Monthly Archives: August 2007

The loss of a good blog

Over the past six months, one of the best religious blogs out there has been Speaking Truth to Power. Written by the pseudononymous uugrrl, it chronicles her thoughts and feelings as someone who was a victim of clergy sexual misconduct. But now she has announced that she’ll be taking the blog down for personal reasons. You have a few more days to read her well-written posts on clergy sexual misconduct.

I’m going to miss uugrrl. In the past, I’ve been in churches that had suffered from clergy sexual misconduct. I discovered that clergy misconduct can poison an entire congregation for years — and I learned that misconduct can have a negative impact on everyone in that congregation. Reading uugrrl’s blog has helped me to come to a better understanding of the evil of clergy sexual misconduct.

I’ll leave you with some critically important advice uugrrl offers to anyone who is a victim of clergy sexual misconduct in a Unitarian Universalist congregation (or in almost any denomination, for that matter):

If you are a victim of UU clergy misconduct, don’t report it…. To be clear, by “don’t report it,” I mostly mean don’t file a formal complaint. I don’t mean you shouldn’t tell anyone. It’s even okay in my opinion to tell the UUA [denominational headquarters], as long as you make it clear they do not have your permission to share your name or to consider you a complainant. Just do what feels safest. And be very careful. One good option is contacting Marie Fortune’s Institute.

Me and the Dalai Lama

I usually don’t touch politics on this blog, but I do touch on questions about the nature of reality. I note with interest that in the looking-glass world of United States politics, nearly all politicians lean towards authoritarianism, conservatives seem like liberals, and the few anti-authoritarian liberals run marginalized campaigns with no hope of success. According to the Political Compass Web site, all but two of the current U.S. presidential candidates are conservatives, and even Dennis Kucinich and Mike Gravel are not particularly liberal or anti-authoritarian. Unreal. Link.

For the record, my political compass scores are as follows: Economic Left/Right: -9.62 (on a scale of -10/Left to 10/Right); and Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -8.31 (on a scale of -10/Libertarian to 10/Authoritarian). In other words, according to the Political Compass people, my political position is far closer to the Dalai Lama than to any of the current U.S. presidential candidates. This helps to explain why U.S. politics makes me feel as if I’ve gone through the looking glass — and no wonder I so rarely preach political sermons. On the other hand, if the Dalai Lama ever needs a running mate, I’d be up for it.

A curious story

In an old book from England, I read the following curious story: When Muhammed (or Mahomet, as the book had it) was about four years old, the angel Gabriel came down to earth, pulled the young lad away from his playmates, took him far away from other prying eyes, plucked the boy’s heart from his breast, and squeezed a drop of some unpleasant liquid out of the living heart. Having removed this one nasty bit of impurity from the future Prophet’s heart, the angel replaced the now purified heart in the boy’s breast, and took the boy back to his playmates. Now the future Prophet’s heart was pure.

I thought to myself, “If only we could purify people’s hearts in that way.” The angel Gabriel had mystical powers those hundreds of years ago, that he could pluck a living heart out of someone’s breast, and purify it. Today, surgeons can cut open a living person’s thoracic cavity, take out their heart, and perform miraculous surgeries on it. But we still can’t purify someone’s heart.

I must have dozed off thinking about the story, for suddenly my head fell down on my chest, awakening me with a start. It was late at night. I closed the musty old book, and there before me stood a strange being, neither male nor female.

“I am Gabriel,” the strange figure said, looking quite ordinary in jeans and t-shirt, although I could see wings fluttering behind. Distracted by the fluttering, I didn’t notice when Gabriel darted a hand into my chest, and plucked out my heart.

“Ow,” I said, but it didn’t really hurt and Gabriel took my heart in one hand and a small glass vial in the other hand, the one hand squeezing my heart and the other hand holding the vial to catch the foul-smelling liquid that ran out of my heart.

“There, that’s done,” said Gabriel, putting my heart, which now looked a good bit smaller, back in my chest. “Now that your heart is pure, you may accompany me while I examine the hearts of some of your politicians.”

