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Wednesday, November 4, 2009

orange love

by Zach Kincaid
It began in the orange grove. They were too young to realize that their curiosity had blind-alley eyes. The earth tone pickup truck melted into the turns and weaves of squatty trees that dripped its fruit. Michael’s adolescent senses naturally hunted for a solace space to take his girl. He was a hound sniffing out the chase.

Citrus oils sting the eyes and make bitter the first bite of an unpeeled orange. He didn’t think about that. Jodie sat next to him in the cab, a little restless from the ragged path that brought them to the middle of the grove. If film can modify your perspective, think zoom out and up. There sits a small truck, its naked bay stuck out, an odd duck in a neighborhood of a thousand trees. You can see the crooked spine of Michael’s path inward. It probably won’t be his getaway. Creativity precedes lust; it never follows it. There’s a straight shot back and right of screen. Jodie didn’t know it. She would have run it down, scared, if she had. The orchard hemmed her in and quickly ate up the outside world.

The sun grew tired of the whole affair and said good night as Michael rigged makeshift quarters in the back of his truck. Blankets, pillows, a few candles soon to be lit. He knew what he wanted. He planned it out. Jodie was not limp in the exchange though they hadn’t talked about it; that would have shamed the event for sure. She put on delicate attire, and giddy, asked, "Where are we going? Where are you taking me tonight?"

Neither one knew the details of how it would play out; two teenage Baptist virgins wanting to embrace the forbidden.

First times happen once; hunger follows then routine sets in. The spaces between are anxious or boring.

Michael went over and opened Jodie’s door. He spent some time organizing the props just right. Jodie strolled down the path that brought them here, hands in her pockets.
She reached up and picked an orange. It was just right.

“All ready now,” Michael said with a motion for Jodie to come.

Jodie walked back. She felt herself moving in slow motion caught between the now and then, the lost and found.

They climbed onto the truck's back and looked up at the stars.

“Mike, you see the big dipper?” Jodie asked, pointing. “It’s right there.”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Did you know that it points to the North Star? That’s what the slaves used to make sure they were heading the right direction.”

Paying little attention, Michael jerked up and lit some candles. He had balanced them on each side of the cabin roof. “Forgot that part,” he said.

“Follow the northern star; follow the northern star. That was their song,” she said.

“Who put all those up there anyway?” Michael asked. “And why?”

“You know the answer to both those questions,” said Jodie. “Maybe they’re not stars at all, just holes people poked out in the floor of heaven to see out.”

“Why would they want to see down here?”

“To remember, perhaps.”

“Maybe.”

Michael paused and looked over at Jodie. “Come here.”

Jodie scooted closer, putting her head on his chest.

Michael didn’t waste any time in reaching down and slipping his hand inside Jodie’s shirt. Jodie obliged, Michael thought, because she didn’t resist him. And besides, that’s what they came out to the orchard to do. Even though they never voiced it, they both knew it.

Jodie turned and kissed him. It was a signal to start their exploration. They unpeeled each other of their clothes and ducked under the blankets as if they were a cave overhead - as if they believed there really were voyeurs behind the stars.

The moment was too sensual for Michael. He forced himself inside Jodie and within seconds he had released all those inhibitions and haunts.

He felt free; Jodie just hurt. She was a exposed and sticky. She sat up and looked down at her body.

“Blood!” she burst out. “Look at this blood.”

“Let me help you,” Michael said with little triumph, but more embarrassment than anything else. He took the pillow out from under her and tossed it out of the truck.

Jodie lay back down and pulled the blankets up over her head. From underneath them she said, “I hope I’m not pregnant.”

“You’re not. It’ll be OK.”

“Yeah, you’re not bleeding.”

“I love you, Jodie.”

After a minute, Michael picked an orange. “Want one?”

“No thanks.”

He bit into it and cooly began to peel it open.

“I hope I’m not pregnant,” she said again.

“You're not, Jodie. It'll be okay. I love you.”

Jodie struggled to sit up. She fell into Michael’s lap which was full of orange peels. Love seemed to be exchanged between them though she never said anything. Her thoughts were on the northern star.


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earth child

by David Grubb
Neolithic
Did they dance
as they laid you in earth
ready for future time,
or were they ashamed
of the large head and
strange sounds?
Laid down in darkness
beyond snow and wind,
a silence suspending all
that they might know,
these cautious rituals
of dream and bone.
What words did they
give their gods
as you lay forgotten;
and what words do
we greet you with
and why no name?
It is the same moon,
the same way of winds
and when snow comes
we are silent and alone
and nobody enters
the place you inhabit.
Sometimes you appear
in rain or when cloud
cuts across sun and there
are always people who
attempt to tell your story
giving you a date and name
which will not work,faltering
like prayers to unknown gods
and their forged territories,
even when we have hollows
and scatterings and places that the
sun will not let alone,our seasons
sensing lost songs of your hiding.
Were they ashamed of the large head
or the way that the flames entered you?


