More Than Just a Face Book Friend!

Pity the elusive mouse who must struggle to disconnect himself in the minds of youthful humans from the ubiquitous, plasticized, keyboard kind! Does anyone any longer recognize the fundamental literary distinction between Walt’s beloved “Mickey” and some cordless, unconnected robot rodent? What have we done with our words? Rats!

Shame on the unwashed who thoughtlessly seem unable to differentiate the dissimilarity in essence that divides a computer keyboard and one played upon powerfully by Liberace or pounded upon forcefully by the fiery Jerry Lee! Oh, how far has the never very noble Spam now fallen from its wartime usage as a marker for government-produced, cheap, mixed meat to its contemporary reference to the unwanted and quickly-consigned-to-electronic-hell of today’s easy come, easy go communication! And what has become of the serious obligation of equally serious deletion? Where is today’s cutting room floor?

Those who vociferously bemoan the disastrous decline in what was once considered polite, civil discourse might well spend a few well-chosen words of grief over the corruption of common communication. In addition to the sharp descent of civil conversation in the public electronic square, is it grammatically correct, always, insistently and increasingly to be angry?

O, brother, where art thou? Where have all the blessed beatitudes gone, long time passing? Blessed are those who need not place LOL after their messages to communicate their humorous intentions! Blessed is he or she whose written words can stand the light of clever inquisition without a preemptive smiley face! How sideways have become our smirking smiles, how crooked our occasional grinning communication! Those that live by spell-check shall face an equal and equivalent death!

How curious has the malfeasance of our modern speech construction become! How wearifying the written art is fast de-evolving! Perhaps nowhere is this language loss more obvious that the steep degradation of the treasured old-English word friend. “There is a friend that stickest closer than a brother,” it was once said and believed, in King James English; but modern friends seem to have little elasticity and even less stickability! To be a Face Book kind of friend is unlike any previous species of genuine friendship and surely bears no resemblance to the Quaker kind. A true friend does not ask to be liked! If it is sadly true that one can be unfriended and if friendship may indeed be a verb, isn’t it also true that authentic friendships are rarely so numerous as our electronic ones. Real friends neither brag about their number nor boast of their political or ideological inclinations nor ruthlessly exclude those with whom they might potentially disagree! Neither do they post only highly idealized or photo-shopped versions of themselves solely for other so-called friends or groupies to admire!

It is actually rare for authentic friends to complain publically to the unfriendly world of sleeplessness or send out detailed reports of intimate toilet habits to be shared with a host of so-called friends and many other unsuspecting passersby. If the tin-alley wordsmith once suggested of friendship that “it’s the perfect blend-ship,” there seems less and less to blend, so little longing for harmony. Gibran, after all, said, “Let there be spaces in your togetherness.” But, in our days, we seek uniformity of thinking and conformity of doing from our erstwhile friends.

What thinkest thou? In our speech and written communication, can we be no more precise and selective than this? Can we not observe some boundaries? Can we forego some less important things, in order to experience genuine communication with others? Can we, at least, think as much as we type? When our words cannot be more properly managed, what hope is there for our ways?

Chick on the Corner!

It was the beginning of the 21^st century and I lived in Houston, Texas, USA. I tended to observe immigrant struggles from the relatively safe and somewhat distant perspective of a privileged American. The fighting in Kosova, where Serbian soldiers attempted to terminate the majority Albanian population, had been halted by NATO intervention. In one of those instances where God’s timing interrupts my less-than-complete moral concentration, in January, 2000, I spent 7 days in Stockholm, Sweden. 44 of us from around the world met to draft accords on ethnic cleansing. There were no recognized words that expressed unequivocally that it is wrong to eradicate an ethnic group and most especially egregious to do so in the name of God. While helping to write those accords, I received a refresher on the history of Balkan ethnic and religious tensions.

I define it as providential that, just days after returning to Houston, the leader of the missions team in the congregation where I was pastor informed me that 500 ethnic Albanian families from Kosova had been relocated to Houston. I was shocked, because I had just been briefed on Albanian troubles during my Sweden visit and would return to Skopje, Macedonia (FYROM) in less than a year to sign those accords and lead a short-term ministry project among Albanian people. Almost immediately, our congregation began to care for these immigrants who had recently arrived in our “backyard.”