Gabriel raised his hand, we whirled through the air, and found ourselves in a hotel room. A well-coiffed man stood admiring himself in the mirror. Gabriel plucked his heart out, and showed it to me. The heart was covered in fat like a cheap cut of bacon. Gabriel explained that the man rarely used his heart so that it was weak and flabby. I suddenly recognized the man as a presidential candidate who supported the war in Iraq but who discouraged his children from joining the armed forces. And when Gabriel squeezed, drops of green rancid goo ran from it; because, so the angel explained, the man spent too much of his large fortune on his political ambitions, rather than on the real needs of the world. Gabriel wrung the fat and goo from the heart, and replaced it in the man’s chest; but the heart must have been unaccustomed to the exertion of serving as the metaphorical moral muscle, and I became aware that it stopped. Oddly enough, the death of his heart didn’t bother the man in the least.

Gabriel raised his hand, another whirl through the air, and we found ourselves in another hotel room with another presidential candidate; this one was talking self-importantly on the telephone. Gabriel plucked out and showed me this man’s heart: it showed a swirl of red and blue on the outside. I recognized this man, too, for he had expediently switched from one political stance to another so that he could improve his presidential chances. Gabriel squeezed the man’s heart to purify it, but there was nothing inside and it popped like a cheap party balloon. Gabriel put the little rubbery scrap back in the man’s chest. The man just kept on talking on the telephone, sounding more self-important than before.

Gabriel raised a hand, another whirl through the air, and we found ourselves in another hotel room with another presidential candidate; this one was clipping his toenails. Gabriel plucked out his heart, and showed me how it was infested with small sharp bits of something that looked like broken automobile glass. I recognized this man as one who used his military record as one of his primary qualifications for running for president. “This kind of heart is almost impossible to purify,” said Gabriel. “These shards of self-righteousness are almost impossible to pick out.” We were short on time, apparently, because Gabriel plopped the man’s heart back into his chest without trying to purify it.

Gabriel raised a hand, but before we could whirl through the air to see another presidential candidate, I said, “Stop! I’ve seen enough. I’m sure there are some good and moral politicians, but they have been hidden away by their political parties so that even you can’t find them. What use is it to watch these ineffectual attempts to purify that which cannot be purified? Only a true prophet can be…”

“You are a pompous ass,” said Gabriel, interrupting me. A raised hand, a whirl through the air, and we were back where we started. Gabriel plucked my heart out of my chest, unstoppered the little glass vial, poured the foul-smelling liquid back into it, and replaced my heart in my chest. “I don’t understand you mortals,” the angel continued. “You think that the hearts of your politicians must be absolutely pure, yet I can’t see that your own hearts are any more pure.”

“Oh,” I said. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily. Can’t you purify my heart once again so that, my heart being utterly pure, then I could with good conscience criticize all the politicians?”

“You’re going to criticize them anyway,” Gabriel said, “so why should I bother?” A small clap of thunder, and he was gone.

— Yr. obdt. humble servant, Isaac Bickerstaff

On board train no. 174, eastern Connecticut

The regional train service offered by Amtrak from New York to Boston travels right along the coast. From New Haven to Rhode Island, the tracks are especially close to the ocean, at times passing over salt water inlets via causeways. Twenty years ago, I rode a train from Boston to New York along this route right after a hurricane, and in several places boats had been pushed right up next to the tracks — that’s how close to the water you get. I’m riding train no. 174, one of several trains bearing the dull name of “Regional Service”; twenty years ago, train no. 174 was called “The Mayflower,” which reminded you that you were going back to New England.

I had my head in a book from New York’s Penn station to New Haven. After you leave New Haven, it always seems that the leaves are not so deep a green color as they are in the middle Atlantic states. The change was enough to make me look up from my book, and gaze out the window. The green of New England is mixed with a measure of gold, and the trees and bushes look lighter and even a little translucent.