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Friday, October 16, 2009

Oh South Carolina

by Ed Derby
Matthew's House has graciously allowed me to say a few words about the United States and the political world. Although my comments might cause some to side one way or another, my main observation is an historic one, rather than the want to lose one's head - namely mine- in the drivel of American politics today. I hope you'll oblige a reading and a discussion.

Last month Joe Wilson failed in his politicking and picked the pocket of honesty. But his, "You lie!" is not the first South Carolinian cry that challenged the federation and the president that is its head. South Carolina is the whip that calls out such abuses. For example, it is South Carolina who leads out in the succession of states that will form the Confederacy. And if we step back further, it is South Carolina that is so anxious about Andrew Jackson and his woeful tariff control that John Calhoun (who was Jackson's former vice president) leads out a rebellion. Yes, Jackson wraps himself around it and takes care of these would-be rebels but the first breaths of confederacy are inhaled... and that air is crisp and dangerous at the same time.

Now, Joe Wilson received disciplinary action for his "breach of decorum." Has "Mr.President" become "His Majesty"? John Adams tried to make it so and it didn't happen. Washington preferred a simple title and one that echoed a certain humility (along the lines of his 1783 resignation as a war hero and "retirement" to Mt Vernon after beating the most powerful nation in the world.) No, only Mr. President, please. And the title suggests a leveling that is unlike other nations. The president will be a regular person and his respect will be a regular respect, they said. Perhaps Wilson crossed the lines of common etiquette. That certainly can be argued. But he did not cross lines that infer the executive branch in a propped up manner.

What lies inside of South Carolina that coals at the idea of federalism run amuck? What is absent in her fellow southern states that they sit silently?

It's encouraging to see South Carolina cycle around the same block, whether it's Wilson's blast or DeMint's angst. At the same time, it's discouraging to hear the media connect the concern only in the theater that's called today. If we have a longer view, we recognize that "You lie!" is an echo that needs to be heard, even if it be mere rhetoric. It's the voice that has marked out statehood versus a united blob and it's a voice that might be willing to have another go at country status if the federation breaks the back of friendship for which we share our union. In the end, are we not part of a democracy that serves to be free and open, even when it means a union that is vulnerable?


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Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Sunday Mornings

by Bryce Alan Flurie
As the amens rang out
and the hymnals closed,
the ladies began
a percussion, a soft swishing
of painted Jesus fans glued
to curved popsicle sticks.

The crinkling of
King James’ pages.
Mmm hmms, Amens,
Heads nodding in agreement.
A call for the old man
to become new.
The sinner to sanctification,
a rebel to repentance.
Then as elbows planted firmly
on the old walnut alter,
Just As I Am
Without One Plea was mouthed
in a reverent harmony,
a flat tenor behind me
choking back tears.

As I scribbled innocent Blakean poems
and stared at the gorgeous brunette
who years later
became my wife.


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When I Sleep

by Rupert M. Loydell
I don't know what to do with my arms.
They fall off the side or end up numb
under the pillow. Spiders build nests
in my armpits and my muscles won't
work in the morning. I don't know what
to do with my head. I drool and sweat
on the pillow, snore and grunt if I
don't get it right, drown in feathers
and dream of the dark. I don't know
what to do with my feet. Short as I am
they poke out the bottom or sides
of the bed, turn blue like the sky
outside. I don't know when to stop
reading or when to turn out the light.
Should I get up now or put down
my pen, turn over or rise like the lark?

When I sleep, I don't know what to do
with my bed. I'm not qualified for
dreaming, and can't follow those
do-it-yourself instruction sheets.
Should it be by the window or up
against the wall? Is a duvet or blanket
the best? I don't know whether to leave
the window open wide or seal the heat
in tight. Is breakfast in bed just common
or the sign of a cultured mind?
It's nobody's fault but mine but
I don't know when to do what anymore.
The light comes in at the window
each morning and disappears late
at night. Outside it is still raining as
I raise my arms up to the sky.


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Indigo Girls Interview

by Zach Kincaid
A few weeks ago I saw the Indigo Girls at the Capitol Theatre in Macon, Ga. The place only sat 300 so it was close and intimate. As always, their harmony, guitar playing, and thoughtfulness proved impressive. I had the occasion to interview Emily and Amy a few years back and due to the shuffling to a new web presence the posting died a virtual death... but I've found it again and I wanted to resurrect it with portions of a review of their "Despite Our Differences" album (which I know dates the interview).

