Tragic Brilliance

Hello from my morning office hours,

When I first arrived at the University of Wisconsin-Stout, I was excited by the opportunity to take what I learned about technology and writing, to use what I had experienced as a technical writer and trainer for both Chrysler Corporation and Gateway Computers, and to apply both theory and practice to the college classroom. I was not prepared for what a major in Technical Communication located in an English and Philosophy (wait, how are they together?) Department, which was primarily a service department, might create. Being a late Spring hire, and having only applied to for one tenure track position, I was simply feeling blessed that I had been given an opportunity to move beyond the graduate school life, even though I was ABD. Looking back, I really had little idea what the next couple years would do to the long-term trajectory of a middle-class, blue collar, Iowa kid who found himself back in his ancestral state of Wisconsin.

As I arrived in Menomonie, I was much more naive and idealistic than a 40-something should be, but nonetheless, I put my head down, and I taught with hard work all would be quite reasonable. I was sadly mistaken, but it was certainly a learning time for me. My chair was on sabbatical, but I remember him stopping by my office one day to check in. In his sort of heavy-sigh manner, which was both literal and figurative (in fact, he would verbalize ‘heavy sigh’), he noted shortly into our conversation, “You know people are not going to like you here.?” (and there is a period and a question mark intentionally because the statement cut both ways) – I stared at him somewhat aghast, and he continued, it is because you are part of the Technical Communication major in the department. Immediately, I was given a crash course on departmental politics, and soon it was clear that the three of us who were tasked with growing a program were not appreciated. The other two were not popular because the major got things at the expense of the rest, and the actions of the program director had alienated many of his departmental colleagues. Again looking back, the other, who served as a mentor to me and about whom I have written at other times, was caught in the middle of it all, and he did all he could to foster growth both with the students and with the university. He had been the department chair and as a driving force behind the development of the program, he was not going to be given much leeway.

Along with my arrival the fall of 2003, I had two other colleagues join the department at the same time. One was an American Literature scholar from “the” Ohio State University, and the second, who began her studies at Stout, two masters, and eventually a dual PhD from Emory University, were also first-year, tenure-track. They were both talented and brilliant individuals. Yet, both because of my role in the Technical Communication Program as well as some of my own struggles as an ABD with colleagues who had completed their degrees, we did not always manage a productive relationship. In fact, there were times I felt terrifically abandoned, on an island by myself. Fortunately, by the time I left Stout, the relationship with the more volatile of the two was remedied, mostly throughout a similarly shared experience within our department. Dr. Jean Marie Dauplaise, a Wisconsin native, and the one with the doctorate from Emory University, was beyond talented in so many areas. She was spirited and passionate and seldom at a loss for words. She could change the atmosphere of an entire room by her mere presence, and students in her classes seldom realized just how insightful she was. She could be simultaneously demanding and empathetic, stunningly funny and serious, and seldom would one forget an encounter with her. From most any kind of art to literature, from politics to film, Jean Marie knew something and had some level of expertise. Seldom have I met a person who could command such a breadth of responses from those who encountered her.

She was quick witted and sometimes acerbic (I remember her ability to use Drill Instructor language more frequently than me), but she also genuinely cared about many things, and she was fervent in her expressiveness about the people she loved. She had an inner beauty that could be lost or overlooked because of her physicality, which was also stunning; however, she wanted to be known for her intellectualism and certainly deserved such recognition. Then were there the times she did things that would belie that intellectual strength through her own actions. She was profoundly human. Yet, I remember one particular conversation with her when we chatted about a variety of topics as we sat in Zanzibar. That night was of importance because it created an appreciation for each other, which up to that time was missing. It was also a very night I would end up with yet another difficulty when I left Zanzibar because of my own health issues. And she would be the one to let my chair in on that encounter, much to my chagrin. To be honest, neither of us knew what to do with the other, and we were both too stubborn to step back. We managed that stubbornness with entirely different styles, but the consequence was the same. For too long we were tenaciously distant from the other for the first half of my time at Stout. Fortunately, that would change. As I left Stout, she would reach out that next year for advice.

The last time I saw Jean Marie in person, I drove to Superior to have dinner with her. We had chatted, and she asked if we could get together. As I was back in Wisconsin to work on things with Lydia, it was possible, so I made the two-hour drive, and we had a lovely dinner. We spoke earnestly and thoughtfully about what she was struggling with at that time, and we developed even more of a rapport. We apologized for the things we had done to make the other’s life less than stellar at times, and as importantly, we addressed the reality that we had both moved on from UW-Stout. Our lives had taken some profoundly different turns. That is the truth about life in general. Choices have consequences, and sometimes we do not always consider those consequences as carefully or thoughtfully as we might. Again, another of those learning lessons. And yet, we are the individuals we are or become for a reason (again, we seldom understand or fathom the complexity of it all).

As I look back at my last encounter with Jean Marie, even then, there was an insight and brilliance, and her ability to articulate things that were complex shown through. This time she exhibited a kind of vulnerability that did not often find the surface. I reflected on that visit as I drove back to Menomonie with both a sense of relief, but also a significant level of sadness. Since that time, our messages and conversations were not frequent, but they were always kind and appreciative. In many ways, I think Jean Marie was perhaps too brilliant for her own good . . . and I sometimes wondered if she were born too late or too early. There was a sort of 60s vibe to her, and I think she would have fit into the Haight-Ashbury scene quite well. Her societal attitudes and acumen would have been interesting to observe in that San Francisco neighborhood. And yet, she had this incredible oxymoronic combination of feminine mystique and a feminist activism that many who are questioning the behavior of male counterparts. And yet, one could never put Jean Marie into a simply defined space. She would have none of that. In fact, I think she rejoiced when people were unsure what to do with her.

And yet perhaps it is that same brilliance that can be one’s undoing. I believe Jean Marie saw things differently, and I wonder if that difference caused some of the isolation I know she felt from time to time. It was from this place she and I found a genuine appreciation for the other. I remember as we sat at dinner that night I worked to reinforce the goodness and ability I saw in her. I remember speaking to her about a particular film, one she had used in class, and one I have since used, Mona Lisa Smile. It was some of that conversation that I still use when I think about the film. And in some ways, there is little doubt that there was some of Jean Marie in Katherine Watson and vice versa. In both there was an independence, a free-spiritedness, and an intelligence that fought against the status quo. Too often, those who are brilliant are misinterpreted by those around them, but additionally, there is a struggle to manage the brilliance in a manner that makes sense to others, that fits within the system or the expectation of the larger. I know there have been moments where I believed that standing upon principle would create a positive outcome. Part of the reason I am in Pennsylvania was that misguided notion. It was one of the numerous things that I needed to learn to get to where I am now.

As I opened Facebook or as I looked at my messages earlier this week (it is a couple days later), I found an obituary for Jean Marie. It was a shock to find that my former colleague had finished her journey, and then it is not as much a shock as perhaps I wish it could be. And yet it is another reminder that life is not about fairness; it is not about predictability. Life simply is. It is a gift that often fails to feel all that much like any gift at all. That is what I believe in this moment. Too often it is the timing of something that affects how we understand the other, how we respond to the other, how we encounter the other. As I wrote in another blog almost 10 years ago, when I wonder what I feel, and I know that I do feel, the loss of such a wonderfully talented, intelligent, and deeply giving woman is a profound loss, not only to her family, her nephews, and those who were now some part of Jean Marie’s life now, but for those of us who were gifted to encounter her in times earlier in our lives. The memories of her, and there are many: from a first afternoon gathering of the three of us who began our tenure track careers that fall of 2003, from her asking that I buy something for her the summer I went to Sturgis, from her shaking my hand and addressing me as Dr. Martin when I had defended my dissertation to her once telling me that she would have kicked my ass if I had spoken to our acting chair when I had a disagreement with her (and I had not). The memories of her are more than I have fingers (and perhaps toes). I am sorry there are no longer options to reach out to you. Jean Marie, I hope you know how much so many admired you and the amazing talent you were. I hope you have peace and you will be missed.

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Beyond March Madness

Hello from the corner of my living room,

The calendar says Spring; it says it is time for our annual focus on college basketball, even for those who are not sports junkies. And for those with a connection to Iowa, as I both grew up there and attended the University of Iowa for part of my undergraduate degree, the phenomenon that is Iowa Women’s Basketball, even beyond the generational talent of #22, will provide an exciting week or two. However, back to my first sentence, it does not feel spring-like at all. Between snow flurries, nights in the 20s, and winds that seem to permeate even my warmest winter coat, there is an environmental madness that is not all that unusual for North Central Pennsylvania.

Things for the academic year are zooming along, both literally (not something I could once say) and figuratively, and the reality of 6 weeks left is going to register for most very soon. I need to get a couple of very productive days in this week to keep the remainder of the semester manageable. Some of that is dependent on others, and that can complicate matters, but this is where I need to remember what I have control of and what I don’t. There will be group and individual meets this week if the remainder of the semester is to be successful (and I do believe student success is necessary if I am to feel successful). Even then I only have so much I can do. I’ve been reminded of that again in a couple specific cases this semester.

Pushing (while attempting to support) students to reach or stretch beyond what they normally do is the epitome of the double-edged sword. First, because each instance is unique. This is both because of the student, but also because of what is going on in their semester. This semester, both because of the asynchronous online aspect as well as the teach-out requirements, I have, for all practical purposes 14 independent studies, which involve about 35 students. There are 6 groups in a 300 level course and 8 (which are a combination of groups and individuals) in a 400 level course. It is both exciting to see what they do as well as daunting to manage (and not micro-manage) all of it. The next 10 days will be significant, and I need to do some serious work today to support them.

