A Man of Modest Mien

If anyone were paying attention (which, fortunately, they're not) they'd see that it's been over a year since I posted to this thing. I have another blog, Clutterjam, to which I'm somewhat more attentive, but even that's a spotty proposition at best.

That's my principle blog, such as it is, but long ago I decided to set this one up as a depository of religious (or religion-inspired) posts. The idea was to separate the religious from the secular – not because of any weird “American separation of powers” jag or because I'm ashamed of my religion (Catholicism); on the contrary, I'm quite proud of it. But it seemed to me that two different (purely theoretical) audiences were at play. Maybe I was the one who needed the separation. If nothing else, it was a way to help me organize my thoughts.

Whatever.

Anyway, Clutterjam – Clutterbread. Get it? The pun, incidentally, was accidental. I thought “Clutterbread” was a clever way to reference the Catholic Eucharist – the “source and summit” of our faith, as Pope John Paul II put it. It was only after a little while that I saw the double pun of “jam” and “bread.” Apparently, my humor is so subtle that I even trick myself.

I've lately thought about trying to be a bit more regular with my entries, whether on one or the other. I started recently to be a little more active on Jam while entertaining the notion of inhabiting Bread again. The fact that Lent began recently gave the latter a bit more priority in my thinking, but a coupla weeks into it, I hadn't pulled the trigger yet.

My immediate inspiration for doing so now was the recent death of my good friend's father. More specifically, I got a thank you note in the mail yesterday from his widow. It was her response to the sympathy card I sent when the news came of her husband's passing. It was very touching and, well, here I am.

Ken Helm was an inspiration. You talk about your solid Christians. Ken was that in spades. I met his son, Mike, on the first day of my freshman year in high school. He was (and oddly, remains) only a few months older than me but was a sophomore. The Helms (Mike also has an older sister, Cindy) were a solidly Christian family.

I'd been born and raised Catholic, but like many of my peers, I'd pretty much begun ignoring the Church by adolescence. When I embarked upon a young adult understanding and acceptance of it, Mr. and Mrs. Helm were two of a handful of grown-ups who were key to nourishing my new-found faith.

According to Mike's eulogy of his dad, at one point Ken considered becoming a minister, but on the advice of a friend and spiritual adviser, he remained in his job as a field engineer with General Electric. In his years with the company, he and his family lived and traveled all over the world. After his kids were grown, Ken took early retirement and he and Jinnie continued their international hopscotching, doing missionary work (principally in Europe and Asia, I believe.) This was a couple that, even in their twilight years, were knee-deep in the grunt and tussle of spreading the Gospel, or as Mike put it, enacting “practical love through service.”

Ken was a rather astonishing physical specimen. Not that he was The Hulk or anything; he was a normal looking guy but he was extremely fit and active. I believe he swam most mornings. (Perhaps not, I suppose, when he was on one of his many mission trips. I imagine lap pools aren't readily accessible all the time in Venezuela, Zimbabwe, Thailand, etc.) He wouldn't do them all at once, but even shortly before he was recently diagnosed with late-stage cancer at age 86, Ken would drop and do a hundred pushups during the course of the day. And being a WWII navy man, I have little doubt that they were done with proper form. His kindness, good humor and all-around decency would never betray it, but Ken Helm was a bad-ass.

As it happens, he wouldn't betray it either. He was a man of impeccable modesty and good taste. As Mike describes it, Ken was fastidious in smothering attention aimed at himself – always, but always shunning his own glory in favor of deflecting it toward Jesus. “I never knew a guy,” Mike said, “so worthy of a compliment who had such a tough time accepting one.”

In my long and sordid odyssey of faith, I was eventually drawn back to my Catholic roots about fifteen years ago. Ken was (and Jinnie still is) of the denomination known as the Church of Christ. I've known the Helms for over a third of a century. In a world where Christians are often pissy about their sectarian differences, they've never once even hinted at disapproval of my Catholicism. I know that anti-Catholic sentiment is not always a rare thing among Protestants.

In his book, Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis uses the metaphor of a mansion with many rooms to describe the body of Christ and its many denominations. He says that the believers in the various strains of the faith (Baptist, Catholic, Methodist, etc.) have their differences, but that it's the believers closest to the core of each that he thinks are closest to one another. I happen to agree with him.