---
On the horizon they all unfold… places, spaces that we inhabit, keep, abandon, fill or empty of the ruts and rewards of community and commerce. It’s this sense of place that haunts, reprises, and redeems us in the recent offering of the Indigo Girls, “Despite our Differences.”

“Place has always been important to me,” says Amy. “It’s the flora, the fauna, the feel of the earth. I have a strong connection to the South. It’s been that way in my family for generations. I don’t like everything that’s associated with the South, and if my relation was New York City, I suppose it would be a more urban feel. But, I look for connectedness with my neighbors and my community even though we may vote and feel differently about things...

“I haven’t been to that many places, but when I see, on a commercial level, similarities like GAP and Pottery Barn, it all looks the same. People like that convenience, but you don’t really have anything when you take away the landscape. I think people want to feel. Some plow down and rebuild the way it used to be in order to capture a little of that feeling.”

Emily agrees. “Since we are always on the move and always gone, place is particularly important,” she says. “You can feel thinned out on tour; it’s not really reality. It’s good to have a sense of identity inside your community where you are loved. I think human beings are born to live in community. We are hungry for a sense of place and to know who we are and how we fit in. I own a restaurant in Decatur and place plays out even when buying produce. We buy locally and that means you don’t get strawberries until the summer. So place is seasonal like that. And in spiritual life it’s that way too, with liturgy.”

So, the Indigo Girls are nourished by the idea of place, and they are equally fed by their indignant appetite against the thieves that rob communities of identity, lasting relationship, and those hooks on which we hang change - the “subdivision man,” “pavers,” and “associations.”

Open to “Pendulum Swingers” –

I see love and I want to make it happen
What we get from your war walk
The ticker of the nation breaking down like a bad clock
I want the pendulum to swing again
So that all your mighty mandate
was just spitting in the wind

It’s a rebel song about the elite that control society and wage its wars, and about finding out the emptiness of power yet its stronghold on the disenfranchised. It’s a call is to swing the pendulum and invite change like the swinging chariot of Elijah that broke the ancient passageways between the heavens and the earth.

These mandating powers not only trample on the individual who could introduce change, and reduces her/him to “a drop in the bucket,” says the song, but they also harm the ability to believe:

It’s fine about the old scroll sanskrit
Gnostic gospels the da vinci code’s a smash hit
Aren’t we dying just to read it and relate
Too hard just to go by a blind faith

“It’s like teeth in sugar; it tastes sweet,” says Emily. “You turn the page [of The Da Vinci Code] and you start thinking, ‘it might be.’ We all want answers. We are bombarded by pop culture which is looking for answers. The problem is that most of us don’t take the time to sit still and sift through this stuff. People are spiritually dying and need answers. We’re really asking, ‘To whom do we belong?’ and ‘where are the miracles?’ We want to see beyond the mundane and the reality we live in.”

Move to “Little Perennials” –

I look for words to fill the empty spaces,
all the life revealed in these back stages.
I reach for names like little puzzle pieces;
Oh perennial, come to me.

I asked Amy what perennials – those reoccurring things – provide her the assurances to make sense, even cautiously, of life. “Every time I see someone I’m related to, I’m forced back into life,” she says. “It’s a good reminder of reality. Probably for me, another is not being closed into spaces. We’re always hiking or doing something outdoors on tour. And also songs. We’ll go for some time without singing a particular song and then when we do sing it, it brings up something new – different.”

It's true. Amending one’s perspective in order to gain an ability to see the small things that charm life, give a gentle nudge of inspiration, and lean on a hope for relationship “despite our differences” is a simple message that defines the Indigo Girls today.

“I Believe in Love” carries the weight of the album title in a “New Year’s Day”, “Under a Blood Red Sky” smoothness –

I want to say that underneath it all you are my friend
And the way that I fell for you I’ll never fall that way again
I still believe despite our differences
that what we have’s enough
I believe in you and I believe in love

Is it that simple? Listen more. “Three County Highway,” the album’s next offering, demonstrates a wandering that is necessary to frame the touching lines that conclude the song –

So put your head on my heart and lay down
in the crook of my arm.
Everything’s okay, I’ve been found again,
I’ve been found again.

Amy and Emily seem to insist that finding authentic places means living within community and taking risks on people and their love... and your love for them. They seem to treasure honesty and genuineness in others. Maybe that’s the folk artist that’s ever present in their stories. “Dirt and Dead Ends” samples it as Amy tells of a friendship unharnessed and an authenticity tackled by hellish addictions that won't come clean.

“Lay My Head Down” and “Money Made You Mean” are dropped into the center of the album and seem to feed on each other, telling two sides of the same tale - the external and internal temptations to wear the mask of life upon the face of death.

