By now, much of the world is aware of Greece’s nasty little secret! After many years of “creative” accounting and hiding the facts, it is now apparent that Greece is in debt, big time. Since fudging on taxes is a way of life here, and many Greeks routinely under-report their actual incomes for tax purposes, it will come as no surprise to learn that the government, too, has been less than forth-coming! In a country where cheating on taxes is so common that two different receipts are offered by merchants (one in which taxes are paid and the other in which everyone agrees to “look the other way”), the recent news that the national debt is far higher than has been heretofore reported is not at all unexpected.
By now, you also know that the European Union, after years of patiently working with Greece to get its deficit and debt under control, has, at last, begun to apply blunt pressure on this “birthplace of democracy.” At the recent, called elections, the presiding political party was cast out and the new governing Grecians, themselves having been in power often in the past, have gallantly announced that the dirty house will be cleaned and that strict procedures are in the works. Austerity measures are hastily being pushed through the Parliament in a manner that will probably negatively impact the cash flow of almost everyone in the short-run, except, presumably, the cash-strapped government!
In a country where strikes and protests are as ubiquitous as pigeon poop, the announcement that taxes will be raised and that certain benefits will be curbed, such as lifetime job security and 14 months of salary each year for government employees, has been met with howls of public protest. In the “Grecian formula,” everyone strikes over something or other. The trash collectors, bankers, physicians, bus drivers and lawyers strike routinely. Often, general strikes are scheduled far in advance, sometimes for reasons that are not yet clear at the time of the strike forecast; the assumption is that sufficient grievances will have surfaced in the intervening months, so that a future strike will be necessary.
It is fittingly ironic that the most recent group to announce a strike in Greece in the protest over the need to levy more taxes has come from the tax-collectors themselves! While the logic of this could be difficult to extrapolate, the bean counters in the tax offices are taking off a couple of days in deference to the “unfairness” of the proposed, rigorous government measures.
If it were not so serious, I would be laughing!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Feathery, Orange Dinosaurs
A recent report on CNN International highlighted the latest scientific discoveries about dinosaurs. The scientists used electron microscopic tools for sophisticated analysis of tiny flecks of pigment among the ancient, fossilized remains of the Sinosauropteryx and Sinornithosaurus. The results, based on samples uncovered in a dig in northeast China, suggest that pre-flying dinosaurs actually had feathers, and that they probably used them for purposes other than flight.
In addition, the report summarizes the scholarly consensus on the color of these “critters.” While you and I may spend little time worrying over the actual patina of prehistoric animals, this is, nevertheless, important to scholars. To the scientists’ apparent surprise, evidence indicates that these dinosaurs were colored a kind of orangey ginger! Who knew?
More intriguing to me, however, was not the supposed colors of the creatures; what interested me, as a non-scientist, about this news segment was an accompanying interview with little children. When asked “What color do you think dinosaurs were?” the kids resolutely answered, “purple.” After the interview, the reporter suggested(correctly, I suspect!) that their impressions about dinosaur color were most certainly influenced by their exposure to the TV dinosaur, Barney – the soft, non-feathery and loveable cartoon character creature brought into their living rooms by PBS Kids. Who can blame the children for thinking that dinosaurs are purple when the only one that they have seen and the one that they think they “know” personally is … well, purple!
Methinks a shrewd epistemological principle has been uncovered here amid the rubble of ancient fossils and modern kids’ colorized impressions. All of us - little kids and big kids - “know” primarily that to which we have been exposed. Even innocent children, typically so open to mystery and possibility, can uncritically become captive to their own limited perceptions. Regardless of what the truth may actually be, like the children, you and I can easily become convinced of the accuracy of what we think we “know,” based on what we have seen or experienced and based on our interpretation or someone else’s interpretation of our sense experience!
When looking out at the world, we generally begin with the unexamined presupposition that our reality perceivers are correct. We all have a deep-seated need to believe this – whether or not it is, in fact, true! And, of course, this is very helpful. It allows us to proceed through the universe with some confidence that we actually “know” things and that we are in touch with “reality.” I would not want to try to navigate life without this.
