The old Gospel song speaks longingly of a life beyond this present life and, in so doing, taps into and gives voice to a soul wish that is pretty close to universal. Given the wearifying travail demanded as the price for a ticket to travel through this present world, who can blame the dog-tired pilgrim for hoping for a better place, “in that far off sweet forever, just beyond the shining river”?
The Israelites in the biblical story, however, were less concerned about the hereafter; exhausted, both from their Egyptian ordeal and from the rough road of desert emancipation and escape, they longed for a “promised land” in this very world where all that was wrong would be made right and all that was bad would be transformed into good. That land turned out to be somewhat less than the idyllic utopia that they imagined and it summoned them to change far more than just location in order to receive its benefits; on the other hand, it also was to be found literally “beyond the river” Jordan.
So, today, I am thinking of these treasured words, not in some super-spiritual, other-worldly sense; I am reflecting on their most practical and pragmatic meaning, as I have experienced them in my own life. I am recalling the profoundly challenging vision and also the terrifying reality that is caught up in this affirmation that there exists “land beyond the river.” It is so easy for me to build my little world around “my little world.” In my self-centered fashion, I can slip, unconsciously, into the notion that all that truly exists and all that actually “is” resides within the confines of “my place,” on “this side of the river,” if you please!
But, the current H1N1 virus scare that still threatens to become a pandemic has telegraphed its message to many citizens of the USA that there’s a land beyond the Rio Grande River! As the ancients in hilly Buda and those on the flat terrain of Pest, in Hungary felt differentiated by the Danube River between them, sometimes you and I live as though water were a wall. Often, people ask Janice and me what the people are like “overseas,” as if they were fundamentally different “across the pond.”
Please do not misunderstand. I would never deny the powerful reality of historical and cultural differences; as an expat American, living in Athens, Greece, I live with them every day! But, sometimes I just need to shout out loud, to myself, as much as to anyone else, that “there’s a land beyond the river” and it is peopled with people who are in so many essential ways very much like the people on “this side of the river.” Universal is their need for affirmation, their desire for security and their fear of the unknown; identical to ours is their hope for wholeness, their striving for freedom and their aversion to risk; catholic is their value in God’s sight, their beauty, their worth. Why must you and I consistently pretend that this is not true?
Everybody, sing with me now: “There’s a land beyond the river!”
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Village Life!
“You’re the one with the red coat!” the woman proudly said to Janice, as she got down from her bicycle. The woven, straw basket strapped to the rear fender of her bike was filled with groceries because she was returning from the only grocery store in the tiny village of Limni, on the Greek island of Evia. She boldly curbed her vintage bike to interrupt the otherwise peaceful breakfast-by-the-sea of these strangers because, well, that’s what they do in Limni. Since early May is still a bit early for tourists and since the village is small, she and her neighbors had definitely noticed us when, the twilight before, we drove into the village, in search of lodging for the night.
We had driven three hours from Athens to Larissa, Greece, the day before, to pick-up some Albanian language books in preparation for upcoming marriage enrichment and singles conferences at PORTA –the Albania House in Athens. On the way home, on the spur of the moment, with no extra clothes, we decided to take the ferry boat across from the mainland to the large island that hugs the Greek coastline. As the fading sun set on the waters, we drove into the seaside town and were fortunate to locate lodging in a German-run inn facing the bay.
Perhaps, the lady stopped to make conversation because there is precious little else to do in Limni. It is distinguished, not only by its simple and pristine beauty, but by its miniature size. Everyone in town knows everyone else in town; and, I suspect that new arrivals are welcomed both because they bring the potential for trade and also because they are people. And people seem to be valued in this tiny town.
As we sat at a dinner table the night before, enjoying a classic Greek meal in a building that was proud of its 150 years, my weary, wound-up-tight, western-over-scheduled brain began to sense a change of velocity. Almost unconsciously, my internal gyroscope recalibrated itself, to calculate more correctly the ambiance and milieu of this restful place. Since all that we did in that precious get-away was done near the sea, the casual, predictable and repetitive come and go, give and take of the waves, washing on the shore and retreating seemed to set the stride for us. The water spoke softly to us, telling us to slow down. And we did, if only for the better part of one night and half of the next day.
Driving home through the mountains on the island, passing idyllic mountain streams, I asked myself: How can I learn to slow the tempo in the hurly burly of my “normal life” on the streets of Athens? Lacking the island inducements to reflection and the “natural” village life incentives that entice one toward the larger perspective and the slower pace, what prompters can I locate in my urban existence that will put my worries on “pause” and help me to step back from the angst of anxiety?
While I have few easy answers to those questions, I am convinced that seeking both answers and places of emotional refuge are vital for me. And I have returned to this old city with a fresh desire to savor the little moments that this good life gives me, even those that may be filled with diesel fumes, motorcycle noise and Greeks shouting at everyone, anyone and no one. Look for the wistful, glassy-eyed guy in the Athens traffic!
We had driven three hours from Athens to Larissa, Greece, the day before, to pick-up some Albanian language books in preparation for upcoming marriage enrichment and singles conferences at PORTA –the Albania House in Athens. On the way home, on the spur of the moment, with no extra clothes, we decided to take the ferry boat across from the mainland to the large island that hugs the Greek coastline. As the fading sun set on the waters, we drove into the seaside town and were fortunate to locate lodging in a German-run inn facing the bay.