One day I made a home visit with an Albanian family. Their tiny apartment held a family of 7. In typical Albanian hospitality, they welcomed me and offered sweets and juice. Immediately, the family pet entered the room. As a seasoned pastor, I recognize the importance of acknowledging family pets. I have admired more puppies and cats than you can imagine! But, I was shocked when this pet strutted in and hopped into my lap because the beloved companion was a chicken!

After the father told me the chicken’s Albanian name, I inquired (with a straight face) “And, how did the chicken become your family pet?” The explanation was straightforward.  Coming home from night-shift work, he stopped at a traffic light. Without air conditioning, he had his car windows down; over the noise of traffic he heard the “cheep cheep” of a baby chick. Strutting proudly near his car door, amidst busy traffic, this little chickadee seemed to be requesting a rescue. Knowing that his family wanted a pet, but could not afford a regular one, he took the little darling home. And the rest, as they say, is part of Houston Albanian immigrant history!

You decide how to interpret this. Perhaps it reminds you of significant emotional enhancements gained from having pets around. Maybe it speaks of innovation in the midst of economic deprivation.  Perhaps you hear the tale of a desperate father, trying to provide for his children.

Almost a decade-and-a-half later, I understand immigrant struggles from a much more intimate viewpoint. Living as an immigrant myself and knowing many Albanians in Athens, Greece, I marvel at the sensitivity to essential necessities which is often serendipitously honed when a soul leaves his native soil. My personal experience with immigrants is that, despite the pressures and discrimination which they face, their personal losses often help them to understand better and encourage them to respond more positively to privations – both their own and those of others. Their ears have become sensitized and attuned to hear the desperate cry of the less-fortunate over the background noises which so easily conspire to drown them out.

 “He who has ears to hear …”

Undeveloped Lives!

In 2007, John Maloof went to a storage unit auction, placed a winning bid of $380 and won the rights to a cardboard box filled with never-developed photo negatives. A real estate agent and President of the Jefferson Park Historical Society in Chicago, Illinois, Maloof initially bought 30,000 black & white film negatives, placed on the auction block because their owner was behind on storage rent payments for the locker in which they had been kept for over 50 years. He would eventually purchase over 130,000 of the undeveloped snapshots made in the fifties and sixties by a Chicago woman named Vivian Maier.

Since developing the massive archive of negatives, John Maloof has introduced the world to the photographic work of the hitherto unknown nanny and amateur photographer. This remarkably talented woman is being hailed as the twentieth century’s premier street photographer. The spotlight of international media attention has illuminated her work through exhibitions in New York, London. Los Angeles, Oslo and Hamburg and a BBC documentary. Her poignant shots of everyday life in the American urban and suburban setting of the 50's and 60's seem, to many, to capture the soul and essence of the times. Many now refer to the woman as a “poet of suburbia,” or “Mary Poppins with a camera.”

And yet, for years, most of her work remained locked up in a storage unit. Two years after John Maloof bought the negatives, he discovered her obituary. At the age of 83, before her great talent was fully discovered, she died from complications resulting from a fall on the ice.

One wonders why Vivian Maier never developed her artistic photos. If she could not pay her storage rent, perhaps she lacked the funds to pay for film developing. Maybe she lacked confidence in her work, was insecure and hesitant to pursue her artistic talent or afraid to risk public criticism. Maybe life got in the way and other things which seemed more important kept her from getting around to it. It’s possible that, in her mature years, she regarded her youthful photos as nothing more than the naïve and foolish idealism of adolescence. Perhaps someone in a position of power over her insisted that she had no talent, that her pictures were a waste or that she should spend her time and money on something more sensible. We’ll never know.
 

How many gifted and talented people go to their graves with their photos undeveloped, their true beauty still in some sort of undiscovered storage? How many people of magnificence, potential and value live incomplete and unfinished lives, with their best possibilities still unexpressed? How many melody makers die with their music still within them, while the world remains bereft of their unique splendor?     