The problem arises, however, when our sense of reality is as far off as that of the kids who honestly believe that dinosaurs were purple. Since all of us are susceptible to this “perception is reality” affliction, it would behoove us all to be a little more humble and a tad more open in our erstwhile confident assumptions about “what is” and “what isn’t!” Sadly, but most assuredly, we have all narrowed the world and the realities both within and beyond it far too much by this all-too-human tendency to “lock-in” reality to our penultimate perceptions. One of my favorite verses from Holy Scripture has always been Paul’s candid acknowledgement: “We know in part.” (1 Corinthians 13:9a)
Wonder what might happen if, like an uncluttered child, still filled with wonder, curiosity and imagination, and with all due respect for the trustworthiness of my own perceptions, I went out into my world tomorrow with fewer presuppositions about what dinosaurs might look like?
In addition, the report summarizes the scholarly consensus on the color of these “critters.” While you and I may spend little time worrying over the actual patina of prehistoric animals, this is, nevertheless, important to scholars. To the scientists’ apparent surprise, evidence indicates that these dinosaurs were colored a kind of orangey ginger! Who knew?
More intriguing to me, however, was not the supposed colors of the creatures; what interested me, as a non-scientist, about this news segment was an accompanying interview with little children. When asked “What color do you think dinosaurs were?” the kids resolutely answered, “purple.” After the interview, the reporter suggested(correctly, I suspect!) that their impressions about dinosaur color were most certainly influenced by their exposure to the TV dinosaur, Barney – the soft, non-feathery and loveable cartoon character creature brought into their living rooms by PBS Kids. Who can blame the children for thinking that dinosaurs are purple when the only one that they have seen and the one that they think they “know” personally is … well, purple!
Methinks a shrewd epistemological principle has been uncovered here amid the rubble of ancient fossils and modern kids’ colorized impressions. All of us - little kids and big kids - “know” primarily that to which we have been exposed. Even innocent children, typically so open to mystery and possibility, can uncritically become captive to their own limited perceptions. Regardless of what the truth may actually be, like the children, you and I can easily become convinced of the accuracy of what we think we “know,” based on what we have seen or experienced and based on our interpretation or someone else’s interpretation of our sense experience!
When looking out at the world, we generally begin with the unexamined presupposition that our reality perceivers are correct. We all have a deep-seated need to believe this – whether or not it is, in fact, true! And, of course, this is very helpful. It allows us to proceed through the universe with some confidence that we actually “know” things and that we are in touch with “reality.” I would not want to try to navigate life without this.
The problem arises, however, when our sense of reality is as far off as that of the kids who honestly believe that dinosaurs were purple. Since all of us are susceptible to this “perception is reality” affliction, it would behoove us all to be a little more humble and a tad more open in our erstwhile confident assumptions about “what is” and “what isn’t!” Sadly, but most assuredly, we have all narrowed the world and the realities both within and beyond it far too much by this all-too-human tendency to “lock-in” reality to our penultimate perceptions. One of my favorite verses from Holy Scripture has always been Paul’s candid acknowledgement: “We know in part.” (1 Corinthians 13:9a)
Wonder what might happen if, like an uncluttered child, still filled with wonder, curiosity and imagination, and with all due respect for the trustworthiness of my own perceptions, I went out into my world tomorrow with fewer presuppositions about what dinosaurs might look like?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
B.Y.O.B. at Church!
A couple of weeks ago, we observed a very special anniversary at the Greek Evangelical Church in Athens where we regularly and deliberately worship. The church recognized eighty-six years of life. Churches, like all social institutions, are shaped by history and by the actions of other social institutions in their milieu. As evidence, this particular church was birthed in the midst of and at least partly as a consequence of a gigantic social upheaval. During the period that some refer to as the Great Catastrophe, powerful forces in the region and beyond made decisions directly impacting the Greeks.
One historian has recounted that, by September, 1922, an estimated 30,000 Greek refugees were arriving in the city of Athens every day, in fear of the Turkish army. The Great Population Exchange, agreed to the following year at Lausanne, meant that 1.3 million Greeks would be expelled from Turkey to Greece, while 800,000 Turks would go from Greece to Turkey. In this instance, a rarely successful social tactic known as partition was once again attempted as a solution between conflicting ethnic groups. Despite the upheaval that ensued from such a massive, two-way migration, our Greek Evangelical friends, however, find much redemption in it, because it was the cultural and historical womb in which their church was conceived. God-fearing and non-Orthodox Greek Christians who had formerly been members of Greek Evangelical churches, especially in Smyrna, Turkey, came together and, under God’s leadership, formed what is now known as the Second Greek Evangelical Church in Athens.
