just close enough to keep a protective eye on his charge-- young Luke and, vicariously through another, Leia-- all the while invisible and unknown to either of those being protected. I was never the young Obi-Wan, but the older one is a comforting model for me. In the midst of the battle with Darth Vadar, he warns his enemy, "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can imagine." Yep. That is why I took my feet again on the sidewalk, as prisoner, and not caring what happened next. I wasn't going to be out of the battle no matter what was chosen by my captors. It really didn't matter to me. That is not despair, it is faith.
I have been back to that modern building to the north, and cannot make entrance, or if beginning inside, cannot find a way beyond the grand entrance ramp. I don't why. Each vision dream is brief in tos regard-- I am there, no mission, nothing accomplished that I can tell. That is frustrating, and it occurs to me, that perhaps this place in Mission City has nothing at all to do with me.
This leads me to a segue. Oddly enough, of what I had pasted here with a note, before I finished the above Mission City item, and merel;y because I was pressed for time and needed to unload the clipboard...
And, because I am in a hurry, and because I need to post before I have opportunity to save the item which I intended to rework into a more generic passionate plea for someone else (or, knowing God, it may well be related to the a person who knows what this mission city posts means-- I know I don't!), this is a paste from a forum message I wrote this morning dealing with Parental Alienation Syndrome, and those whose rage and fear have pushed them too far for their endurance:
Crews Giles I don't post here often. I think I started when a friend sent me a link to the PAS suicide thread; because she knew of my perspective that we fight evil and endure evil; that a hearty faith is one with mission, danger, and suffering; that this world is the domain of the Enemy and the good souls rage against it; and that the antidote to true despair and hopelessness in this world is the soul's transcendence-- living less and less in and of this life and to and for the next.
If I did not have the faith I was given, I would stop typing and end it now; because without faith, this life is all there is and it isn't worth the pain-- not for me, not for what my heart and soul demand to be worthwhile, purposeful, and full of meaning. But, my faith is real, and beyond "nice to believe", "I hope it may be so," I want to think that" faith-- it is tested, purposeful, and on occasion my Lord is so intimately present in my life, that denying my faith would be an act of insanity.
I would like the life experiences which brought me to this to be different than they have been, because I don't know how to call others to such a robust sort of living out the faith other than through despair in the world I don't want my friends to suffer so that their souls can transcend-- recognize that we are all trapped behind enemy lines and embrace suffering as a mark of our being alienated by this world because our souls long for the next.
None of that has a direct link to parental alienation, but it is the only answer to suicidal thought that I know which is more than a mere pablum.
As parents of children alienated from us, we are in a unique place to experience God the Father's longing and suffering for us-- cut off from direct contact with Him, and so doubting His love. Sharing that with the Father Almighty, Lord God of Hosts, the Most High God, we are also in a unique position to experience our children's pain, and doubts; and to understand their raging:
"Why doesn't my parent love me? Why doesn't my parent rescue me? Why doesn't my parent care?"
I don't know the persons contributing to this thread, but the recent expressions have been antagonistic to one another-- baiting. Yep, we are all angry-- we would all be heartless if we were not angry. The anger is valid and even healthy under the circumstances, but the target of the anger (one another) is invalid. Moreover, targeting one another on a thread about suicidal thoughts is not what someone coming to this thread for the first time needs to read.
As an aside, and as clarification. I use the Judeo-Christian Biblical term, "Lord God of Hosts" for a reason. That ascription, "Lord God of Hosts" explicitly describes the Most High God as possessing an army (a "host"). That is important because we need to know that we are at war with the world-- and the unseen powers which conspire to make us and our children believe that unseen love is no love at all, and unseen evil is no evil at all, and unseen war is the same as peace.
I'm not at peace, I am at war, but it is not my war, it is the war of the Almighty against the unseen powers, against evil, again despair, against purposelessness, against injustice, and so on. I chose which side represents truth. I chose for Whom I fight.
Because I am angry, and because I want to fight with my spiritual sword in hand, I am not rushing toward a meaningless death-- not when no one else fights for my children, for our love, for justice. I love too many people in this life (whether they know it or not) to leave them undefended. Not enough are there to fight for us, and we know it.
We are on the same side. Those that believe, fight. Fight for those who despair, whether they believe or not. God loves them whether they believe or not, and I am not going to judge or punish my children for not believing in my love due to a world which seeks to prove to them that I do not, anymore then The Most High God, Father Almighty, would do to any of us, His children-- all of us suffering from being alienated from Him and not able to see clearly His rage and His gathering armies preparing to fight for us and for our children.
That is what I say from my soapbox. If some want to call that an "opinion," or rage at me for living as if I am child of God, because such a detractor is certain that God causes evil, and believes or at least claims in rage that it is the godly who alienated them from both God and their children-- well, I understand where that comes from, but it is a tantrum of tyrant child wanting the plate of peas served to change into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It is still a plate of peas.
I don't know what to say to them-- other than I live because I know the truth in that regard (the unseen battle, not the lack of peanut butter!), and my living it out as best I can includes raging at the world which blinds others from that truth -- the same Enemy which stole our children.
Now, whatever animosity exists between the rest of you, take it somewhere else, please.
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