We passed through the port of New London. Two ferries to Long Island were at their dock, with a few cars on board. The Block Island ferry was just a little farther along the waterfront, and here again I could look right into the car deck as we passed by. Beyond the ferries, I could see cranes reaching into a huge red ship, unloading containers. I saw only a few fishing boats. The far side of the harbor was dominated by the huge General Dynamics building — mysterious in its blankness, forbidding.

The train pulled out of the station. We passed through salt marshes with their peculiar green-gold color, the ocean disappeared and we passed modest suburban houses, suddenly we were on a causeway with the water lapping at the rocks not far below the tracks. A beach appeared, widened, people lay in the sun and splashed in the water, the beach got hidden by a dune and then by scraggly pine trees, a boardwalk with people carrying towels and floats and coolers, they headed towards an underpass going under the tracks.

The ocean disappeared, woods and houses, then a small inlet with just one mooring and one small powerboat tied to it, woods and houses again, then a fair sized harbor with two marinas separated by jetties. At the far side of the harbor, huge houses looked down on the water, in which they were reflected.

Another salt marsh, but here the phragmites had invaded, driving out most of the native plants.

We climbed away from the water and passed through woodlands. Many of the trees closest to the tracks had turned brown; or if they weren’t entirely brown, the side facing the tracks was brown. Through more woods, a beaver pond with standing dead trees provided a brief opening, back into the woods. The woods ended at a sewage treatment plant, and the conductor announced that the next stop would be Kingston, Rhode Island. And through it all, the woman sitting in front of me lay sprawled out across two seats; her feet, clad in thick black socks, propped up on the window; she was asleep and unaware of all that we had passed.

Written 14 August on the train, posted 15 August.

Not paying attention

Julius Lester, one of my favorite bloggers, published a post with an email message from me on his blog. Lester has been wondering why there are no big protests against the Iraq War, and thinking back to the big protests against the Vietnam War. A first post by Lester (link) prompted a response from a reader named Nancy Ewalt (link) which led to my thoughts about why there isn’t any organized protest against the Iraq War. (I guess I wasn’t paying attention, and didn’t notice when he posted this back on August 1.)

Even if you aren’t interested in the topic, you should still check out Lester’s blog. His thoughts about political issues from racism to war to media manipulation are worth reading, and his photos are pretty cool. Link to his blog.

Your thoughts on sin and evil?

I’m headed off to Washington, DC, for a couple of days, to stay with a Quaker friend. No, we’re not going to do any protesting against the Iraq War (we did that in March), we’re just going to hang out for a couple of days.

While I’m away, I’d love to know your thoughts on sin and evil. I’m really interested in any comments you may have on this topic. I’ll also share the specific questions I’ve been considering:

  • Is there a difference between sin and evil, and if so, what is it?
  • What feeling or emotions do you associate with sin? — with evil?
  • What is the worst sin you have ever seen or experienced (no personal revelations needed, you can speak in general terms if you like)?
  • In your opinion, what is the biggest evil that exists today (again, no personal revelations needed, you can speak in general terms if you like)?

Polished theological treatises on sin and evil are fine, but what I’m really hoping for is more in the lines of brainstorming:– raw ideas, feelings, thoughts, musings.

And here’s a special invitation to those of you who never post comments, an invitation to chime in, and write a little something. (This Web site averages more than 3,000 unique visitors a month, and less than one percent of you write comments!) If it’s your first time commenting, remember that your comment may be held for my review, so don’t panic if it doesn’t show up right away.

See you again on August 15….

Autumn watch

Carol and I went for a walk this evening. We stopped at our tiny garden our in front of our building, and picked the deadheads off the cosmos. The cosmos are starting too look a little blowsy, the chrysanthemum is blooming already, and the aster is getting big. We walked down to the waterfront under dark clouds and occasional spitting rain. The cool air prompted me to zip up my rain coat to stay warm.

