Avdat

This week's philology lesson

Non-southerners are often surprised to discover that people down here use words to hide what they mean rather than say what they mean.  The most famous example might be, "Y'all don't rush off, now," which, roughly translated means, "Get off my property before I fetch my gun."  Closely related is, "Bless his/her/your heart," which, like flavoring added to medicine, helps any insult go down smoother.

My friend Katie Scarvey has identified a fairly recent development in SouthernSpeak.  In response to, "How are you?" one replies, "I'm fine; hope you are."

This is an ingenious conversation-stopper.  While the first speaker ponders this unexpected question in answer to his/her question, thinking, "Am I fine?  Sciatica?  Not so bad.  Kids?  Still in rehab.  Divorce?  Final in three weeks!" and then finally decides, "I am fine!" the person who said, "I'm fine; hope you are," has already slipped away unnoticed.

But maybe it's not so ingenious.  No southerner who asks "How are you?" really cares how you are.  Remember, Gentle Reader, we don't use words to say what we mean.  But we are pleasant folk.  No, scratch that.  We aren't pleasant because we don't care how you are.  But we'd rather be caught dead in drag than act unpleasant.  So rather than grunting at you like Yankees might do, we acknowledge your presence with the mild wide/inch deep, "How are you?" 

Which makes the clever "I'm fine; hope you are" unnecessary.  It'd do just as well, as my wife pointed out, to say, "I'm fine; how are you?" and keep walking.  Acknowledgement acknowledged without unnecessary conversation.

How being President ages you

Too funny to pass up.

A Thanksgiving like no other!

Three charged in Natalee Holloway's death.

Well, thank goodness!  Think of the millions of people huddled together today under the same roof.  Not because they like each other.  Or because they have anything in common.  Just because they're related to each other.  Now at least they have something to talk about.

And... the Detroit game is not shaping up to be something to be endured, as is the case in most years.  But has it really been eleven years since Wayne Fontes coached the Lions?

Be a Venture Capitalist

Laura and I learned about Kiva and the miracle of microfinance watching Frontline the other night.  This is even better than being Ndugu's pen pal.  When the kids go back to school, we're going to sit down before the computer and loan some people some money.

Seething v. Sadness

A very bad thing has happened in our community.  Several months ago, Michael Jason Brown died when his moped wrecked.  The Highway Patrol originally ruled the wreck an accident, but Brown's relatives disputed that judgment.  Not long ago, Brown's body was exhumed from his grave, and an autopsy performed.

Last week the other shoe dropped.  Six young adults were indicted for involuntary manslaughter.  It's alleged that they were in a car that struck and killed Brown, and that they left the scene of the accident. 

The charges, if true, are very serious, and merit strong punishment.  It's particularly disturbing that, for one of the accused, this is not the first time he's run afoul of the law.  Alstin Lee Vanderford was involved in a locally famous incident of ethnic intimidation when he and some friends abused an employee at the local Wendy's.  I wrote about the aftermath of that incident at The Ivy Bush.

But I'm saddened with the tone of the public conversation surrounding this case.  This letter-to-the-editor is a good example of the "throw the book at 'em" fury that's filling up the opinion page of The Salisbury Post.  Others wonder whether or not the Post's article about the accused, simply by providing biographical details, casts them in a more positive light than they deserve.

It's hard to make generalizations, but judging from letter-writers to the Post, there's an element in the community that's simply brimming with righteous indignation, and is eager to vent whenever someone brazenly violates the law. 

I just don't see how these published comments do any good.  The kids have been charged.  They'll be put through the meat grinder of the criminal justice system.  The family of the deceased will get some answers, but no peace from that process.  That has to come from a different quarter.  Unloading on the accused may make the letter-writer feel good, but it does nothing to affect the verdict, except perhaps taint the jury pool.

When I read the headline, I felt my stomach sinking, not in anger at the accused, but with worry for my own boys.  Am I raising them well enough so that they'll be prudent drivers when they turn 16?  Even a prudent 16-year-old driver is an inexperienced driver.  Lots bad can good wrong.  And if something does goes wrong, am I raising them in such a way that they'll take responsibility for their actions, and lend a helping hand to those in need?

Instead of walking around seething and gripping a pen, can't we all do better by having a heart-to-heart with our children and teens so that crimes like this aren't perpetrated in the future?  Wouldn't a few conversations like that do a lot more good than column inches of blowing off steam?