Perhaps, the lady stopped to make conversation because there is precious little else to do in Limni. It is distinguished, not only by its simple and pristine beauty, but by its miniature size. Everyone in town knows everyone else in town; and, I suspect that new arrivals are welcomed both because they bring the potential for trade and also because they are people. And people seem to be valued in this tiny town.
As we sat at a dinner table the night before, enjoying a classic Greek meal in a building that was proud of its 150 years, my weary, wound-up-tight, western-over-scheduled brain began to sense a change of velocity. Almost unconsciously, my internal gyroscope recalibrated itself, to calculate more correctly the ambiance and milieu of this restful place. Since all that we did in that precious get-away was done near the sea, the casual, predictable and repetitive come and go, give and take of the waves, washing on the shore and retreating seemed to set the stride for us. The water spoke softly to us, telling us to slow down. And we did, if only for the better part of one night and half of the next day.
Driving home through the mountains on the island, passing idyllic mountain streams, I asked myself: How can I learn to slow the tempo in the hurly burly of my “normal life” on the streets of Athens? Lacking the island inducements to reflection and the “natural” village life incentives that entice one toward the larger perspective and the slower pace, what prompters can I locate in my urban existence that will put my worries on “pause” and help me to step back from the angst of anxiety?
While I have few easy answers to those questions, I am convinced that seeking both answers and places of emotional refuge are vital for me. And I have returned to this old city with a fresh desire to savor the little moments that this good life gives me, even those that may be filled with diesel fumes, motorcycle noise and Greeks shouting at everyone, anyone and no one. Look for the wistful, glassy-eyed guy in the Athens traffic!
Friday, March 27, 2009
“ONE SENT” to the Hardware Store!
Any expat or missionary will tell you: practical, everyday matters, which are easily taken for granted back home, are often among the most difficult aspects of cross-cultural living. Finding and training a barber in a foreign setting, for instance, is not as simple as it may sound. Locating a trusty auto mechanic can be a challenge when the native tongue of the area is not your native tongue. For me, ranking right up there with schooling a barber and locating a reliable motor master is the challenge of befriending a good hardware store guy.
Those big box home improvement stores are beginning to appear in our city of Athens, Greece. You know the type; everything you need to repair the stopped sink or install the busted fuses can be found; I stand for hours, trying to decide whether to buy the $50 shower nozzle or the cheapo, $19.95 version. Unfortunately, the Greek teenagers who work at the place know less than I do about the eccentricities of home repair; and that, my friend, is precious little!
What I have been looking (and praying) for is that handyman guy who operates a little neighborhood hardware store – the one with screws of every different size, ladders and pieces of chain; the guy should also know a lot about how to do things around the house. I need an unpaid consultant, you see, who is willing, at no extra charge, to take me under his skilled wings and lead me, step-by-step, through the truly complex process of something like removing the broken potty seat and replacing it with the shiny, new one. I need someone who feels called to help out the lame-brained, mechanically-challenged and less fortunate – and who is available 24/7, exclusively for me!
Well, glory hallelujah, I have found him! His tiny shop is just around the corner! The shop is no bigger than a good-sized, four-door, American automobile, with cans, hangers and shelving reaching to the ceiling; you have to back-out of the place when you leave, but, this guy has everything! And he speaks impeccable English! And he is a super nice guy!
This week, I went to him in the ostensibly futile (for me) effort to repair the hinge mechanism on the bathroom cabinet doors. I showed him the broken piece that I needed to replace or repair and looked pitiful. Immediately, he swung into action! He took out some sort of measuring device that calibrated the diameter of the broken piece, turned quickly to that myriad of tiny drawers behind him, announced triumphantly that “What you need is a number 6!” and pulled open several drawers, each of which proffered several versions of number 6 nuts, bolts and washers. “Choose which one you like!” he said, as if I had the slightest idea how to make such a momentous decision. Finally, he gently suggested, “Why not take this one!” followed by “How many do you need?”
I felt like I had died and gone to heaven! There he was, in my neighborhood, with everything I might possibly need and the knowhow to guide me in how to use it! And guess what? I took the stuff home and installed it! And it works! Now, Janice thinks I’m a mechanical genius!
Somewhere, back there in my early childhood, perhaps in what was then called “Training Union” at church, I was taught that the word, apostle came from the Greek word (apostolos) for “messenger” or “one sent.” We were told that Jesus sent out every one of His followers, to show Christ-like love and to care for others, in His name. Although there were some people in the Bible who were referred to as “apostles,” as in the “Acts of the Apostles,” we Baptists were taught that all followers are “sent” by Jesus, not just the preachers and missionaries. We learned, back in those golden “olden” days, that although clergy represented a specialized version of that universal calling, they were no more special than the non-clergy who were farmers, bankers, brain surgeons, business persons, school teachers or taxicab drivers, yet recognized that Jesus had “sent” them to their work, as “apostles,” in His name. Since my parents were devout lay persons who took their faith in Jesus to work with them, and since no one in our family had ever been clergy, this was not a hard concept for me to grasp as a kid. I just figured that everyone who served Jesus was an “apostle” of His, no matter what work they did!
Oh, I forgot to tell you. The Greek guy at the hardware store? My latest, best friend? His actual name is APOSTOLOS!
Any expat or missionary will tell you: practical, everyday matters, which are easily taken for granted back home, are often among the most difficult aspects of cross-cultural living. Finding and training a barber in a foreign setting, for instance, is not as simple as it may sound. Locating a trusty auto mechanic can be a challenge when the native tongue of the area is not your native tongue. For me, ranking right up there with schooling a barber and locating a reliable motor master is the challenge of befriending a good hardware store guy.