I have no doubt that Ken and Jinnie Helm have long been close to that center in the Church of Christ. I try to accomplish the same in my own Catholic Church (with middling results, perhaps). If I can even cover a fraction of the distance toward it that Mr. and Mrs. Helm have, my priest might try to recruit me for the seminary.

And a note on what some may call semantics. Several years ago, Jinnie said it was okay for me to call her by her first name. I explained (perhaps at the cost of awkwardness for her – by making her feel old) that old habits are hard to break. When my brothers and I were kids, my parents were adamant that we address our elders as “Mr.” and “Mrs.” Maybe I'm unfairly indulging those habits, but I simply can't think of her in any other way. Referring to Mike's parents as “Ken and Jinnie” will always seem foreign to me. I've even felt that way in writing this.

If, as the Bible tells us, a tree shall be known by its fruits, Mr. and Mrs. Helm can be justifiably proud of the orchard they've planted. I've been privileged to walk in its shade and eat of its fruit for many happy years.

Which reminds me of something. One of my fondest and earliest memories of my friendship with Mike was watching cable TV at his house and eating Mrs. Helm's delicious frozen fruit cups . . .

But that's another story.

Me and the Man Behind the Horn

Jazz trumpeter Roy Eldridge was born this day in 1911. It might seem remarkable had he been an ancestor of mine (especially since he was black and I'm white.) But the fact that we share a name is a mere coincidence. 

But I did briefly know by telephone a man who said Roy was one of his best friends. I work customer service for a company that sells hearing aids by mail-order. (Yeah, that's what I said when I was hired there ten years ago.)

Perhaps my most memorable customer interaction came when I took a call from an old man named Leon Merian. (I googled the guy that night and everything he told me was true.) Leon had been a professional big band trumpeter from the time he was sixteen years old in the late 30's. Not long afterward he was making more money than his old man.

He played with everybody – Duke Ellington, Buddy Rich and Diana Ross are just a few of the names I remember. He played on Broadway and on the soundtracks of films such as “Ben-Hur” and “The Godfather.” (Sadly, he wasn't the guy who played the enigmatic cornet solo on the latter. Now THAT would have been a true brush with greatness.) And also with a galaxy of stars as a performer on all the major television networks. He blamed his hearing loss on Buddy Rich, having spent a decade standing ten feet from Rich's drum kit.

He was also perhaps the first white man in America to play with an otherwise all-black touring band. He shared with me the story of his first exposure to obscene racial prejudice when the band toured the deep south. “They wouldn't let me stay with the rest of the band in their colored-only motel. I was told, 'You'll have to go to an all-white motel down the street.' I went there and – naïve as I was; I was just a teenager -- I told the manager there, 'You wouldn't believe it. I play trumpet with an all-Negro band and I can't stay in their motel cuz I'm white. Ain't that a thing?'

“The hotel manager just looked at me and said, 'Get the hell outta here, nigger-lover!'”

“I spent that whole part of the tour sleeping in the bus, but it was worth it to play with those cats!”

I'm no musician, but apparently one of Leon's outstanding qualities as a player was that he could play in some ridiculous range of octaves – like six or something – which I guess is really incredible. He said the key to it is that he had this tremendous capacity to blow really hard. I don't understand this kind of thing, but if you're a trumpet player, I guess your mind should be blown. 

He also taught music at the university level and created a line of trumpet mouthpieces which were reputed to be very good.

I must have talked to him for close to an hour that first day he called. The moment in that conversation I remember most was when Leon set the telephone down and played a killer, jazzy version of “When You Wish Upon a Star” for me. It was sublime. I talked to him a couple of times after that first call and he was the coolest guy. Friendly, funny and just in love with people. What a gift it was for me to share his friendship for a short while.

Sadly, our hearing aid got stuck in his ear and he had to go to the ER to have it removed. As always in those rare instances, the company paid to cover his hospital visit but I never heard from him again. How I wish it had helped him so I might have occasionally talked to him over the following years. But he left an indelible imprint on me and reminded me of the many friendly oldsters I get to talk to in the course of my job. I wish it paid more but I love my job and sometimes it astonishes me that I get paid for what I do. And don't even get me started on Mrs. Vaccariello, God bless her.

