Minnesota: 10,000 Lakes and More

Hello from the road,

We (my sister-in-law, her husband and I) spent the night in Sandusky, OH, after a long day of driving from the Quad Cities, and on our way back to drop me off in Bloomsburg before they arrive in New Jersey. It was a busy two weeks-plus back in Iowa for the holidays, and my primary duty was to manage the culinary requirements of people 5 to 75. All in all, it was quite enjoyable.

As we drove yesterday, we heard about the death of a 37 year old woman in a situation with an ICE agent. As in the case with George Floyd, the response to what happened has been swift and significant. Having lived in the Twin Cities for a number of years (albeit 40 years ago), Minneapolis/St. Paul is more diverse than many people expect. Additionally, the tapestry of cultures, the struggle with the continuum from the proverbial “Minnesota nice” and a national atmosphere of seemingly growing intolerance, has once again resulted in a tragedy. Before you think I have made some serious final deduction about what a reasonable response to this event in the prior 24 hours should be, I have not. As I listened to someone’s initial assessment of the events and then spent two-plus hours listening to both sides of the political spectrum last night, and more this morning, what is readily apparent – the politics of the country are front and center yet again. Furthermore, when you have the political incongruity that is between the State and Federal, there should be little surprise that we are once again facing a serious crisis. An administration that unabashedly announces they will go after blue states means there is no united in our country.

Before anyone decides to speak, be it a governor, a mayor, a Department Secretary or the President, it would behoove them all to understand the consequence of words. I am not saying there should be nothing said, but rather, choose words that will de-escalate versus fan the flames of contention that are on the verge of becoming another wildfire. Recently I wrote a blog that compared our national response following the deaths of Charlie Kirk this past year and George Floyd 5 years ago. The response to George Floyd was international. And certainly there is a national response now. I saw that protests against ICE and their tactics, used not only yesterday, but in Chicago, Portland, Los Angeles, to Washington DC, are being planned nationally from Portland to Miami and NYC to LA. Am I surprised that there is a national response to yesterday? I am not, but I hope (perhaps naively) that civility can prevail. Again, that requires thoughtful engagement at every level; there can definitely be decorum in anger though difficult. There can be restraint in the words used to allow for conversation about our national response following such a tragedy. And the tragedy is polymorphic for sure. Everyone is focused on a 37 year old woman, which is understandable. Certainly, I would hope the man who fired the shots is placed on administrative leave, and supported. I did read he had been dragged by a car in another incident, which I would believe influenced his behavior yesterday. Anyone who witnessed the event yesterday would certainly be traumatized. Another incident, regardless your political leaning should cause pause for each American citizen. The number of issues we face as a country are numerous, and their seriousness cannot be overstated, that is what I see from my little corner of the world.

Many mornings, I have breakfast or coffee with an incredible group of men, most of whom are more right leaning than I am. A good number of them are veterans, retired from working life-long jobs, and to say I am in the minority when it comes to our political ideology, and yet on many levels I appreciate and respect them while, at times, disagreeing stridently. To be bluntly candid, the number of times I heard “Fuck Biden” from that group might be more than our combined fingers and toes, but I had to choose my comments wisely and carefully. And yet, in spite of my difficulty with many of their positions, I could still respect them on other levels. I remember one asking me before the last election if I really planned to vote for Kamala, to which I said, “Most certainly.” When they inquired as to why, I asked if they would actually listen to my reasons. They did and at the end of our conversation, they were a bit quiet, but said they understood. That was a significant accomplishment, particularly when that individual can be quite adamant in their position as well as how they verbalize said position. They are extremely conservative, a veteran, and a bit serious in their position and how they disagree. What I have learned is to try to understand both their reasoning and their method.

Learning to listen is essential to bridging difficulties, be they between individuals or on a larger scale. Some of what I learned as a 17-20 year old in the Marine Corps continues to serve me well. If you want to see a space where you find a legion of differences, the military will offer that immediately. And yet your life is dependent on making those differences a strength versus a potential weakness. I remember my Drill Instructor saying the only color in our platoon was olive drab. Did we always act that way? Most certainly not, but when something needed to be accomplished, when the proverbial shit was headed to the fan, all hands were on deck quite quickly. What was it what allowed young people (often 18-25) from such divergent backgrounds to pull themselves together in such a manner? As a Marine veteran, I know there is loyalty and connection to set of principles that 80 days of Boot Camp and the title of United States Marine that is unshakeable. There is a commitment to the other that an under-sized 17 year old believed in, ingested if you will, that once present cannot be erased. Even with that there is a degree of caution. Being completely blind to excess is problematic. Patriotism is not necessarily nationalism. And Christian nationalism is not Christianity, something I recently wrote about.

Since I started this blog two days ago, two more people have died in Federal agent shootings. The implying of total immunity for what occurred in Minnesota is absurd. It flies in the face of the principle pari passu or aequalitas ante legem . Equality before and under the law has long been what we profess, in spite of the discrimination that those against any wokeness will admit. It seems the current administration has openly denied that equality at this point. If that is where we are as a nation, it appears the grand experiment has failed. The protests, the filming of what is happening in our cities and streets is one of the few chances we have. If we fail to stand against such tyranny, there is not enough water in Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes to wash away the stain, be it the blood stained snow on Portland Avenue or in the city of Portland. To wash away the chemicals and pepper spray used on protesters. The time to stand is now. The time for Congress to push back is long past, and I am fearful for the country I served.

Bless the protesters for freedom and thank you for reading.

Michael

The Transformation of Boomers

Hello from my room at my sister-in-law’s house,

I think we are back down to our last day on this trip, which has lasted a bit longer than I planned, but this is where retirement is advantageous. The Christmas holiday has been nice, and I have met members, part of extended family, whom I had not saw in person since 1992. They were children then and now in the 40s. Amazing how much can happen three decades. It was all part of our holiday visits and celebrations. When my sister-in-law, and her now husband married, they brought a total of 9 children into that union, but his children primarily lived with their mother in the Chicago area. As many know blending families and traditions, particularly when there is a geographic difference requires a lot of work. Then there is working to treat everyone equitably. As humans, and duly noted in a conversation this morning, we are too often conditional, even with our best intentions. Emotions, especially when it involves family, are often fragile. I know this from my own background. Currently, it is easier for me to step back and just observe. Perhaps that is because I am single; perhaps it is because I never had children, and that gives me an innate distance from some of the fray that seems to be part of every holiday.