Stuff

Harry Potter.  Now that the release date for Deathly Hallows is set, I must say that I see no way that young Harry Potter will survive this seventh and last book.  J.K. Rowling has already demonstrated a willful lack of sentimentality when it comes to the livelihoods of our favorite characters.  Harry (or others in the novels) may or may not be a Christ figure, but he's sure shaping up to be a martyr.

You will say, "What about the prophecy?"  Prophecy, smophecy.  Voldemort offs Harry, only to be disposed of by Snape.  That's my prediction.  The Potions Master goes on to be elected Minister of Magic, a stunning reversal of fortunes not seen since Nixon won the Presidency.  Perhaps the appointment will soften up the Half-Blood we love to hate.

If Harry is done-for, one can only hope, for Rowling's sake, that she doesn't crash her car shortly after July 21 only to be rescued by her biggest fan.

Homework for Joe Biden:  Think of five "articulate" white people and praise them for it.  Come to think of it, do any white people know any "articulate" white people?

The United Church of Canada.  As explained to me this week by an admittedly biased Presbyterian Church of Canada pastor, the United Church fell out in this way:  In the run-up to the merger, the Canadian Methodists feared the Presbyterians' doctrine, and the Presbyterians feared the Methodists' "enthusiasm."  (In other words, each feared the strength of the other).  So they compromised.  Now you've got a denomination with all the doctrine of the Methodists, and all the enthusiasm of... the Presbyterians.

Preachers vs. Choir Directors:  You've heard the old joke--Q.  What's the difference between a terrorist and a choir director?  A.  You can negotiate with a terrorist.  Well, there's a reason for that (as explained to me this week by a pastor and former choir director).  Choir Directors are, by necessity, dictatorial.  Have you ever heard of a choir director saying, "Was that really Mezzo forte?  Let's vote on it, starting with the tenors."  No, of course not.  So naturally, choir directors are loathe to hold hands and sing Kum bah Ya in staff meetings and talk, talk, talk everything out.  Because, you know, if the preacher were a real leader, he'd be an executive in the business world, so why bother with him anyway?

One pastor at the Alban workshop confessed to being an "interim ministry specialist."  Which, she added, means that when you walk into a congregation you have but two tasks:

1. Fire the choir director.
2. Fire the secretary.

Fortunately we have an amazingly talented choir director and a sweet, kind secretary.

Molly Ivans:  Prophetic.

Monday Morning Jousting

Saturday, we made our annual pilgrimage to the Carolina Renaissance Festival.

Here's Sir Philippe (center) threatening to "taunt (Sir Henry) a second time."  Sir William, a dead ringer for Sting, rides stone-faced in the background.  He won the joust.  It became a duel to the death after Sir Philippe cheated and embarrassed the manhood of Sir Henry.

This plot is just so pre-November 7.  Next year, A Gay Sir Philippe will be the good guy.  You watch.

Best line all day:  Zilch, the spooneristic story-teller, says that a few of these Ren Fest people have gotten "beaten too much by the New Age stick."  He says there's nothing like watching a Mom yell at her toddler, "Serenity!  Serenity!  You're really pissin' me off!"  Then it was back to Goldilocks and the Three Bears taking "a falk in the worest."

Never get tired of it, no matter how many times I hear it.

Bless His Heart, He Looks So Natural. They Say He'd Just Voted Before the Bus Hit Him!

On the way back from lunch with a PC(USA) missionary, I dropped by the Board of Elections.  Early voting commences today.  I put aside the voices in my head muttering about the Diebold fix being in again this year, touched the screen, and cast my ballot.

It was just me, myself and Don Carter, proprietor of Salisbury's most distinguished funeral home, voting early.  (Yes, Gentle Reader, that was a hyperlink.  They have a web site.  Featuring a "merchandise" tab! 

I have no idea what Mr. Carter's politics are, but he above all people must know that there are no guarantees.  Nope, you aren't gonna see somebody like him putting off 'til tomorrow what can be done today!

Apropos of Nothing

So how do you think about numbers?  I don't mean whether or not you hated math in school.  Literally, how do you visualize them?  Or do you visualize them at all?

Before we went to bed the other night, Laura was telling me how, when she was a child, she visualized the numbers one through twelve as being on a circle, just like the hour positions on a clock.  Numbers thirteen and up went off to the left, like beads on a line intersecting the circle at a tangent.  Then she learned the concept of zero, so she moved the one down and around a little bit to make room for it.  Negative numbers arrive on another line approaching from the right.