Those big box home improvement stores are beginning to appear in our city of Athens, Greece. You know the type; everything you need to repair the stopped sink or install the busted fuses can be found; I stand for hours, trying to decide whether to buy the $50 shower nozzle or the cheapo, $19.95 version. Unfortunately, the Greek teenagers who work at the place know less than I do about the eccentricities of home repair; and that, my friend, is precious little!
What I have been looking (and praying) for is that handyman guy who operates a little neighborhood hardware store – the one with screws of every different size, ladders and pieces of chain; the guy should also know a lot about how to do things around the house. I need an unpaid consultant, you see, who is willing, at no extra charge, to take me under his skilled wings and lead me, step-by-step, through the truly complex process of something like removing the broken potty seat and replacing it with the shiny, new one. I need someone who feels called to help out the lame-brained, mechanically-challenged and less fortunate – and who is available 24/7, exclusively for me!
Well, glory hallelujah, I have found him! His tiny shop is just around the corner! The shop is no bigger than a good-sized, four-door, American automobile, with cans, hangers and shelving reaching to the ceiling; you have to back-out of the place when you leave, but, this guy has everything! And he speaks impeccable English! And he is a super nice guy!
This week, I went to him in the ostensibly futile (for me) effort to repair the hinge mechanism on the bathroom cabinet doors. I showed him the broken piece that I needed to replace or repair and looked pitiful. Immediately, he swung into action! He took out some sort of measuring device that calibrated the diameter of the broken piece, turned quickly to that myriad of tiny drawers behind him, announced triumphantly that “What you need is a number 6!” and pulled open several drawers, each of which proffered several versions of number 6 nuts, bolts and washers. “Choose which one you like!” he said, as if I had the slightest idea how to make such a momentous decision. Finally, he gently suggested, “Why not take this one!” followed by “How many do you need?”
I felt like I had died and gone to heaven! There he was, in my neighborhood, with everything I might possibly need and the knowhow to guide me in how to use it! And guess what? I took the stuff home and installed it! And it works! Now, Janice thinks I’m a mechanical genius!
Somewhere, back there in my early childhood, perhaps in what was then called “Training Union” at church, I was taught that the word, apostle came from the Greek word (apostolos) for “messenger” or “one sent.” We were told that Jesus sent out every one of His followers, to show Christ-like love and to care for others, in His name. Although there were some people in the Bible who were referred to as “apostles,” as in the “Acts of the Apostles,” we Baptists were taught that all followers are “sent” by Jesus, not just the preachers and missionaries. We learned, back in those golden “olden” days, that although clergy represented a specialized version of that universal calling, they were no more special than the non-clergy who were farmers, bankers, brain surgeons, business persons, school teachers or taxicab drivers, yet recognized that Jesus had “sent” them to their work, as “apostles,” in His name. Since my parents were devout lay persons who took their faith in Jesus to work with them, and since no one in our family had ever been clergy, this was not a hard concept for me to grasp as a kid. I just figured that everyone who served Jesus was an “apostle” of His, no matter what work they did!
Oh, I forgot to tell you. The Greek guy at the hardware store? My latest, best friend? His actual name is APOSTOLOS!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
WAITING FOR OURSELVES!
The Hopi or “peaceful people,” now centered in the northern portion of the state of Arizona, claim an ancient heritage and think of themselves as the records-keepers of American Indian lore and truth. Their traditions exhibit a fierce concern for “Mother Earth,” the recognition of a mystical “higher power” and a generalized caution against most forms of modernism.
I have been impressed with the lines reputed to be from the Elders Oraibi, of the Arizona Hopi Nation. Utilized by some American politicians recently, these words should be heard beyond the histrionics of the campaign:
"You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour.
Now you must go back and tell the people that this is The Hour.
And there are things to be considered:
Create your community. Be good to each other. And do not look outside yourself for the leader. This could be a good time!
There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart, and they will suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you and celebrate. At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally. Least of all, ourselves. For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt. The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves!
Banish the word struggle from your attitude and your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.
We are the ones we've been waiting for."
For the people with whom I now work very closely, Albanian Immigrants in Athens, Greece, these words could be of help. The ancient wisdom is also relevant for many in America, beset by a seemingly unending economic meltdown and the loss of trusted sources of personal and corporate security. For that powerless feeling imbedded deep within us and the tendency, in the face of adversity, to be overwhelmed by uninvited forces and tempted to beat a safe retreat, to wait for reinforcements to arrive, the Hopi insight speaks directly.
Indeed, “this is the Hour!” We must live with a keen awareness that, despite the challenges of this hour, this is the time in which we are called to act. This is not the time to run away or to regress. This is the time to step forward, fully alert, active and ready to give back our very best in this time that has been given to us. We could pine for an easier hour; we could hope for an hour like safer hours we have known before; we could yearn for a blissful, imaginary hour that is not yet to be. But “this is the Hour!”
Who can disagree with the Hopi that our present day is one in which we are in the midst of a fast-flowing river? Some want to hold to the shore when the waters begin to swirl around; but staying ashore is no option for those who are already in the boat and in the water. We must navigate the rapids, channel the forces and position our life craft in such a way as to capitalize on the momentum of the waves, lest we be overtaken by them. Even amateur boats-men understand that resistance to the waves adds a greater danger. When one is in the fast moving stream, tis better to focus on steering than to abandon ship and strike out for the supposed safety of the shore.