“Lay My Head Down” pauses to catch the simple gesture of security and affection. “Money Made You Mean” drives at the opinions that our needs and righteous anger are always wrestling with the system of dollars and cents changing hands and making us want excessively. “Lay My Head Down” stumbles inside a party and “Money Made you Mean” kicks you in the gut.

“Money can be tied to meanness,” says Amy, “but money is a tool that can also do good. In the song, I’m asking that question about myself in a cynical sort of way. As an activist, you can do good with it, but that still drives you to want more money and that drive can take over the good.”

I asked about her opinions of campaigns like Product Red and the popularity of tying consumption that is fueled by tossing something charity's way.

“People are going to sell things and the opposite is that they don’t give anything back,” she says. “It’s a conundrum. What’s really being given back when you purchase something? How significant is it? And is the need created because of the products themselves – being made in sweatshops or something similar. It provides an easy out. It makes you sad. I’m taking myself to task. I get paid to do a record and that money comes from somewhere. Are we just creating a need and recycling it back? Our work on energy justice, for example. It takes energy to run the campaign. I think we need to do our best and try not to waste.”

As for a starting point, Amy suggests that we first find our identity and be comfortable with who we are individually. It’s at that point that we can reflect on the greed that often captivates us, and recognize the need for a more relational landscape that is stripped of some commerce that acts too often as a blind guide –

You could keep it all or give it away
but where did it come from in the first place?
Robbing Peter to pay me and I’ll just be
giving it back to Peter to feel free.

Cut to: “Lay My Head Down” –

And everyone’s tied to their thing
To their past or their drink or the date that they bring
I just get tired all of a sudden taking it in
And I want to lay my head down on you
Because you’re the only solid thing in this room
A room full of changes, strangers, illusion, confusion
I speak from my heart but I’m not really sure if it’s true
I want to lay my head down on you

“The way in and the way out is through a human being,” Emily says. “We have a human need for each other – to find our respite and refuge and rest. There’s a codependency. The song’s about a party getting loose and getting tired and among the music and temptation, you’re the one thing. It’s metaphorical as well.”

We talked some about Matthew’s House, about Jesus being there - being here - and the world as that house with the so called sinners of the day. We both agreed that Jesus is the way in and out.

And it’s that space that recognizes community, which Amy also speaks about when I ask her to define “hope.”

“Hope is symbolized by people in my community who have seen the worst but persevere and remain active participants,” she says. “When I visit the Zapatistas in the jungle and they’ve built schools and communities- people who have suffered but rise above it and still love each other and love people. When I’m down, I call someone I know that will help. It renews me. So, hope is very communal.”

And hope is essential in these songs. It’s hope that closes “All the Way”, “They Won’t Have Me,” and “Last Tears,” the final three tunes on the record. Here's the last line of each respectively –

At least we laugh about it now how we escaped alive
It’s remarkable the mess we make and what we can survive

All this love to offer, all this love to waste.
All this love to offer, all this love to waste.

And when I’m drunk on the last drop of sadness
about how we went wrong
I’m going to play this song
make some coffee black and strong
Give thanks for healing time, and finally make up my mind
These are the last tears I’m gonna cry for you
My cryin’s through I’m moving on

“Hope is the light at the end of the tunnel, to use a cliché,” says Emily, “and at the end is a place of rest, where you’re at peace again. I guess I’m an eternal optimist, even in those moments where hope is excruciating to hold onto because of pain.”

Music itself can carry hope, truth, and salve for cutting differences. “Music gives you the ability to find a way – pitch, space between notes, beats,” says Emily. “It’s reflective of the our physiology – the heartbeat and pulse. My dad and I wrote a book together about music. He’s a professor of sacred music. And we’ve had conversations about some Eminim song that sells a million copies, if that make it more or less valid than other music. I don’t think so, because it’s saying something that registers to those listeners.”

“Opening up the thought process is what’s important,” says Amy. “It’s about dialogue.”

The Indigo Girls offer this piece of dialogue 20 years and 10 albums after pointing to that crooked line that brought them a level of stardom. With a new deal on Hollywood Records (a “compromise” of its own, says Amy) it looks like they have more paths to journey, or, should I say “plenty revolutions left.”

---

After the mixed commercial success of their Hollywood Records album, they were dropped from the label and have since release "Poisiden and the Bitter Bug" as an independent release. It's worth getting a copy.