As I age, I find myself reflecting more readily on how things evolve and reset. What is required beyond experience that establishes a seismic shift in cultural norms, practices, or expectations? As someone who was born smack in the middle of the Boomer generation, as well as someone who resided in the relatively protected Midwest (the infamous fly-over states), and additionally, the son of a Depression-graduating father, a blue collar electrician, I had little inclination to protest, burn a draft card, or be posted on the front page of a newspaper. On the other hand, my brother 5 years older, who graduated in 1969, faced the lottery, was much more likely to reject the policies of either the Johnson or Nixon administrations, and would have probably been quite content to slide off to Woodstock or Haight Ashbury. His involvement in a rock-n-roll band (more in the Chicago or BST vein) and traveling on the road after leaving college was much more akin to what people today would call hippies. His college girlfriend, who would become his wife, epitomized the pictures you see of coeds of the time. She had long dark tresses, was tall, slender, elegant, and beyond incredibly intelligent and personable. She could model the bell bottom jeans and alluring top (never risqué, but gorgeous) better than anyone I ever met. She was from another world (New Jersey) and to her 16 year old younger to become brother-in-law, she was an angel. She knew how to handle most any situation and I trusted her. She went through some incredibly difficult events in her life, including becoming a widow with three pre-school aged children at 25, and yet, has accomplished some incredible things. I still give her credit for helping me get my act together at a particularly difficult time in my life.

One of the things that is considered conventional wisdom, but is perhaps more a folk-tale is whether or not the liberals of the 1960s are more connected to the conservative movements of the 21st century, or even the more MAGA extreme of present day Republicans? While there is some connection, the transformation is more nuanced and complex, which, of course, is how most things are, but also something few are willing to figure out. Studies (Pew Institute, Brookings Institute or Center for American Progress) show there is a difference between what was called the “true believers vs. hangers-on.” There were those who were deeply committed to the liberal causes, from anti-war to civil rights, from the environment to the ERA, and there were those who adopted the countercultural aesthetic, but were not quite so left. The point being they are certainly not as much of a seeming 180 as some might believe. If one can point to a strong connection between the two, it is a seeming distrust of the government (the establishment or the man). What constitutes the man has evolved, surely, from a military industrial complex to the issue of a woke bureaucracy (I have to give AI some credit for helping me write this – as I asked some questions, but I wrote what it told me in my own way). Likewise, the regional shift of what was the Southern Democrats, who were conservative and segregationists. would under President Johnson make a significant shift toward Civil Rights, and the Goldwater conservatives of the 1960s gave a foundation to what would become the silent majority, those who did not burn draft cards, protest or demonstrate. Ultimately, what might be most significant in this strong cultural realignment is that again, studies, show that liberals are much more likely to become more conservative as they age versus conservatives become more liberal. And yet, even this is more complex that simply a directional shift.

What amazes me and troubles me in the current culture’s willingness to merely accept what they hear or read, the propensity for listening to only one voice and believing there is some kind of moral insight to what should or should not happen. All news has a bias to it. I believe that has always been the case, but when 24/7 news came on the scene, there was a profound change in the landscape. The idea that news was objective, which is what I grew up with, moved toward a model of speed over verification, of infotainment and analysis or commentary versus “just the facts”. The change is understandable because the network had to fill up the time, and time was money. The 24/7 model became dependent on audience like never before, which meant a change in what occurred. Targeted reporting (ideological) and therefore a simplicity or narrowing changed what people heard and what they expected. CNN, which debuted in 1980, and the proliferation of news sites since means the entire world has experienced a sort of fatigue, and less than a half century later, currently Gen Z’s news consumption is defined by “social first.” Short-term, personality-driven content is what most 18-30 year olds use, and the consequence is significant. The fragmentation of what is accepted or listened to creates a situation where the bias, fatigue or simply avoidance has become commonplace. And consequently, it has transformed public discourse, which is at the foundation of any democratic society. There is the possibility of expanded participation, but simultaneously the ability for the public to become vulnerable to misinformation is exponentially increased. The rise of influencers is something we hear of on a daily basis.

As I finished high school in the early 1970s, I had the black felt, and psychedelic black-light colored posters in my bedroom lamenting Richard Nixon, and I was listening to the likes of Jethro Tull, Black Sabbath, and Deep Purple, which was much different than the Anne Murray and Glen Campbell music of my sister, and yet, I would enlist in the United States Marine Corps. My brother, the same one earlier mentioned, (and this is something my father and I spoke of often later) if he had drawn a number that would have resulted in his being drafted would have moved to that other country that is a bit north. It would be interesting to see where he might have turned politically later in life. Most of my immediate as well as somewhat extended family are much more supportive of the current administration than I am, and that is said even as some of them still claim to be registered Democrats. It makes for some spirited conversations or at other times, as I am significantly outnumbered, I merely stay quiet. Even then I am not sure what is best in terms of how to manage it. As someone with an advanced degree in Rhetoric, I wonder what is the best avenue, but I too experience the fatigue that I believe many in the country are feeling. It does not go unnoticed that today is January 6th, which I believe is a second day in infamy for our country. I am always amazed by who we are as people, and the complexity of our country. I am reminded of the words of Anton’s father, Hans Christian (Anton is my former Danish exchange student). In spite of our current tribulations as a country (and of course, President Trump’s current words about Greenland are probably worth considering, and I have not spoken with them in the last week or so), he believed America was still the most incredible democracy in the world. He noted that we still have the ability to vote; we still have freedom of the press; and we still have scheduled elections and two parties. It was actually good to hear his perspective. It gave me some hope in the midst of my own angst.

So where does it all leave me? I am unsure at the moment. Certainly there has been some transformational change in the America I knew as I was graduating from high school and where we are now. Most assuredly, our relationship with our elected leaders (regardless of party) has changed and what we believe about them is fundamentally different than what I experienced as I entered adulthood. Furthermore, it seems there is a greater degree of fear and uncertainty in both the country and the world than what I remember, though I was young and maybe I simply was too naïve. It does seem that the idea of peace and love that supposedly characterized the late 1960s (and I am aware of the simplicity of that statement) at least for the late teens through their 20s is quite different than what the people of the same age would say characterizes now. Did those boomers transform or change? I am not sure I have an answer even now after researching some and reading throughout the day. What I do know is perhaps I need to merely hold on to what my wise Danish friend notes. With it, I can still feel hopeful.

Thanks as always for reading.

Michael

Can the Calendar Make a Difference?