At church that day, special activities were planned. Since it was the first of these observances in which Janice and I had been privileged to participate and since we love this church and share the members’ happiness on having survived for so many years, we looked forward to the celebratory event. The big affair was to be a luncheon, somewhat like what Americans call a “Pot Luck Dinner.” Everyone was encouraged to bring a special plate with enough food for their family and then some; the tasty dishes were stowed away in a room adjacent to the worship center. At last, when worship was completed, with proper thanks and commitment given to God for the past, present and future, tables were brought into the worship center and all were invited to the big feast!
Midway through the worship service, earlier that day, I noticed something that, in all my church experience, I have never before seen. Standing to sing the Greek hymns, I noticed that the man on the pew in front of me had brought a bottle of wine. With no attempt to hide the bottle, there it was, “as big as Dallas!” In Greece, of course, it is common for guests who come for dinner to bring a bottle of wine for the meal. Later, when the food was spread that day and all of us gathered around the improvised tables, the Pastor and one of the church’s Elders came to our table to offer wine.
I could not help but compare this to my previous experiences in Baptist churches in the South, where official resistance to alcohol and wine is usually so stringent that, contrary to our supposed strict and literal interpretations of Scriptures, even Communion wine is not really wine, but grape juice! In my experience, if/when Baptists bring their own bottles, they are usually much more discreet than my Greek brother!
I’m still reflecting on that experience and wondering what, if anything, it means. It reminds me, of course, that different religious groups, impacted equally by their life and social experiences, select varying social behaviors to resist and yet others to embrace. If the partitioning of conflicting groups is never the ultimate solution to long-held animosity, then how can it be helpful to partition the Christian family by selected social behaviors and the animosities that so often accompany them? Of course, it is always easier for me to make decisions for other people; so, I am confident that Greeks and Turks must learn to get along while living in close proximity. Likewise, I wonder if Christians who drink in front of each other, those who do not and those who drink nothing at all must also avoid partitioning their lives and find a way to accept and respect each other, regardless of which interpretations of the Bible they choose to emphasize or ignore. After all, in Christ, we have all been invited to the banquet!
One historian has recounted that, by September, 1922, an estimated 30,000 Greek refugees were arriving in the city of Athens every day, in fear of the Turkish army. The Great Population Exchange, agreed to the following year at Lausanne, meant that 1.3 million Greeks would be expelled from Turkey to Greece, while 800,000 Turks would go from Greece to Turkey. In this instance, a rarely successful social tactic known as partition was once again attempted as a solution between conflicting ethnic groups. Despite the upheaval that ensued from such a massive, two-way migration, our Greek Evangelical friends, however, find much redemption in it, because it was the cultural and historical womb in which their church was conceived. God-fearing and non-Orthodox Greek Christians who had formerly been members of Greek Evangelical churches, especially in Smyrna, Turkey, came together and, under God’s leadership, formed what is now known as the Second Greek Evangelical Church in Athens.
At church that day, special activities were planned. Since it was the first of these observances in which Janice and I had been privileged to participate and since we love this church and share the members’ happiness on having survived for so many years, we looked forward to the celebratory event. The big affair was to be a luncheon, somewhat like what Americans call a “Pot Luck Dinner.” Everyone was encouraged to bring a special plate with enough food for their family and then some; the tasty dishes were stowed away in a room adjacent to the worship center. At last, when worship was completed, with proper thanks and commitment given to God for the past, present and future, tables were brought into the worship center and all were invited to the big feast!
Midway through the worship service, earlier that day, I noticed something that, in all my church experience, I have never before seen. Standing to sing the Greek hymns, I noticed that the man on the pew in front of me had brought a bottle of wine. With no attempt to hide the bottle, there it was, “as big as Dallas!” In Greece, of course, it is common for guests who come for dinner to bring a bottle of wine for the meal. Later, when the food was spread that day and all of us gathered around the improvised tables, the Pastor and one of the church’s Elders came to our table to offer wine.
I could not help but compare this to my previous experiences in Baptist churches in the South, where official resistance to alcohol and wine is usually so stringent that, contrary to our supposed strict and literal interpretations of Scriptures, even Communion wine is not really wine, but grape juice! In my experience, if/when Baptists bring their own bottles, they are usually much more discreet than my Greek brother!