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Friday, July 31, 2009

on not being finessed by carnival barkers or someone else's talking points

by David Dark

Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you. - Walt Whitman “To a Common Prostitute”

Technology is the knack of so arranging the world that we don’t have to experience it. - Max Frisch

If one clings to the strong man, One loses the little boy. -The I-Ching or Book of Changes

My wife and I were fated to pass a Friday evening in September carrying children through a cacophony of carousels, ferris wheels, air horns, and troubled youth smelling of corn dogs and elephant ears when, at the end of a busy week, my five-year-old daughter was bequeathed a free ticket to the Tennessee State Fair. I hadn't partaken in the madness in over twenty years, and I was pleased to note that goldfish are still occasionally placed in food coloring and that certain dizzying contraptions appear to hold intergenerational appeal. Of the unsettling episodes we witnessed as we accompanied our children through the madness, one particular sensation that I suspect will remain with me for a good long time involved the games of chance.

They were strategically positioned so that no customers could make their way down to a single ride without running the gauntlet of twenty or so booths. Because we were among the first to arrive (with no crowd in which to lose ourselves), there was no mistaking who was being spoken to as one loud, tired man after another made every possible, impassioned appeal he could improvise:

"Sir, stop. I must insist. Bring your girl over here." "Don't you want to give your little daughter a prize? C'mon, sir, two dollars!" "I'll make sure she wins! A doll for your sweet little girl!"

And the subtext: "What kind of a father are you? Do you love her or don't you? Can't you spare a little money to make your child happy?"

Somehow, I was able to laugh out loud, but my ego was positively pummeled by their taunts. It was perfectly ridiculous, but in spite of my wife’s reassuring glances reminding me of my worth as a husband, a father, and a man, I felt powerfully compelled to respond; either with an immediate “Okay, let’s go. Here’s the money. What do I have to do?” OR with an unreasoning anger against these men whose shouting made me feel so helplessly put upon.

I felt like I’d better DO something lest all order be reduced to chaos. What kind of a man am I?

After we made it past the shouting, my thoughts turned inevitably to the then-seemingly omnipresent, American presidential campaign. How to talk and think about it redemptively had been on my mind every day. Some especially provocative words on the question of how to participate in the electoral process while attempting to bear faithful witness to the kingdom of God came, within a few days of each other, from Mark Noll of Wheaton, Alasdair MacIntyre of Notre Dame, and Sanskrit scholar, Brazos author, First Things contributor, Paul J. Griffiths. They all seemed to agree that “none of the above” was probably the most coherently Christian response. My experience with the carnival barkers and all the parallels it brought to my mind came close to putting me in agreement. The only way to respond redemptively and reasonably to the proffered alternatives might be to devote our energies elsewhere. How might we say Yes to humans and No to the insane paradigm that’s been foisted upon us?

In a beautiful moment of clarity, the President had casually remarked to Matt Lauer of NBC that, of course, the war on terror can’t be won. Enough of the crazy talk. A war on terror, like a war on sin or Jupiter or gravity, won’t be won by anything so human and finite as a nation-state. We can all admit as much, can’t we? We aren’t hunting down Moby Dick after all. But within days, it became clear to someone within the campaign that the masses required a very different tune, and the President spoke into the camera with the same old song, “Let me be clear, we WILL win the war on terror.”

And Senator Kerry, who once famously confessed to shooting a fleeing Vietnamese soldier under the banner of an absolutely necessary war on evil, found himself putting on an Ahab face as he assured the cameras that, under his leadership, we will hunt down and kill all terrorists.

For God’s sake, pray for these men, I told my students. But don’t miss the strangeness and the tragedy of what’s going on. And don’t let your own, beleaguered hold on truthfulness be hijacked by someone else’s talking points. I wanted them to understand that, here in the land of the free, it’s probably our patriotic duty to recognize and think clearly about the absurd plight (or chosen vocation) of these two men.

In an age of high-tech carnival barking, they might be, in a very real sense, our two least free citizens, at least until after the election. And even then, can the words we speak be completely divorced from who we are or what we’ve become? What about the words to which we listen? How might we hear and respond without forfeiting our souls?

The language of the sales pitch is, by definition, untruthful, and steeling ourselves against its false urgency and its presumption of moral authority will often be a very difficult task. When we manage to remove ourselves out of shouting range, we can see that those who feel compelled to speak in sales pitch in the hope of getting ahead are to be pitied. But more often than not, we find ourselves somehow unwittingly enlisted. Sometimes we find someone else’s talking points coming out of our own mouths in what started out as an honest conversation with a neighbor or relative. We confuse actual people for the stances and issues we associate with them based on whoever it is we suspect they’re voting for.

I doubt I’m alone in my experience of some church communities acting an awful lot like sleeper cells for the Republican Party and too many conversations (with other people of faith) turning inevitably toward a word of passionate disdain for President Bush as a person.