Hello on a New Year’s afternoon,

When I was a boy, the week after Christmas, as I have noted, was spent at my grandmother’s house. The acreage, located on the North side of Sioux City, was a humble, but homely dwelling rather non-descript to the viewer, but anything but for me because it was where I found safety, joy, and hope. The garage, which was a horse barn at one point, sat at one side of the property, and the big yard that sat between it and the house was often the parking lot for when my grandmother would host events, from her yearly Christmas to a summer steak-fry. I wrote about the Christmas celebration in a recent blog, noting that my sister and I would remain at her house for the remainder of our Christmas break each year. It was probably the happiest week of the year, and a great way to bring in the new year because we went to the bakery, were fed our favorite breakfast year morning, played with new toys, and generally got to be with the person who had been our mother in our pre-school years.

My grandmother was a huge college football fan, and she particularly liked the Nebraska Cornhuskers in the days of Johnny Rodgers and Bob Devaney. Each New Year’s Day, back in the day of four main bowl games, she would bet me on the outcome of each. She almost always won overall, but she was generally kind and let me off the hook monetarily. I think my appreciation for college sports (which has evolved to some extent) began with her yearly commitment to the New Year’s Day Bowl games. We would sit in the small den, where the television was, and watch games the entire day. I think what she offered, as importantly as her time to my sister and me, was her continual desire to be involved in our lives in a meaningful manner. Her love for us was as predictable as the calendar where we spent the final week of each year at her house.

The reality of the changing calendar seems to go hand in hand with the idea of some requisite need to recalibrate our lives; that at 11:59.59 the next second, which heralds in the next numerical year automatically provide some sense of tabula rasa. We magically renew ourselves into some better version of ourselves, the new improved, more capable, better disciplined, and remarkably successful human either we hope for or somehow believe God intends for us. What are some of those resolutions we believed ourselves capable of achieving? What sort of character flaws have I, with all the belief my little heart could muster, believed I would overcome? When I look back over the years, the decades, I find there is little in terms of some specific resolution I might have made that created any profound change in my life. More recently, I have not really made any sort of resolutions, though I am not sure if I can say why. As I ponder that fact, is there anything I wish I might have resolved, I might have attempted to alter? My immediate response is no. Perhaps it’s because I believe I am just who I am. Perhaps it’s because I seriously doubt there is much in my basic character that will change. I do believe there are places making some change or some modification in my own behavior or response to others is worth considering, but does that require some resolution? I guess my answer is simply no.

On the other hand, perhaps if the turn over that occurs from December 31st to January 1st results in introspection, that is probably efficacious. Of course, in a sort of can we break free from our illusions? manner (the cave is alive and well) do we ever allow the light that comes with life and experience to actually guide us? Are we capable of breaking free from the chains that bind us to our past, to our limitations? Much like the prisoner who comes back to free those in the cave, too often our belief that our resolutions are either folly or unachievable, so we discard the notion. It is merely a lack of discipline or something more foundational, more innate to our humanity? As I ponder the last year, and imagine the possibilities of a first complete year in my 70s, there are a multitude of thoughts and concerns, some about myself, some about those I love, and particularly family. Then there are friends and acquaintances, those I come into contact with on a regular basis, and then there is the country and the world. Is it possible to make some difference on all those levels?

When I think about some of my New Year’s Eves over the years, there is quite an extreme, in spite of some of the commonality. One New Year’s Eve. while bartending at a nightclub, the establishment turned into a brawl, with cops, broken tables and chairs, glasses being thrown, to the point it looked like what you might see in a movie. My best friend at the time, who is also working there pulled a gun on me. I grabbed it and twisted it, finding out it was loaded when it shot him – not a great way to spend New Year’s Eve. Fortunately, his wounds were not life-threatening, and he recovered. That was a serious wake up call. The number of times I worked that night in my 20s or most of them. The number of times that I’ve gone out and celebrated are very few. There were a few years in Poland with students that are certainly memorable. In the last five, I went out for dinner once. Otherwise, I had to set an alarm to wake up and see the new year in. I am appreciative of traditions and wanting to celebrate, but my desire to get loud or crazy was never really who I was or am. I remember the New Year’s Eve with the millennium, and I would have to go to work the next day because of Y2K. Those of you old enough to remember, we were worried that our computers would not know what to do and that everything will go haywire. Of course, it did not, and my workday at Gateway was incredibly boring. We got to go home early.

So where does all this leave me as I begin a new year? I have certainly reflected on the past 15 months as a retired person, and it’s been a bit of bumpy road. Nevertheless, I am blessed and fortunate to have experienced so many things, to have learned so many things. As I move into this next year, there are many things to attend to, and there are some significant things I hope to accomplish. Most of it is manageable, but will require discipline, thoughtfulness, and stepping outside my comfort zone. That is not an easy thing for me to do, but it is always necessary if I’m going to move beyond those things that I know. It doesn’t take a specific calendar day or the change of the final number in a year in a year. Instead, it takes consistency, reflection, and perhaps appropriately it takes a word that is etymologically related to the idea of resolution. It takes resolve. As I move into this new year, which is now a couple days old, I must resolve to be consistent, to follow through on that which I say I want to do. It must be disciplined to set boundaries and not allow myself to be caught up in things that might detract from my well-being. I must continue to learn how to be both kind and firm when expressing what I will or will not do. None of this is accomplished because the calendar changed and we’ve begun a new year. All of these things are part of who I am and who I’ve been. The real question now is who do I want to become? Even now, are there changes and is evolution to some extent something I see worth accomplishing? Time, hours, days, weeks, and months will tell. We know them by looking at the calendar. So is it therein the change exists?

Welcome to 2026 and thanks for reading.

Michael

The World Breaks Everyone

Hello as the wind howls outside my window,

The winter cold front is blowing through, and while we did not get the snow, whiteouts, or ice those north of us experienced, it is down right cold, and we’ll see what the morning brings. Those even straight West or minimally North are seeing zero visibility and road closures, we are faring much better. Those in my old Keweenaw stomping grounds are experiencing a typical storm with lake-effect snows and snow emergencies. I am reminded of the first year I was in graduate school (30 years ago right now) and the snowfall for that winter was over 340 inches. That was a shock, particularly when we could have 3 or 4 feet more accumulation than 11 miles south. I remember when arriving a few years earlier someone inquired kindly, “Do you like snow?” When I responded, “Sure.” Then again, they asked, “No; do you LIKE snow? Because we get a lot of it.” They were certainly correct.