One day a few years ago, out of curiosity, I googled him again only to find his obituary. He died in 2007.

You may never have become a household name, Leon, but I know you had the respect of your peers and became much more than anyone might have expected out of a poor kid from Boston. Keep blowing, trumpet man. I'm certain the music is endless where you are now.

Original Participation (Richard Rohr - Reflecting on His Reflections)

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/Daily-Meditation--Original-Participation----Frame----April-21--2013.html?soid=1103098668616&aid=_PmS5zE8giY


An apt observation on the 175th birthday of John Muir.


http://www.pbs.org/nationalparks/people/historical/muir/

Do You Believe in Mom?

Our priest told this story at church today.  I was trying to recount it when it occurred to me that it must be on the internet.  I found it and modified it a bit.  I suffered the pretense of thinking I'd be able to word it a little better.  Fortunately for me (and you) I'm a flippin' genius wordsmith.  Anyway, here it is:

In the belly of a pregnant woman, there were two babies. One of them said to the other:

“So you believe in life after birth, eh?”

“Of course I do. There must be something after birth. Maybe we're here to prepare for what'll happen later.”

“Oh, right! There's no life after birth! What do you propose that life would be like?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's a place with more light. Why else would we have eyes?”

“Don't be ridiculous! And how would we move around in this “afterlife” you talk about? I mean, how far could we go? The umbilical cord only stretches so far. And we need the umbilical cord. That's how we get our food. We'd starve to death in your afterlife.”

“Maybe in the afterlife, we'll be able to feed ourselves.”

“Ha! I suppose we'd put food in our mouths or something!”

“Why not? Didn't you ever suppose that maybe our mouths were for more than just sucking our thumbs? We may be talking about an entirely new dimension!  Who knows what life will be like out there?”

“I'll tell you what it'll be like. Short! In two minutes we'll dry up and die outside of this life-giving fluid we're floating around in.”

“Maybe we won't need the fluid. Maybe that's just a temporary situation. Maybe we'll be able to lose the umbilical cord and walk around out there.”

“On our legs, I suppose. That's a good one!”

“I happen to think they must be good for something more than kicking these walls – satisfying as that may be.”

“It is satisfying! When I get pissed off at the meaninglessness of our life floating around in the darkness, that sometimes feels like the only satisfaction I'll ever have. Don't take that away from me!”

“Maybe we're here for something better than just kicking walls. I believe there's gotta be more than just this. Maybe life will be different than what we're used to in here.”

“Look. No one has ever returned from the afterlife. Eventually, we get pushed out and that's it. You die and it's all over. Birth is the end of life. And ultimately, life is nothing but a distressing existence in the dark that leads us nowhere.”

“Well, I don't know exactly how it'll be after birth, but surely we'll see Mom and she'll take care of us.”

“MOM? You believe in MOM? And where is she now?”

“She's all around us! We're inside her and it's thanks to her that we're alive. Without her, this whole world wouldn't exist.”

Well, I've never seen Mom. And the reason I've never seen her is that she doesn't exist.”

“Okay, but sometimes, when we're silent, you can hear her or feel that she's caressing our world, y'know? I think there's a real life out there and that we're only just preparing for it now.”

“Okay, smart guy. Move over. Why don't you go out there first when the time comes? I'll take the extra couple of minutes of life, thank you very much. That may not sound like alot, but it'll seem like forever when you're getting forced out of this place.”

“Fine! Get out of my way. I'm not afraid of birth!”

Reflections on a Richard Rohr Meditation (and Perhaps Going a Bit Off-Topic)

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/Daily-Meditation--Jesus-Lived-in-Darkness-and-Faith--Just-As-We-Do----Foundation----April-7--2013.html?soid=1103098668616&aid=ez0dW_2X1w4

My friend posted the above link to Facebook recently and I've read it several times since. I knew I wanted to share it here, but wasn't sure for some time what to say about it. The portion that struck me with the most impact was the following:

“We like to imagine that Jesus did not flinch, doubt or ever question God’s love. The much greater message is that in his humanity he did flinch, have doubts, and ask questions—and still remained faithful.” 