I recall John Updike’s classic book of literary criticism, entitled, Hugging the Shore. For Updike, who excelled at both fiction and literary analysis, “writing criticism is to fiction and poetry what hugging the shore is to sailing the open sea.” While I am no literary critic, I resonate strongly with Updike’s contention that human beings are often like ocean-going liners who were meant to sail the open seas, but who, in fear of the depths or the force of the waves, choose to “hug the shore.” Although the Hopi imagery is that of a fast-moving river, rather than the ocean, the instruction is the same: “We must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.”
How wise of the Hopi, also, to encourage us to “see who is in there with you and celebrate.” Times of difficulty and challenge should send us toward each other, not away from each other. Knowing that “we are all in the same boat” should help us to treasure each other, rather than trying to compete against each other.
At last, with the Hopi, we must conclude that “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for!” Some Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece, beset by a legacy of poverty and the modern-day nemesis of powerful prejudice, believe that someone else holds their destiny. With too much passivity and too much resignation, they too easily surrender themselves to doing nothing and waiting for someone else –the European Union, the United States, or some humanitarian organization – to bring them deliverance.
Likewise, some Americans are so stymied by the economic malaise that they have convinced themselves that they can do nothing. The wait for a “stimulus package,” an extension of unemployment benefits or the election of the “right” political leader or the “right” political party before their liberation is at hand. Like native islanders who once witnessed the arrival of sailing ships, loaded with material goods from a far superior and more technologically advanced culture and concluded that their only hope was to stand on the shore and wait, it is easy for some moderns to develop a “cargo cult” mentality in these days of challenge.
As a follower of Jesus Christ, I recognize and believe firmly that the only true hope in this life and the next is in God. But, unlike some religions, Christianity asserts that individuals have the power and the responsibility to choose for themselves their eternal destiny and, to a considerable extent, their temporal outcomes as well. Followers of the One who went to Calvary understand that the Spirit of the Christ is in this with us, redeeming the difficulties and giving us the strength to face them, if not rescuing us from them. We must choose to believe, trust God and take the actions that are open to us. Relying on the Almighty to help us, we must claim the truth that, “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for!”
I have been impressed with the lines reputed to be from the Elders Oraibi, of the Arizona Hopi Nation. Utilized by some American politicians recently, these words should be heard beyond the histrionics of the campaign:
"You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour.
Now you must go back and tell the people that this is The Hour.
And there are things to be considered:
Create your community. Be good to each other. And do not look outside yourself for the leader. This could be a good time!
There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart, and they will suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you and celebrate. At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally. Least of all, ourselves. For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt. The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves!
Banish the word struggle from your attitude and your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.
We are the ones we've been waiting for."
For the people with whom I now work very closely, Albanian Immigrants in Athens, Greece, these words could be of help. The ancient wisdom is also relevant for many in America, beset by a seemingly unending economic meltdown and the loss of trusted sources of personal and corporate security. For that powerless feeling imbedded deep within us and the tendency, in the face of adversity, to be overwhelmed by uninvited forces and tempted to beat a safe retreat, to wait for reinforcements to arrive, the Hopi insight speaks directly.
Indeed, “this is the Hour!” We must live with a keen awareness that, despite the challenges of this hour, this is the time in which we are called to act. This is not the time to run away or to regress. This is the time to step forward, fully alert, active and ready to give back our very best in this time that has been given to us. We could pine for an easier hour; we could hope for an hour like safer hours we have known before; we could yearn for a blissful, imaginary hour that is not yet to be. But “this is the Hour!”
Who can disagree with the Hopi that our present day is one in which we are in the midst of a fast-flowing river? Some want to hold to the shore when the waters begin to swirl around; but staying ashore is no option for those who are already in the boat and in the water. We must navigate the rapids, channel the forces and position our life craft in such a way as to capitalize on the momentum of the waves, lest we be overtaken by them. Even amateur boats-men understand that resistance to the waves adds a greater danger. When one is in the fast moving stream, tis better to focus on steering than to abandon ship and strike out for the supposed safety of the shore.
I recall John Updike’s classic book of literary criticism, entitled, Hugging the Shore. For Updike, who excelled at both fiction and literary analysis, “writing criticism is to fiction and poetry what hugging the shore is to sailing the open sea.” While I am no literary critic, I resonate strongly with Updike’s contention that human beings are often like ocean-going liners who were meant to sail the open seas, but who, in fear of the depths or the force of the waves, choose to “hug the shore.” Although the Hopi imagery is that of a fast-moving river, rather than the ocean, the instruction is the same: “We must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.”
How wise of the Hopi, also, to encourage us to “see who is in there with you and celebrate.” Times of difficulty and challenge should send us toward each other, not away from each other. Knowing that “we are all in the same boat” should help us to treasure each other, rather than trying to compete against each other.
At last, with the Hopi, we must conclude that “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for!” Some Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece, beset by a legacy of poverty and the modern-day nemesis of powerful prejudice, believe that someone else holds their destiny. With too much passivity and too much resignation, they too easily surrender themselves to doing nothing and waiting for someone else –the European Union, the United States, or some humanitarian organization – to bring them deliverance.