One of America’s most notable authors, intelligent authors, and perhaps most misunderstood writers, but to me one who understood our human frailties, is Ernest Hemingway. The title of this post is the initial part of one of the well-known quotes. I think the truism of it (at least for me) is both societal and individual. While I believe there are moments we are more aware of it, I do believe there are those times we feel we are more capable of managing life’s trials than others. Certainly the reality of aging, of successes and failures, of not escaping our finitude, to use the words of William Tremmel, can be a harsh reminder of who we are, of our limitations, and as I have been open with struggling with my own personal reflection or experience of life post retirement, it appears that Hemingway knew of such things. For some, those who might assert his characters are either one dimensional or his rugged settings discount women, I would disagree. While his writing style is minimalistic, unlike Faulkner or Irving, his characters, like most, are flawed, but emotionally honest and sincere. Some might go as far as to assert they are relatable, even endearing as they struggle to understand their own frailty. The psychosis of most of them makes one examine their own life as they read about Fredric Henry or a Catherine Barkley, a Jake Barnes or Brett, Lady Ashley. Hemingway’s consideration of people in a war setting cannot be easily dismissed because war is about dying. When someone is facing their own demise, especially when looking down the business end of the other’s weapon, seldom does one feel patriotic. As we face the end of something that defines us, be it change of occupation, the ending of significant relationship, retirement, or life, often we are facing a place of profound fragility, a moment when our identity and sense of worth are called into consideration.

Lately, I have found that my propensity to be honest with my thoughts and emotions have been more damaging than helpful. Be it meant as truly complimentary and nothing more, be it (as I will specifically say) bear with me as I am thinking out loud, there is little I can do about how it is received, or so it seems. For someone who tried to use words appropriately and adequately, lately, and too often, I seem to be most unsuccessful. The consequences have been painful, and perhaps long-term. I have felt the reality of Hemingway’s quote. Whether or not those points will become a place of strength is yet to be known. Whether this breakage is reparable is something achievable, or if I even want it to be, is currently undetermined. Much like the character’s created in his novels, The Sun Also Rises, Farewell to Arms, or For Whom the Bell Tolls, I find myself wondering if what I have believed most of my life is an illusion, or what I was duped into believing? Am I speaking out of my failures or is there something I am still incapable of understanding? Can I move from the place of feeling broken to a place of mended albeit scarred?

Failure is an incredible equalizer. I can think of a handful of times where I have felt the searing sting of falling profoundly short of what one would hope. Most often it’s been on a personal level or in my personal life, though a couple have been in the professional realm as well. Likewise there are those personal failings, which had professional consequence. I have addressed them from time to time in this very platform. In each case, undoubtedly, I bear some level of responsibility. Regardless my intentions, the resulting misunderstanding, the perception of the other is, in part, due to my failure. Where I presently struggle is whether it is worth the effort to repair the situation or relationship, or at this point in life to merely move on? Is there a point where I am too old to worry about it? Each case deserves some consideration, that much is obvious by the very fact I am writing this. But much like the howling wind that was heard when I started this post, it dissipates, and while there might be remnants left in its wake, life continues to move forward. Is my moving forward with it a strength or an avoidance? I am unsure in this present moment. Perhaps what needs to occur is my own self-examination: where do I see a pattern or where are my own character flaws, those traits that seek to open me to being misunderstood, misperceived?

I have often described myself as lonely-in-the-middle-of-a-crowd. That has been true for much of my life, and as I aged I perhaps even embraced that as something I desired. Now the crowds are not around as much, and when they are I find myself withdrawing. Have I changed or have I become less resilient, less capable? I am not sure I can answer that question at the present moment. As we come to the end of a calendar year, I find myself withdrawing even more in spite of being in the midst of family. I find myself wanting to undertake some significant introspection, trying to understand where life has taken me, as well as where it is going. Recently, I had a conversation about sacraments with a friend. The importance of water in the sacraments is undeniable, unavoidable. Water is something I both love and yet it frightens me. It is necessary for life, but its power can also take life. When I first taught, I co-taught a Creative Writing course with an incredible writer named Timo Koskinen. He used the novella A River Runs Through It. Those 104 pages by Norman Maclean are perhaps the most wonderfully written pages I ever read. The end of the book, which I have noted in their movie form are as important to me now as when I first read them.

Thank you as always for reading; and for your comments, responses, and likes. It means a great deal. Blessed New Year.

Michael

Remembering December 28th for the 28th Time

Hello from the living room as I listen to some Christmas music and look at winter scenes,

Time is such an incredibly complex experience, continually dualistic, seeming like things of our former life could not be so far past (it was only a decade ago when it’s been 25 years or more) and let when we ponder life’s twists and turns it seems eons have occurred since that occasion. I remember going to my 50th high school reunion and feeling incapable of pondering a half century. How did that happen and where did all that time go? As I often reflected this past month, my focus was on the things that now seem so important in my childhood memories, and particularly the memories around the holiday season.

I am not sure, in spite of probably being told at some point, of why Christmas (and not Orthodox) is December 25, which I’m sure has to do with the Annunciation, or how January 1st is the New Year. Something to ask AI, if I want a quick run down, which an entirely different topic for our world now. I wonder if Christmas late in our calendar year is because it offers the opportunity for hope and joy, which starts the new year out in a more positive manner? Certainly having vacations for children and the time to enjoy family and friends has positive things, though I am well aware that the holidays can also be significantly stressful for many.

Twenty-eight years ago today, which was also a Saturday, as I had returned from Texas to the snowy little town of Laurium, I received a phone call from my late sister informing me she believed she should take our father to the hospital. Though he was on hospice, she believed his pain had exceeded a manageable threshold. I told her to do what she believed best. He had been diagnosed with cancer only weeks before, but it was in his liver, kidneys, and pancreas. I had returned to Sioux City to do all the arrangements, from the funeral home to the service itself as well as set up his hospice care. I, myself, was recovering from another abdominal surgery for Crohn’s so I was fortunate to have the time to do what needed to be done. I asked my sister if he was still conscious and could speak and she told me barely. I asked her to put him on the phone.

His voice was garbled as his lungs were filling with fluid and his breathing was labored. It was difficult to make out his words, but he said hello. I told him I loved him, and he said with difficulty, but still enough clarity to be understood, “I love you too.” Those were his last words to me. Kris retrieved the phone and said the ambulance was on its way. As I got off the phone, my eyes welled up in tears, and I remember walking upstairs to the bedroom, where I laid down and cried. He passed the next morning, and I received the phone call as I was headed out the door to supply three parishes I had been at for the last three months. They had been so gracious to me and I was blessed to be with them that morning.