Returning to the uncooperative weather aspect of my initial comments, my furnace, which has been problematic more than once before, is no more cooperative than the weather. However, fortunately people have been kind and attentive in trying to manage it. Today it is 60 and while the sun was out earlier, it is overcast now. I did get some things, which have been on the to-do this for some time, accomplished today, and I have to say I was surprised when Apple actually did some work on my 6 year-old MacBook Pro gratis. Yay!!

One of the things I struggle to understand is how differently the world seems to be daily, the profound and unexpected changes compared to what I remember when I was the age of my current students. It is really not that different, but rather we are simply more instantaneously notified or aware? It is that people, and not just here in the States but globally, are honestly less tolerant of the other? It is that I simply see things from a very different perspective because of age, travel, or my own changing views? Whatever the case, there seems to be a great deal more unexpected, unpredictable, and even unavoidable. However, this madness is not limited to just the month of March. Even in the past three weeks since I began to consider this blog, I am continually astounded by what has become commonplace in terms of dialogue (or lack thereof), in terms of appropriateness (again, or lack thereof) in terms of the give-and-take between individuals from our national conversations from the halls of Congress to the halls of my own building here on campus, and then even in the courtrooms of our country. And I do see a link between what happens on social media, while not being against its usage, and how we seem to believe what we can say there without repercussion has now permeated all aspects of our communal interaction. Professors John Jones and Michael Trice, of the Ohio State University, note that while social media provided a “voice to the voiceless,” it has increasingly become a platform for “disruptive voices, messages, or ideologies” (Social Media Effects: 27Feb2020). Certainly, the need for those who have another voice need to be heard, and that is part of our first amendment protections, but what are the limits, and how is such a limit decided? But certainly without a thoughtful, reasonable dialog, there is a consequence for democracy, and I believe that is clearly evident in what is happening in our country (and beyond).

As a further consequence, I believe we have developed a suspicion that affects all generations, but the support of that suspicion varies by age group. While I am perhaps more idealistic than I should be, I believe that the initial intention of most social media is to develop networks of increased communication, of creating meaningful connections between families, colleagues, or other social groups, when platforms are hijacked for more nefarious purposes, the intention of creating connections across groups, generations, ethnicities, or geographies is lost. The focus changes and the platform becomes villainized. I believe what has happened to X, formerly Twitter, is a strong example of this. I find it hard to believe that Elon Musk can still believe his takeover of Twitter has helped him. Certainly, when you see the volume of information that is shared through social media platforms, there is little doubt there is a democratizing effective, but there is also no avoiding the lack of civility that seems to envelop daily discourse from every corner. The ability of Mr. Musk to decide who can stay or be removed from his platform demonstrates the incredible power that one person has on public discourse, and that should raise incredible concern.

In some of my recent reading, which is looking both at the consequence of social media on public discourse as well as considering what AI might contribute to this rapidly changing world, I came across the term “slacktivism.” What is it? It is an ability to believe you are making a difference with little honest social interaction or intent to interact. This concept is not surprising to me, as I have considered with some alarm the lack of critical thought or analysis I encounter on a daily basis. I have referred to it as “sound-byte” intellectualism. Much of what I read or hear too often is someone arguing something with little or no support for their contention. Because they heard it somewhere, because they read a headline somewhere, they believe it with no thought or analysis, and then it is shared post-haste. Again, the consequence is not always immediately apparent, but the siloing of opposing positions or opinions only becomes more profound.

I do not feel badly for the Zuckerbergs, the Musks, the Spiegels, or the Chews (and if you do not know a couple of the names, you should) because they use their users for their own profit. Let’s be honest about that. When Facebook was created, it was marketed as a social network, but it was not long afterwards that the term network was changed to utility. While many perhaps did not see that change, I remember speaking about it to my students. What this change in terminology was did was telegraph to the user, generally unbeknownst to most was in the way Facebook both believed their mission and marketing had evolved. Think about it. Utilities (remember Waterworks and Electric Company cards in Monopoly?) are something you need to manage your life. Without utilities, we would not have life as we know it. To claim the title of utility, you are positing that you are something people cannot do without. There is a certain madness in that claim, except we allowed it to happen. We bought into it to the tune of making Zuckerberg worth 171 Billion dollars as of March 2024 (Forbes). Meta as a company is worth 1.24 Trillion dollars as of the same time (Forbes). Now there is both an incredible example of creating wealth, and a complete madness of our complete buy-in to what social media does. When I ask my students where they get their news, almost without exception, it is from social media platforms.

Certainly the ability of apps and our phones to give us instant access to anything anywhere has its perks, but also its consequence. How critically do we read? How carefully do we reflect on not only what we read, but from where it comes? Much like what is happening with our turn to AI, a mentor of mine, with whom I am still fortunate to be in touch, and I have had discussions about the importance of AI. She notes that our use of Artificial Intelligence is only as strong as how critical our questions posed are. And she is correct. We need to learn how to use it, and if we are to harness the democratic ideals of social platforms we need to learn how to use them appropriately. Certainly, Congress has had tough questions for the CEOs, but too often their questions come from their own political bias versus what might be done to make sure the companies do the responsible thing. When I consider the power of media, that is nothing new. Certainly as early as the French Revolution, when the term the Fourth Estate became commonplace, there was recognition of the power. The principles of “liberty”, “equality” and “fraternity” which were written into the constitution in the 20th century were first used in the 17th century. One might argue that these terms were intended with the rise of social media. but perhaps much like the French did in their revolution, we have lost our way. As I finish my last weeks as a person in the classroom on a regular basis, I find myself reflecting on where we are headed. I am concerned about the sort of madness present in every direction. Certainly, we have access to more information that ever before, and I think AI will only create a more seismic explosion of that, but at what cost? As I tell my students, I am not against AI, and I believe it has incredible possibilities and provides outstanding opportunities for good. However, it what we have done with social media is any indication of where we are going, I am concerned. Our government is seldom ahead of the curve on anything, and therefore reactionary. The average person spends little time considering the consequences of what our technology does, we jump on the latest bandwagon, clicking on our acceptance of the terms without even a thought about what we have accepted. On one level, it is simply us doing what we have always done, on the other hand, perhaps we are all mad. I remember the first time I saw this video, I was astounded. I called it Little Red Riding Hood meets Care Bears. Now there is madness.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Unexpected Gift – Unexpected Time

Hello from my office in Bakeless,

As I said to a couple of people today, it has been a long week today, or perhaps a long month this week (and it is only Tuesday). I know there was a full-moon, a snow moon, over the weekend, but it seems that its shadow is messing with people even yet. You might wonder if I believe in the full-moon affecting people: well, I do. I learned that the summer I worked as a chaplain at St. Luke’s Medical Center in Sioux City, the summer of 1984. Some of the craziest events at the hospital occurred during those lunar moments. And certainly, the moon has been gorgeous the last couple nights as I have been out in the darkness. I remember when I lived in Houghton once walking in the winter snow under a cloudless night with the full-moon beaming down. I think the light was so brilliant it was like looking out at mid-day, and the beauty and glistening on the undisturbed snow was beyond anything imaginable to me. As I remember, I simply sat on a log of a fallen tree, looking out in amazement at all I saw. There was a gentle wind that you could hear in the pines, but as usual, the waters of Lake Superior moderated the temperature. So, while chilly, it was a manageable cold in the midst of winter. What an unexpected gift, what a needed gift at the moment.

I had come back to Houghton after being away for a couple of years. I have moved to Oakland County downstate to attempt to repair a marriage; I had given up a full-fellowship for my doctoral degree, not wanting to fail a second time at being married, but that still happened, and I found myself working for Gateway Computers at a Country Store in San Antonio, Texas. Through some conversations, and the willingness of a Graduate Studies director and another professor, within a 96 hour period, I left a job, packed a car, drove 1,600 miles, and re-enrolled back into the Rhetoric and Technical Communication program at Michigan Technological University. A phone conversation on a Thursday had me back in Houghton on late Sunday afternoon: another unexpected gift at an unexpected time. To this day, there is not enough gratitude I could ever express to Drs. Victoria Bergvall and Dale Sullivan for supporting my return to my studies. Within a couple days, I would find a small furnished cabin to sublet on the Portage, return to wait tables at a newly opening restaurant, and be back in my studies. That fall would create even more possibilities, ones I am still realizing 23 years later.

That fall would give me a different perspective on what I was doing as a doctoral student moving me from a more composition-focused assistantship to one which was more focused on technical writing. That all would re-introduce me to people who had helped me before, but to a completely different group of people also, reminding me of how much I really did love learning and working with food and beverage. And that work was to the consternation of my comprehensive exam chair who once questioned if my degree was in Rhetoric and Technical Communication or Restaurant Management. It was a difficult day, but it was an important one. I learned much more about the academy after I returned. I was able to focus my energies in ways that had not occurred my first foray into my doctoral work. It was during that first winter that the sitting in the brilliance of the full-moon occurred. Often, I have been asked, what is the most beautiful place I have been? – and more often than not, I think the Keweenaw Peninsula might still be that place. When I first came to Hancock late summer of 1992, that was not what I thought. I found it quaint perhaps, and I did find the Portage and Lake Superior quite beautiful, but I had little understanding of how pristine, how rustic, and how both formidable and inviting the U.P. could be. I remember my first drive to Copper Harbor in the snow, in my 1987 Toyota 4-Runner. That was a good vehicle to have. When I looked out from the shore of the Harbor Haus at Superior, the winter ice, the snow, and the sun were postcard perfect. Where had I come? It was again almost a decade later I would return, and in those next few years, I experienced the beauty of being in the Keweenaw in ways I could not imagine. Boat rides in the Portage and beyond the Walls out into the big lake, sailing into the evening and back down the Portage, sitting around a fire or waiting tables in Eagle River, the beauty of this home to many of the Finnish people in the country was (and is) something to behold.