Oh God, give us more people like John Maloof who are willing to risk a bid and bring the unexposed treasure and worth of others to the light. And, pray God, may their undeveloped potential be discovered before they die!
 

Waffle House Choices!

Recently, we spoke for a banquet in Beaumont, Texas. Because our onward journey to Florida took us across several states and since we wanted to make visits en route, we travelled by car. We said quick goodbyes after the banquet and drove-on into the night. By 11 PM, we had checked-in to our motel and Janice was ready for sleep. Since I was convinced that I deserved a snack, I went out in search of something to eat.

I found a Waffle House nearby. A gaggle of late-night patrons filled the booths, so I grabbed a counter seat. From snatches of overheard conversation, I knew that my fellow diners were oilfield workers and regulars at this particular eatery. After placing my order, my sitting-down place being weary from the drive, I rose and began to read the material pasted on the grease-filled walls of this tiny, but hospitable place. Several worn posters celebrated Waffle House’s service to the public for over 50 years. This brand has been serving America’s short-order food needs with a largely unchanged menu since 1955.

I was stopped in my hungry, weary tracks by a poster that read: “283,115,520 ways to build a Waffle House 100% Angus burger. Better get started!”  My interest was aroused, my imagination was piqued and, for a few fleeting moments, I forgot my hunger. Who knew that there were so many ways to dress the humble hamburger patty!? Who knew that such diversity and choice existed from within modest Waffle House offerings!?

Over the next few days, crossing county and state lines on my journey, I pondered the potential of so many hamburger alternatives. Eventually, my mind wandered and I began to extend the truths of my Waffle House learning beyond its original sitz-im-leben to more metaphorical and personal applications. I wondered how social, economic, political, religious and interpersonal life might be richer and better if I and my fellow travelers on life’s road might stop to consider the many substitute choices hidden within all-too familiar situations. If an unpretentious meat patty at a common eating establishment affords so many options, then why does life so often seem limited, choices so constricted and viable alternatives so hard to come by?

Politicians, pundits, preachers and others in the public square too frequently present life’s challenges as though there are only two ways to go - their way or the highway! Because we have always dressed our hamburgers one way, it may be too easy for us to assume that there is no other way. When we face that old, familiar besetting sin or seemingly intractable social problem, surely we would benefit from considering the possibility that there may be other, better approaches to handling it. Just because we have yet to discover a cure for the common cold, there is no reason to assume that we have exhausted the list of potential solutions.

If Waffle House has thrived for over half a century by giving people choices, they just may be on to something foundational. Maybe my universe is a lot larger than I have imagined. Maybe I have more prospects than I have assumed, after all. The next time I feel hemmed-in, cornered by too few conceivable solutions in my life, I’ m going to pull over at Waffle House, order a burger (or pancakes and bacon) and think about it a little longer! Imagine the possibilities! Better get started!

Casey and the Ball! (a Contemporary Parable of Second Chances!

It was a powerful, non-verbal symbol recognized by every player on the old New York Yankees baseball club, during their successful 1956 season. When Manager Casey Stengel wanted to signal the identity of the person he had chosen to pitch for the next game, he would get to the locker room early and place a game ball inside the player’s spikes. As soon as the team checked-in to the dressing room and began to prepare for the game, one pitcher would learn in this way that he had been selected.

Indeed, on October 8, 1956, in Game Five of the World Series, when the Yanks were playing my boyhood favorite, their cross-town rivals, the Brooklyn Dodgers, the hurler selected by Casey that night learned his fate in just that way. Not even Casey knew that Don Larsen, the fellow who found the ball in his shoes that day, would pitch the only perfect game ever in a World Series contest and 1 of only 20 such games in major league baseball history! Larson took that ball from his shoes, rubbed it in the dirt, spat on his hands, warmed up and proceeded to face only 27 batters. Not 1 of them made it to first base!