Harry Herschel Martin, my adopting father, and also my fourth cousin, had been my parent since before my 5th birthday. The youngest of five children, he like most in his family had graduated from high school, for him at the height of the depression, and went to work in the packing industry, traveling for Swift and Company. He was a graduate of Sioux City East, excelling at both basketball and baseball. In fact, he played semi-professional baseball. Born in a small house in Riverside, he was a WWII veteran serving in the European theater (mostly in Belgium), became a journeyman electrician, which required significant travel around the Midwest and in the early 1950s living in Yakima, Washington. By the mid-1950s, he would return to Riverside only a few hundred yards from his childhood home. With his wife, they endured the loss of an infant child and a late-term loss of a second, but he wanted to be a parent. That desire led to the adoption of three, what would be my older brother as well as my sister and me. Harry Martin epitomized what Tom Brokaw noted about the “greatest generation.” His work ethic, his loyalty to family, friends, and country as well as his strong moral character are what I remember most. When I spoke at the service the night before his funeral, I noted there were three groups there. His family of relatives, his church family, where he had attended most of my life, and his work family, those electricians who worked with him for decades. The consistency that made father practiced or demonstrated in his life was a testament to his strength and commitment to a greater good.

What I remember most about my father was his incredible ever-present smile and his generous nature. He had perfect pearl white teeth (without either orthodontia or whitening, and his willingness to pitch in and help anyone anywhere. His commitment to whatever he did or to whomever he gave his word was something you could take to the bank, as it is said. While I do not ever remember how m being angry at any of us, I do remember him being quite upset when a meat packing company hired workers to break a picket line in my hometown during my high school years. Another thing he was known to do was speak his mind, never in an arrogant or biting manner, but with a simplicity and honesty that made any response or retort both unnecessary as well as probably foolish. His pragmatist was unparalleled, and in my own reflection of him since his passing, I still find him becoming wiser and more correct.

My father provided stability for three children who were not his own; he gave unceasingly to his church, his neighbors, and to causes that he believed to be important for the betterment of his world. He was quietly generous, unassumingly intelligent, and readily capable of making a difference in any situation he faced. What I can still see now, perhaps more clearly and completely, almost 28 years to the hour since he passed away, is how fortunate I am to call him my father, my dad. Because he wanted a family, and because he was unafraid to allow my grandmother, his cousin, to remain in my life, I had the opportunity to become so much more than I might have. That morning, as I presided over three worship services, I managed generally well until the prayers. I would sing at his funeral, and I would preside at his commital service on that bitterly cold January day at Graceland Cemetery in my hometown. It was so cold that day that I shook and shivered as I spoke the liturgical words of burial. It was a difficult thing to officiate, but it was the most loving thing I could do for the man who made me his own. I still miss you and wish I could come just one more time to ask your advice, hear your comforting voice, and experience your amazing smile . . . And feel that profound love.

Thank you as always for reading.

Michael

Arrogance is Never Exceptional

Good morning from the cube,

I am cleaning, organizing, and working on some other sundry things. I am a bit ridiculous about organization and cleaning, particularly kitchens and bathrooms, but I am well aware of that idiosyncrasy. Cleaning as a daily chore when I grew up. Each of the three children had required things even before school in the morning (beyond making our beds), and Saturdays were basically what I would later in the Marines call “field day.” While I found comfort in this structure and propensity for order, my sister was the opposite. I often described her sense of order as “there is a place for everything, but it is all on the floor.” This did not please our mother, to be sure, and that sort of chaotic practice stressed me out. A couple, who both formerly cleaned my house for me, and remain dear friends, laugh at me for my need for order when I sit down at any establishment to eat. Some of the need for structure serves me well, and then at other moments, not so much, but to say it is engrained in me by this time is an understatement.

When I first arrived in Bloomsburg, the fall of 2009, I was excited to begin my new position, but I struggled that back in Wisconsin, I had left someone I had promised to care for. It was 11 years ago today I returned to stand watch and care for her in what would be the last two weeks of her life. Lydia was exceptional. When I first met her, she had been a widow for a decade, was a retired economics professor, and was under 5 feet tall, weighing less than three digits. More to come on that, but I was worried that I would not be good enough, capable enough to take over a nascent minor and develop it into a program. During that first year, I had a stroke, while more than a TIA, not so extreme to cause permanent consequences. When I met with the head of neurology at our local medical center, and explained my premature beginning to life, he looked back at the MRI and stared at me. He paused and then said, “The fact you do not have Cerebral Palsy or you’re not grossly retarded (he actually used that word) is a miracle. And you have a PhD.” I sort of merely stared back and nodded, mumbling, “Yes.” He then said, “You’re exceptional.” To this day, I have never felt exceptional about much of anything. I merely work hard, trying to do the best I can, and falling short more often than I wish. What does it mean to be exceptional? And what does it mean to be arrogant? Certainly exceptional means to be well outside the average, to manage tasks or processes with incredible skill. There is a combination, it seems, of both innate skill and a significant degree of resilience combined with a desire to excel and push to continually improve. It is a consistent push to always do one’s best, and that requires profound discipline. However, if one’s exceptional ability is to be beneficial, if it is to be transformational, it requires humility. Forbes magazine noted additional attributes they refer to as enablers. Two of those things are self belief and the ability to learn for another. I am a consummate learner, which requires me to continually question both my adherence and my opposition to something to become more sure of my self belief, as well as to surround myself with those who force me to learn things beyond what I know, to push the limits of my knowledge and understanding.

Understanding both my world and my piety and their connection is something that occupies a lot of my deliberation or rumination at this time. I’m not sure if that is a consequence of retirement (simply having more time) or in response to our current world situation. My gut tells me it is a combination of the two. I read a news story earlier where a Catholic parish in Boston put Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus inside the parish, arguing they were placed inside to protect them from deportation. Of course, the response, much like our current national atmosphere, has been incredibly mixed. The typical misstated arguments about the Establishment Clause, the co-opting of our understanding of Jesus or Christmas, and certainly the struggles of how faith, piety, and daily life fit are at the center of the response. Often those responses are due to our individual and societal arrogance. Another element of our exceptionalism as a country is our indivisible and societal freedom, something enshrined in the genius of the constitution, something essential to what has been significant for the two and a half centuries of American democracy.