I’m still reflecting on that experience and wondering what, if anything, it means. It reminds me, of course, that different religious groups, impacted equally by their life and social experiences, select varying social behaviors to resist and yet others to embrace. If the partitioning of conflicting groups is never the ultimate solution to long-held animosity, then how can it be helpful to partition the Christian family by selected social behaviors and the animosities that so often accompany them? Of course, it is always easier for me to make decisions for other people; so, I am confident that Greeks and Turks must learn to get along while living in close proximity. Likewise, I wonder if Christians who drink in front of each other, those who do not and those who drink nothing at all must also avoid partitioning their lives and find a way to accept and respect each other, regardless of which interpretations of the Bible they choose to emphasize or ignore. After all, in Christ, we have all been invited to the banquet!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Growing in Athens
At 8:00 AM on New Year’s Day, 2010, I slid open the heavy glass door and went out on the veranda to check on the plants. The mild, typical Athens weather was comfortable, so my plaid pajamas were warmth enough. This open, exterior space is as close to the good earth as we are allowed from our apartment on the fourth floor in the old, Pangrati district of downtown Athens, Greece. The flower boxes, overcrowded by giant, venerable yucca plant trees that now reach to the neighbor’s veranda above, grant precious little space for a few plants to grow. Since we have just returned from a 2-month sojourn in the States, we are especially pleased that Ana’s good weekly work has kept most of the plants alive in our absence.
I also went outside to finish rooting that crawling, green, ground cover that I harvested on Christmas day, while visiting Sounio, at the southernmost tip of the Greek mainland. Although I have no idea what the name of the plant is or how to replant it, it seems hardy. I found it in what appears at first to be a non-hospitable habitat, crawling over the rocks and shallow soil close to the sea. With luck and enough care, I’ll be successful in transplanting it to the tiny, concrete flower boxes that give definition to our large balcony.
Like the green, crawling “stuff,” I, too, have been transplanted – at first from my native Mississippi southland to the booming metropolitan landscape of Houston, Texas; and then, after over thirty years, Janice and I moved, first to Tirana, Albania and then, to the ancient city of Athens. To take a “son of the South” from the Magnolia State to the Balkan cultures of Albania and Greece, by way of urban Houston, Texas is, perhaps as challenging as moving rock-crawling, green ground cover from the shallow, but damp seacoast to the fourth floor of an urban balcony. But, Janice and I have made that transition. With care from many, hard work on our part and not a little patience, we have moved ourselves and our many "foreign" mentalities to this busy, multicultural milieu. And, after almost seven years in the Balkans, we are feeling, if not fully “at home,” then, certainly comfortable. On our best days, we would even admit that we thrive in this place!
Likewise, our Albanian friends in Athens have been transplanted. From an isolated, neglected, economically lacking culture, ruled dictatorially by a suspicious mentality that brooked little opportunity and a truckload of fear, over half-a-million immigrants from Albania have now come to Athens. In the early days they came without the luxury of legal documents. Increasingly, today they come in the open air, seeking to abide by the ever-changing and often discriminatory legal procedures of their new host country.
Albanians in Athens, like everything that is transplanted or uncultivated, need lots of care. They need room to grow, water and other basic necessities, attention and nurture. As surely as Ana and I need to tend to the plants on the balcony, someone needs to care for Albanians in Athens. By God’s grace, Janice and I are honored to have that charge and, in 2010, return optimistically to that task.
I also went outside to finish rooting that crawling, green, ground cover that I harvested on Christmas day, while visiting Sounio, at the southernmost tip of the Greek mainland. Although I have no idea what the name of the plant is or how to replant it, it seems hardy. I found it in what appears at first to be a non-hospitable habitat, crawling over the rocks and shallow soil close to the sea. With luck and enough care, I’ll be successful in transplanting it to the tiny, concrete flower boxes that give definition to our large balcony.
Like the green, crawling “stuff,” I, too, have been transplanted – at first from my native Mississippi southland to the booming metropolitan landscape of Houston, Texas; and then, after over thirty years, Janice and I moved, first to Tirana, Albania and then, to the ancient city of Athens. To take a “son of the South” from the Magnolia State to the Balkan cultures of Albania and Greece, by way of urban Houston, Texas is, perhaps as challenging as moving rock-crawling, green ground cover from the shallow, but damp seacoast to the fourth floor of an urban balcony. But, Janice and I have made that transition. With care from many, hard work on our part and not a little patience, we have moved ourselves and our many "foreign" mentalities to this busy, multicultural milieu. And, after almost seven years in the Balkans, we are feeling, if not fully “at home,” then, certainly comfortable. On our best days, we would even admit that we thrive in this place!
Likewise, our Albanian friends in Athens have been transplanted. From an isolated, neglected, economically lacking culture, ruled dictatorially by a suspicious mentality that brooked little opportunity and a truckload of fear, over half-a-million immigrants from Albania have now come to Athens. In the early days they came without the luxury of legal documents. Increasingly, today they come in the open air, seeking to abide by the ever-changing and often discriminatory legal procedures of their new host country.