Likewise, some Americans are so stymied by the economic malaise that they have convinced themselves that they can do nothing. The wait for a “stimulus package,” an extension of unemployment benefits or the election of the “right” political leader or the “right” political party before their liberation is at hand. Like native islanders who once witnessed the arrival of sailing ships, loaded with material goods from a far superior and more technologically advanced culture and concluded that their only hope was to stand on the shore and wait, it is easy for some moderns to develop a “cargo cult” mentality in these days of challenge.
As a follower of Jesus Christ, I recognize and believe firmly that the only true hope in this life and the next is in God. But, unlike some religions, Christianity asserts that individuals have the power and the responsibility to choose for themselves their eternal destiny and, to a considerable extent, their temporal outcomes as well. Followers of the One who went to Calvary understand that the Spirit of the Christ is in this with us, redeeming the difficulties and giving us the strength to face them, if not rescuing us from them. We must choose to believe, trust God and take the actions that are open to us. Relying on the Almighty to help us, we must claim the truth that, “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for!”
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Root Beer, Please!
It was a “Southern Living” Christmas for us! Set against the luxurious ambiance of finely crafted, antique furniture, enhanced by impeccable decorator touches and several lifetimes of family love, the two-story, five bedroom home, recently inherited by my daughter-in-law, is situated on Main Street in Henderson, Texas. (To be more precise, the home is located on South Main Street, since, emanating from a perpendicular intersection on the downtown square, there are actually four Main Streets – South Main, North Main, East Main and West Main!) Given the inviting atmosphere of this well-maintained home (built in 1929; restored about 10 years ago) and since our family is now scattered in Los Angeles, California, Alexandria, Virginia and Athens, Greece, we decided to celebrate our first Christmas since both of our sons have married in “beautiful, downtown, Henderson, Texas.”
The two and a half hours from the nearest large airport and urban center provided blessed time to depressurize and un-wind, in anticipation of the slower pace of small-town life. Beyond the Wal-Mart store, Bob’s Barbeque and its prominence as the county seat of Rusk County, Henderson, Texas is famous as an “oil town,” a railroad center, the home of a syrup festival and certainly, enough warm hospitality to soothe the most cynical city-dweller.
By the time everyone in my family had arrived and we were making final plans for the “best Christmas ever,” (every year, it gets better!), my mate remembered some vital elements that she had forgotten, so I was dispatched to the grocery store. (Some things never change, whether in Henderson, Texas or Athens, Greece!) I found the Brookshire Brothers grocery store remarkably busy for this late in the pre-Christmas season. Apparently, others had likewise forgotten those “must have” ingredients for the upcoming feasts and fests!
Inside the store, checking-off the items which I had been sent to retrieve, I passed the soft drink section of this modern supermarket. I was prepared for a generous selection of beverages, despite (or, perhaps, because of) the reality that Rusk County is a “dry county” - alcoholic beverage strictly prohibited! But, I was totally unprepared for what I saw in the middle rows of the expansive cola collection.
Seven different brands of root beer! Not seven different versions of the same brand (regular, diet, caffeine, non-caffeinated, etc), but seven different brands! Hendersonians must love their root beer! Hendersonians must love their root beer choices!
I have lived in Houston, Texas - population 5 million; I have lived in Athens, Greece - population 5 million; I have lived in Tirana, Albania – population 1 million! I have been to a couple of goat-ropings and a few county fairs. But, I have never seen seven different brands of root beer – all for sale in one place! And, if you’ll pardon my effete snobbery, I never expected to find such root beer options in Henderson, Texas!
Well, I am reminded that small-town life is not what it used to be. Modern technology and communications, yea, aggressive contemporary marketing, have shrunk the size of our world, with the result that most among us live in many ways the same lives, whether the setting is Henderson, Texas or Los Angeles, California. Perhaps we should celebrate the freedom and liberty represented by this week’s worth of beverage choices.
I intend no disrespect toward root beer; I love nothing better than that decadent delight in a frosty mug – perhaps with some vanilla ice cream in the mix! Maybe it seems impertinent of me to question vaunted capitalism and the machinations of modern marketing. But, I dare to wonder out loud: with all of the problems facing humanity, how does it come to be that our world (or the world of Hendersonians, at least) needs seven different brands of root beer? I understand that “there’s no accounting for taste,” and, as our government officials are learning, I am certain that it is very difficult to control private enterprise.
But, think with me here: what would our world be like if the energy, ingenuity, infrastructure and pizzazz associated with getting seven brands of root beer to the shelves in Henderson, Texas could be tapped and channeled toward the solving of some of the great conundrums of modern life, such as the Arab-Israeli conflict, the intractable spread of AIDS, or the prevalence of diet-related diseases among the desperately poor on the planet? How might this old, broken-down cosmos be improved if we could tap the forces utilized to satisfy individual tastes or cater to eccentric whims and redirect them toward what Abraham Maslow taught us, years ago, were the more basic needs of humanity?
There is some reason for hope on this topic. Bono and others, with their “Red Campaign,” etc., are helping us to learn how to channel the often unrestrained forces of capitalism away from simple selfish satisfactions toward the resolution of truly global, humanitarian needs. These days, it is becoming more fashionable for major corporations and their captains to engage in benevolent work and the trend toward eco-friendly actions and corporate largesse seems to be on the up-tick.
We capitalists, especially, must learn how, without abandoning our work ethic and even our incentives toward profit, to make appropriate use of the levers of power available to us for the sake of the often overlooked “common good.” If there is a clear lesson arising from our current economic “melt-down,” it is certainly that self-interest cannot be the sole motivation for human activity.