The incredible experiment called democracy is still something we are trying understand, or at least it seems so. The attempt to balance States Rights versus Federalism is alive and well. Currently, the evolution of balance pf powers, checks and balances is being debated from Washington DC (or the world) to the rural highways and hamlets of the country. Just this morning a podcast in The Atlantic, which is left leaning, was titled “I Run the Country and the World.” I’ve not listened to it yet, but I have often lamented that both the genius and the foil of President Trump is his power to persuade. I will never argue his strengths, but as is common, our strongest attributes are often our most profound weakness when carried too far. I know this reality in my own life. Too often, what seems to be my innate kindness and generosity has led to my being used, or more accurately, my allowing myself to be used. And subsequently, my desire to avoid any confrontation has resulted in saying nothing, merely walking away hurt and dejected. As of late, trying to learn how to step up, to stand up, has caused a different dilemma, and one I am learning to navigate. I am struggling to learn balance – much like the world it seems. The desire to be exceptional is always worth our consideration. It is what has made the American dream possible. Learning how to live it individually or collectively is a worthy goal, but never at the expense of the other. When we do something at the expense of the other, I will assert we are selfish, and for me selfishness is a form of arrogance. As I move into the new year, there are a number of things to consider, to figure out, to manage. My wish is to do it as well as possible, and as graciously as possible too. While I have used this video before, it seems apropos here.

Thank you for reading, and I wish you a calm end to the year.

Michael

Imagining a Christmas Spirit

Hello from the living room of my sister-in-law,

When I was small, this day was a day of anticipation, a day of incredible cookies, candies, Norwegian delights, and church with candles and carols. It would not be until later I would learn to decorate the house into a fairytale of my own, and make both the inside and outside of the house seem like something from Currier and Ives. However, a sense or belief that there was some goodness in everyone was also an important element in the holiday. As I reach this age, and I reminisce about Christmas as a boomer, my family was not wealthy, and I remember my mother putting money into a Christmas account all year long or putting things on lay-away so Christmas would be a time of gifting, of going above and beyond what was normal. I remember the silver tree and a color wheel, which I detested, but my mother could not manage a live tree because of allergies.

Downtown Sioux City and the corner of Fourth and Pierce Streets was Christmas central for shopping. The Christmas movies of the 50s are exactly what we experienced. Going to Coney Island for a chili dog, seeing the amazing police office, Efren Bata Sr. direct traffic, and looking at the windows in Younker Martin or Younker Davidson were always magical. Men’s clothing stores like Rehan’s, J.C. Penny’s were always part of our plan. I was a child then, and I am sure that shopping and the Christmas season are so completely different. Certainly, malls and then Targets, Walmarts, and box stores created a significant transformation, and then the move to online, which is led by Amazon, but there are so many options on our screen, and the explosion of gift cards is yet something else.

As I chat with my sister-in-law -and her husband, their memories were of going downtown and anything you needed was there. It was exciting and Peterson Von Maur was there, and tea room was available. Lights, people, church, the Sears catalog, a Schwinn bicycle were all things we looked at and hoped for. The hopes of getting the special present or of Santa coming was part of our Christmas sincerity. The preparation and the visiting the decorated cityscape were all part of our hopes. What I realize as I write, I have become the Great Uncle, the Great-great or the Great-great-great (and that is true). The hope that the little ones are pleased with what the holidays bring and excited by the possibilities is so much more important. Christmas and its trappings and trimmings have not passed me by, but I am not the focus as I was 65 or 60 years ago. And yet we hope the spirit of Christmas I felt all those years is what I hope for so many others today.

I wonder if the loss of those traditions of walking in and out of stores, the decorated windows, the television specials, the listening of Christmas carols sung by Andy Williams, Dean Martin, Brenda Lee, Nat King Cole, Burl Ives, or Bing Crosby makes Christmas different? I can listen to the Mariah Carey, Wham, or some of the newer “classics,” but it does not create the same pathos I felt as a child. The South Dakota news anchor, Tom Brokaw, wrote the book about those WWII veterans, referring to them as the “greatest generation,” and I believe I grew up in the greatest time to create Christmas memories. We still believed in the possibilities of a better world, of achieving the dreams that were before us. We held fast to the underlying goodness and generosity of people. Christmas, and while it has been an economic boon for generations, did not start in September or compete with Halloween. The idea that it began with the Friday after Thanksgiving was just an accepted fact.

I think of ethnic traditions and how I have grown more appreciative of that history as I have aged. Those treats and skills I took for granted, the profound ability of my mother’s baking and candy making before the holidays, the Norwegian cakes and cookies. Now from attending Dana College to traveling throughout most of Europe, I have added Danish, Polish, German, Ukrainian, Russian, Czech, Spanish, and Hungarian. What amazes me is how there is basic item that each culture has co-opted, somehow making it their own. Food, Santa (St. Nicolas), carols, and events like sleigh rides remind me that all people have traditions that are essential to creating a world that seems a little kinder, a little more gracious, a bit more willing to care for the other.

As I spent the day preparing our Christmas Eve meal, I listened to my version of now newer Christmas classics for me. From Mannheim Steamroller to Celtic Woman and now Pentatonix, they have become my go-to whether I am in the car, sitting in my apartment, or walking around with my AirPods. Seeing all three groups in Christmas concerts makes them all the more relevant for me. As I finish my Christmas Eve, the day of cooking was quite successful, and people enjoyed. My niece and her husband and one of the nephews were able to join and that made it even more special. Earlier I listened to the daughter of one of my very significant former students reading _Twas the Night Before Christmas_. She is such a mini-me of her mother, but more importantly, that video was the highlight of the day because it epitomized how the Christmas spirit continues to make memories. I wish all who take a moment to read a blessed, blessed Christmas.

Blessed Holidays to each of you (and in whatever tradition you celebrate) and thank you for reading.

Michael

Learning Albeit Slowly

Hello from my little corner,

The mornings and days have begun to find some consistency, some beginning sense of process, and for me that is important. The past week, however, seems to still to be a roller coaster of sorts. From learning of some significant health issues to the typical dramatic flair that too often characterizes one of the things that have been an element of life, I am reminded that first, I have health choices (and choices in general) , and second, there are those who seem to need to immediately jump on anything or everything versus stepping back and examining, even when asked to do so. The consequence is generally less than ideal, and the fall out has much longer-term repercussions. My foolishness is somehow believing the infamous cat is a not cat even when I see a cat. This has happened before, and I still want to believe there can be a different outcome. If everything is stripped away, that is all on me. It matters not what they ask, if you follow through with the request, there is trouble. If you step back, the likelihood of still getting a less than satisfactory result is still likely, but the overall dilemma might be less. The only way to keep out of the way an any flying shrapnel is completely disappear. The sad part is even that has some painful result.