Albanians in Athens, like everything that is transplanted or uncultivated, need lots of care. They need room to grow, water and other basic necessities, attention and nurture. As surely as Ana and I need to tend to the plants on the balcony, someone needs to care for Albanians in Athens. By God’s grace, Janice and I are honored to have that charge and, in 2010, return optimistically to that task.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
And then again, Begin!
As the slightly cooler air signaled the close of a hot summer and insinuated, gently, the arrival of fall in Athens, Greece, I climbed the steps to the second floor of the turn-of-the 20th century house that holds the facilities of PORTA – the Albanian culture center. This stately, neo-classical house that once served as the surgery and private residence for the doctor who was the medical attendant to the King of Greece, now is my primary workplace. A tight grip on the circling, wrought-iron banister pulled my aging limbs and body upward to the place where students were already gathering. It was the first night of the Fall Session of the English-as-a-foreign-language classes which we offer through our center for Albanian immigrants.
Despite my weariness, I sensed renewed energy, a fresh wind, a new-found grace and an elevated hope within. Although I wouldn’t dare physically to leap up those stairs, my heart wanted to, because it was time for school to begin again. Breathless, I arrived upstairs with a few moments to reflect on all of those times in the past when I and some students somewhere have, together, faced the first day of class. Since 1968, with precious few exceptions, I have celebrated the autumnal commencement of learning from the professorial side of a university lectern. In such varied settings as a small town in northeast Mississippi, a moderate sized city in Kentucky, the megacity of Houston, Texas and now, in the old, Balkan, metropolis of Athens, Greece, I have welcomed the fall and the first day of class.
I am certain that I favor the first of school because of the new beginnings which it celebrates and affords for all involved. There is something comforting, if also, somewhat artificial, about the academic penchant for beginning and ending seasons of learning. When the course of study begins again, there are fresh opportunities and renewed possibilities. Regardless of what has gone on before, one can begin again.
It put me to thinking about those distinctive lines from the first stanza of Matthew Arnold’s classic poem, Dover Beach. Written, some say, on Arnold’s honeymoon, against those beautiful white cliffs of Dover on the English seacoast, the poet reflects on the sights and sounds of the sea which was, perhaps, just outside his window. Perchance while his new bride slept, he first penned the words that speak of the regularity, the security, the melancholy and the comfort of the life’s predictability, where things end and begin:
Listen! You hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in.
Whatever Arnold might have originally intended these words to celebrate, this year, I am observing up close and respecting with great gratitude, just over thirty Albanian adults of all ages in Athens, Greece, who, despite the many obstacles in their pathway toward freedom and opportunity, are diving into the sea of knowledge again, seeking to learn how to speak English. With the rhythm of the sea, the actual sound and fury of which are no more than twenty minutes from their classrooms, they and their teachers are beginning again.
And, so am I!
Despite my weariness, I sensed renewed energy, a fresh wind, a new-found grace and an elevated hope within. Although I wouldn’t dare physically to leap up those stairs, my heart wanted to, because it was time for school to begin again. Breathless, I arrived upstairs with a few moments to reflect on all of those times in the past when I and some students somewhere have, together, faced the first day of class. Since 1968, with precious few exceptions, I have celebrated the autumnal commencement of learning from the professorial side of a university lectern. In such varied settings as a small town in northeast Mississippi, a moderate sized city in Kentucky, the megacity of Houston, Texas and now, in the old, Balkan, metropolis of Athens, Greece, I have welcomed the fall and the first day of class.
I am certain that I favor the first of school because of the new beginnings which it celebrates and affords for all involved. There is something comforting, if also, somewhat artificial, about the academic penchant for beginning and ending seasons of learning. When the course of study begins again, there are fresh opportunities and renewed possibilities. Regardless of what has gone on before, one can begin again.
It put me to thinking about those distinctive lines from the first stanza of Matthew Arnold’s classic poem, Dover Beach. Written, some say, on Arnold’s honeymoon, against those beautiful white cliffs of Dover on the English seacoast, the poet reflects on the sights and sounds of the sea which was, perhaps, just outside his window. Perchance while his new bride slept, he first penned the words that speak of the regularity, the security, the melancholy and the comfort of the life’s predictability, where things end and begin:
Listen! You hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in.