(We've been married 12 years.  We already know each other's favorite movie, favorite meal, favorite day of the week.  You gotta find other things to talk about if you want to keep this project going!)

Now Laura's way of imagining numbers is utterly fascinating to me.  For me, it's much more linear.  The go in groups of tens, and ascend like steps in a staircase.  So one through ten is on a line increasing from left to right, and then eleven through twenty go up in the air at a right angle, and then the next group go off to the right.  Up and over, to infinity.

Or another way to think of it is like those carpenter's rulers that unfold in one foot increments.  Even today, when I add nine plus anything, I do two things in my head.  I add the other number to ten, and then take away one, and I imagine going around the corner at ten, and up the line. 

Is it any wonder I was a humanities major?

Now I think about years differently.  (Laura doesn't do years, just numbers.  That's either why she hates history, or because she hates history.  Not sure which).  It's more 3D.  Like, right now, we're in the middle of a line basically going from left to right.  2000 is sort of a hinge, and the 90s recede backwards and off to the left.  Continuing back, the 80s turn back to the left, and the 70s recede back the same way. 

But I adopt a different perspective when thinking about large swaths of time.  The first millennium is pretty much an up and down line, that turns sharply to the right at 1000.  But I can't see the whole second millennium at once.  After the Reformation, it's like I zero in on specific centuries and decades.  Hmm... nearsightedness is a problem the closer one gets to the present. 

Now, back to your regularly scheduled blogging...

37

I'll admit it.  I was feeling a bit old in the run-up to my birthday.  My conversation with Jonathan had something to do with it.  I can't speak for my lectionary partner, but I was feeling... wistful... thinking about the Emergent Church described in the Christian Century article, and the contrast with my own ministry.  Frankly, I'm jealous of those who have the opportunity to serve congregations full of young adults who are neither nihilistic hedonists nor the sanctimonious types one associates with certain para-church ministries.

Since my ordination 12 years ago I've served small congregations in small to tiny towns and rural communities.  That means being cut off, to some degree, from people my own age.  To be sure, gray hair is a crown of glory.  I'm grateful for the gift the aged have given me:  a vision of a life well-lived.  (And I'm also grateful, in a different way, for other gifts a few have inadvertently given me--a vision of what not to become).  But sometimes I feel like I missed out on young adulthood because I didn't move through it with other young adults.

So when I woke up last Wednesday to hear Steve Inskeep cheerfully announce that it was also Wilfred Brimley's birthday, I wanted to pull the covers back over my head.  Did you know that Wilfred Brimley is only 72?  How is that possible?  Wasn't he at least that old when he was in Cocoon 20 years ago?

I'm feeling better this week.  For one, there's more young adults around me than I tend to realize.  In fact, after nearly nine years at John Calvin there's almost a critical mass of single people in their 20s in and around the church.

Parker Palmer's book Let Your Life Speak has also cheered me.  The last chapter talks about the life cycle in terms of seasons.  Middle Age is Autumn.  Now Autumn is a beautiful season, but it's tinged with sadness.  The shortening days and the shedding of leaves reminds one, even in the midst of dazzling fall color, that death (Winter) is nearer. 

But Autumn is also the time when trees drop seeds and acorns.  Prodigious amounts.  They get scattered everywhere.  Migrating birds feast on red dogwood berries, and then deposit them far from the tree that produced them, to germinate and grow.

Middle Age is a time when you've actually accumulated enough knowledge to spread it abroad.  Who knows what might grow up in the next generation thanks to a class you teach, a friendly piece of advice, a hug or a kiss?

If Middle Age is Autumn, then I suppose it's Labor Day for me--me being 37.  In the South, summer hangs on too long.  Labor Day is not a nice day for a parade in North Carolina.  It can be hot and humid, and, if there were a drought in mid-summer, the oppressive air is matched by the sad, washed-out green of tree leaves panting for cooler temperatures.

I've been in a spiritual torpor.  Psychologically, it's been the dog days of August for me, Labor Day at the outside.  The last year has had more than it's share of stresses, vocational and familial.  But the change in weather has been matched by changes in circumstances for us which have left us feeling much less stressed, and left me with far more energy for work and family.

So this week I'm not mourning the passing away of my 30s any more than Southerners mourn the retreat of hazy, humid air before the season's first vigorous cold front.  I'm looking forward to Middle Age.

Besides, 37 is a prime number.  What an ingenious creation of God's--the prime number!  Surely there's something special about this year!