Somehow lost in the back story of Larson’s perfect game is the reality that on his first trip to the World Series mound, in Game Two, he had a terrible night. When he entered the game, the Yankees were ahead 6-0. But Larson lasted only 2 innings, giving up 4 walks and allowing 4 runs before Casey had to pull him. He went to the showers that night convinced that his chance of playing in the 1956 World Series had ended in disgrace. Thanks largely to his ineffective hurling, the Yanks eventually lost the game they had almost sewed up before Larsen came in! After such a disastrous and brief stint, no one in baseball expected to hear from Don Larsen again.

If baseball is anything, it is a sport filled with symbolism & metaphor. In a powerful and non-verbal way, one man, Casey Stengel, signaled his confidence in another man, Don Larson, despite his earlier failure, by giving him both the ball and a big second chance. Larson would later acknowledge that it was precisely Casey’s willingness to trust him, despite his previous poor performance, that motivated him on that fateful baseball night in October, 1956.

It has been a long time since I played baseball. The Brooklyn Dodgers have long ago left town. Baseball is certainly a much different game, today. But, I’m convinced that our world, on and off the field of play, needs more people with discernment like Casey. We need those who can look beyond a fleeting fiasco to see permanent potential in the lives of others who, like all of us, occasionally botch up the game. In an ironic twist, it is usually true that second chances improve performance.

Do you know someone whose latent possibilities you can still see, despite the reality of their throwing a bad game?  What would it take for you to hang the game ball in their spikes?

From My Veranda!

The soft rain slowly fell just beyond the edge of the balcony. Because of its larger size, the Greeks here refer to this blessed appendage which hangs out over the street, four stories below, as a veranda. How cool was my elevated seat at noon on this October day in Athens! How sweet the smell of gentle rain! How privileged was I to sit at leisure, eating hot ham sandwiches and chips and drinking from a tall glass of chilly milk, enhanced by a not stingy but just correct number of ice cubes! Life is good! My purposeful preoccupation with a computer keyboard and small screen was blessedly interrupted by this further evidence of what the French refer to as la vie, the life which is my privilege, these days.

And then …. And then, my relaxed concentration turned to those far less fortunate than I. And then, it occurred to me that the rain so welcomed by me on my veranda was not at all hailed by those in Athens who no longer have a proper home and sufficient shelter. Immigrants (historically the poor in Greece) and now an increasing number of Greeks are facing hunger and homelessness in ever-growing numbers. Those whom the current economic crisis has pushed closer to and beyond the edges of the normal human comfort zone must surely not be enjoying this petite shower as much as I am. Raindrops falling on their heads are neither refreshing nor are they the stuff of carefree song lyrics. For these, even a tiny bit of rain brings inconvenience at least and moves their precarious existence a step closer to personal and familial desperation.

That wonderfully hot ham sandwich repast, the aroma of which filled our apartment and spilled over on our veranda, would certainly seem a fantasy to those for whom any type of warm meal is now a distant and fading memory. When I poured that tall glass of milk from the container, I worried not that the carton was emptied, since my Alpha Beta (Άλφα-Βήτα) supermarket was just a few blocks away; on Friday, our weekly shopping day, I will surely purchase more milk. But, many of my fellow comrades on planet earth for whom the crisis has drained their savings will have no such opportunity to obtain this life sustaining liquid.

What must a man of privilege do in the face of such crying need and economic disparity? Must I curse the conscience that brings the poor to my mind when I am enjoying life? Am I to ignore the plight of those who, often through no fault of their own, are in distress? Shall I shut my ears to the pleas of poor children who long for bread to eat and milk to drink? Or, shall I repent of my wealth, sell all that I have, depart from my vaunted veranda and go to live among the homeless on the streets of Athens? I am, after all, in this city because I care for the less-fortunate!

To conclude my meal, I pray and solemnly will to redouble my efforts to be the presence of Christ among the needy. I promise to take the energy and nourishment provided by ham sandwiches and milk and head out to help to feed Athens’ growing hungry, regardless of race, religion or background. I commit never to take for granted a day’s meal and always to offer as much of me as possible to help the helpless. I choose to eat less, so that others may eat more and to give more of my resources, so that those who have less may have actually more.