There were so many unexpected moments there, but what perhaps amazes me to this day is how this somewhat minimally inhabited, somewhat out-of-bounds or verboten wilderness of the second part of Michigan can call one back again and again. This time last year, I drove with my colleague, and friend’s son, to help him check out Michigan Tech. We stayed at the Air BnB of a friend, who also lives on the Portage, and Max was convinced this is where he wanted to pursue his college degree. He has told me more than once how happy he is he made that choice. And I am happy for him, but it does not hurt me that I have yet another reason to return to that northern Paradise – another unexpected gift that occurred almost 30 years after I first went there. While MTU itself is the deciding factor, being able to show him around, drive him to experience things he might not have, and to introduce him to people I still have relationships with, did not hurt his decision-making process. As he has finished a first semester, begun a second, and obtained an internship, we are both realizing that my introduction to his parents 20 years ago had a consequence that would continue to bring unexpected possibilities. There is a thread to our lives that we often overlook or fail to cultivate. One of the things I am often told is that I maintain connections. I have written about this in other posts, but there is a reason I do so. It has to do with my own sense of place and belonging. What gives me a sense of place is not as much about a location, but understanding the thread, the connection, the significance of what that relationship has been. Too often we move beyond with little sense of reflection, losing out on the possibility of what we might be able to accomplish.

As I move into my last weeks of working full-time in the manner that has occupied half my life, I am not always sure where things are headed. There are moments that can be frightening. There are moments that can see like everything is a blank slate, with limitless possibilities, opportunities, or chances. And yet is the idea of chances that are sometimes most unexpected. When I consider the path of my life, most of it has been unexpected, and yet, as I have noted before, I am not sure I had expectations. My early life taught be to question everything, to believe little or nothing, and to hold on to everything I possibly could. Being told I did not belong; being told I had little value; and being told there was little chance I would amount to much did not bode well for a future. However, do not feel badly for me . . . it taught me resilience and pushed me to believe there was always a path forward. As I move toward the next step of my life, there are still more options, more unexpected gifts. Tomorrow I will meet a person who has found their way in and out of my life for over two decades. Through periodic interaction since I left Houghton some twenty years ago, the connection between two people has maintained. And yet, seldom did we know what to think of that connection. Time, events, and other circumstances often dictate what is possible. I think about that with the person I refer to as my sandbox buddy. When I traveled on a Lutheran Youth Encounter Team for a year, my first host family, with whom I still communicate, began elder siblings to me. Judy, who has always watched out for me in some manner, once told me, “Timing might be as important as anything when it comes to a relationship.” It seems her words ring true even now 45 years later.

One of my favorite movies, both in terms of what it says as well as it has Sean Connery as a principle actor is the coming-of-age movie titled, Finding Forrester. It is probably 25 years old, but it is a movie about a young black student, who is a brilliant student as well as a good athlete (basketball player). He is stereotyped by one of his preparatory professors and accused of plagiarism, so certainly the writing aspect of the movie does not go unnoticed. This particular title comes from that movie, but that is all that is I will say. You might want to watch the movie. It is a movie I often used in my summer ACT 101 classes because so many students doubted their adequacy for being in college. The imposter syndrome was alive and well. So much of our lives are unexpected, and I do not believe that will change in our crazy unpredictable world. And yet that which is unexpected is no reason to fear what might happen. This little Riversider, adopted child, smaller-than-most, struggling-to-understand adolescent never imagined he would enlist in the Marine Corps; he never anticipated going to college, let alone getting a doctoral degree. He could not have imagined himself as a parish pastor, as someone who has been blessed to travel the world. He never imagined becoming a foodie, an oenophile, and quite honestly, he had little idea of much of anything. I am not sure if that made me different than my friends or classmates when I grew up. What I know now is life has been a blessing. Experiences, both planned and unplanned have provided incredible opportunities to grow and meet others. Some of the most unexpected gifts and the most unexpected time have made me who I am. To all who have been there to support and gift me, there will never be enough thank yous. The clip below is from the movie aforementioned and shows more significantly than perhaps any part of the movie how the unexpected gift of friendship touched even a curmudgeonly old man. The idea of integrity, the reality of stereotyping, and the ability to find the unexpected are all reasons I find hope. I see this in my students sometimes when they do not see it in themselves. I push because I want them to achieve, and I believe they can. Often, it is not understood; more often it is not necessarily appreciated, but I believe in the resiliency of the individual because I know it. I know how it helped me achieve the unexpected, and yes, what a gift!

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Imagining Possibilities

Hello from Iowa and a family ceremony,

Family is such an incredible reality and yet simultaneously a concept. Family has always been something I have pondered because my family, and my relationship with those individuals has never been what is considered typical. The reasons for that are varied and complex, but trying to understand where it all fits has been something I have attempted for most of my life. This past week as I did some searching in Ancestry, I found a picture of my biological mother shortly before I was born. It is the first time I have every found or saw a picture of her before she became a mother. I first met by mother as an adult when I was 23 years old. I met her again when I was 45, and that was the only two times I remember seeing her in person. I was never kept of knowing the reality of my adoption or that my sister and I had lived with grandparents the majority of my pre-school life.

While I know a number of facts about my early childhood, there is no real clear picture about how all that happened could have transpired as it did. Part of that struggle was my Grandmother did not tell us much, my adopted parents did as much as they could to make biological parents a non-issue, and when I was old enough to ask, the stories I heard were not really consistent. The most significant element of my childhood that is unclear to me is that I have a second full-sister for whom I know nothing more than a name. The story about this sister, who was the third and final of the union of my biological parents, was supposedly given away by my mother to someone in the Air Force. The reality for my mother was difficult. She became a mother at 15, and by the time she was 18, she had three children and a spouse who was in prison. That is an stunning thing to comprehend even for me, I cannot imagine what she was feeling. Perhaps some of that is because I am ready to retire, and I have never helped create a child. Perhaps it is even more stunning because of this newly discovered picture of my mother, realizing she was 15 and would birth me within three months of that marriage date. As shocking (though understandable), the similarity between my mother and Kris, the sister with whom I grew up is palpable. By the time I had met her, even in my early twenties, she was only 38-39, but she looked significantly more aged than that. Having six children, smoking to much, and drinking more than was healthy will do that to a person. She was a person who was small statured (barely over five feet tall and slender), but I doubt she was any kind of wallflower. I think she had learned to be hard, to be tough, out of necessity. When I was in San Antonio decades later, I had the occasion to be around her again, and again, she had aged significantly. My half-sister called her, asking if she would like to go to dinner with the two of us, and she responded, “No.” And as I remember that was not because of a scheduling conflict, but rather because she did not want to do so.

To be gracious, I imagine the thought of going to dinner with her first born, whom she had only met one other time, and I had asked some difficult questions, might have caused her some discomfort, but at the time, I only saw it as rejection. And even in my early forties, that was hurtful. We would eventually spend some time together, and that included a weekend where Vivian and I traveled to Brownsville/Harlingen to meet the mother’s side of the family, a maternal grandmother I had never met when I would have remembered. There were cousins, a half-brother and his family, and others. It was enjoyable to listen to the stories and see where many in my family called home. My mother’s second family of sorts all lived in the Valley as they called it, attending San Benito High School and frequenting South Padre Island, a place I only knew because of it being a Spring Break destination. I would met my mother again during that 5-6 months in Texas because my half-brother lived in Corpus Christi, where I was born, and with his own children, my mother had grandchildren there. It was evident that she loved her grandchildren, but I think she struggled with all that had happened to her as a teenager. As a mother at 15, even though it was the 1950s, that was awfully early to be a mother.

Perhaps some of my unawareness is because I have never been a parent to someone I helped create, someone I watched being birthed and realizing I had responsibility for that life. I am reminded of my life-long best friend’s (who has passed) statement when I asked him what it was like to watch his wife give birth. He said, “I am not sure I can put her through that again.” I try to imagine what my mother must have thought when she saw a baby who was quite premature, weighing only 17 ounces. And then being pregnant again within 4-5 months. That is a lot for a young girl to handle. While I was not around the three siblings my mother would have in a second marriage, I have met two of the three. They are hard working, but have a significantly different outlook on life than I do. I am not sure that any of them graduated from high school. They might have earned GEDs, and my half-brother has done quite well, but started his life early working as a rough-necker on oil rigs. That is not an easy life. The youngest of the three (I think) has worked jobs that paid too little and had no security. I do not even know if my mother got a GED, so their perception of education and mine were (and are) quite different. And yet, I am a first generation college student, and I did not expect to be where I am. What is important for me is not what they have or have not accomplished, but that I do have some connection to my roots.