Whatever Arnold might have originally intended these words to celebrate, this year, I am observing up close and respecting with great gratitude, just over thirty Albanian adults of all ages in Athens, Greece, who, despite the many obstacles in their pathway toward freedom and opportunity, are diving into the sea of knowledge again, seeking to learn how to speak English. With the rhythm of the sea, the actual sound and fury of which are no more than twenty minutes from their classrooms, they and their teachers are beginning again.
And, so am I!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
It Certainly Is a Jungle Out There!
Living in Athens, Greece and choosing not to have satellite television coverage, we are somewhat limited in the English-language programming we can receive. Late at night, we get reruns of American-made movies, usually interrupted by 30-minute commercial breaks! Earlier in the broadcast day, we get reruns of such notable television series as “Hart to Hart,” “Charlie’s Angels” and “The Nanny.” One of our all-time favorites, however, is the on-going saga of the quirky, slightly mentally fragile, private detective, “Monk.”
Adrian Monk, formerly with the San Francisco Police Department, is the quintessential acute obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) sufferer. His condition has been exacerbated by the murder of his wife, his unstable reaction to which resulted in his suspension from the department. Despite his emotional problems, however, he is a brilliant detective, styled along the lines of Sherlock Holmes with a little of Inspector Clouseau and Colombo thrown in. Monk has a record 312 phobias, chief of which are germs, milk, needles, death, snakes, mushrooms and elevators. He refuses to touch door handles and other normal objects with his bare hands, preferring to use sanitary wipes even after shaking hands. In addition, he is unable to eat food that other humans have touched!
Among the typical evidences of artistic genius in the development of this show, the people in charge chose Randy Newman’s ecological warning ballad, “It’s a Jungle Out There” as the theme song. Newman’s otherwise serious words of warning about the poisoning of the environment, placed against the backdrop of the slightly unwell Monk, are seen in a new light:
It's a jungle out there
Disorder and confusion everywhere
No one seems to care
Well I do
Hey, who's in charge here?
It's a jungle out there
Poison in the very air we breathe
Do you know what's in the water that you drink?
Well I do, and it's amazing
People think I'm crazy, 'cause I worry all the time
If you paid attention, you'd be worried too
You better pay attention
Or this world we love so much might just kill you
I could be wrong now, but I don't think so!
'Cause there's a jungle out there.
The genuine irony about this TV series is that it is precisely Monk’s relative illness that is, at the same time, the source of his detective genius. While his fears may often be ill-founded, it is his attention to detail, his penchant for symmetry and his obsession with orderliness which so often help him to notice the clues at the crime scene. And this is how Randy Newman’s appropriate warning about ecological concerns and Adrian Monk’s obsessive behaviors actually come together for me.
It truly is a jungle out there! There are very sinister and powerfully authentic and ugly realities about which each of us should be frightened and careful, at a minimum, if not active and corrective, at our best. Despite the fact that some may label us alarmist, overly-cautious, or moral sticks-in-the-mud, this good world has, in many instances, gone bad! How, then, can we be appropriately aware of the presence of evil in the world? How can we take seriously the many indications that this creation has been warped and thrown off-course from the original trajectory of its divine designer? How can we live with courage and fear and face our own, as well as the cosmic demons that destroy life’s happiness for so many? How do we dare to confront the social, personal and global "germs” that so easily pollute our world?
Adrian Monk’s trademark method of examining a crime scene may help us here. In what Monk’s able assistant, Sharona usually refers to as his “Zen Sherlock Holmes thing,” Monk wanders through a crime scene with apparent abandon. He holds up his hands, as though framing a shot for a photograph. Tony Shalhoub, the actor who portrays Monk, explains that Monk does this because it isolates and cuts the crime scene into discernable pieces or slices. It allows him to look at parts of the crime scene, rather than the whole.
Maybe that is what you and I need to do in this dangerous world. Perhaps we should stop easily ignoring and passing over the little evidences that our world is out of whack. Perhaps, we should give minute attention to the small evidences of discord, both in ourselves and in the cosmos. In all of the furor over health care, immigration, the economy and global peace, it might be Monkly wise of us to sense that something is way wrong, look at the small pieces of the puzzle and reflect on potential corrective scenarios, because, “It’s a jungle out there!”