Oh God, may I never lose the dry, nourishing veranda view! For the sake of those who are wet and undernourished, I pray!

Lathos Intolerance!

One of the first phrases I learned in the study of the contemporary Greek language is lipame – Greek short-hand for I am sorry! As a stumbling practitioner of modern Greek, I learned this word rather quickly and easily, because I constantly make mistakes. Another, related word I learned the easy way (or the hard way, depending on your point of view) is the Greek word, lathos, meaning mistake. Because I often make grammatical and linguistic blunders and occasionally also make cultural errors in this Greek setting, I am often required to say, Lipame! Lathos mou! - I am sorry! My mistake!

While Greek friends are usually willing to overlook my poor pronunciation, improper word endings and inappropriate usage of tenses, internally, I have a low level of tolerance for these linguistic miscues. Somewhere along the line, I must have accepted, without giving it much consideration, the notion that my language fluency should be perfect. Unless I intentionally decide to give myself the benefit of the doubt, cut myself some slack and lighten-up, I can be harsh toward myself in this regard. I find it somewhat ironic that I give myself so much critical grief due to a notion of perfection which I have apparently uncritically accepted into my own internal mentality.

This idea surfaced again recently, when I was telling my advanced English language conversation students not to be so hard on themselves. Speaking to these adult language learners who come to class after a hard day of underpaid, manual labor, I suggested that their first goal should not be the development of perfect fluency, but, instead, to come to understand the English language well and to make themselves understood by others. Recently, I was counseling a new arrival in the United States who, despite the fact that he already speaks several languages, is anxious about his somewhat limited fluency in the English vernacular. I reminded him that, even with his struggles with this new tongue, he is already perfectly able to make himself understood, even though in a less than perfect manner.

While some may deem this a low diving board approach to adult language learning, my sense is that it is a reasonable approach to the imperfections which we all demonstrate – especially when it comes to language usage. But, every time I speak this way to aspiring language learners, I can see the eyes begin to roll. In language learning, we all seem to have what the Greeks might refer to as lathos intolerance!

But, intolerance of our incompleteness is not restricted to language learning. Most of us are similarly biased against our limitations in many other areas of life. After decades of dealing with struggling university students who may or may not have been making the dean’s list, I can report that I spent more time counseling the high achievers who missed the A+ by a few points than I did with underachievers who could not make a 2.0 GPA! Virtually every stunningly attractive coed with whom I engaged in meaningful conversation over the years always felt that she was, in some respects ugly, no matter how many beauty contests and class beauty awards she had won. I have known astoundingly successful professional people whose curriculum vitae would have made anybody envious, but who often express the sorrow that they have not achieved well. I know folks whose moral record is stellar, but who can never forget or forgive themselves for a mistake made years ago.

I have a suspicion that this lathos intolerance, if you will allow me a less-than-perfect usage of both the English and the Greek languages, has been driven into our psyches from our earliest experiences in education, sports, religion and even our families by our elders who struggle with their own incompleteness;  but, I could be wrong on that! Regardless of its origin, I wonder how much potential benefit and growth you and I have bypassed by our failure (if I may use the word) to claim the learnings associated with our failures! When our mistakes only cause us embarrassment and self-depreciation and cannot be owned, mined or harvested for our benefit, we are short-changing ourselves of potential added value!

I am not here to celebrate mediocrity and am certain that all of us could and should do better in many aspects of our lives; but sometimes I need to be reminded that only God is perfect and I am not – nor was I ever, since the fall of mankind, intended to be! Indeed, if the Bible teaches us anything at all, it is that we have all “fallen short,” (Romans 3:23), every one of us has “missed the mark” (sin, hamartia in Greek – 1 John 3:4). What is more, although our God is a holy and righteous God, it is his loving, gracious willingness to accept us, despite our mistakes, that is the basis for any salvation which we have any chance of receiving – in this world or the next.

If you happen to disagree with my words here, you should feel free to write this up as my mistake and accept in advance my words: Lathos mou! Lipame!