The next time I have a root beer float, I’m going to sit back, take a “swig,” and ruminate on that!
The two and a half hours from the nearest large airport and urban center provided blessed time to depressurize and un-wind, in anticipation of the slower pace of small-town life. Beyond the Wal-Mart store, Bob’s Barbeque and its prominence as the county seat of Rusk County, Henderson, Texas is famous as an “oil town,” a railroad center, the home of a syrup festival and certainly, enough warm hospitality to soothe the most cynical city-dweller.
By the time everyone in my family had arrived and we were making final plans for the “best Christmas ever,” (every year, it gets better!), my mate remembered some vital elements that she had forgotten, so I was dispatched to the grocery store. (Some things never change, whether in Henderson, Texas or Athens, Greece!) I found the Brookshire Brothers grocery store remarkably busy for this late in the pre-Christmas season. Apparently, others had likewise forgotten those “must have” ingredients for the upcoming feasts and fests!
Inside the store, checking-off the items which I had been sent to retrieve, I passed the soft drink section of this modern supermarket. I was prepared for a generous selection of beverages, despite (or, perhaps, because of) the reality that Rusk County is a “dry county” - alcoholic beverage strictly prohibited! But, I was totally unprepared for what I saw in the middle rows of the expansive cola collection.
Seven different brands of root beer! Not seven different versions of the same brand (regular, diet, caffeine, non-caffeinated, etc), but seven different brands! Hendersonians must love their root beer! Hendersonians must love their root beer choices!
I have lived in Houston, Texas - population 5 million; I have lived in Athens, Greece - population 5 million; I have lived in Tirana, Albania – population 1 million! I have been to a couple of goat-ropings and a few county fairs. But, I have never seen seven different brands of root beer – all for sale in one place! And, if you’ll pardon my effete snobbery, I never expected to find such root beer options in Henderson, Texas!
Well, I am reminded that small-town life is not what it used to be. Modern technology and communications, yea, aggressive contemporary marketing, have shrunk the size of our world, with the result that most among us live in many ways the same lives, whether the setting is Henderson, Texas or Los Angeles, California. Perhaps we should celebrate the freedom and liberty represented by this week’s worth of beverage choices.
I intend no disrespect toward root beer; I love nothing better than that decadent delight in a frosty mug – perhaps with some vanilla ice cream in the mix! Maybe it seems impertinent of me to question vaunted capitalism and the machinations of modern marketing. But, I dare to wonder out loud: with all of the problems facing humanity, how does it come to be that our world (or the world of Hendersonians, at least) needs seven different brands of root beer? I understand that “there’s no accounting for taste,” and, as our government officials are learning, I am certain that it is very difficult to control private enterprise.
But, think with me here: what would our world be like if the energy, ingenuity, infrastructure and pizzazz associated with getting seven brands of root beer to the shelves in Henderson, Texas could be tapped and channeled toward the solving of some of the great conundrums of modern life, such as the Arab-Israeli conflict, the intractable spread of AIDS, or the prevalence of diet-related diseases among the desperately poor on the planet? How might this old, broken-down cosmos be improved if we could tap the forces utilized to satisfy individual tastes or cater to eccentric whims and redirect them toward what Abraham Maslow taught us, years ago, were the more basic needs of humanity?
There is some reason for hope on this topic. Bono and others, with their “Red Campaign,” etc., are helping us to learn how to channel the often unrestrained forces of capitalism away from simple selfish satisfactions toward the resolution of truly global, humanitarian needs. These days, it is becoming more fashionable for major corporations and their captains to engage in benevolent work and the trend toward eco-friendly actions and corporate largesse seems to be on the up-tick.
We capitalists, especially, must learn how, without abandoning our work ethic and even our incentives toward profit, to make appropriate use of the levers of power available to us for the sake of the often overlooked “common good.” If there is a clear lesson arising from our current economic “melt-down,” it is certainly that self-interest cannot be the sole motivation for human activity.
The next time I have a root beer float, I’m going to sit back, take a “swig,” and ruminate on that!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Canned Humanity
How many of us were on-board that ordinary flight from Frankfurt to Los Angeles? I didn’t have the luxury to count. All I know is that every seat and every inch of storage space was filled. Sacred, personal space easily became shared, contested space. That metal cylinder reminded me of my expanding waistline – snug and stretched, unexpectedly taxed! In this limited, confined territory, I was involuntarily moved closer to mankind!
That Lufthansa daily “milk run” could have just as easily been the Starship Enterprise, with our all-knowing captain, cross-cultural crew, the blinking, buzzing machinations of modern technology, occasional space-speak gibberish, an upper level window on the universe and the silent, almost ignored, “power station.” Stuffed into that stress-tested, aluminum tube, I hurtled with apparent ease through the upper reaches of my itinerary!
There were all types: bigger ones, smaller ones, lighter-skinned ones, darker-skinned ones; happier ones, sadder ones, distracted ones; those headed towards something, those running from something; the energetic and wide-eyed novices alongside the weary, shade-covered veterans; wealthier ones, poorer ones! We were connected, yet separate, alike, yet different!
My life-mate and traveling partner sat next to baby Michel – a little hand in a much larger one! I winced when I was reminded that the price for the privilege of bulkhead seating is always proximity to infants. But my mate, in her grace, saw opportunity in this serendipity. Michel cried out and his bedraggled mother fed him what we call “baby food.”