Adrian Monk, formerly with the San Francisco Police Department, is the quintessential acute obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) sufferer. His condition has been exacerbated by the murder of his wife, his unstable reaction to which resulted in his suspension from the department. Despite his emotional problems, however, he is a brilliant detective, styled along the lines of Sherlock Holmes with a little of Inspector Clouseau and Colombo thrown in. Monk has a record 312 phobias, chief of which are germs, milk, needles, death, snakes, mushrooms and elevators. He refuses to touch door handles and other normal objects with his bare hands, preferring to use sanitary wipes even after shaking hands. In addition, he is unable to eat food that other humans have touched!
Among the typical evidences of artistic genius in the development of this show, the people in charge chose Randy Newman’s ecological warning ballad, “It’s a Jungle Out There” as the theme song. Newman’s otherwise serious words of warning about the poisoning of the environment, placed against the backdrop of the slightly unwell Monk, are seen in a new light:
It's a jungle out there
Disorder and confusion everywhere
No one seems to care
Well I do
Hey, who's in charge here?
It's a jungle out there
Poison in the very air we breathe
Do you know what's in the water that you drink?
Well I do, and it's amazing
People think I'm crazy, 'cause I worry all the time
If you paid attention, you'd be worried too
You better pay attention
Or this world we love so much might just kill you
I could be wrong now, but I don't think so!
'Cause there's a jungle out there.
The genuine irony about this TV series is that it is precisely Monk’s relative illness that is, at the same time, the source of his detective genius. While his fears may often be ill-founded, it is his attention to detail, his penchant for symmetry and his obsession with orderliness which so often help him to notice the clues at the crime scene. And this is how Randy Newman’s appropriate warning about ecological concerns and Adrian Monk’s obsessive behaviors actually come together for me.
It truly is a jungle out there! There are very sinister and powerfully authentic and ugly realities about which each of us should be frightened and careful, at a minimum, if not active and corrective, at our best. Despite the fact that some may label us alarmist, overly-cautious, or moral sticks-in-the-mud, this good world has, in many instances, gone bad! How, then, can we be appropriately aware of the presence of evil in the world? How can we take seriously the many indications that this creation has been warped and thrown off-course from the original trajectory of its divine designer? How can we live with courage and fear and face our own, as well as the cosmic demons that destroy life’s happiness for so many? How do we dare to confront the social, personal and global "germs” that so easily pollute our world?
Adrian Monk’s trademark method of examining a crime scene may help us here. In what Monk’s able assistant, Sharona usually refers to as his “Zen Sherlock Holmes thing,” Monk wanders through a crime scene with apparent abandon. He holds up his hands, as though framing a shot for a photograph. Tony Shalhoub, the actor who portrays Monk, explains that Monk does this because it isolates and cuts the crime scene into discernable pieces or slices. It allows him to look at parts of the crime scene, rather than the whole.
Maybe that is what you and I need to do in this dangerous world. Perhaps we should stop easily ignoring and passing over the little evidences that our world is out of whack. Perhaps, we should give minute attention to the small evidences of discord, both in ourselves and in the cosmos. In all of the furor over health care, immigration, the economy and global peace, it might be Monkly wise of us to sense that something is way wrong, look at the small pieces of the puzzle and reflect on potential corrective scenarios, because, “It’s a jungle out there!”
Monday, August 17, 2009
CLUNKERS
I confess to a major value conflict! If you know me well, you know that it’s not unusual for me when one subset of my somewhat complex, personal value system collides with another subset. Ordinarily, I work at keeping my values compartmentalized, so that I can pretend ignorance of my inconsistencies. I am quite mentally flexible and have become adept at disguising the contradictions within myself. Occasionally, I am honest enough to admit to them and sometimes I even celebrate my value paradoxes.
But this one truly has generated a restlessness in my ruminations which I can no longer deny and which I find difficult to celebrate. Try as I might, I just can’t ignore the incongruity or rejoice over the inconsistency. I keep running the “pro” values up against the “con” values and I keep coming out conflicted.
It’s about the US government’s recent decision to follow the lead of other world powers by encouraging consumption as an escape route from the world-wide economic mess; specifically, our leaders have chosen, simultaneously, to stimulate the faltering auto industry and to take a stand in favor of more efficient and ecologically sound automotive engineering; they have done so by encouraging the public to trade-in their gas-guzzling vehicles. I know, I know! I get it! These automobiles are inefficient! They over-pollute our already over-polluted air! And, besides, the US auto industry is in the dumpster! Something has to be done to stimulate this essential enterprise and to entice the American auto-buying public to pretend confidence in the economy!