My biological father’s side of the family, I do know more about because they were the grandparents who took my sister and me and cared for us after my mother and father left us with them and headed back to Texas. What I know is my mother was pregnant again, and my father would be imprisoned in Huntsville. My research into my father and his offspring is an eye-opening thing. Over the years, and there are numerous times, i have lamented some of the issues with my adoptive mother in particular. However, when I step back and look at the larger picture of my non-traditional upbringing, I am keenly aware how fortunate I was, and am. I also met my father in my early 20s, after my sister called telling me she had located him, ironically in our hometown. He was remarried and had three additional children (another one, named Michael, which is another story.). He was bilingual and, from what I can tell, incredibly intelligent, but he had his demons. It seems that too often he used his exceptional talent for things less than possible. The consequence was often less than ideal. Doing some intentional background investigation revealed a lot of difficulties. This shows up in a number of ways from stability in where he lived to relationships, from managing finances to managing his life in general. What it seems, and this is based on what little time I spent with him (over the course of a few months in the mid- to late-1970s, is he was capable, charismatic, and intelligent.

What I have realized as I ponder the possibilities is the phrase nature or nurture is a real thing. When I look at a picture of my sister, Kris, and the recently discovered 15 year old picture of our mother, it leaves little doubt of our biological relationship. I have not seen other earlier pictures of my mother and father, but I do have a half-brother who has similar stature, similar hair and beard structure, so I would have to assume there are some maternal traits in there somewhere. And then, unbeknownst to me until after his death, I found my father had also been in the Marine Corps. When I examine the recesses of my mind, I think I might have heard something about him, but, again, I somehow heard he was dishonorably discharged or something, but that cannot be true because he is buried in Fort Snelling. I also have heard, but have not found the specific proof that he attended college as an inmate. Rumor has it he majored in English and Spanish. If this is true, there is something in our mutual DNA that creates a propensity for the appreciation of language. I have said many times, if I could do it all over, I think I would study linguistics.

So . . . life is a continuous series of possibilities, some of which we realize, but too many times we do not. Last night I was speaking with someone and we were talking about choices, consequences, and all the things that affect what we do and who we understand ourselves to be. And yet, as I investigate my past, both biologically and adoptively, I see how so many things that occurred, sometimes without my knowledge, affected who I am and the person I have become. I do not offer that insight in some deterministic manner. Certainly, I have agency for my life. Most assuredly, I have made choices that also had consequence, but it is really surprising as I consider my own history how it all seems to have a connecting thread. Sometimes, it seems it is all a dream, dreams in the mist, and yet, it is my reality. It is my life. Sometimes, I realize there is so much that occurs in a sort of deterministic way. My Intro to Philosophy professor is smiling to see me write such a thing. One of my favorite songs about dreams, and one of the few songs where Nancy Wilson was the principle vocalist in all the amazing songs by Heart.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Might True Religion be Religionless?

Hello from my office upstairs at the Mini-Acre,

It seems like a normal February’s winter day for the first time in a year or more. A bit more than a dusting, but not a full-blown blizzard like many other places, made for some slow getting around this morning, but breakfast in Rohrsburg with two of the morning group was quite delightful. As I have noted the brutal weather that has assaulted much of the country (feet of snow and wind chills that will cause frostbite in minutes, whiteouts and disrupted travel from coast to coast), we have officially entered, yet again, the seemingly endless political process which focuses on Washington and how caucuses and primaries lead us into the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November. While this election continues to shape up unlike any other in our 200+ years as a country, I find myself returning to the person who was the focus of my dissertation, the German Lutheran pastor, integrally involved in the plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It was just over 90 years ago he would be arrested for other reasons than the plot, but his involvement would eventually be discovered, and he was hanged.

What makes me consider Bonhoeffer anew comes by way of conversations with a former mentor, and a growing reality that his understanding of religion, of the church, and yes, of politics, seems as relevant in our current world (and perhaps more so) than it was from 1933 when Hitler became chancellor to when Bonhoeffer would write his Christmas letter that became titled “After Ten Years,” shortly before his arrest. In the light of the Barmen Declaration, written in 1934, and adopted by those who refused to take an oath of complete allegiance to Hitler, those Evangelicals still never officially denounced the brutality of the SS or the Nazis, they never voiced an unfettered support of civil liberties for the Jewish people, nor did they denounce “the Reich’s intent to create a world without the Jew” (Marsh, 2023). Bonhoeffer’s disillusionment with such inaction would compel him to write,

We have been silent witnesses of evil deeds – we have become cunning and learned the arts of obfuscation and equivocation. Experience has rendered us mistrustful of [others], and we have failed to speak to them a true and open word. Unbearable conflicts have wore us down or even made us cynical. Are we of any use?

Bonhoeffer – December 1942

In the midst of many of those my seminary professors referred to as giants of Christian theology in the mid-20th century, Bonhoeffer seemed to have a singular calling that pushed him to see the role of the Christian, and subsequently the actions of that believer, in a profoundly different manner. As the Christian Church (from Rome to Washington) turned its head to the evils of Nazi Germany, as the majority of the Evangelical Church in Germany, with a Hitler-appointed bishop, included oaths of loyalty,as demanded by Berlin, Bonhoeffer increasingly perceived the church to be morally bankrupt and as such impotent in facing the evils his homeland was consumed in. I am inclined to see a connection between the Bonhoeffer who did not grow up in the church (and as such shocked his family in his decision to study theology). I find deep and lasting connection between Bonhoeffer’s experiences in Harlem, his questions posed to his seminary professors at Union Theological Seminary, and the rituals that were (and are) such integral to our understanding of faith. His appreciation for a social gospel, a faith that went beyond doctrine, and his willingness to strip away the entrapments of the liturgy or the clergy pushed Bonhoeffer to ask what is Christianity?

As our world struggles to still understand the Jewish question (post-October 7th), as church attendance in the country is perhaps at an all-time low (in 2022, 56% of Americans say they seldom or never attend services – Statistica 16Jan2024) or during the last half-century in our country conservative Christianity has been defined by terms like the moral majority, family values, the 700 Club, or the Religious Right, and now Christian Nationalism, certainly the connection between politics and faith cannot be ignored. There is little doubt that Bonhoeffer would question the relevancy of our current theological practice, asking does it really do something that makes a difference in our world, but in a way that lifts up the other. The foundational tenets of Jesus included social ministry, questioning the powers of the day. And yet the actions of Jesus illustrate a person who regularly found time for a reclusivity to recharge. This would be followed by his reengagement, often with a prophetic response to the world he experienced daily.

If we consider carefully the intent of Jesus, was it to create Christianity? Think about that for a moment. Is it possible to call ourselves ‘Christian’ in America today when it is so integrally connected to a particular politic? It is possible that we use God (or Christ for that matter) using our own pathetic Biblical interpretation that is little more than proof-texting to justify our inhumanity? I am not sure Jesus hoped to become a religion. What does it even mean to be religious in our multifaceted, duplicitous world, where so many will claim they are spiritual, but not religious? Much like some have co-opted the flag under the guise of patriotism, too many claim some moral high ground as they hold up the Bible for all to see. Bonhoeffer saw what happened when elements of the church chose allegiance to a person or the state above all else. It was that very reality that compelled this somewhat pacifist person who believed in community to join those willing to risk all to stop the Nazi pogrom. It was after being integrally involved in the very basics of the plot, and before he was imprisoned that he would ask the poignant question, “Are we of any use?” And it was after he sat day in and week in, and eventually year in and out that he would continue to question the role of the church and if it had failed in its calling. In spite of Bonhoeffer’s privileged position, he seldom used it for his self-aggrandizement. He often used his position to serve others, to provide possibilities for his students, for travel to get the message about the reality of the Nazis out, or to assist others to escape the coming hope of the Nazi regime. Bonhoeffer (as well as members of his family) used their connections to work diligently against Hitler’s vision. Again, it should not go unmentioned that this concept of religionless Christianity came from a prison cell. There are many incarcerated people who feel God is very far away, who have struggled to see any sense of the church from behind bars (and I am aware that some “find Jesus” there also). Bonhoeffer believed that a fundamental part of our humanity was in “being there for others.” Peter Hooton, who has done extensive work on this Bonhoefferian concept writes, “a genuine existentialism (a thoroughly worldly life of constant decision, risk, responsibility, and uncertainty) is held in dialectical tension with a genu­ine Other (a real outside) . . .” (italics in the original). For Bonhoeffer, the other was found in the salivic actions of Jesus, but the consequence was in the living for the other in the here and now. The freedom granted in the actions of death on the cross and resurrection was to live unabashedly for the other. I am not sure that falls into the realm of altruism, but perhaps it moves us toward that. Perhaps it is fair to ask the question that William Tremmel once titled a book, Religion: What is it? It was the text used by Dr, John W. Nielsen in my Introduction to Religion class when I was a freshman at Dana College. Tremmel asked the important question, why are we religious? And his answer was also quite straight forward. Because we need to cope with our finitude. We want to believe death is more than an eternal dirt nap. I remember the first time I said that to someone and the shocked look on their face.