As we walked along, I noticed some brown dead leaves had accumulated in a small stairwell near the docks. Putting my own thoughts into words, Carol said, “Oh, it feels like fall.” Cool and rainy, the sun setting noticeably earlier, it did feel like fall this evening. I know perfectly well that we will have many more hot, humid days before summer is truly over. But this evening, we could feel that fall is on its way.

Art on the highway, part 2

On the way back from Maine, I stopped at the southbound rest area at Kennebunk to look at another of the William Wegman murals installed by the Maine Turnpike Authority. The mural is most definitely not what you’d expect to see in a highway rest area. At the end of this short (1:32) video, I ask myself a question that was implicit in a comment on the previous post on the Wegman highway murals….

Note: video host blip.tv is defunct, so this video no longer exists.

On giving up

Ferry Beach, Saco, Maine

It stopped raining late this morning, and by early evening the sky was almost entirely clear. With clear skies and a light wind, the conditions on Saco Bay were the best they’ve been all week. I decided to try to paddle to Eagle Island, about a mile off shore.

By six o’clock, I was pushing the canoe into the light surf. I waded out up to my thighs, jumped in the canoe, and started paddling. There were a few large cloud masses off to the southeast which might become thunderheads, but they were well to the south and moving away from me. I felt a light offshore wind on my back, just enough to ruffle the surface of the water. I figured the offshore wind would probably ease off towards sunset, so conditions looked good all around. I started paddling for the island.

When I was about halfway there, I saw a Common Loon off the port bow. I fumbled with binoculars — an old pair with broken eye cups, which would be no great loss if they got soaked — and as I fumbled, I realized that the bow of the canoe was slewing to port just as a particularly big swell came at me. I let the binoculars drop on their cord, grabbed the paddle, and brought the bow into the wave. It was suddenly clear that I couldn’t stop paddling, for if the canoe drifted broadside to the waves, the waves had gotten big enough that it would be easy to go over.

I kept paddling, and the swells kept getting larger. They were getting big enough that I began to worry how I would turn the canoe around. At first, I hoped that if I got on the landward side of Eagle Island, I’d be sheltered from the waves and it would be easy to turn around. But the farther out into the bay I got, the bigger the swells got. When I rode up and over one particularly big swell — about two feet high, and steeper than before — I gave up on Eagle Island, and looked for an opportunity to turn the canoe. Several good sized waves, then a short interval with small waves — I turned the canoe as fast as possible, and began paddling for shore.

But I wasn’t ready to go back yet. Once I got back to where the swells diminished in size, I decided to paddle over to the mile-long jetty that protects the channel of the Saco River. Sometimes Harbor Seals swim along the jetty — seeing a seal would be a nice consolation prize. The offshore breeze began to stiffen. I got near the jetty, reached for the binoculars to look at some Least Terns flying overhead — the wind blew me right towards the jetty. I grabbed the paddle and dug into the water to pull myself away the sharp rocks of the jetty.

That was enough. I paddled for home. It was tough going. With only one person in the canoe, the bow rode high, and it was hard work to keep it pointed just off the wind. I had to push myself harder than I liked. I rode a wave up onto the sand, jumped out, and grabbed the canoe to pull it out of the water. Muscles from my thighs up through my shoulders were quivering from the hard paddling — I just couldn’t lift the canoe right then, so I dragged it up the beach out of reach of the waves. A few more scratches on the bottom of the canoe wouldn’t hurt.

Eventually I carried the canoe up off the beach. Marty, the fellow who’s leading a sea-kayaking workshop here this week, saw me. “How’d it go?” he said.

“Well, I got two thirds of the way to Eagle Island,” I said. “But when the swells got higher than the gunwales of the canoe, it was time to turn back.”

He just laughed, and continued to tie his sea kayak on the roof of his car. His kayak would have ridden those swells with ease, of course. If I had had another experienced person in the canoe with me, I might have tried for the island, and paddling along the jetty wouldn’t have been a problem. But it was just me, in a too-small open canoe, with waves that got too big, and wind that got too stiff — so I gave up.