But, on the other hand (I just hate it when there is an “other hand”!), to this day, I regret it that so many great, now-vintage automobiles were too-easily consigned to the scrap yards, just a few decades ago. As a vintage auto admirer and sometime collector, I know that cars represent a particular era, that they make a statement about who we were “back then” and what we valued “when.” I know that it’s more than mere sentimentality that causes so many to reclaim and restore old cars. I know that refurbishing vintage vehicles is something akin to protecting the “living artifacts” of social, political and economic history. I’m just grateful that the vintage wheels that I have owned were spared the dreaded extermination by cruncher and, to this day, (most) remain alive and thriving on the streets.
I feel this way about the current crop of so-called clunkers, because I know that some of them, perhaps many of them, are in fine shape and don’t “deserve” to be so sentenced to the scrap-heap. I know it’s inconsistent of me, but I just wish there was some other way to gain a boost to the economy and make some progress on our pollution problems without the sacrifice of all of this vintage sheet metal!
More importantly, this treatment of autos reflects yet another one of my value conflicts – the way we treat older persons. I can’t help but notice that our youth-oriented, narcissistic, contemporary-dominated culture is inclined to treat older persons like we treat older 4-door sedans! We are far too quick to set some arbitrary age limit and, without thinking or admitting it, determine that anyone over that age is, henceforth, of little value and is prohibitively expensive to maintain. I’m certain that my view is prejudiced by the reality that, last week, I began the process of registering for Medicare. Half-way through my sixth decade of living, I sense significant, growing prejudice toward those of us who are “chronologically advantaged.”
So, now, I must own-up to yet another value conflict. “What shall we do with grandma or grandpa?” How shall we treat the aged with respect and dignity? How can we so construct a viable social system that is efficient and, at the same time, able to “afford” the “inefficiencies” required to protect and treasure those who are living longer each year?
A clunker conundrum, indeed!
But this one truly has generated a restlessness in my ruminations which I can no longer deny and which I find difficult to celebrate. Try as I might, I just can’t ignore the incongruity or rejoice over the inconsistency. I keep running the “pro” values up against the “con” values and I keep coming out conflicted.
It’s about the US government’s recent decision to follow the lead of other world powers by encouraging consumption as an escape route from the world-wide economic mess; specifically, our leaders have chosen, simultaneously, to stimulate the faltering auto industry and to take a stand in favor of more efficient and ecologically sound automotive engineering; they have done so by encouraging the public to trade-in their gas-guzzling vehicles. I know, I know! I get it! These automobiles are inefficient! They over-pollute our already over-polluted air! And, besides, the US auto industry is in the dumpster! Something has to be done to stimulate this essential enterprise and to entice the American auto-buying public to pretend confidence in the economy!
But, on the other hand (I just hate it when there is an “other hand”!), to this day, I regret it that so many great, now-vintage automobiles were too-easily consigned to the scrap yards, just a few decades ago. As a vintage auto admirer and sometime collector, I know that cars represent a particular era, that they make a statement about who we were “back then” and what we valued “when.” I know that it’s more than mere sentimentality that causes so many to reclaim and restore old cars. I know that refurbishing vintage vehicles is something akin to protecting the “living artifacts” of social, political and economic history. I’m just grateful that the vintage wheels that I have owned were spared the dreaded extermination by cruncher and, to this day, (most) remain alive and thriving on the streets.
I feel this way about the current crop of so-called clunkers, because I know that some of them, perhaps many of them, are in fine shape and don’t “deserve” to be so sentenced to the scrap-heap. I know it’s inconsistent of me, but I just wish there was some other way to gain a boost to the economy and make some progress on our pollution problems without the sacrifice of all of this vintage sheet metal!
More importantly, this treatment of autos reflects yet another one of my value conflicts – the way we treat older persons. I can’t help but notice that our youth-oriented, narcissistic, contemporary-dominated culture is inclined to treat older persons like we treat older 4-door sedans! We are far too quick to set some arbitrary age limit and, without thinking or admitting it, determine that anyone over that age is, henceforth, of little value and is prohibitively expensive to maintain. I’m certain that my view is prejudiced by the reality that, last week, I began the process of registering for Medicare. Half-way through my sixth decade of living, I sense significant, growing prejudice toward those of us who are “chronologically advantaged.”
So, now, I must own-up to yet another value conflict. “What shall we do with grandma or grandpa?” How shall we treat the aged with respect and dignity? How can we so construct a viable social system that is efficient and, at the same time, able to “afford” the “inefficiencies” required to protect and treasure those who are living longer each year?
A clunker conundrum, indeed!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