In our overwhelmingly secular society, where does religion fit? Bonhoeffer saw that with the consequence of the Nazis and what happened to the church under the power of the Third Reich. As I write this a few weeks after I began, Alexei Navalny has died in the last few days, and those who are even demonstrating in support of him are being imprisoned in Russia. His wife, Yulia Navalnaya, spoke only hours after receiving the news of her husband’s death at the Munich Security Conference. If one things about Bonhoeffer’s call for this religionless Christianity, what is certainly apparent is that totalitarianism is not compatible with caring about the other. The willingness to be subject to the other does not take away the government, however, but it does elevate the importance of the needs of the other. Without some structure there is chaos and anarchy, but Bonhoeffer foresaw that possibility. He was living its reality from Tegel and eventually Buchenwald and a hangman’s noose in Flossenburg. And yet Bonhoeffer’s Christology is in tact. That is for a different time, but what is important is Bonhoeffer’s Christianity is about the way one lives for the other. It meant it was necessary – it is necessary – to take seriously the suffering that exists in the world and to do what one can to ease it. As I listened today to those who mourn the death of Navalny, I believe he, like Bonhoeffer, believed in an limitless obligation to speak out against the corruption and injustices he saw in the government, and he was willing to lose his life for it. Navalny returned to Russia after being poisoned, and called it the best day of his life. Bonhoeffer returned to Germany in 1939 noting he could not be there to pick up the pieces of a country if he did not suffer with them.

What would it take to be Christ-like and not need to be called Christian? Is it possible? Certainly, my Lutheran theology would struggle with such a question. And yet might it be what we need in our secularized world? I have sat on my Bonhoeffer work for a while, but it seems it is time to resurrect it. Thank you to my mentor and friend, Dr. Patricia Sotirin, for pushing me to consider this. Thank you to Dr. Dale Sullivan for pushing me to return to Bonhoeffer when I had the opportunity almost a quarter century ago. Thank you to Dr. John W. Nielsen for introducing me to Bonhoeffer in his Christian Thought class through the book, Letters and Papers from Prison. If we merely followed Christ’s example of caring for the other and worked it in thought, word, and deed, what might we achieve? What might our world become? I will keep pondering.

Thank you for reading my ruminations as always.

Dr. Martin

Living Graciously

Hello from my office on an early Friday afternoon,

Mother

I have been answering emails, grading, managing course content, meeting with students, trying to help student even find their way around a building, and the list could go on. Sometimes, I am a bit stunned by the questions and responses; sometimes, I try to remember what I was like in my late teens, but it was a different time and I was already in the Marine Corps; sometimes, I try to figure out what is the best way to assist them when it seems the world seems completely transformed from the world I remember at that time. And yet is it different? Were we different? Did I seem to struggle with daily expectations as much as I sometimes think my students do? If I am to be honest in my response, perhaps I have a misguided understanding of the world in which I grew up. It is possible that I see myself differently than the person I was? Maybe I have turned into the curmudgeonly Norman Thayer, the retired professor so brilliantly acted by Henry Fonda, in the movie, On Golden Pond.What I do believe is the great majority of my students are good people. Some of a bit underprepared for the expectations that becoming a scholar means, and I am idealistic enough to believe that the feminist poet, Adrienne Rich was correct in her assessment of what happens when someone chooses to join a scholarly community (e.g. go to college). As I speak with my colleagues, and not just on my campus, but former colleagues now located in WI, MI, UT, or MO to name a couple places, I hear similar stories. What have we created in our academy? What are the expectations of our students, our parents, our administrators, or legislators, those businesses will hire our students? What I am quite sure of at this point is those expectations do not match up. The reasons for that are legion, and the consequences are multiplicitous. That is at the forefront of my thought as my day has continued, but there is something I would rather focus on.

Last night, as a loyal Iowa Hawkeye fan, I watch the majority of the Iowa/Michigan Women’s Basketball game (I missed the last part because I was working with a student group on Facetime). It was the first game I actually watched, the great majority I have listened to on the radio. It was (as I am sure most know) a momentous game where Caitlin Clark, the basketball phenom who is barely 22 years old, broke the NCAA Women’s scoring record of Kelsey Plum and then went on to beat her own record and the Iowa single game scoring record of Megan Gustafson and the Carver-Hawkeye Area record that occurred only a week ago by Hannah Stuelke. It seems there is little she will not accomplish before the end of this current year. And yet, in spite of some swag at times, she seems incredibly gracious. Her love for her family, her coach, and her teammates is undeniable. Watching her meet and hug her parents and brothers, watching her wipe away tears as the video played following the game, which began with her family speaking to her, I found I had a lump in my own throat. Beyond the logo-3s, the incredible vision on the court, and her ability to dish off to everyone on the court, what has amazed me most is her willingness to credit those around her. And at 22 to have such a presence in the midst of such scrutiny. That is graciousness. Graciousness is something that is not taught it is something that comes from the depths of a person’s being.

I do believe it can be developed, but it needs to be there from the outset. It is one of those things I believe has served me more than any other aspect of my being. Somewhere in my DNA I was blessed to have a somewhat innate kindness, a graciousness that makes me fundamentally grateful for what I have, for what I’ve been given, or for what I have. I do believe there were those who helped me develop those things (a incredibly loving grandmother, a profoundly wise father, a loving and steady great-aunt, the elder sister of my grandmother, and surrogate parents who were there for me when I struggled). What does it mean to be gracious? For me, it means choosing kindness over harshness, but it also means being truthful when it is not easy to do so. I am reminded of my Old Testament professor, Frederick Gaiser, who received his Doctoral degree at the University of Heidelberg. He noted one day in class, “Honesty without love is brutality.” I remember writing that down immediately, and it has never left me. He would also begin each morning with a prayer, one of the prayers in the Lutheran Book of Worship at the time. He had a kindness and yet a rigor, a graciousness and yet a gentle sternness that ran parallel to each other. Being around gracious people begets graciousness; being kind for not other reason than being kind begets kindness. Kindness for the sake of being kind puts one in control of their surroundings and provides a basis for optimism, even in the face of difficulty.

One of the things living with a disease that has no cure has taught me is that every day is a gift, something that is never promised, something that offers possibilities undeserved. As I find myself looking back over the decades, it is now easy for me to see those times where I was blessed unexpectedly, where I was gifted without doing anything to warrant such a benefit, where I was fortunate to be in a circumstance that occurred without any doing of my own. The only thing I can see looking back is I was showered with a goodness for which I can only be grateful. One of the things I realize more and more is from the moment I was born (as an incredibly premature baby to a extremely young mother) is somehow I was given a chance. The picture above is of that mother. She is 15 in this picture and it was months before I was born. I found this picture doing some research only a couple of weeks ago. It is the first time I ever saw a picture of my mother as a young person. I met her for the first time (at least that I remember) when I was 23. I saw her again when I was 44. I never saw or spoke to her again after that. That was a difficult thing, but it was a painful reminder that there are few promises in life. Now, much like with my adopted mother, I realize she had her life turned upside-down early. It is much better to be gracious and understanding of all she must have tried to manage. When I take the time to see a bigger picture, kindness toward her is appropriate because of the simple fact she chose to have me. I realize it was a different time, and perhaps access to options was very different, but I am here. There is so much I wish I knew, but at this point most everything I know was couched in what would you tell a child? – and by the time I would have asked more pointed questions, the people I trusted to tell me the truth had passed.

As I aged, and through time, my general response in most situations has been to question, to analyze, and to imagine, while most always attempting to give someone the benefit of the doubt. I have worked diligently to believe people deserve kindness, and if one is offered hope or a willingness to accept them, trusting in their goodness, the result will be positive. I do remember once telling someone I believed all people were fundamentally good, but they were testing my theory. The look on their face was priceless. My propensity for believing from the outset has been ill-fated a few times, but seldom have I regretted that general practice. The one place it has been a problem is (or was) when my belief or trust was in offering one specific assistance. Let’s just say, the manager of my branch bank gave me a lecture and told me, she did not want to see me write anymore checks that loaned money. I would have been well served to learn that sooner than I did. I do, even now, perhaps with one exception, believe most intend to do as they promise, but they cannot manage their lives effectively enough to dig their way out.

If there is one thing I wish I had learned earlier in life, it would have been how to be more economically sound. I might have retired sooner. And still, I have been fortunate to be able to learn over time. I do believe in the power of experience and the willingness of others to help if we will only ask and listen. I am continually amazed by the opportunities we are presented, and too often fail to realize they are there in front of us. I believe we miss them because we fail to believe in the goodness of the other. When offered, too often we mistrust; we look for an ulterior motive, convinced no one can be gracious simple because it is the good thing to do. Lydia used to scold me regularly telling me I was too nice. When I responded, “There is no such thing.” She would shoot back in her Austrian accent, “That is BS.” I told my optimism was brought to balance her cynicism. Her response was the same as noted. The reasons for my willingness to believe in the possibility of goodness are deep seated, and I know from where they originate. While that optimism has cost me from time to time, I believe with every ounce of my being, in the long run, I am a better person for it. My life has been more successful as a consequence, and my daily experience is more joyous. Gratitude has served me well, and I believe it will continue to do so. I have used this before as a video, but this version of John Lennon’s incredible song gives me hope.

Thanks for reading as always.

Dr. Martin

Time Passages: The Loss of Important People

Hello from my little corner in Panera Bread,

As has been my practice for a few years now, and without my trusty accomplice, I am back in Panera sitting where there is an outlet and I can do work. It is Monday, but it seems like I have done three days work already, and it is barely after 1:00 p.m.. I added a set of office hours this morning, and to my students’ credit, I had people in front of me for three hours straight. I had a small issue with the Beetle this morning, so my friend and colleague both picked me up and delivered me back to the shop. The shop, where I have gone for about three or four years, do outstanding and fair work. There was a reoccurring issue with a oil pan drain plug and they fixed it for free. Not what I expected, but appreciated.