I suppose it's more accurate to say that my thoughts below flowed from this link – or were inspired by it – rather than to say that they directly addressed it.  To wit:

I wonder if it's distinctly American to imagine Jesus as the baddest motherfucker in the Valley of the Shadow of Death; a mashup of George Washington, G.I. Joe and Elvis – kicking ass, taking names and writing them on one side or the other of the Book of Heaven. I don't doubt that that's how many Americans see him and find him worthy of worship, but I don't know how distinctly that's unique to our country. Not being a world traveler, I can hardly know.

But in light of America's aggressive, acquisitive character, it seems distinctly un-American to understand that his great power is not in battling evil on its own jingoistic terms. Rather, it's in understanding that evil can't possibly contend with his true power where it lies: in vulnerability and the willingness to be exposed to it. In the utter surrender to the cross that -- because of that surrender -- sprouts roots and returns to its proper being as the tree from which it was hewn.

It seems that it's the mad proposition of Christian faith to surrender ourselves in the same way that Jesus did and to believe that therein lies our release from mean mortal coils. To, indeed, carry our cross -- and all the way to the time and place where we, ourselves, will be nailed upon it. To believe that this really is where we'll be subsumed and freed by the power of God. To accept the terror that claims that love is stronger then hatred; that Good really is more powerful than Evil. It's not enough to merely turn the other cheek. We have to accept that it'll be struck and even still, respond only with love.

I have no pretensions that I'm good enough, or strong enough, to have that in me, but so help me God, I hope to have the courage to try.

Some Republicans Propose Christianity as the State Religion in NC

My friend, Addison Hart, posted the link below on Facebook and I could hardly have said it better myself. I will add, however, that the morons who propose that their state can utterly defy the U.S. Constitution are likely the same sort of people who demand that we "take our Constitution back!"  Never mind that pesky First Amendment and its injunction that "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion."  I guess state legislatures get a pass on that one, eh?

There's been alot of talk about secession in this country recently.  Guns, abortion, legalization of marijuana, gay marriage . . . Civil War II can't be far behind.

I wish I was joking about that.  And oh, yeah; be forewarned: the assholes have the guns.

Addison Hodges Hart

I believe in the separation of church and state, mostly for the sake of the church than for the state. Further, I wouldn't trust any form of "Americanized" Christianity, whether right or left. It would be, without doubt, a civil religion. It would bless America's worst impulses towards imperialism, militarization, excessive moralism (whether leftist or rightist) with penal consequences, policing of citizens, corporation-protecting, bankster-pardoning, and war-mongering. It would remake Jesus into a flag-waving, grinning, all-American, platitude-spouting, gun-toting, war-condoning, "liberal" or "neocon" (take your pick), legislation-minded, and sports-loving cowboy type. We would drone-murder "towel-heads" "in Jesus' name", promote Capitalism and "pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps" morality "in Jesus' name", and have churches following "the corporate model" of authority "in Jesus' name". I can't think of a kitschier image than a blow-dried and stupefied "American Jesus" or a more repellent religion than an "American" civil "Christianity". God save his people from that ugliest of all possible Constantinianisms.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/06/christianity-state-religion_n_3022255.html#.UWFWrBA3Ow8.facebook

.St. Cyril: Not Trying to Take it All In

Today is the feast day of St. Cyril, a fourth century orthodox bishop who fought the Arian heresy. I came across a quote of his that I find appealing. He was asked why he bothered trying to write about a God he, admittedly, couldn't fathom.

"But some one will say, If the Divine substance is incomprehensible, why then do you discourse of these things? So then, because I cannot drink up all the river, am I not even to take in moderation what is expedient for me? Because with eyes so constituted as mine I cannot take in all the sun, am I not even to look upon it enough to satisfy my wants? Or again, because I have entered into a great garden, and cannot eat all the supply of fruits, would you have me go away altogether hungry?.. I am attempting now to glorify the Lord, but not to describe him, knowing nevertheless that I shall fall short of glorifying God worthily, yet deeming it a work of piety even to attempt it at all."


(The words in red are hyperlinks from the piece on the website from which I took this.  I was unaware that they would remain red when I published this and don't know how to change them.  So please know that as hyperlinks on this site, you might think of them as eunuchs -- contributing to prayerful thought, but themselves unfertile.)