Over the last half of the year, I have struggled to manage my health. While this is something I do not really like admitting, there have been enough things, and some serious and ongoing, that I am forced to face them versus brush them off. Eye issues are the most immediate, which should be remedied by cataract surgery on both eyes. The issue with Crohn’s and its complications seems to be reasserting itself, and perhaps the number of other concerns, are merely the reality of a premature birth and the lack of gestational process that occurred. From some struggle with memory to an inability to hydrate, it seems all of the things are arriving at the same time. All of it is beyond frustrating for me. I am feeling more vulnerable and it feels more unsafe to merely go about some of my daily tasks. I feel less organized and it’s been more arduous to attempt to manage it.

I am hoping that my getting a space to begin to call mine, even though it is small, is a good first step. While I am in my heart committed to my bus plan, there have been moments of doubt and that is difficult. I feel like a failure at the moment, which is not something I am used to feeling. Things that I have generally managed seem more overwhelming, more of a struggle, and they should not be. Best laid plans or intentions have been turned upside down and the consequences have been painful. As I prepared to retire I thought I had planned well, that I conducted some strong research of what I needed to do and plan. More often than not, it seems I did not do an adequate job. Again, it’s easy in hindsight (that terrible reality check) to say what if . . . There is so much to ponder and the struggle for me is the amount of hurt I see all around me. Is it more apparent in this season, in the bleakness of the cold? It is because I am not as occupied as a retired person?

Christmas as a season of giving is relatively recent (given the two millennia inception). It was a story by Charles Dickens about a poor family with an unhealthy son that transformed the “religious” adding the aspect of charity and kindness. It is never too late to learn about kindness and charity, and I recently noted there is no seasonal aspect to giving care to the other. Certainly, it can be elevated as it is in this season, one called the “season of giving,” but never should it disappear on the 8th of January, and put on the shelf or in a tote box like we do with the holiday decorations, placed in moratorium until the day after Thanksgiving next fall.

What I have been compelled to recognize recently is how a change in role, and perhaps in status, causes a difference not only in how I see myself, but in how I believe I am seen. Am I mistaken and it is all on me or is it a real thing? I know there are books on retirement; I know there are seminars, but I not sure one can take a class or prepare. And then there is the reality of solitude. As noted, I have grown not only to appreciate my singleness; at times I crave it. My tolerance for drama and for noise that is little more than noise has greatly diminished, and I find myself stepping away more willfully and intentionally. The struggle is learning what I can manage or more likely am willing to manage. I see an evolution in who I’ve become and that takes some learning and thought on my part. One of my favorite characters in any movie is Norman Thayer in the movie On Golden Pond. In fact, one of my former students, another for whom I officiated their wedding, calls me Norman from time to time. Is the curmudgeonly gene something which comes with aging? I have noted my father’s eldest brother-in-law from time to time. Clare Swaby, born in 1896 (yes, you read that correctly), was a widower the last three decades is his life. He was stubborn, opinionated, cursed like no other person I have ever met, dropped out of school in 5th grade, was a bugler in WWI, knew more about plants and animals than anyone I ever met, drove my mother crazy, was our weekly Sunday dinner guest, argued Chester Gould, the creator of the cartoon Dick Tracy, drank what he called “squirrel whiskey,” and had one of the most giving and generous natures of anyone I ever knew. I have felt more and more like him in my solitude, and even compared myself to him as the person now invited so I am not alone. What I have learned albeit slowly is to appreciate his complexity more and more.

What I am learning even now is that often what I misunderstood about people was their actions were often about boundaries. I have struggled to make boundaries with people throughout my life, too often because I did not want them angry with me. Too many times, I gave and gave at my own detriment, believing they would appreciate or understand my generosity. What I’ve learned, albeit too slowly, there are givers and there are takers. Generosity is not wrong; caring is not wrong; and being willing to go above and beyond is most often a positive attribute, but giving, caring, helping without boundaries is not positive because it is not healthy. Learning that the boundary is not static either in time or circumstance is complicated, but it is important. Making changes, even when it requires significant reconsideration, is not easy, but it might often be the healthiest thing to do. Perhaps the infamous New Year’s resolution arrived early. I often say I am a slow learner, but I do learn. In the past couple days, Facebook was inundated with memories of the passing of Dan Fogelberg. He was one of my favorite musicians. The video is one of my favorite songs.

Thanks for reading.

Michael

A Requiem

Hello on a cold December morning,

The weekend was a difficult one, both personally and societally. The country and the world is aghast at the loss of life from those who lost their loved ones or are praying for the recovery of others on an Ivy League campus or a country immediately responding to strengthen gun laws at the horrific killing of a number of people, targeted because of faith on Bondi Beach down under. Then on Sunday night America and beyond were stunned by the news that Rob and Michelle Reiner were found murdered in their house in the famous Brentwood area of Los Angeles. The number of things noted on Facebook or other social platforms is innumerable.

It reminds me of some almost 30 years ago when I was coming out of a church service in Mass City, Michigan, where I was just beginning what would be a lengthy supply position at three little parishes in the Upper Peninsula. We heard for the first time that the Princess of Wales, Diana Spencer, the former wife of the present King of England, had lost her life in a car accident. For the next week, the entire world became British, at least for a bit. as we watched, somewhat with a morbid sense of care for the loss of such a dynamic and notable human. The outpouring of global grief was unlike anything I had ever seen, nor have I witnessed anything like that since. I remember trying to prepare my sermon the next week, perhaps the third week I would be preaching at those three small, aging parishes, realizing something needed to be noted, but still wishing to speak to the texts and the needs of those people, a wish to be exegetically aware and appropriate. While looking back at the lectionary for that Sunday, which was a Labor Day weekend, what I remember was trying to address the proverbial “large item in the room” honestly, but I noted that there were also people who were not as well-known, people not making headlines, and loved ones of those lesser-known to the world, who also lost loved ones that week, who hurt and mourned as deeply. And the God who in the week’s lessons that noted our need for community in even difficult circumstances (the Gospel lesson of the day) cared as deeply about those as God cared for those loss of the Princess of Wales. I remember working with even more diligence than usual, wanting the sermon to resonate, and when a parishioner said to me at the end of the day. “We’re glad you are here; that was a great sermon. We were worried because you are a doctoral student you might be boring.” I knew the Holy Spirit was alive and well.

The world around us, even as we are shocked yet again by the scope of violence, continues to occur, but as much as focus is on Providence, Bondi Beach or Los Angeles, my heart is aching for the loss of one of the gentlest, strongest, and most caring of men I have ever met. A remarkable friend, someone I admire and love beyond words, and someone I did not get to see the last time I was in Menomonie because of his decline, passed away from his battle with cancer. It was a battle that he and his wife chronicled, both in their own incredible ways. It was a battle he faced with the same grace, thoughtfulness, and wonder as he seemed to do with everything. As I told one of them recently, together they created the most amazing couple I have ever met. I was blessed and honored to officiate their wedding about 15 years ago, and over the years their presence, friendship, and care meant more than I think they ever began to understand. The love I have for them as a couple out distanced the love I had for them individually, snd that says a lot because I loved them both deeply. I think that might be the most profound and precious thing I understood over these past years. I do not know of any other couple that affected me in such a manner.

Carl was an incredibly deep thinker, a pondering and observant person, a master with words, and unparalleled in his ability to create and build anything out of wood. In his quiet, but ever-present manner, he was always able to understand and manage any circumstance with a simple manner that comforted anyone around him; he and Amy were a match that was meant to be, something I believe to be divinely connected and that was and is something I believe deeply. While never one to make much noise, his Dutch Reformed pietism never left him, he was tall and slender, and his steady presence would bring a sense of calmness to any situation. I remember with great appreciation the last time he and I spoke by phone and we shared some of our common thoughts and experiences. I remember his gentle and always warm or affable way of sharing his thoughts and his love about people or life in general. Somehow he had two first names (Carl and Charles), and I referred to him as Charles. I am, to this day, not sure how that happened. From working on projects for the house to building things to support Amy’s work, from working in the garden to doing things that supported friends or Simon, Carl was always ready to make difference, and that difference was always profound in some way.

He epitomizes the life one would hope to lead. His ability to change the lives around him always for the better made (and will continue to make) him someone to admire and revere. The important liturgical verse “well done good and faithful servant” seems too little for such a profoundly good person. While the news of most places will be focused on others, Carl in your gentle manner you affected the world from the Western side of lower Michigan to all of Western Iowa, and from Menomonie to Bloomsburg. We mourn today your loss, and I will miss you beyond words.

Thank you always for reading.

Michael

Colorless Christianity

Hello from my small, but tranquil corner,

As I ponder the reality of Advent and its implications for faith, as I reflect on the spirit of Christmas, I like many want to focus on the simplicity of the season, even when everything around me seems anything but. The purely driven snow reminds me of the power of nature to cleanse the damage we do. The beauty, the texture, and the fragrance of a Christmas Evergreen can instantly return me to my childhood and the belief that there is goodness and charity in our world. The ornaments that remind us of earlier times, or the wrapping of homemade gifts or sweets transport me back to my grandmother’s bakery and the carols playing quietly in the background remind of candle light services, choirs, and small children standing in their bathrobes with towels on their heads to be a shepherd in the church Christmas program.

The spirit of love and kindness that is indicative of our Christmas memories is what we want to believe about Christianity, but it seems the Christianity we practice and have come to embrace is an elitist God-is-on-the-side-of-the-winners or those in power have God’s ear or an inside track to receiving God’s grace. Such an inclination is not only absurdly non-sensical; it is not scriptural. When we consider the actual person, for whom the clichéd “reason for the season” refers, Jesus of Nazareth; he was probably not more than 5’5” or 5’6”, with olive-brown skin and brown or black hair. He was Jewish and practice Jewish customs. As an itinerant craftsman, he was probably slight, lean, and strong. The reality of Jesus’s disciples is even more complex with some coming from Galilee and others from other Semitic backgrounds, but it is generally accepted that they were all practicing Jews. Certainly different ethnicities and cultures have attempted to lay claim on a Jesus that fits their own ethnography, but my research seems to support Jesus was probably closest to what today would be an Iraqi-Jewish person (Taylor 2018, 2019). And then there is our scriptural claims that we have the red-lettered words of Jesus. Again, when we consider the complexity of scripture, languages, and translation (as well as the fact that Jesus spoke Aramaic as his common language), the arrogance that many claim in their adherence to the King James Bible is quite pitiful.

If we focus on the greatest of the commandments, the importance of loving the other is unavoidable. It is simply and straight forward commanded of us. It is the basis of the Biblical message to all who claim to be Christian (it is a love that is all encompassing, a love that sees beyond color, beyond our definition of worth). It is an agentic love (and not in an AI sense of agentic). It is purposeful and autonomous, and yes, its goal is to achieve a peaceful, harmonious, and giving creation. It is a faith and love that requires profound movement away from our selfish needs. It is an unconditional practice in a conditional world. There is nothing easy about it. I struggle to be faithful, to turn the other cheek toward those who hurt me. Where is the line in being thoughtful and protective, while still giving at the same time? If our giving is out of obligation is it giving? If our love needs something in return, is it love? I want to be the person who is unconditional in his generosity, who is colorless in his acceptance, and whose life demonstrates a life of gratitude and giving, but so often I fall short. Even when I work diligently to give more than I take, I find myself struggling to be as philanthropic as I wish I could be. I have taken some time to reexamine the things provided us in the scripture, and while I know this is simplistic in its consideration, what struck me as I looked at the actions of this person, the one we refer to by names with profound implication, he focused on the other and how power and privilege often excluded them. The actions of Jesus, the person so many claim as salvific, as their personal savior, throw power and privilege out the window. So there is an incredible irony when people of privilege want to claim that Jesus is on their side, or they’re so blessed to have what they have. Before you think I am against success, that is not what I am saying. What astounds me is when so many feel their money equals entitlement at the expense of those less fortunate. I think the example of the Thomas family and St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital demonstrates what one might do with wealth and fame. What the hospital does for children throughout the world is remarkable. When people who have little still give then I believe we begin to see the gospel in its truest form.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer envisioned a church, a Christianity, he referred to as religionless. It was a church that spoke out against injustice, against inequity, and against the abuse of power that too often happens in the name of Jesus, or in supposed acts of faithfulness. Faith is most effective when it makes the life of the other more manageable, more hopeful. Our co-opting of Jesus for our own, often at the exclusion of the other, our use of pious language or dogma when it works to eliminate the other, our use of tradition or structure to create division among all people is not what an inclusive gospel proclaims. When we look carefully and intentionally at the life of Jesus, I believe most often we will find ourselves uncomfortable in our comfortability.

My reflection on the themes of Advent, of peace, of hope, of joy or love seem to call on us to awaken from our slumber, of our disillusioned believing we have a corner on the gospel, or that Jesus loves us more as shown by one’s wealth, privilege, or power. I am reminded of the final scene in the movie Schindler’s List. It is powerful when he realizes he could have saved more, he breaks down and weeps. Sharing the love and hope of Jesus and a Creator is not just something that happens in the four weeks of Advent or the 12 Days of Christmas. It is daily, and it is for all people. That is our calling. Blessings as you proceed through this sacred season.

Thanks as always for reading.

Michael