When I was small, much to my mother’s chagrin, and perhaps with some worry for her, I grabbed our local paper every day when it was delivered. That was not her concern, but rather it was that the first thing I would read was the obituaries. For her, this was quite morbid, but at that point in my life, I did not want to be an astronaut, a policeman, or a firefighter, I wanted to be a mortician. So reading the obituaries and finding out the story of people was interesting to me. Each of these people had a story, and they had people who loved them (or that is how my 8-year-old mind understood the world). Over the years, I got to know our neighborhood funeral director well because if you were in Riverside, the Berkemeier Funeral Home was where you had your loved ones taken when they passed. Kenny, as we called him, was one of the most talented and compassionate people you could ever hope to care for your family at such a time. He managed the burial of three of the four of my immediate family. He also cared for grandparents, aunts, and uncles. When he buried my father, I told him if he was still conducting business when my time came, he could put me in an over-tempered Gladbag and set me on the curb. He smiled at me with a wry smile, and said, “Pastors are always the worst.” He was also known for his ability to assist other directors when they had a particularly difficult preparation to provide as much comfort to a family as possible. And one might say I ended up closer to that profession than I expected when I became a parish pastor.

Over the past two weeks, I have learned and read about two individuals, each of them of significant importance to me at a particular time in my life. The first I met in college, and as an older somewhat non-traditional student, he was a bit younger, but I was never sure how much. Paul Madsen was the head resident in Holling Hall when I was a freshman at Dana. He was personable, fair, committed to his work, and very capable. He was from the Madsen family who had long ties to Dana, as well as from Luck, WI, where the Dana pipeline was long and strong. He had an infectious laugh, and he was willing to take time for most anyone. He married his life-long love, and they were really a made-for-each-other couple. Lisa, his wife, also had a long Dana history. We had corresponded, not regularly, but he wrote me a very kind message last summer after not seeing my message to him for some time. His passing seems beyond unfair to his sons as they lost a mother and a sister in a very short spans of time, not long before. Everything I read about Paul and his willingness to share his pain in a manner that offered hope to others is exactly what you would expect of him. He was younger than I am, but such an unexpected passing is one of those slap-along-side-the-head moments, reminding me that there are no promises of anything. This is especially true when it comes to longevity. It there a reasonable time, a length of time, when if someone passes it seems fair? Certainly whether someone passes after a long illness or it is unexpected, we are never prepared to let go. Furthermore, many will say, “Just let me go to sleep and not wake up.” And yet such a death is stunningly difficult for those left behind. It is almost 15 years ago when I awoke to a very early morning phone call. My hello was met with “Mom’s dead. We found her dead on the couch.” and then my niece hung up the phone. I had no time to even respond, and I was trying to make sense of what I had just heard. I called back to make sure I had understood correctly, and indeed, I heard accurately. Kris, my younger sister, had died of a heart attack at 51. In the time since, and after an autopsy report, her early passing is no longer surprising. And yet, there are those moments when I wonder what she would be like as a grandmother, as a person in her 60s.

The second person, a person who recently passed, was a parishioner from Lehighton, where I was the pastor half my life ago. Her name is Louisa, and she was an incredibly talented, intelligent, and beautiful lady. Her late husband was my family doctor, and they once hosted my wife, my father, and me in their wonderful home for Thanksgiving dinner. That was a special time for my father in particular, as what I know now is he was in the beginning of his fight with Alzheimer’s Disease. Louisa was a larger-than-life person, one who never saw herself that way. She was always open and honest with me, and she taught me a great deal about life and actually being a parent. In spite of the fact I did not have children, I remember a situation with Jess (John), her son, and the degree she went to support and help him. That was actually the first time I ever met her other than to say good morning on her way out of church. She was distraught at the moment, and somehow I was able to calm her and help her and John (the husband) manage the situation. I did some work including some travel as I remember. That event cemented our mutual respect for the other.

She was an incredible tennis player, and she was gracious in her willingness to help someone (me) who was not nearly as adept at the game as she was. At other times, she would invite me to sit in their amazing home where we would chat about both things as philosophical as systematic theology or something as mundane as what was happening in town, and as the pastor of the third largest Lutheran Church, there was always something going on. Ice tea was always available. I remember riding with her to East Stroudsburg where I had a bi-weekly appointment, and she set up her appointment so we had corresponding times back-to-back. There was a graciousness in that because she would drive, and I saved both money and wear-n-tear on my car. A beginning pastor did not make a lot of money, and even though Susan had a job in Allentown, there were expenses. And she had a little BMW, which I thought was amazing; it was the first time I was ever in this German wonder of automobile excellence. I actually thought of her more than once when I had my little 328i since I was here in Bloomsburg. We would listen to music, and we had similar tastes. I still remember the first time we heard the duet of Linda Ronstadt and Aaron Neville. It was probably late 1989 because my mother had passed that summer, and I was doing counseling to manage that loss and struggles I had with that relationship. The music video was quite scandalous at the time because it considered the possibility of a biracial relationship. I remember she and I talking about that struggle for people. Louisa was ahead of her time, and I believe she saw the world differently. Her background as a medical professional was helpful because I was in some of the most difficult times of my battle with Crohn’s Disease, and her husband, my doctor, did some remarkable work in helping me handle a disease that was controlling my life at the time. Then there was the graciousness of the Steele family for Susan and me. They took us to dinner, invited us for dinners and holidays. Both of their children, John and Jennifer were talented and amazing in their own ways.

It is hard to imagine either of them as having passed from this world. I reached out to Louisa when I returned 15 years ago, but time never allowed for a reconnection. As she has now passed, there is a sadness in that reality, but I also know that times and people change. The passage of time sneaks up on us. It is that constant reality that we are stuck in the middle of, seldom aware of the evolution that occurs all around us. Over the weekend, I drove past the farm (and the initial picture is of the barn) as I was in Jim Thorpe and drove back to Bloom by the way of 443 and 81. The house and the barn themselves looked to be in mourning also. I remember when they had renovated the house inside creating such a beautiful space, but there was the part of the house that was original with a fireplace. It was like stepping back in time. Again, I smile as I recollect how much my father enjoyed himself. I am still overjoyed knowing how gracious a host Louisa was, taking great care to make sure Harry was happy. I am forever grateful. And ironically, yet later during my time in Lehighton, Jennifer would have her cocker spaniel and my cocker spaniel get together to create puppies. We were given one of the puppies and another one was purchased by another parishioner, whose daughter was in the youth group. I would also note that we made sure there was no inner-breeding possible.

It is amazing when someone passes what comes to the surface or in our recollections. It is what makes us unique in creation, at least as far as we know. Memory provides an opportunity to reminisce, to ponder the importance of the other, even if that period of our life has changed. My journey to become a student at Dana was unexpected, occurring through a visit on a Lutheran Youth Encounter team, but it changed my life. The meeting of incredible classmates like Paul Madsen and so many others changed the trajectory of my life, and I believe I can see the thread from there to here. Never did I believe my first assigned synod from Luther Northwestern would be the Northeastern Pennsylvania Synod of the ELCA, but that is where I ended up. That time in Lehighton from 1988-1992 was life changing, and while I never saw myself becoming a professor, Guy Grube, my senior pastor (at least as it was told to me later), told our incredible church office manager that I would someday become a professor. I guess he was more accurately prophetic than I would have ever imagined. Those four years were a difficult and profoundly important time in my life. And they parallel my first years in the academy more than I would hope. There is an irony that I am back within 60 miles of where I was half my life ago. There is growth in my seeing that time very differently than I did when I was the pastor of Trinity.

Many times I have said I wish I knew then what I know now. I certainly do not want to go back and relive that time, either at Dana or Lehighton, but I am grateful for those lessons and that part of my journey. I am blessed by Paul and Louisa, and their passing offers an opportunity to focus on the two profoundly special people. They were in my life at those different times, but they have some similar effects on me. We cross paths with earthly angels, those who come in different forms, different backgrounds, different paths that intersect our own. To Paul’s sons, Dane and Jake, you do not know me, but I was blessed to know both of your parents at Dana. They were an incredible couple who taught us who knew them how to love unapologetically. I wish you peace in this time. To Jess and Jennifer, your parents were life-changing to me. Your father provided incredible medical care when I was in the deepest throes of Crohn’s helping me set up surgery in Arizona. Your mother blessed me with her friendship. her wit, her talent, and her elegance. I am a better person because of all of them. Their graciousness, kindness, and care made my time in Lehighton more fulfilling and perhaps not surprisingly to you both, they ministered to me as much as I did to them as their pastor. Sometimes I wish I had the words, the music or precisely the correct thing I might do. As I sat here writing today, I was blessed to have Roxana and Brittany stop. Again, some of the best blessings that have occurred here in Bloomsburg. As I wrote, I heard a cover of one of my favorite songs, “Scarborough Fair,” the song by Simon and Garfunkel. When I first heard it I was probably the age of the young people doing this cover. The main vocalist is 11 (I think) as she sings. Incredible. I love the lyrics, the music, and the connection it has to my heritage. As people pass, they leave a heritage, their story, a story that intersects and changes other lives. Again, thank you Louisa and Paul.

Thank you everyone for reading.