Sharing the journey forces some, sometimes to be somewhat humane; others, consistently refuse to rise beyond the lowest level of humanity! Most know that the journey is a means to an end, yet others view the costly venture as an end in itself!
We had left behind, in Athens, the dangerous and destructive rioting in the streets, as well as the centuries-old prejudices. How thin is the layer of civilization! As this autumn’s world-wide economic meltdown has unquestionably reminded us, we are, all of us, vulnerable to forces beyond our control. Routinely, we naively move through frightening and deadly atmospheres. A screen tells me that we are over Hudson Bay, headed toward Calgary and are traveling at speeds I cannot comprehend, 2345 miles to our destination and minus 54 degrees, just outside my window! A thin, aluminum sheeting and a layer of plexi-glass separate me from the frigid and foul environment through which I move with careless ease.
We consume precious resources because we can and because our adopted lifestyle demands it. We are connected by the Internet, yet, also alone in the cosmos, with our thoughts and fears, waiting for the red, “occupied” sign on the astronautical “porta potty” door to change to green! We are powerful, yet vulnerable! Just hours ago, I stepped on board a space-ship, yet I was forced by a stranger to abandon liquids, take off my shoes and have my laptop wiped and swiped! What powers we have! How impotent we are! On an earlier flight, we were forced to do a “go around” at Frankfort, because …, I know not, why.
On a screen, a cartoon-like, electronic view of the world gives me a glimpse, ostensibly, from above what is assumed to be our privileged perspective! We see where the sun begins and the darkness ends! Oh, the gift, to come from the darkness into the light! Will it be that way when we land? Will I walk upright on the earth, in the daylight, or in the dark? Freed from this artificially-enforced intimate connection with humanity, removed from this precious introspection, will my life reflect the conquering compassion of the Christmas season in its first incarnation or the capitulative competition of the Christmas season in its contemporary manifestation?
Sometimes I don’t want to unbuckle my seatbelt!
That Lufthansa daily “milk run” could have just as easily been the Starship Enterprise, with our all-knowing captain, cross-cultural crew, the blinking, buzzing machinations of modern technology, occasional space-speak gibberish, an upper level window on the universe and the silent, almost ignored, “power station.” Stuffed into that stress-tested, aluminum tube, I hurtled with apparent ease through the upper reaches of my itinerary!
There were all types: bigger ones, smaller ones, lighter-skinned ones, darker-skinned ones; happier ones, sadder ones, distracted ones; those headed towards something, those running from something; the energetic and wide-eyed novices alongside the weary, shade-covered veterans; wealthier ones, poorer ones! We were connected, yet separate, alike, yet different!
My life-mate and traveling partner sat next to baby Michel – a little hand in a much larger one! I winced when I was reminded that the price for the privilege of bulkhead seating is always proximity to infants. But my mate, in her grace, saw opportunity in this serendipity. Michel cried out and his bedraggled mother fed him what we call “baby food.”
Sharing the journey forces some, sometimes to be somewhat humane; others, consistently refuse to rise beyond the lowest level of humanity! Most know that the journey is a means to an end, yet others view the costly venture as an end in itself!
We had left behind, in Athens, the dangerous and destructive rioting in the streets, as well as the centuries-old prejudices. How thin is the layer of civilization! As this autumn’s world-wide economic meltdown has unquestionably reminded us, we are, all of us, vulnerable to forces beyond our control. Routinely, we naively move through frightening and deadly atmospheres. A screen tells me that we are over Hudson Bay, headed toward Calgary and are traveling at speeds I cannot comprehend, 2345 miles to our destination and minus 54 degrees, just outside my window! A thin, aluminum sheeting and a layer of plexi-glass separate me from the frigid and foul environment through which I move with careless ease.
We consume precious resources because we can and because our adopted lifestyle demands it. We are connected by the Internet, yet, also alone in the cosmos, with our thoughts and fears, waiting for the red, “occupied” sign on the astronautical “porta potty” door to change to green! We are powerful, yet vulnerable! Just hours ago, I stepped on board a space-ship, yet I was forced by a stranger to abandon liquids, take off my shoes and have my laptop wiped and swiped! What powers we have! How impotent we are! On an earlier flight, we were forced to do a “go around” at Frankfort, because …, I know not, why.
On a screen, a cartoon-like, electronic view of the world gives me a glimpse, ostensibly, from above what is assumed to be our privileged perspective! We see where the sun begins and the darkness ends! Oh, the gift, to come from the darkness into the light! Will it be that way when we land? Will I walk upright on the earth, in the daylight, or in the dark? Freed from this artificially-enforced intimate connection with humanity, removed from this precious introspection, will my life reflect the conquering compassion of the Christmas season in its first incarnation or the capitulative competition of the Christmas season in its contemporary manifestation?
Sometimes I don’t want to unbuckle my seatbelt!
Monday, November 17, 2008
HOSTING PERSEVERANCE
Just one year ago, Ned and his wife were our guests in Athens for a conference. With their excellent command of the Albanian language (Shqip) and their training, expertise and wisdom in interpersonal relationships, they spoke to our Albanian friends about how to build healthy, productive and sustainable family relationships. During the weekend that they were with us, the Athens Marathon was happening. In fact, they were almost late to an assignment because the Marathon-related traffic put a “kink” in their cross-town travel plans!
It was during that weekend, however, that Ned, a former high school and university cross-country runner, decided to enter his first marathon. Returning home to Albania, he determined to begin the rigorous training, so that his forty-something body could be ready to compete in this year’s Athens Marathon. After all, what better way to enter the atmosphere of marathon running than to participate in the one located on the site that duplicates that first one, beginning in Marathonas, Greece and concluding in the ancient Olympic Stadium in Athens!
Those of us who know and love Tirana, Albania, will recognize that this congested, Balkan city is not the most conducive to training for a marathon. Circular racing tracks are, as yet, unheard of; even runners trails are unknown; paving on so many of the streets varies from crumbling to non-existent; potholes have been known to swallow automobiles and the lucrative business of stealing manhole covers is so routine (The authorities pay the thieves for the covers, so that they can go out and steal the same potholes again and redeem them again!) that pedestrians routinely step into the open spaces, often bringing serious bodily injury to the most cautious and careful walker.
With its constant rain and very cold weather in the winter months, Tirana can be a challenge to any kind of outdoor activity, much less the demanding and sweaty routine that is essential to marathon training. Nevertheless, Ned began to train in January, recalling his younger days. For months, he trained alone. Only in the last month of preparation did he link-up with some others who were also in training!
Although he and his wife maintain a busy schedule of humanitarian work, and they give both quality and quantity time to their young children and to their interpersonal relationships, Ned stayed with the rigorous regimen of preparation through many months. Last weekend, he came to our house a couple of days ahead of the famous race. It was our privilege to host him and to be present at the finish line when Ned crossed over, just over three hours since beginning the race.
Methinks a parable is to be found here. How impressive it is to see someone take on a personal challenge and to remain true to the essential and demanding disciplines required to achieve worthy goals! How much personal growth and character development awaits those who are willing, both to “dream the dream” and, also, to “pay the dues”! How needed, in this day of easy ease and abundant, fertile and enabled “couch potatoes,” is the model of restraint, self-denial and perseverance so humbly displayed by our friend, Ned!
On the other hand, what a privilege for us to be in a position to host this demonstration of resolve and determination! I want my house and my heart always to be accommodating to those who are willing to remain true to lofty goals. In the very best tradition of Albanian hospitality, I want to be willing to be a host to those persons who come across my path who can see beyond the immediate pleasures and can envision greater potentials within themselves and in the world at large. Athlete or athletic supporter, I want to give shelter to those who can demonstrate excellence and emulate insistence.
Who knows, in my own way, I might even become willing to run my own marathon!
Just one year ago, Ned and his wife were our guests in Athens for a conference. With their excellent command of the Albanian language (Shqip) and their training, expertise and wisdom in interpersonal relationships, they spoke to our Albanian friends about how to build healthy, productive and sustainable family relationships. During the weekend that they were with us, the Athens Marathon was happening. In fact, they were almost late to an assignment because the Marathon-related traffic put a “kink” in their cross-town travel plans!
It was during that weekend, however, that Ned, a former high school and university cross-country runner, decided to enter his first marathon. Returning home to Albania, he determined to begin the rigorous training, so that his forty-something body could be ready to compete in this year’s Athens Marathon. After all, what better way to enter the atmosphere of marathon running than to participate in the one located on the site that duplicates that first one, beginning in Marathonas, Greece and concluding in the ancient Olympic Stadium in Athens!
Those of us who know and love Tirana, Albania, will recognize that this congested, Balkan city is not the most conducive to training for a marathon. Circular racing tracks are, as yet, unheard of; even runners trails are unknown; paving on so many of the streets varies from crumbling to non-existent; potholes have been known to swallow automobiles and the lucrative business of stealing manhole covers is so routine (The authorities pay the thieves for the covers, so that they can go out and steal the same potholes again and redeem them again!) that pedestrians routinely step into the open spaces, often bringing serious bodily injury to the most cautious and careful walker.
With its constant rain and very cold weather in the winter months, Tirana can be a challenge to any kind of outdoor activity, much less the demanding and sweaty routine that is essential to marathon training. Nevertheless, Ned began to train in January, recalling his younger days. For months, he trained alone. Only in the last month of preparation did he link-up with some others who were also in training!
Although he and his wife maintain a busy schedule of humanitarian work, and they give both quality and quantity time to their young children and to their interpersonal relationships, Ned stayed with the rigorous regimen of preparation through many months. Last weekend, he came to our house a couple of days ahead of the famous race. It was our privilege to host him and to be present at the finish line when Ned crossed over, just over three hours since beginning the race.
Methinks a parable is to be found here. How impressive it is to see someone take on a personal challenge and to remain true to the essential and demanding disciplines required to achieve worthy goals! How much personal growth and character development awaits those who are willing, both to “dream the dream” and, also, to “pay the dues”! How needed, in this day of easy ease and abundant, fertile and enabled “couch potatoes,” is the model of restraint, self-denial and perseverance so humbly displayed by our friend, Ned!
On the other hand, what a privilege for us to be in a position to host this demonstration of resolve and determination! I want my house and my heart always to be accommodating to those who are willing to remain true to lofty goals. In the very best tradition of Albanian hospitality, I want to be willing to be a host to those persons who come across my path who can see beyond the immediate pleasures and can envision greater potentials within themselves and in the world at large. Athlete or athletic supporter, I want to give shelter to those who can demonstrate excellence and emulate insistence.
Who knows, in my own way, I might even become willing to run my own marathon!
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