We dilate the significance of our witness when we allow our speech to play into a “moral values” market category or a pillar in the architecture of Karl Rove. Ancient wisdom has long notified that the powerful and the self-justifying, self-described righteous will barter in truthlessness with the best of intentions, forcing themselves and their listeners into limited identities. Students of the Bible know that false authorities have a way of multiplying and coopting all things human and humane. Doing as they will, principalities and powers makes us deaf to the possibility of confession. They numb us to the joys of finding out, daily, how we’ve come to view the world wrongly and how we’ve failed to view our neighbors and enemies as sacraments in themselves.

Whenever we’re viewed as objects rather than participants (poll numbers, target markets, collateral damage), we can begin to note that we’ve entered into the carefully constructed system of fetishes called a commercial. Learning to doubt wisely, discern shrewdly, and pray generously might seem like too much extra work in an already overblown day. It helps when two or more are nearby (or e-mailable) to assist in the work of communal discernment which is the life of a functioning church. And it also helps if your token “two or more” isn’t caught in the exact same informational echo chamber in which many of us find ourselves.

In this new year, go have a conversation with that mysteriously kind, stumbling block of a friend who (you suspect) probably voted for Kerry. Sit down for coffee with that fellow who, in spite of his/her strange fondness for President Bush, has more time for more people than anyone you know. And (if you’re feeling really crazy), visit the basement apartment of your nearest Nader supporter with a homemade apple pie. Lord willing, it’ll be a redemptive time. We can make up our own talking points. And we can begin to try to live and love in a new way. We’re made for it.

Amen.


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languishing in lancaster

by Bryce Alan Flurie
Black coffee at midnight.

After closing down
every coffee house in the county,
and weeknight pubs
closing their doors
long before midnight,
I stumble in for a Nat Sherman
and what had to be the stalest, rancid
cup of coffee in the state of Pennsylvania.

Gideon Bibles and rusty pocket knives
cut the same in strange towns.


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commodification of culture

by Ken Myers
The experience we have as consumers is surely one of the most formidable features of contemporary life, and yet the way living in consumer culture affects us is often neglected by religious leaders. Most often theologians, pastors, and moralists focus on the problem of greed or materialism, worthy concerns to be sure, but like the poor greed and materialism we always have with us.

There's nothing new about covetousness or the god called mammon. The new thing about consumer culture is less about intemperate desire than about identity, less about wanting things than about needing to want things. The new thing about consumer culture is suggested in the word used more by sociologists than pastors: commodification.

Vincent Miller, assistant professor of theology at Georgetown University, is eager for Christians not to underestimate the destructive effects of consumer culture on society. His recent book is called Consuming Religion: Christian Faith and Practice in a Consumer Culture.

Vincent Miller: Consumer culture is certainly about consuming, but it's about consuming certain kinds of things like commodities. A commodity is not necessarily a thing but a thing seen a certain way, and how the thing is seen is in abstraction from its origins, from its conditions of production, from the land and the space where the products grow, and from the laborers that then produce it and bring it to market. All those things don't appear, so when you walk into the produce section and see a banana there, all you see is whether it's an attractive banana or not and how much it costs. You don't see anything about the labor struggles in Latin America, how Equador coming online has undercut the labor gains of the last 30 years in Central America.

It's not that we don't care about those things, the system systematically hides them from us so I think in my quantification, it gives the new read of what's going on in consumer culture. It's not simply greed. It's not simply excessive desire for things although it certainly involves that, but it's also not having access to the information to make profound decisions about our consumption.

I think most consumers would make very different decisions if they knew about the sweatshops that produced their clothes in a specific way rather than a generalized anxiety we have. On that basic level of consumption, thinking about the commodity and how it works gives you a much more complex way of engaging what's going on with our high levels of consumption. Seeing a commodity as presenting itself with a ready appearance that we can evaluate, desire and choose without any context in the situation of production, I argue in the book, and many cultural theorists over the past hundred years have argued, has gradually colonized the way we relate to culture as well. That way of seeing things makes us comfortable in engaging pieces of culture, picking out of the context without asking questions about what they meant in their original traditions, what they meant in terms of their origins, what they meant for the communities that practiced them.

The example that always leaps to mind is the song "Return to Innocence" by Enigma. It was a global hit in the early 90s. It opens with this very moving acapella folk song that's gradually set to a dance beat. When I first heard it, I liked it, and obviously millions of people liked it around the world. I listened to it for probably three or four years, and always presumed it was some kind of indigenous folk music but I never actually asked, "What indigenous culture? Where? And, what was the folk music?" It turns out that it's in the Ammi language, so I believe if you look at the liner notes you get some transliteration of the syllables. It turns up happily enough that it's a harvest song, happy drinking song it's called. But it's only when there was a story on NPR several years later about a lawsuit started by an ethnomusicologist in Taiwan who knew where the music came from and filed it on behalf of the tribe.

That story illuminated the commodification of culture so well for me because I was comfortable listening to this song with some kind of ethnic concern for indigenous people for half a decade and I had no idea whatsoever what the meaning of the music was. I contrast that with my grandfather and imagining him listening to that song and he'd say, "What the heck is that? What does it mean? Who is that person? What is he singing?" He would have been uncomfortable engaging that piece of music in the way that I did.

KM: So in treating this piece of music simply as a commodity, the meaning of the music vanishes. It becomes a contextless ornament. What happens to us when we become accustomed to consuming disassociated cultural tidbits, leading cultural lives that are an assemblage of accessories?

VM: That way of seeing things translates into a set of habits of interpretation, a set of habits of using culture that makes us comfortable engaging small pieces of religion in abstraction from, separated from, lifted from their contexts within their historical, communal traditions. When we engage in this way two things are lost. First, the relationship of the religious symbol or doctrine or value or even the practice - the relationship of those pieces of religious culture to the broader tradition, the broader worldview, where symbols and doctrines and values and practices are all connected together. This worldview reinforces their meaning; it corrects misunderstandings. That's the first loss and as a result you get this more weightless elements of religious culture. The second loss is the connection to communities, communal practices, and the communal institutions that connect this worldview to a form of life.

KM: It's important to underline the word "unconsciously." These habits of interpretation and cultural appropriation are learned by living in culture dominated by consumption and sadly reinforced, I might add, when religious leaders glibly adopt the paradigm of the market to guide the strategies of religious ministries. One of the terms that is often used to describe the dynamic of the commodification of culture is pastiche.

VM: Pastiche happens in a culture where elements of tradition are so commodified, so ground down in little discrete objects, round little polished stones, they have very little connection to one another, very little traction, friction. Therefore, the combinations themselves have very little meaning because they disconform to the container; they don't challenge them as we use them.

KM: Could you give an example of something like that?

VM: I think the perfect example would be Reginald Bevy’s study of Canadian religious belief that has half the people there simultaneously affirming resurrection and reincarnation. If you have even a slightly deep understanding of one of those you know they are completely incompatible. But if they are removed from their tradition in discrete ways, it somehow must be for these people possible to affirm both.

KM: So, there's a sense that affirming resurrection gives me something and affirming reincarnation gives me something else and I want both things.

VM: Yes. And, you encounter both things in a way that doesn't force you to choose between them.

KM: The mentality encouraged by consumer culture has been increasingly intensified in the past four decades. One of the results has been a disastrous erosion of the very idea of authority, and the legitimacy of institutional authority. Of course, there have been explicit attacks on the idea of authority from the various philosophical sources, but these arguments have probably not been as influential in encouraging a general suspicion or indifference toward authority as has the intuitive outlook encouraged in a culture of consumption. The consequences for churches will continue to be severe especially if one's view of the church contains some notion of authority, discipline, and the protection of orthodoxy.

VM: Religious institutions, authority structures and communities structurally have less and less control over the archives of their tradition. They don't have the ability to force interpretations or demand certain disciplines for access. That's simply gone. We're in a situation where we have to reconstitute that in a new way. It will be very difficult, but it's the challenge that religious communities, in general, face. What we need is to find a non-fundamentalist way to respond to the erosions of globalization, where the ongoing existence of organized religious traditions is very much an open question over the next several hundred years. The archives won't go away, nor the symbols, the doctrines or even the values. But whether there'll be organized traditions of practice in communities that hand on certain interpretive habits for engaging these traditions that’s an open question. It's a structural problem as much as a problem of the attitudes of individual believers.

KM: But the attitudes are encouraged or sustained or given plausibility by the structures.

VM: Absolutely. What I really sense is over the past fifteen years a sea change has begun to happen, where you hear more and more voices raising this new question about how do we preserve traditions in a non-fundamentalist way. Because of the egregious abuses of religious leaders and institutions, a general attitude is suspicion and therefore very hard to talk about this today. What we need is a new attitude that realizes and respects the value of institutions and communities, the friction, pain, and tensions that come with that. It's harder to believe in a local community. It's harder to believe within a community that has an allegiance to a broader global community with authority structures. There are all sorts of frictions that necessarily come up when belief happens within communities and institutions, but along with those frictions comes a massive weight that preserves both the worldview and the form of life of the tradition.

KM: Let me push this a little further. One of the liabilities of the posture of the consumer is that it makes it difficult for us to have some deep sense that there is something prior to our own choice. There's some commanding demand in the cosmos that is prior to our choosing.

VM: Yes.

KM: And, we may not like what it represents, but the mentality of the consumer makes it less and less likely that people will submit to an order that they really don't like but know has a kind of commanding presence prior to themselves.

VM: When the self is formed as a consumer, not necessarily understood as a consumer, but formed as a consumer, you lose the ability to ask those more fundamental questions you raised about whether one's own desire is appropriate to begin with. You lose a space to think about how desire needs to be reformed before it decides. You lose the ability to ask the questions about do I know what's best for me, or does a voice from outside of me call me to transformation towards an end that I cannot envision or can even desire for myself, yet. The self is now constructed as a chooser, not as one that is called and responds. That's a little invisible than not being able to accept an order outside of one's self because we can always choose that, but this idea that there might be something more fundamental than their choices that doesn't appear within the system.

KM: During our conversation, Vincent Miller pointed out that there are two kinds of responses to consumer culture among religious leaders. The first is to embrace the dynamics of consumption, to commodify Jesus. If people are predisposed to regard religion as consumer goods, than Christians should assure that the gospel is the shiniest, sexiest, most user-friendly, instantly gratifying product on the shelf. That is the assimulationist's strategy. At the other extreme is the withdrawal strategy. Build the walls thicker and higher and preach louder and longer. Miller suggests a different approach, one that takes seriously the disorienting effects of commodification.

VM: The option that I pursue is what I call a tactical response, which is to admit that we don't control the world out there, that the days of Christendom are gone forever, that most religious communities no longer significantly have influence on the socialization of their believers. They come already formed largely on broader culture. What do you do about that situation? A tactical response tries to look at the resources of a given religious community and see how it can attempt to tactically challenge the most problematic aspects of consumer formation. The first assertion is a strong and perhaps odd one. If this argument works, that the commodification of religion is a result of a commodification of culture which is a consequence of our formation of ways of seeing things, the first step has to be to address commodification and begin to imagine the objects we consume as having an origin, of coming from the earth somewhere, of being the work of human hands in certain places.

KM: So the first step is not what we do on Sunday, but what we do Monday through Friday.

VM: Precisely. I’m not proposing this as an ethical practice although I think ethically we should challenge consumption, I'm proposing it as a meditative formation of the imagination. Pick one commodity and learn everything you can about where it comes from, how it was produced, what issues are going on in the context of its production.

KM: To reiterate, you said you are not proposing this as an ethical or a political activist sort of thing. You're not saying do this so you'll vote the right way.

VM: This is a spiritual discipline to begin to change the way we imagine the world. This is the beginning of tearing the veil from the commodity and seeing it as a thing with a context in the world. With that imagination, we can begin to turn to our relationship to culture, turn to our relationship to religion, and begin to see that the same things are going on. These objects that we take willy-nilly from cultures and traditions have an origin, they have original meanings and perhaps the best way for me to respect third world indigenous cultures is not to listen to music that has some generic little splicing of a harvest song but for me to actually get involved in a program to help a community. To bring it closer to the American context, the best way to deal with race relations, for example, is not for me to play African American music, be it spirituals or the blues or hip-hop, it might be for me to be part of a community where I have relationships across the race divide, and not to substitute consumption for those other practices. Awareness is the key thing because all this stuff happens below the level of awareness the more you can bring it up to the surface, the more you can bring up our tendency to substitute consumption for other political and ethical and religious acts. It's not an really an argument about what people believe or whether they have the right values, it's about trying to show people how they're being systematically trained by this culture to substitute acts of consumption for those other acts.

KM: And instead of being consumers of religious products believers should be encouraged by the shape of religious communal experience to see themselves as members of a historical community, not simply abstracted believers but recipients and custodians of a way of life in which belief and practice are intertwined.

VM: We need to continuously encourage people to think of themselves as having responsibility for thinking within the tradition in a new moment and handing it on to a new generation, rather than seeing authority structures and communal structures as coercive things that just get in the way and not things that help preserve the message. Where did you hear about the gospel? It came from this local community of believers, perhaps, and how are you handing that on to the next generation.

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animals are not your friends

by Rupert M. Loydell
I have got to the point of thinking that
one and one might sometimes really make two.
My daughter grasped the idea quicker than me,
was easily convinced. I prefer the enormous power
of doubt and reticence.

Animals are not your friends. It's next
door's cat that kills the birds, the goose
that honks and hisses as it blocks the way.
Everyone gets made redundant in the end,
why are you so surprised?

I have got to the point of thinking that
first appearances always count.
Beneath the breeze there are only dry leaves
and piles of grass cuttings from the lawn.
Breathe in and listen to the birds.

Animals are not your friends. Everyone
has a season and this appears to be mine.
I'm up early like an overweight lark,
drinking in the light. Later I make coffee
and hide out in my room.

"There is nothing left besides regret."


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