Dr. (Pastor) Martin

The Pathology of Hostility

Hello from an afternoon break,

I regularly find myself questioning how did we get here. How did we become so polarized the idea of working together is a pipe-dream, so divided that our response to disinformation or even an insurrection has become commonplace or we see such incidents of things from stalking to swatting as simply part of our world? The idea of a kinder, gentler world is not something most of us believe possible. Every day there is something, from the local to the global, where discord seems to be the prescription of the day. But perhaps we need to understand what hostility is to begin with. The National Institutes of Health note the presence of certain traits or elements if there is a hostile situation or atmosphere. There is anger (which is a normal human emotion), and I have noted in other writing that anger in and of itself is not wrong. There is a significant degree of cynicism or mistrust (which is an attitude); and there is an overt or repressed aggression (which is a behavior) (Hackett, 2015). What I found surprising in this research is that the all encompassing manner that hostility affects and envelops who we are as well as what we do. As such it is not surprising that it has such consequence.

Cynicism and mistrust are the most insidious of the words as I consider this idea. If one becomes cynical about their world, about the people around them, there is little reason for hope or joy. There is little chance one can truly love anything or anyone. Mistrust of everything and everyone will hollow a person. Nothing is ever done without a price tag or cost. And yet, what causes one to live their life in such a manner? As I pondered this, I did some research and learned that there is more genetic to this than I ever imagined. I should probably speak with my psychology colleagues or my neurology colleagues as I learned about an MAOA gene, which is related to violence and antisocial behavior, which I was surprised is a mutation of an X chromosome. This particular gene catalyzes the oxidative deamination of amines (e.g. dopamine or serotonin). So much more to learn once again. And yet, my immediate reaction to learning this is does it simply provide an excuse for antisocial, egoistical, narcissitic, or simply mean behavior? I am unwilling to give that get-out-of-jail-free card.

I am always amazed at the simple pure kindness of many toddlers before they learn to be selfish. There is a joy and fascination with what the encounter, and unless they have been already taught to fear something, their surprise and excitement is genuine. For those who are parents or grandparents, aunts or uncles, when you experience the smile, the laughter, the genuine happiness of that child, grandchild, nephew or niece, you know of what I write. One of the things I wonder each time I see the amazing eyes of an infant, one who is only months old, is what are they absorbing through those eyes. What is happening to their brains? How are the cataloguing those images, experiences, sounds? What are the things that will offer a smile that develops into a coo, a giggle, or laugh? What are the things that will oppositely create a frown that transforms into a tear, a frown or a crying fit? I think some of it can be imagined by going to the other end of our lives. When I cared for an elderly woman who spent her last years in a memory unit, I was stunned at how a similar disease could be so differently experienced and illustrated by those suffering with some form of Alzheimer’s or some form of dementia. While there were some characteristic actions, each person still had their own progression and response. And yet there was one thing that seem consistent. In spite of the inability of most to remember a plethora of things, to manage their hygiene, or even to be ambulatory as they deteriorated, almost without exception, they perceived the attitude of the person they encountered. If that caregiver attended to them with genuine care and concern, their response was exponentially more positive. If that caregiver really did not care, they understood that also. And their response would immediately become hostile. I did not know that Lydia had the terms bitch or bastard so well engrained in vocabulary until that last year of her life. I remember taking her to the dentist in the last months of her life, and she refused to open her mouth to allow the dentist to check the new lower denture, replacing one that had been inadvertently thrown away, probably in a napkin. When he reached to check her jaw, she tried to bite him. When I gave her a look and asked her to please behave, she glared at me and said to me in German, her native language, “Du musst den Mund halten und du bist ein Arschloch.” At that point, the dentist said, “She spoke to you in German.” to which I responded, “She did.” She knew I knew what she said. This proud Austrian professor emeritus had lost all her dignity and decorum.

I sometimes wonder if hostility and anger come most often because of our fear or our seeming lack of agency in our lives? I believe there is so much we have created, most often in an attempt to create convenience, has overwhelmed us, subsequently frightening us because we realize its consequence. I believe technology is probably the most profound example of how we have worked to develop control or manage things, but we are feeling less and less in control and our technology is controlling us. Some years ago, in the early years of social media, Dr. Michael Wesch, a cultural anthropologist at Kansas State developed a series of YouTube Videos. One was titled “The Machine is us/ing us.” As I work on developing my classes for the semester, the various platforms, possibilities, and to imagine what I can provide for the majority of students I will never see in person this semester. I am dependent on my technology and on them to make this educational process work. While I have two decades experience of teaching asynchronously, of teaching online, no two classes, no two semesters are the same. It is easy to feel disconnected without thinking about how the images, the words, the sounds work in harmony, but it is those very images, that language, and even the sounds that connect us. It is part of our evolution, but it is also something that continues to change rapidly, to evolve, sometimes in ways we do not expect. And yet often those changes frighten us, facing the unexpected is part of our humanity, and how we manage that is essential to success, whether we are in school at any age or even if we are facing retirement.

Over the last days, and as I work on my Capstone class, we are considering the reality of AI. If you are reading the news, Elon has just implanted the first brainchip into a person with ALS with his company Neuralink. That is incredible, not only that it happened, but that there is such a possibility. This actually connects us back to the beginning of this post. What can we learn with such possibilities? What might we control with such possibilities? We know so much about how the brain works, and yet we know so little. What will AI do to our ability to manage, to understand, to anticipate be it in the psychological, the sociological, the biological, the medical? Where does it stop? What about boundaries, privacy or ethics? These are all things I have my students exploring this last semester as I finish my time in the academy. What will the world be that our children or children’s children will live in? Would our parents or grandparents understand it? Believe it possible? There is so much to be excited and anticipatory about, and yet there are valid concerns. What will happen to human autonomy or agency? What have we unleashed?

I wonder if those who lived at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution worried about such things? I wonder if when people like Galileo or Copernicus turned the world on its side (or lack thereof) if the everyday person outside the church worried? There are so many ways we are content to merely meander about our lives and maintain a routine. Why? Because it is safe, and it does not frighten us. And yet, it seems the world as we know it will change in ways be cannot anticipate, and it is not in the distant future, it is now. If we do not understand how to manage it the consequence might be more hostile than we are ready to endure. I am reminded of an album I listened to regularly back when I was first out of the service. It was the title track of Alan Parson’s album, I Robot. Perhaps this world is more real than we know.

The Importance of Integrity

Hello from my upstairs office,

When I was younger, while I did not frequently lie about things, there were times I probably stretched the truth to some degree. Most times it was because I feared a spanking, which my mother was particularly adept at administering. There were times I perhaps revised the facts because I felt stupid or was embarrassed. There were times when I was simply afraid of the consequence. Somehow, in my less-than-astute thought process, I believed whatever story I concocted made sense. Of course, that was because my ability to see the larger picture, to connect the dots, was pretty limited. What is it that causes one to lie? What is it that makes such a process or action seem preferable to merely telling the truth and facing the consequences for our actions?

When I was researching for my comprehensive exams, as well as working toward a dissertation, focusing on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian and pastor involved in the plot to assassinate Hitler, required me to consider the reality of lying or the keeping of secrets. Sisela Bok, the Swedish-American philosopher and ethicist, has written two books, which were on my required reading list, one titled Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life, and the second, Secrets: On the Ethics of Concealment and Revelation. I think at the moment is it would be a good thing to revisit both books. It is alarming to me how societally we seem to be comfortable with dishonesty, either through lying and in keeping secrets. In the past few days the firestorm that has erupted because of the secrecy behind what happened (when or as it happened) about the Secretary of Defense is an incredible example. While I am not taking sides on this issue, what about the right to privacy? As more and more things come out, it is apparent there are issues. Words like honesty or transparency are tossed around somewhat haphazardly, but with important consequence. Certainly the political climate of our country and the disarray of how our elected officials seem hellbent on pointing fingers about everything does not bode well for where we are headed.

In one of my classes, while having a conversation about ethics and how ethics function, I asked a class (and these were students I respected for their intelligence and ability pretty much across each member of the class) how many of them had cheated on an assignment while in college. Every single student raised their hand (I guess I should commend that honesty), which stunned me. Then I followed up, how many of you have cheated more than once? Again, every single student raised their hand. As I worked to not pick my jaw up off the ground, I asked why? And the first student to answer said, “You have to compete.” That sentiment was seconded, third-ed, and beyond by the remaining members of the class. When I asked if they found that of concern, no one really did. I remember walking out of class that day quite disillusioned. How did we get to a point that cheating to compete is seen as necessary or acceptable? I do not find any of the students to be bad people, but certainly my opinion of them is affected by what they said. What I remember is struggling to come to grips with my new-found knowledge. What are the ethics of honesty? Is there such a thing? Assuredly, there is a connection between honesty and truth, but what is it? And perhaps more importantly, how does it work? Entire courses are taught on this, so any sense that I can do this topic justice in a blog is a bit ludicrous, or an exercise in the absurd, and yet, it is something worth consideration.

While there are a number of truth theories, perhaps the most accepted one is referred to as correspondence theory, which addresses how our “minds relate to reality” (Ethics Center), but how can we know what something really is if all things are based on perception? Additionally, one might consider what is called a coherence theory of truth, which means one works within the accepted systems, arguing there is a consistency in what is understood (Ethics Center). However, what happens when neither seems to be working? Is all truth situational? It seems we might find ourselves in such a space in our current world, and if so, again, what are the consequences? If truth and honesty are connected, which I believe they are, if there is no substantive truth, what happens to the concept of honesty? If being truthful, whatever that means, is connected to behaving ethically, then honesty is connected. Aristotelian virtue ethics is integrally connected to the concept of honesty, and, in fact, many of Aristotle’s virtues are connected to what he referred to as the “stable equilibrium of the soul” (Sachs). This statement about the soul is, for me, instructional because it is about how conduct connects to our internal compass of right and wrong, of what is acceptable or unacceptable. It is that connection that seem to have lost its way in our present world.

At every level of our national conversation, there seems to be little regard for honesty or truthfulness, the sort of aberrant behavior that characterizes our dialogue is stupefying, and that is in more than one way. First, there is the reality of how startling is it; second, the fact that it is so commonplace we accept it as typical speaks to its insidious consequence. The fact that Richard Nixon resigned rather than be impeached in comparison to where we are today speaks volumes to how our national consciousness, our collective national attitude toward truth and honesty, has changed. While eating lunch with a dear colleague today we noted the difference in our students, their expectations, and the expectations of even our administrators. Education is the foundation of democracy. Critical thought and careful analysis are fundamental to navigating the complexities of the world in which we live. This is not an idealistic hope, it is reality. The fact that a substantial percentage of the American public no longer believes many of the basic tenets of our great American experiment still function or matter does not create any sense of security for our future. How did we get here? There is no easy answer, and to posit one would be naive, but are there things to which one might point as primary concerns. For me, integrity is one. Integrity can be understood as a code of conduct, the principles, the morals or values by which someone chooses to conduct themselves. As such it is a sort of uncompromising set of standards by which someone conducts themselves, a sort of deontological, Kantian understanding of right and wrong, that categorical imperative. Let me also assert there is nothing easy or simple in being unwaveringly principled (mostly because we are selfish – I am reminded of the elements in the Lutheran liturgy which say, “We have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart: we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.” Therein is a the perfect reality of our selfish nature . . . at another point, we note we are selfish and unclean. It seems we have forgotten Paul’s admonishment in Romans 6, when the apostle inquires, “What are we to say to this? Should we sin all the more that grace may abound?” and he answers immediately (in the Greek imperative), “Certainly not!” Again, it seems we have listened only to the first half of Luther’s statement, “If you are going to sin, sin boldly!!” Certainly most don’t know the context of this letter to Melanchthon, but it is worth considering (please do go look at it). It seems most of us have now created the world where this is all we practice. The sort of ask for forgiveness later, if we ask at all.

While it is not my intent to make this a blog about doctrine, there is certainly a connection for me from my time as a parish pastor to the person I am today. It is interesting to me that I believe there are so many parts of my life I would or could be much more effective at than I was at the time. And many of those reasons are related to the very essence of this blog post. I tell my students regularly, intelligence and work ethic are helpful in their roles as a student, but I am as interested in their integrity as anything. It is that element that will propel them toward being successful in a manner that matters more for society, for the future of a world struggling with issues of climate, discrimination, gender-inequality, racism, and the list can go on. Integrity is as much as social construct as issues of truth or honesty. As I write this blog, our former President is in court; the current President’s son has been voted to be in contempt of Congress; the war between Ukraine and Russia continues to rage, killing both combatants and civilians daily; the war between Israel and Hamas (or at large the Palestinians) is an unmitigated humanitarian disaster. Our elected leaders are too busy sniping at each other to lead in a meaningful manner; those running to be the next President seem to have more flaws than attributes; and we are more interested in who wins the Super Bowl or which NFL coach lost their job. Hmmmmmm? Who are we and what have we become as a country, as a humanity? Where did we lose that focus to be people of principle? I am not sure what we can say or to what in specific we might point, but perhaps we need to go back to the things we were taught as pre-schoolers . . . treat people with respect . . . be honest and do not lie . . . use manners first and foremost . . . perhaps we need a primer on al the things we have seemed to have forgotten. I am reminded of the Prayer of St. Francis, which I had sung at my ordination. While there are a number of versions of it, this version by John Michael Talbot was sung by my best friend who has been gone for almost 9 years. It is a song that still convicts me to this day.

Thank you as always for reading, and I wish you peace.

Dr. Martin

Our Propensity for Drama

Good morning very early Wednesday morning,

After an incredibly wonderful, though a bit chilly and wet New Year’s Eve, it seems in spite of vaccinations and a good coat and scarf, I have managed to become one of the numbers (statistics) of which I wrote in my last blog. I have been the majority of my New Year’s in bed. With the help of NyQuil, hydration, and sleep, I’ve made substantial progress, and my COVID tests have remained negative, so I think I am merely fighting either the common, albeit miserable, cold or a variant like a sinus infection. Regardless the diagnosis, it has been a significant reminder that this sort of in-between weather is a best friend of germs. It is helpful that I have been able to stay inside and isolated for the last couple days.

In the meanwhile, the world around me, both near and far, seems to hurtle itself forward as a first-class passenger of Ozzy Osbourne’s “crazy train” (strike up the guitar)! Between the daily ridiculousness of a 2024 campaign, which has not even officially had a caucus or primary yet, assassinations in Lebanon, bombings in Iran, earthquakes in Japan, and the tragedy of the continued war after Russia attacked Ukraine, the proverbial “to hell in a hand-basket” seems apropos. And the daily headlines of our local newspaper continue to focus on what is wrong with things rather than offer any sense of how the goodness of some in our town was such a wonderful way to bring in a new year. Don Henley reminded us quite accurately when he wrote, “people love it when you lose /// kick ‘em when they’re up, kick ‘em when they’re down, kick ‘em all around /// we love dirty laundry.” Why is it we have a fascination with other people’s misery? What makes us want to hear the latest gossip, and the things that will cause the other pain? It is that we are essentially mean or uncaring? That we thrive on drama at the expense of the other? Seldom does a day, or even a few hours of our 24/7 news cycle go on than I am bombarded by the updates on my iPhone or iWatch alerting me 5-10 times in less than 5 minutes about the most recent newsroom catastrophe. And having the world in our hands makes it exponentially more shocking, except that it no longer is all that shocking, which really is the thing that should shock me. If this sentence seems unclear, read it again slowly. We are in midst of what seems to be a constant, never-ending series of crises. Is it true? Is there no hope for us as we have become obsessed with the latest dirt? Do I really need to know more about the Jeffrey Epstein list (and I am in no way saying anything supportive of him)? And in spite of my own political position, the practical reality that campaigns never stop makes me detest the entire political process, and yet I am well aware of the need for a well-educated electorate. Can I understand why some people want to go-off-the-grid, as some call it? That is an emphatic, “hell yes!”

Certainly, there is little I can write, say, or do that will change this, and our head-long dive off the 250 ft. cliff into the ocean of AI will do little to slow that. And for the record, I am not anti-AI, but I am beyond concerned about the issues of boundaries, privacy, and the ethics of it. So . . . Now that I have depressed you all . . . What might we do? As crazy as it might sound, and Ozzy is still singing, “Crazy, but that’s how it goes.” I think it begins with a (conceptually) simple adjustment in what I am willing to sign on to. Note the parenthetical adverb. If I make a conscious effort to stay away from gossip and drama might I look at the world differently? If I choose, if I take some agency for my surroundings, might I decide to focus on the positives of any given situation rather than ruminate on the sad or negative aspects of the moment, the day, or the world? How is it we love gossip, that we seem to thrive on it? Our need to know is seldom really knowing, it is only hearing an aspect of something and we’re off to the races. Needing to tell our important nugget of some salacious set of facts that will only create more hurt than help. Ironically, some of the next words in Ozzy’s famous song are, “Maybe it’s not too late to learn how to love and forget how to hate.” What if we might simply pause before we choose to dive into the latest drama of something? What if we consider the humanity of the other before we jump on that out-of-control bandwagon, a vehicle of discontentment and damage? The destruction and havoc caused by our drama-driven need to know hurts all of us. The broken relationships, the shattered dreams, or the loss of hope in those affected by our need to join the cacophony of noise is profound. The long-term consequences change people’s lives snuffing out potential.

I’m sure those of you who read regularly are wondering from where this blog post emanated? I am not a resolution maker; and I am generally an optimist. And yet, there are a handful of situations that cause me pain, in most cases more for the other than myself. In each situation there is a sense of discord and a history of consequence. In each life, there was (and is) such potential for goodness, but through decisions and choices, there is turmoil. Turmoil that overshadows the ability to proceed on a more beneficial path. Too often, the drama of the situation controls most of what occurs. Too often I have let that drama control me, but that is my own fault. Too often I wanted to believe, foolishly, I could do something to change it. Perhaps both naive and a bit arrogant. Walking away is not something I often do, though a couple of people could assert I have. Learning is something I do try to do consistently, though I am sometimes a bit slow. While I am most assuredly not climbing on any sort of resolution-making process, I do think I am making a conscious effort to eliminate as much drama from my life as possible. It was 26 years ago today I sang at my father’s funeral – that I officiated the committal service for him in Graceland Park Cemetery in Sioux City, Iowa. It was a bitterly cold January in the snow as I buried the best father I could hope to have, and he adopted me, not the other way around. He was known for his perfect smile, his affable demeanor, and his willingness to give to others. He is remembered by me for the things he said that were not arguable. He told me often, “Choose your battles wisely and fight them well.” I listened to that, perhaps too well. What I did not listen to as carefully, and perhaps more importantly was the rejoinder. He added, “And don’t make them all battles.” Dad, I am still learning that part.

It stuns me it has been a quarter century since I last saw his smile, a smile that would light up a room, or heard his matter-of-fact wisdom. He was not a drama person. He was much too wise. I need to remember and tap into that wisdom. I am not sure he would ever appreciate Ozzy, but this is a kinder video, so perhaps. I still miss you, Dad, and I love you.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin