Posts
I’ve decided to end this blog. I still consider the topic fascinating and will continue to think and probably write about it. But the writing will be for myself and not for distribution online.
The reason for ending is multifaceted, but actually fairly simple. First, it was obvious to me that the blog was receiving very few hits. That may be because of the subject or the length of the posts or my writing style or the design of the blog. In any event, in a little over 3 months, I’d received only 150 hits. That’s a little more than one per day. It was consistent and disappointing. Second, the number of comments on my posts were even more disappointing. The comments I received were fascinating and welcomed, but I don’t feel I received enough of them.
Finally, and most importantly, I’ve come to believe that this is not the forum for a discussion of theology. I’m certain there are blog communities out there devoted to the subject of God, language and doubt. Those communities likely have an active discussion of this subject and many other similar subjects. This is not one of those communities. The little investigation that I’ve done suggests that this community is more attuned to social blogging than to technical and philosophical blogging.
Consequently, I’ll no longer post to this blog. I’ll leave the existing posts up for a period of time. In the meantime, you’re welcome to visit a blog I have on the process of writing at smcallister.wordpress.com or to visit the website I maintain on single malt whisky at www.theoldsnots.com. Until then . . .
Slainte.
I’ve been in a discussion with an online acquaintance about the evolution of God from the beginnings of Judaism to today. The point I was trying to make was that the God of the Old Testament, the God of Abraham, has changed pretty dramatically over the years so that the God most Christians claim today cannot be the same God.
An example I was using was the battle of Jericho when God told Joshua how defeat the Canaanites at Jericho. The Israelites obeyed God’s strategy and when the Jericho walls fell, they killed every man, woman, child and beast (except for a spy and her family). Following the battle, one of Joshua’s men took some gold and silver from the city, something expressly forbidden by God (I find it rather odd that He would permit the slaughter of every living thing in the city, but not permit the taking of gold or silver). In retaliation, God permitted the death of 36 Israelites attempting to capture the city of Ai and then directed that the thief be burned to death.
So I asked my online acquaintance, the following question when he told me that this was, in fact, the same God he now believed in as a “born-again Christian”:
What I'm trying to understand is, given certain facts about the bible, how does someone of faith discuss them?
His response was:
I think that a person of faith has to ultimately realize that there are things beyond our comprehension, to some extent. That's what faith does. It takes what we see as limitations and makes us ponder the bigger picture.
I find that to be an entirely unsatisfactory answer. It’s as though he’s saying, “Ignorance allows me to believe whatever incongruent and inconsistent notions I want.” So, my question is, is this an accurate portrayal of faith? Does faith allow an individual to believe in an incongruent being with no hint of doubt in that being?
I’m going to abandon the Socratic method on the issue of the evolution of Christianity. Attempting to lure you into my way of thinking by asking just the right questions now seems rather sneaky and disingenuous. Instead, I’ll simply lay out my position up front and then respond to comments, issues, complaints.
- The Christianity of today is markedly different from the Christianity established by the writers of the New Testament.
- The God of Jesus’ time and the writers of the New Testament was a God with attributes that most Christians would not accept today (a far more human God, both physically and emotionally, than Christians generally assume today)
- The path from the Christian God of 100 AD to 2009 AD is defined purely by human interpretation and intervention in religious concepts (e.g., Papal decrees, Martin Luther, John Knox, etc.)
- The only explanation for the difference is that man, through interpretation, decree or warfare, has changed it
- If this is the case, then the God of today is a man-made fabrication, based on the God of Jesus’ time but reinterpreted and translated over time
- This does not assert that the God of Jesus’ time is man-made (something for a different discussion), only that today’s God is man-made
The latest thing I’ve been thinking about a lot is slightly out of the realm of language and religion. It has to do with the evolution of religious concepts within a particular religion. Really, it’s not outside the realm of language. Language is the vehicle by which totality of evolutionary changes in religious concepts is carried. But that’s a different issue than I’ve been considering lately. My recent focus has been on what the evolution of religious concepts means for the religion.
Let’s imagine for a moment that thousands of years ago a religion came into existence and we’ll also imagine that the religion’s God-concept was rather unique for its time. (For this excursion, I’m not interested in the details of how the religion came into existence or how it came to spread. I’ll talk about that more in the future.) Let’s say that the God-concept is of a being, an entity that’s identified as male. This entity shows distinctly human qualities of anger, vengefulness, jealousy, love, a desire for recognition and a willingness to reward for recognition or cause suffering for lack of recognition. This God identifies itself with a particular and small group of people (it just so happens that it’s the people who came to believe in the God) and not with all the other people. This God has no qualms killing (i.e., punishing) those who would threaten the small group of believers and will punish the group of believers for their sins by causing military attacks against them or starvation from the ruination of crops or suffering from plagues of disease.
You may recognize this God as the God of the Old Testament, of the Torah. It’s the God of Moses and Abraham; the God of the great flood and the exodus from Egypt; the God that caused the people of Israel to wander for 40 years in the desert because they hesitated in their belief that they could defeat the people who populated the land God told them they should take; the God that caused seven plagues to afflict thousands upon thousands of Egyptians who likely had never heard of the Israelites. He was a God prone to acts of conspicuous intervention (bringing down the walls of Jericho) and non-intervention (the slaughter of all the people, men women and children, in Jericho). A God with particularly small thoughts (the only way to control the people he populated the earth with was to kill them all in a great flood) done in a big way (you have to admit that raining for 40 days and nights with enough water to completely cover the Earth is pretty spectacular). A God who didn’t hesitate to punish someone in an extremely severe manner for a relatively minor offense (turning Lot’s wife to a pillar of stone for the disobedience of looking back at Sodom’s destruction). This was the beginning of the God Christians now worship.
My guess is that most Christians would argue that the God they worship today is not exactly the same God as the one described in the Old Testament. (Actually, we’re probably all over the map here. There are Christian sects that hold that the Bible, all of the Bible, is the infallible, divine word of God. The evangelicals that believe the earth and the universe is no more than 6,000 years old based on a literal reading of the Old Testament might be one extreme. The other extreme might be some new age interpretations of the stories in the Bible. How we got to the point where there are so many interpretations of something that started at one point is very interesting and related to where we’re headed here, but not directly. It’ll be another discussion. For this discussion, we’ll avoid the extremes. In fact, for the sake of argument, we’ll be Protestant, taking the position of the majority of Christians in the United States. This by no means claims that Catholicism is an extreme. In my mind, the extremes of Protestantism tend to define the extremes of Christianity. But those aren’t the Protestants we’re going to be for this argument. I’m not going to identify the position with any particular denomination, though I certainly believe the denominations are important. And I don’t mean to say I’m taking the position of a “non-denominational Christian.” I find that claim to be a rather ludicrous attempt to place themselves above the problems of various Protestant denominations. What they don’t realize is that by believing that they’re ‘non-denominational,’ they’ve made themselves into a denomination. I’ll have more to say about denominations in a later post.) When asked why, they may respond with:
“There have been events in the history of our religion that have served to more clearly define how we understand God. In fact, the totality of the Old Testament with its writings from prophets and the reports of God’s actions show the growth in our understanding of God. Ultimately, the teachings, life and death of Jesus gave us the greatest clarity on the nature of God.”
“The more we learn about the world, the more we understand the nature of God. The ancients understood very little of the world.”
“The God of the Old Testament is unsophisticated because the people of the Old Testament were unsophisticated people. We are much more adept at logical thinking and can see that some of the things the ancients believed are not possible in a being with the core nature that God must have.”
So, I have a few questions:
1. How would you explain the difference in what you now believe is the nature of God and what the Old Testament says of the nature of God?
2. If, for example, someone believes in a God that intervenes and another person believes in a God that doesn’t intervene, do they not believe in two distinct Gods?
3. If the God that Jesus believed in was the Jewish God (since Jesus was Jewish) and the God that we profess is our God today has different traits from the God that Jesus believed in based on the teachings of Jesus, do we not believe in a different God than Jesus?
Whatever responses I get will form the basis of the next post. If I get no responses, I’ll use the ones above as representative.
I had a comment on my Faith and Certainty entry that was essentially, instead of “I have faith that X,” try “I act as though X is true.” For the observer, and we all are, the indications that someone has faith in one thing or another is found in how they act. A person’s thoughts are only meaningful to others when they are observed though the thinker’s actions.
This would seem to be an effective way of translating a very private thing into something that would be meaningful to the external observer. I can place my spare change on the dresser which is an act as though gravity is true and won’t allow the quarters and pennies to float away, and it could be said that my action was an indication of my faith that certain things will happen due to gravity. Or I can set my alarm in anticipation of the sun rising the next morning and that’s an act as though the earth spinning on its axis is true. I guess that could be translated to “I set the alarm having faith that the sun will rise tomorrow.”
But, is ‘acting as though X is true’ necessarily the same as ‘having faith that X?’ When I put my change on the dresser would anyone really say that that action indicated faith in gravity? If I were a dunce and had no knowledge of gravity, would I act any differently? Probably not, and this would mean that acting doesn’t necessarily indicate faith. And does faith necessarily result in acting a certain way? I don’t think so. Someone can proclaim profound faith and their actions wouldn’t reveal that faith in any way. For instance, there are those who claim faith in a young earth based on a literal understanding of the bible. Except for their statement that they have this faith, you may never realize it in their actions. It would be difficult to imagine someone saying, “they act as though the earth is 6,000 years old is true.” What would acting like that be like? Yet, we can’t deny that these adherents of a young earth have faith in the bible being the literal word of God.
All this gets to is that in at least some cases, having faith and acting as though something is true aren’t necessarily the same. We can talk about faith and it means something different, even if only slightly, than observing someone’s action.
What about language? Can the use of language be considered an “act as though something is true?” Certainly. This may be the only way that we know that a young earth adherent believes in the literal truth of the bible. They are, in fact, very vehement in their assertions regarding the truthfulness of the bible and falsity of reported scientific findings. So, yes, their act of linguistic vehemence could be an indicator of their faith. But now we get into a quandary of people acting as though any number of things is true. After all, people can say or write just about anything and claim it to be true. How would we treat statements of con artists and swindlers? I don’t think those with religious faith will admit their belief is as easily pliable as that.
Let’s replace X with a religious concept and see what that gives us.
1. Tom has faith that God created heaven and earth in six days.
2. Tom acts as though God created heaven and earth in six days is true.
For me, statement 2 is rather tough to imagine. What would acting in that way look like? Or how about these statements:
3. Tom has faith that God exists.
4. Tom acts as though God’s existence is true.
Again, I’m not sure what the action in statement 4 would look like. Going to church? What if Tom is an agnostic who accompanies his faithful wife to church and goes through all the same actions that she does in church to keep her happy? He may act as though God’s existence is true (because he’s a considerate husband), but we can’t say that’s his faith.
So, where have we gotten? I think we can say that how a person acts is a good indicator of their faith . . . but not the sole indicator. I think the whole point of the comment was that so called mental states are only meaningful to others when they're indicated by action. While I agree most of the time, I think one can equate what's being said about a mental state with one's own private experiences or reports of other people's mental states that makes what's being said about a private mental state meaningful. For instance, it's perfectly meaningful to me when you say "I believe in God" even though your actions could mean any number of things including that you believe in God. And understanding that you believe in God doesn't necessarily mean that I expect you to act in a certain way. I don't have a problem that you're making an observation of a private mental state and I understand it to be such. My concern is this--what is the nature of that private mental state and how does it compare to other private mental states, such as certainty that 1+1=2.
Wittgenstein would roll over in his grave.
This story for my writing group is based on a historical event, commonly known as the Battle of the Braes. It was the last major action of the highland clearances and is often referred to as the last battle on British soil. I got the idea for the story after reading a news report of the battle in which the author marvelled at the vehemence of the women who participated. So I started thinking about this story as from the viewpoint of one of those women. In the process, it developed into a story about this one woman's belief in God. This is the revision after incorporating the inputs from my writing group.
MAIRI’S BATTLE
18 April 1882
“They’re here! They’re here! Comin’ roon the brae!” the cry pierced through gaps in the door slats and the cloth covering the open window. Mairi pushed open the door, standing in the damp April air and watched as neighbors left their crofts and headed toward the road.
Mairi knew it would happen, but it still came as a surprise. She had hoped it would all disappear, like the mist that creaps in from the sea and then, one day, dissipates to blue skies and pony-tail wisps. She hoped Laird MacDonald would take mercy on them, seeing how wretched and poor their lives were. It would be the right thing, the Christian thing, for him to do, like when Christ took pity on the masses and fed them on the shores of Galilee.
For weeks, now, the crofters refused to pay their rents to the Laird’s factor unless they were given permission to graze their animals on the slopes of Ben Lee. In response, the Laird sent his factor and the Inverness sheriff to serve eviction summonses. Mairi’s husband, Peter, and the men from the surrounding crofts, Norman Stewart and Alexander Finlayson—two trouble-makers—set upon the factor and sheriff forcing them to burn the eviction documents. There was whisky and fires late into the evening that night as the crofters celebrated their victory.
Mairi knew they would come back. Still she prayed. She prayed for the Lord to deliver her family from the poverty that was her heritage for so many generations, she almost believed there was nothing God could do to change it. She prayed for the Lord to share his Grace with the Laird MacDonald that he might understand and take pity on those beholden to him. She prayed that the crofters would remain righteous in God’s eyes by turning the other cheek.
When it appeared that each of her prayers had gone unanswered, she prayed a prayer of contrition and apology. It wasn’t her place to question God’s plan. Everything was His doing. This was God’s design. The Laird was wealthy because God willed it. Her family was poor and hungry because God determined that to be their status in the world. How could she question the architect of this world, the One who gave her her husband and children, the One who painted the glorious Skye sunsets and who caused the northern lights to billow in the night sky? Mairi thought she may have offended God with her selfishness, and she finished her prayer with tears.
So, when she stood in the doorway and saw her neighbors leaving their crofts for the main road, she folded her hands and bowed her head. “Dear Lord, help them to see your plan and know their place in it. You are truly a great God from whom all things emanate. We all are humble and give thanks for what we have. Amen.”
As she finished, Peter came round the side of the house, a wood pitchfork in one hand. He stood with Mairi for a moment, watching, and then quietly said, “MacLeod says constables are comin’. From Glasgow. About fifty. The Laird must have hired them to run us off.” He fell silent for a moment, then continued, “I have to go, Mairi.”
“No, dinna go, Peter. No.”
“Hush woman. I was there at the beginning. I’ll be there at the end.”
“There’s only trouble there, Peter. Someone could get hurt. You could get hurt. Then where would we be?”
Peter remained silent.
“If it’s the constables, you could be arrested.” Mairi’s voice began to crack. “Think of this, Peter. If you don’t go, if the Laird hears that we weren’t part of this, he might take pity on us and leave us alone.”
Peter looked at Mairi with dark eyes and shook his head.
“What if this is the Lord’s will, Peter?”
Peter kicked a stone, then looked to the distance where already a crowd gathered. “Then I suppose I should get on with earning my passage into Hell.” Peter began walking toward the road and the growing band of crofters.
Mairi lifted her apron and held it to her face, in part from shame over Peter’s blasphemous comment, and in part to catch the tears of fear now streaking her cheeks.
She imagined being put out of her home and being sent to a seaside village where Peter would need to learn fishing and the women waited on shore to clean the fish or waded out into the low tide muck in search of clams and mussels. She’d been told the smell of raw fish never leaves you, though you get used to it in time. Her two boys, Niall and Ailean, eleven and nine years old respectively, would be forced into someone’s employ to help put food on the table every day. Worse still, they could all be put on a boat and sent to Canada or the United States. She’d heard rumors that life in Canada could be difficult with short growing seasons and bitter cold winters. In the States, foreigners were looked upon with disdain and treated as outcasts.
Those fears were soon forgotten, though, when from her periphery she saw Niall and Ailean running to join Peter.
“Niall, Ailean, come home, now!”
They did not stop, nor look back.
“Even if they could hear ye Lass, they wouldna come home.” Old Anna approached from behind the house. She carried a large walking stick and a cloth bag at the end of a leather strap that she had over her shoulder and across her body. The bag was filled with something weighty.
“Anna, they shouldna be going. This isn’t something for bairns.”
“I’m thinking ye couldna stop them.” Anna leaned on the walking stick slightly out of breath. “They want to be men, and men they’ll be today.”
“No!” cried Mairi. “They’re too young!”
“Mairi, when yer protectin yer hame, no one’s too young.”
Mairi looked after Peter and her sons and began to sob.
“Here now, Lass.” Anna put her arm around Mairi’s shoulder. “They’ll be fine, I warrant it. I’ll tell ye what ye can do. Why don’t ye come with me, and we’ll go and keep a watchful eye on those lads o yers, eh?” Anna squeezed Mairi’s shoulder.
Mairi nodded.
“Ah, fine. That’s grand. Here now, carry me bag if ye will. I’m no as young as I used to be.”
Anna lifted the strap over her head and handed it to Mairi. Mairi nearly dropped it, it was so weighty.
“What’s in here?” Mairi asked while opening the mouth of the bag to look.
“Some wee stones I gathered in the field.”
Mairi quizzically looked at Anna.
“There of no use in the field now, are they.”
As they walked toward the road, Mairi was conflicted. She wanted to rush to where her boys were, but she felt obliged to stay with Anna who was laboring with the soft, uneven ground and the slight incline. To make matters worse, Anna did not talk in her exertion, leaving Mairi to fret unabated. At one point, Mairi asked Anna if the constables would carry guns. All she received in reply was Anna’s heavy breathing and a wave of impatience from her free hand.
The crofters, men, women and children, arrayed themselves along the short stone fence bordering the road. Four men and one woman crossed the fence and now stood on the road facing in the direction from which the constables would approach. As Mairi approached the forty or so crofters she began to hear murmurings and an occasional raised voice. Nearly all gathered had something in their hands—a rake, hoe, pitchfork, a walking stick, or stone. It frightened Mairi.
“I don’t see Niall or Ailean.” She stopped thirty feet from the crowd.
Anna took a step or two past her unaware they were stopping, then leaned heavily on her stick and looked back at Mairi. Between deep breaths she said, “Well, come on then. Ye’ll no find em back here.”
Mairi was becoming more frightened by the apparent attitude of the crofters and didn’t move. “I canna see them, Anna. Can you?”
“Lass, let’s go look together.”
“No, no. I want them to come to me. To come away from that . . . that . . . rabble. Can’t ye see?”
“Aye, I can see well enough. Yer afeared, aren’t ye, Lass?” Anna shook her head and stepped back toward Mairi. “Give me the stones then. I’ll find yer bairns and shush them back to ye.”
Mairi helped Anna lift the leather strap over Anna’s head and onto her shoulder.
“Mairi, the future of yer hame, yer life, is going to be right here, on this road. The Laird’s hired men are coming to take it all away from ye. Will ye no stand up for yerself?”
Mairi said nothing, looking past Anna as though she hadn’t heard a word. Anna turned, shaking her head, and trundled to the back of the crowd. Soon Niall and Ailean emerged from the crowd slowly and dejectedly walked toward Mairi. Ailean stumbled and fell from watching behind him and not on the ground he was walking.
“What are you two doing here? This is no place for young lads.”
“Others are here, Ma,” said Niall pointing back to the crowd.
“Well, they shouldn’t be. This is not a Christian gathering. This is not the sort of thing Christ would have taught us. No. I’ll no have my bairns straying from the teachings of Christ. Do you hear me?”
Before the boys could answer, one of the men in the crowd shouted, “There!” and soon all eyes, including Mairi’s, were focused down the road where a lone horseman rode out from behind a rise. The rider trotted a short distance, then stopped. He stayed there for several moments before wheeling his horse and leaving from the way he’d come, disappearing around the curve and behind the rise.
To a soul, the crofters remained silent while the rider was in sight. As soon as he disappeared, their murmurings started again, but at a noticeably higher decibel.
“See, now,” Mairi said, her voice betraying relief, “he spied us and thought better of it. It’s all over. We should be to hame, now.”
“What about Da?” asked Ailean.
“They’re all staying, Ma,” said Niall.
“It’s over,” Mairi raised her voice, “and that’s the last I’ll say of it. Ye’ll go hame now and say yer prayers thanking God for his grace and wisdom that kept us all safe.”
“Look!” shouted Ailean pointing back down the road. “Look, Niall.”
From behind the same rise, the rider reemerged. This time, men on foot followed. From this distance and in the muted light, Mairi could still see their dark uniforms with dark caps. The crofter’s murmuring stopped again.
It was now coming to pass, and the fear gripped her by the throat. Marching up the road in navy uniforms with brass buttons was her misery. They were the harbingers of homelessness. On their belts were truncheons of destitute lives. On their caps were badges of cold-heartedness. Mairi began to feel the desolation deep into her soul.
Still, her soul was buoyed by the thought that this was all part of God’s plan. Recognizing that her destiny was unfolding before her, even though she had no notion of what that destiny held, was a small comfort. These constables could be, instead of the messengers of misery, the instruments of God’s will come to ensure God’s will come to pass.
Nevertheless, she feared them and the destiny they brought. She feared finding a new home. She feared going hungry and watching her bairns starve. Most of all, she feared the possibility she could be put on a boat destined for a different and foreign land.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone turn and run away, toward the crofts of Balmeanach. With her eyes, Mairi followed his flight until he disappeared behind some buildings. When she looked back, Niall and Ailean were no longer in front of her. They were nowhere to be seen. Mairi panicked and moved closer to the road to try to find them. When she reached the stone wall, she saw them. They were on the road with their father, Peter, facing the oncoming constables.
“Niall! Ailean!”
The boys looked at her, then at their father. Peter patted Ailean on the head. They stayed with him.
“Peter! I dinna want them there!”
Peter looked at her and frowned.
“Fine young men ye raised there, Mairi,” said Anna tanking Mairi’s arm. “Their Da will keep them from harm.”
“He shouldna have to,” said Mairi. “They shouldna be there.”
“Och, let them be, Lass. Ye’ll remember wha they done here wi’ pride, ye will. They’re good, brave lads, sure.”
Anna moved back toward the bulk of the crofters. Mairi looked to the approaching constables who were now close enough she could make out the determination on their faces. Then, from her right periphery, she saw more people from Balmeanach climbing the hill toward the road. To her left she saw movement among the stones on the slope above the road. Now the constables would be outnumbered and it only served to build Mairi’s dread.
The crofters were silent as the constables approached. Mairi wondered what they were thinking. With more coming up from Balmeanach and those on the hill, she began to worry even more that this confrontation would become a conflict of high emotion rather than a meeting of reasoned coolness. She looked back to Peter, Niall, and Ailean, and became even more fearful. Looking for strength, she folded her hands, bowed her head, and silently prayed.
Dear Lord, I know you’re a just and merciful God of Grace. And I know this may all be according to your plan. But, Lord, I feel like we’re the Israelites and the constables are the Egyptians. Ye helped the Israelites. Ye parted the sea and when they were safe ye crushed their enemies with the very thing ye saved them with. Will ye save us like you did them? What have we done, how have we sinned so, that makes us less worthy of your salvation than the Israelites? Dear God, do something. Keep my family from harm. I beseech ye.
The constables stopped short of the gathered crofters. Their eyes, edgy, almost frightened, their heads constantly moving as though they expected something to happen and wanted to see from which quarter it started.
The crofters began drifting down the stone wall until they were abeam the constables. Peter, Niall, Ailean and the other men blocking the road moved closer as well. Mairi followed from behind the stone wall.
“Yer no welcome here!” shouted one of the men standing next to Peter. “There’s nothing for ye here. Go back to where ye come.”
From the front of the constables, the sheriff replied, “We’re no here for a welcome.”
“Then go hame!” shouted someone from the wall.
“Aye, off with ye, ye buggerin bastards!” shouted someone else followed by a chorus of “ayes” and grumbles from the crofters shaking their sticks and raising their fists.
The constables’ unease was now palatable. Many removed their truncheons from their belts and held them at the ready. Mairi could see that some began moving into a stance she could only imagine was in preparation for an attack.
The sheriff dismounted his horse and reached into his coat breast pocket pulling out a folded paper. He kept watch on the crowd as he unfolded the paper and prepared to read.
“The Laird Alexander MacDonald and the magistrate of Portree have issued a warrant for the arrest of Norman Stewart, Alexander Finlayson, Malcolm Finlayson, Peter MacDonald, Donald Nicholson, and James Nicholson . . .”
Mairi heard her husband’s name and panic swelled in her breast. She could feel her throat constrict and her breathing quicken. Where was God, she wondered. Where was his compassion and justice? Certainly he could not be looking down on the misery that was about to be inflicted with a dispassionate heart. Certainly, he would not loose the wolves on his flock.
From the crofters, someone yelled, “Ye canna fool us, ye’ve come to hump our sheep.” The crowd burst into laughter.
“Ye’re all the shite in the field.”
A woman followed, “Nay, they’re the worms under the shite.” More laughter.
“Ye’ll nay take a one, sae help me,” Peter replied to the sheriff. “Ye can drag yer bloody arses back tae Glasgow.”
“Oh God, no, Peter. No,” whispered Mairi. She saw Naill standing next to his father. He now held a stone in his right hand. Ailean had backed away.
“Ailean! Ailean! Come here!” and the lad began making his way to Mairi all the while keeping watch on the formation of constables. When he reached Mairi, she could see the fear in his eyes and when she stroked his hair, she could feel a tremble. She took his hand and held him close to her.
“Wheest, child.”
The crofters were tense, waiting, it seemed to Mairi, for an excuse to rush the constables. The constables were tense as well, fearing what appeared to be the inevitable pain of sticks and stones. The crofters began shouting at the invaders. There was Anna shaking her walking stick in their direction and shouting, “Go hame, ye buggerer of boys!”
Mairi saw the sheriff turn toward the constables behind him and then point to the men blocking the road, including Peter and Niall. The sheriff then stepped out of the way and a dozen or so constables, truncheons in hand, began walking toward the men the sheriff identified. Apparently, that was all the crofters required. Stones started flying toward the constables. A few crofters hopped up on the stone wall and began swinging their sticks and tools at the police. Mairi saw movement on the hillside and looked in time to see several large stones rolling toward the massed constables.
The din was tremendous. Mairi couldn’t make out what most were saying, but she could tell it was being said in anger. She looked down at Ailean who was now hugging her side. It’s not right, she thought, it’s not right. These uniformed men, these strangers who’ve never seen any of us before, have been sent to do the bidding of the one who does know us. They’re the hired tools of a coward. No better and not much different from oxen yoked to do their masters’ labors.
As she watched in frozen horror, the clash between crofters and constables became more involved and pitched. Crofters clambered over the stone wall only to face truncheons being swung wildly in an attempt to keep crofters at a distance and to deflect incoming sticks and tools. Mairi saw crofters being hit by truncheons and staggering away. Moments later they were ready to rejoin the fray. She saw constables backing away from the pressing crowd. It appeared the crofters were gaining the advantage. Then she saw Anna stumble away from the crowd. Mairi went to her.
“Are ye hurt?”
“Aye,” whispered Anna as though she was out of breath. “A wee bit. A bastard got
me . . . before I could get . . . one of them.”
Anna turned her head away from Mairi. Her neck was brilliant red and a small trickle of blood escaped from her ear. Mairi hissed, sucking in air.
“Striking a woman. Have they no decency? It’s no too bad, Anna.”
“That’s no why . . . I left,” continued Anna. “I also got hit . . . in the chest. Knocked the breath . . . from me.”
Mairi helped Anna sit on the ground. When Mairi knelt to clean the blood from Anna’s ear, Anna brushed her away and pointed to the road. Mairi saw a desperate struggle between the men on the road and the constables.
“Peter won’t . . . give up yer hame . . . without a good row,” said Anna.
Mairi looked up to the road and Peter who was struggling against the grasping hands of the constables. She stood. A truncheon lifted above the fray. It swung down. Niall fell to the ground.
“No!” Mairi shouted and began running toward the fighting men. “A dhiobhail!” She hadn’t spoken Gaelic in years and now the first thing out of her mouth was to curse the constable as a devil.
Niall crawled away from the brawl. Mairi rushed to him. He was crying and holding his left shoulder. Mairi helped him away from the road. When they stopped, she tried to cajole him to stop crying to no avail.
Two constables now had Peter on the ground and one was striking Peter with his fist. Mairi looked down, then moved Niall to the side and picked up a potato-sized stone. With all her might, she hurled it at the men holding Peter. When she’d thrown it, she yelled, “A mitic an deamhan!” [You son of the devil!]
Her stone fell short of the men, but one saw her throw it and nodded toward her and said something to another constable.
“Yer a poofter!” shouted Mairi. “Aye, you, ye clotheid.”
The constable took two steps toward Mairi and stopped.
“Cha toll?” she taunted. “Pog mo thon!” [No? Kiss my ass!]
Mairi picked up another stone and threw it at the stopped constable. He caught it before it could hit him. He shook his head, dropped the stone, and turned back toward the brawl. Mairi shrieked in exasperation.
The crofters who had been blocking the road, including her Peter, were now being drug back to the main body of constables who were still fighting off crofter sticks and stones. The arrested men were handcuffed, yet struggling against their captors. In short order, the constables and their captors were enveloped in the main body of constables. When they were all together the constables slowly began backing down the road they’d arrived on with the shouting and harassing crofters in pursuit.
Mairi lost sight of Peter. She left Niall and Ailean with Anna, who was still sitting and panting, and followed the crowd. She picked up a stone and was preparing to throw it when she realized that Peter was somewhere amongst the constables and her stone might hit him. So she dropped the stone and instead shouted, “ Yer mither’s a salope and yer the gowk from her wame!” She saw another woman pick up a stone to throw and said, “No, no. Our men are in there.”
When it became apparent to Mairi that Peter was going to be taken away and the gathered crofters weren’t going to affect it, she stopped following and watched the crofters and constables drift slowly down the road, still in contact with each other. Soon more and more crofters fell out of the crowd and the pace of the constables quickened.
Mairi still seethed with anger at the whole situation—the Laird and his lackey factor, the sheriff, and the hired constables. How dare they come into her space, her home, with ill intent? They were invaders. She hated them all. They were vile thieves.
Mairi turned away from the retreating army and returned to her boys and Anna. Both boys had stopped crying, though Ailean still gulped large breaths of air. Mairi brushed back his hair from his face, then with her thumbs, wiped the dirt streaks on his cheeks.
“Where are they takin Da?” Ailean asked.
“Awa, lad,” she whispered. “Dinna fash yerself. Yer Da will be back soon enough.”
Mairi turned to Niall who was still favoring the shoulder that had been struck.
“Ah, Niall. Are ye hurt bad, dear?”
Niall shook his head.
“Can ye lift yer arm?” she asked helping him raise his arm from his side. “Good. It’s no broken then.”
“I’m proud of ye, Mairi,” Anna said pulling herself to her knees. “Ye stood up for yer man and yer hame, ye did. Against them coofs.”
Mairi looked back down the road and muttered, “Ifrinn an diabhuill . . . a dhia, thoir cobhair.” [Devil’s hell . . . God help us]
“God dinna help them like us, lass,” said Anna. She lifted her arm toward Mairi who took it helping Anna to her feet. “It’s the Laird he helps. The Laird and them like him.”
“Anna, wha now?”
“Aye, wha now.” Suddenly Anna looked frantically toward the crofters that were now trudging back. “Have ye seen Angus?”
“Aye, I did. He was fine.”
Anna looked back at Mairi and smiled. Patting Mairi’s cheek, Anna said, “Aye, wha now. I guess we go hame, go hame and wait. Will ye be alright, then? Just ye and the lads, there?”
Mairi nodded.
“Come on then, lads,” said Anna. “Let’s tak yer mither hame so ye can wait for yer Da’s return.”
In the quiet walk home, Mairi relived the day ending in the anxiousness she now felt returning. Her husband was gone, taken by the agents of a greedy, powerful, uncaring man. The Laird had taken her man, her boys’ father. She and the boys could manage the croft for a short while, but soon those same agents led by the Laird’s cousin, the Factor, would come to put her out. She and her boys, and what they could carry, would be sent to a fishing village or put on a boat to Canada. How would Peter find them when released from custody? How would they ever find each other in a foreign land? She had no answers. No convenient comforts to ease her fears. Answers abandoned her when she needed them most.
He abandoned her . . . or she abandoned Him. I didn’t matter. He wasn’t there. He didn’t protect her or her family from the calamity they now faced. He had to know what was happening to them and He turned a blind eye.
When they arrived at the croft, Mairi said farewell to Anna, assuring her again she would be fine, and sent the boys inside. She stayed outside the door in the cool, damp air and watched her neighbors and villagers stream back from the scene of the battle. Some remained defiant, boisterous to those for whom it did not matter. Most, though, were silent. Mairi thought they were contemplating the ramifications of the day and their futures that were already rather bleak. Most were barely able to eke enough from the rock-strewn, spongy soil to pay their rent, let alone have some money left over for fish or coal. The Laird would certainly be harsh in his retribution for their insolence, and they walked as though they knew it.
It was when Duncan MacPhee passed that her soul blackened into obscurity. Duncan was the most God-fearing man she knew. Many said he should be the reverend rather than the sot they had. As he walked past Mairi’s croft, she could see blood matting the hair on his head and in his beard. Here was a man who, of all men, had no sin. He lived day-to-day by God’s word. He prayed night and day. If God would love and protect anyone, it would be Duncan MacPhee.
Yet, here he was trudging back from the confrontation with the constables and on his head a sign that God had not been with him, had not protected him. Could it be Duncan was also being punished? Could God not forgive him this once for all the years Duncan had been his most devoted servant? As the Lord’s devoted servant, Duncan suffered like every other crofter. Diseased crops, starving beasts, and a demanding landlord plagued Duncan no less than it did, say, David Conroy who drank too much, whose every sentence contained curse words and who routinely disappeared leaving his family to fend for themselves. His life and Duncan’s life were equally hard. How could that be?
Did God not care? Could he not see this part of the world to know the pain and suffering they were enduring? Had he washed his hands of men only to intervene in the world to punish? Is there not a better way, a more compassionate way, to deal with our misery? Can He not think of anything better?
Mairi took a deep breath and turned to go inside. She stood next to the fire for a moment, then said, “Lads, come here. I dinna know when yer Da will come home. It may be soon, or maybe no. I’m sure the factor will soon call and charge us to leave. So, we need to be ready. I’ll be relyin on ye two to help. Do ye understand me?”
Niall and Ailean nodded.
Mairi looked into the fire and continued, “Aye, we’re on our own now. There’s no one to help. We must do what we have to. Rely on no one or nothing.”
Another writing group story with a religious undertone.
AWAY IN A MANGER
Fred allowed his wife only three indulgences for Christmas—the tree; a front door wreath she made with real pine boughs from the back wind break; and her favorite piece of art hung above the fireplace. While they had many more decorations wrapped in tissue and newspaper and stored in neatly stacked boxes in the old coal bin, the presence of so much cheer when he so desperately lacked it taxed his fragile mental state.
He knew she wanted more. Every year after the Thanksgiving meal, when the dishes were washed and put away, and the leftovers crammed into the icebox, Shelly would march into the living room to find Fred and their children, Mary and Josh, succumbed to full bellies, soft cushions, and mindless television. To everyone’s groans and grumbling, Shelly would invariably announce “Come on. Nap time’s over. Get up sleepy heads. We’ve got work to do. Time to get ready for Christmas. Come on. Get up. Come on, Fred, you, too.” Fred sometimes wondered what in her childhood would drive her to such madness.
Fred and Josh would trudge to the basement coal bin, return with boxes and stack them in the living room based on Shelly’s direction. “That one’s ornaments. It goes over in the corner where the tree will be. Careful. They’re glass. That one’s decorations for the mantle. Over there. Fred, where’s the tree stand? Oh, the dishes. Put those on the dining room table. Those are the outside lights. Put them on the porch.”
Fred groused during the entire production, but he’d go along because he knew how important it was to her. He watched her excitement as she’d unwrap an ornament, hold it up and retell how one of the children had made it for her in second grade. He’d smile when she’d invariably come to tears over the smallest thing. Soon, she be sitting on the sofa fondling a home-made decoration or a staring at a ribbon she’d gotten from her grandmother when she was a young girl. Every year it was the same. She got everyone heading in her direction, then she’d sit down along the side of the road, lost in remembrances while everyone else pushed ahead.
He knew that Shelly was deeply disappointed when, the day before Thanksgiving, he confronted her in the kitchen and told her he didn’t feel up to decorating the house for Christmas.
“That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t need to help. Especially carrying those big boxes up or putting up the lights. The kids and I can do it.”
“No. You don’t understand. I don’t want all that junk out. You can have a tree and a wreath, but that’s it.
“But . . . but, we always put the decorations out. It’s part of Christmas. It’s a family tradition.”
“This isn’t a traditional Christmas, Shell. We’re on the verge of losing this place. Putting all that stuff out would feel . . . I don’t know. I just don’t feel cheery and I don’t want to see it.”
Shelly began to weep.
“Alright, look. You can put the picture over the fireplace too.”
Fred left the room for his easy chair and he could feel her eyes on his back. While he eased himself into his chair and leaned his cane on the side table, he intentionally avoided looking back. Instead, he stared into the cold fireplace, his mind immediately going back to the day he was taking a roll of hay out to the pasture. Now he wondered why he’d taken the path he had, riding the side of a hill. He didn’t realize the center of balance was so skewed that when he hit the tree root, the tractor began to roll over to the left. He tried to jump off, but his foot caught the wheel cover, and he fell in the path of the tractor.
He spent three months in the hospital with internal bleeding that wouldn’t stop. Josh came home to work the farm in his absence, giving up his job at the lumber yard to do so. When the harvest came, Josh reported that the yield was down and price per bushel of corn was the lowest he’d ever seen. Fred knew then it was going to be a lean winter.
When he got home from the hospital in early September and the hospital bills started pouring in, Fred mortgaged the farm to pay them. This was his grandfather’s farm. It had been in his family for more than a hundred years. Now the mortgage company held the title.
With the first mortgage payments due in three weeks, he wasn’t sure how he would pay them. The yield from the corn barely gave them enough money to buy groceries and pay the utilities. Josh still worked the farm, but Fred couldn’t pay him. He decided to sell off his livestock; all but the sow heavy with piglets.
Thanksgiving that year was solemn. Shelly sliced the turkey in silence. The mashed potatoes made the rounds followed by the gravy boat, and you could hear the gravy drip back into the boat from the overflowing ladle. The clinking of silverware on china was deafening. When the meal was over, Shelly excused herself and began clearing away dishes before serving the apple pie. Josh and Mary looked at each other across the table as though trying to speak without breaking the silence.
After the dessert was gone, Fred retired to the bedroom and lay down. After so long in the hospital, he was still weak and the heavy meal made him uncomfortable. When he emerged after his nap, Mary and her family had gone home and Josh had left with the pickup to find a Christmas tree. Fred eased his way to his chair, his cane tapping on the wood floors.
Shelly sat down on the sofa and glared at Fred. “Well, are you happy now?”
Fred avoided her stare instead gazing into the fireless fireplace. It was then he saw that she’d put her picture over the mantle . . . the picture she’d bought years earlier. A painting of a family in their living room decorating a Christmas tree. When she brought it home she proudly displayed it. “Doesn’t it look like our family? I mean, except for the dog and the fact that the woman is much thinner than I am, it could be us. The kids are the same age as ours. Don’t you love it?”
The painting that had once been a mirror of their lives, now felt like a locked window with him on the outside looking in. While this smiling family was reaching toward the top of the heavily laden tree, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel. While they reveled in the joys of the season, he was dreading the news of each day. As they basked in the golden warmth of the fireplace and togetherness, he glared at his dead gas fireplace in the loneliness of an empty living room.
Yet, much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to have her take down the picture. It was her connection to happier times. And as much as he didn’t want to look back to better times, he wouldn’t deny her the memories this painting obviously brought to her. So he satisfied himself by avoiding looking at it.
Two weeks later, as Fred, Shelly, and Josh sat down to supper, Josh said, “The sow had her litter.”
“How many?” asked Fred.
“Seven.”
“They all survive?”
“Yeah.”
“They all getting a tit?”
“All but one.”
Fred took a swallow from the glass of water and then pursed his lips. He knew there was a greater chance than not that the pig left out wouldn’t survive. It happened often enough. Often enough that he didn’t dwell on it. Animals die all the time. That’s what he raised them to do. If they survived their youth, they’d die by the knife as an adult. That was the way of life for livestock.
The next day Fred gingerly hobbled with his cane to the barn. Rather than walking through the garden, as he normally would, he went around to avoid the rough ground. He opened the barn door and went up to the fence that defined the pig pen. There, in the center of the pen, the sow lay on her side with the litter of piglets crowded up to her belly each sucking on a tit. All but one.
It was smaller than the rest, he thought. While the other six were a healthy looking pink, this one was rather pale in color. Attempting to shove its way in between its brothers and sisters to dislodge one from its mother’s milk, it met with no success. Soon, the pig gave up and lay down apart from the feeding frenzy.
Fred watched its side expand and contract with each breath. It made him conscious of his own breathing—conscious of his own suffering. Without warmth and nutrition it would soon die. Fred unhooked his can from the fence, slowly turned and walked back to the house.
When Josh came by after lunch to do the chores, including feeding the sow, Fred told him that he wanted to go along. After Josh put the feed out and the sow started eating, Fred tapped Josh’s leg with his cane.
“Grab that length of fence over there. Let’s go get that runt.”
“Are you going to try to save it?”
“I guess.”
Josh looked amused at his Dad.
“Ah, it’s not right to just let it up and die.”
They moved into the pen, keeping the fence section between them and the sow until the runt was separated from the rest. Fred bent over with effort and picked up the piglet with his free arm while Josh kept his eye on the sow.
“I’m going over here with it,” said Fred nodding toward a separate room. “You go find a baby bottle, fill it with warm milk, and bring it out.”
“We still have baby bottles?”
“Your sister’s given us a grandkid.”
“Where are they?”
“Probably down in the basement. Ask your mother.”
When Josh left, Fred carried the piglet to an area in the barn that was once filled with feed bags. Now it was empty. Old gunny sacks hung from nails on the wall. Fred leaned his cane against the wall and took down the sacks dropping them in a heap in the corner. He then leaned over and eased the runt onto the makeshift bed. It hardly acted as though it knew what was going on. It didn’t raise its head and its breathing was shallow. Fred hoped he hadn’t waited too long.
Soon Josh returned to the barn with the baby bottle. He was accompanied by Shelly who stayed out of the way and didn’t say a word.
“Give me the bottle and go get a couple bails of hay.”
Fred tipped the bottle and coated the nipple with the milk. He gently placed the nipple into the mouth of the runt and held it there. Initially, nothing happened. Then the runt’s tongue felt the nipple and tasted the warm milk. Soon it was sucking. Still, it didn’t move, but Fred was encouraged that it was taking the milk.
Josh brought two hay bails and broke them apart in the opposite corner of the room making a nest of sorts. He and his mother stood at the door and watched as Fred continued to feed the runt.
“Okay, Josh. I’m going to pick it up. You grab the sacks and put them in the hay.”
Fred could feel a twinge in his chest as he picked up the pig, but he continued and carried it to its new bed without using his cane. He sat in the hay and held the bottle in the pig’s mouth.
Looking up at Josh and Shelly, Fred whispered, “Well, I guess I’ve done it now. I’m going to have to stay until it’s got its strength.”
“Oh no you don’t,” objected Shelly. “You’ll do no such thing. If you insist on someone staying with this animal, Josh can stay out here.”
Josh shot her a glance.
“It wasn’t Josh’s idea. I’ll do it.”
Josh shook his head and said, “We’ll do it in shifts.”
Shelly said, “I suppose you’re going to want fresh bottles every so often?”
Fred looked up at Shelly and smiled.
“Milk’s not cheap you know.”
Fred nodded. Shelly sighed and left the barn.
“I don’t get it, Dad,” said Josh. “You got rid of all the rest of the livestock. Why are you so worried about this runt?”
Fred looked back at the pig who had stopped suckling and then back at Josh quickly raising his eyebrows as if to say, “I don’t know.”
“I’ll be back in a couple hours. You need anything?”
Fred shook his head.
He sat down in the hay never removing the nipple from the runt’s mouth. The runt would suck a few times and then stop. A small damp spot developed on the gunny sack around the pig’s mouth. Fred picked up the pig and cradled it in his coat and on his left arm. When he lifted it, the piglet jerked as though surprised with what was happening to him. It allowed itself to be held though, and soon it was sucking again on the bottle. After a short while, it squirmed a little and then went to sleep. Fred put down the milk bottle, put his right hand on the runt’s belly and felt it breathing. Satisfied, Fred fell asleep as well.
Fred and the pig were still sleeping when Josh returned.
“What’s this?”
“Shhhh.” Fred whispered, “It drank nearly half the bottle.”
Josh nodded and pulled out a fresh bottle of milk from his jacket pocket.
“Good,” whispered Fred. “You may want to hold it for a while to keep it warm. It seems to eat better.”
Josh took the piglet from Fred’s coat then with his free hand helped Fred to his feet. Fred found his cane and turned back to Josh who was sitting down in the hay with the runt.
“How long have I been here?”
“Couple hours.”
Fred nodded and turned away. “I’ll be back in a couple hours then.”
Fred and Josh took turns throughout the day tending the piglet. At six o’clock, Fred returned to the barn with a lantern, a blanket, and a bottle for his shift. “My turn. Mom’s kept your supper hot.”
“We going to do this all night?”
“For as long as it takes.”
Fred settled in and Josh handed him the pig. Immediately, Fred noticed that the pig was moving more than it had before. It squirmed a little more, and its eyes were open. Fred looked at Josh and winked. Soon the pig was sucking harder than it had before on the bottle. After draining the bottle, it fell fast asleep. Before it fell asleep, though, it rolled a little onto its side in what must have been a more comfortable position.
The pig’s rhythmic breathing reassured Fred that things were looking better. It suddenly struck him that not too long ago, he was this pig. In need of help. In need of someone to care for him. He, too, could have died had people not taken the time to treat and heal him.
He recalled his wife being there when he woke from the anesthesia after yet another surgery to stem the internal bleeding. She was always there. Feeding him when he was too weak to hold the cup or silverware. Reading cards that friends had sent wishing him well. Holding his hand as he fell asleep. Josh and Mary came in shifts, giving Shelly the opportunity to go out and get something to eat, reporting on the latest event on the farm, showing grandpa the picture of a tractor his grandchild had drawn for him.
Now, here was this pig. Slowly recovering. Unable to say thank you. Fred stared off into the black corner of the barn while the pig slept in the cradle of Fred’s arm.
Fred woke suddenly when he felt something walking across his legs. The light in the barn was dim. The lantern was nearly dead. Then he realized he no longer felt the weight of the pig in his arm. In the dim light, Fred could see that the pig was in the shadows standing up, rooting at the floor. He watched the piglet move around slowly and on weak legs, but moving. No longer was it the helpless animal that could only lie down and barely drink. The runt had regained some of its strength, though Fred was sure that it would be a bit longer before it would be ready to rejoin its brothers and sisters.
The sun rose and the lantern died.
Shortly after sunrise, Josh showed up carrying a cup of coffee for both.
“Sorry. I overslept.”
“Look.” Fred pointed to the runt in the corner.
Josh smiled and handed Fred his coffee. They both watched the piglet move around for a while before Fred asked for help getting up.
“We’ll need to keep feeding it for a little while. But it looks to be doing a lot better. Maybe by this afternoon, it can rejoin its family. Even then, we’ll need to keep an eye on it to make sure it’s accepted.”
“Sure.”
“Well, I think I’ll go in and get cleaned up a bit.”
“Uh, Mom left already. She had something at the school she had to go do setup for. She said she’d be back by lunch.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“I’ll stay out here until noon.”
“Good.”
* * * * *
Inside, Fred propped his cane against the kitchen table and walked to the door leading to the basement. He held on to the railing going down the steep stairs and then turned the corner. At the bottom, he walked past the furnace and the hot water heater toward the old coal bin. He flipped on the light and opened the slat wooden door. There, where he’d left them last year, were the remaining boxes of Christmas decorations.
An hour and a half later, Fred had all six boxes upstairs on the dining table. He sat down and rested for a moment. Then he turned toward a box and started emptying its contents, very carefully, onto the table. The front porch lights, the candles and candlesticks, the nativity scenes and snow globe with a bright red cardinal inside, the stockings, the dishes with the Christmas tree motif and the ugly Christmas palm tree trinket given to Shelly by her aunt from Florida. He set them all out on the table ready for Shelly to come home. Then he went to the living room and waited in his chair.
He saw Shelly turned down the lane a little before noon. Fred took his cane and went out on the porch to wait. Shelly parked at the side of the house and stepped out of the car.
“How is it?”
“Oh, it’s getting on much better now. Josh is out there with it.”
“I’m sorry about Josh. I had to wake him up this morning.”
“That’s okay.”
“So, it’s going to survive?”
“I think so. It responded to care well. Better than some things I know.”
Shelly walked up to the porch, but before she could reach for the door Fred said, “You’ve got some work ahead of you.”
Shelly looked inquisitively at Fred. Fred nodded toward the door and Shelly went in. After a few moments Fred heard Shelly scream. He stayed on the porch smiling. Shelly came out the door, tears streaming down her face and threw her arms around Fred’s neck.
“I’m sorry about the way I’ve been acting,” whispered Fred. “That little pig made me think about a few things. Made me realize that even though we may lose this place, we’re still there for each other. I think the way I’ve been acting makes me the runt, and I’m sorry.”
Again, as promised, here's a story I wrote for my writing group.
GIVING GOD HIS DUE
Shabby, shabby people, the pastor thought. Forty-year-old suits and stringy white hair next to clothes bought only to be seen in at church. He took a deep breath and sat down in the chair behind the pulpit. Adjusting his raiment in his lap, he waited for the final notes of Bach’s “Allein Gott in der Hoh sei Ehr” to finish vibrating in the old brass pipes. He slowly rose and stepped to the podium. Clasping both sides of the pulpit, he rested his weight on his hands and looked out over the congregation. Then he lifted his palms skyward and spoke.
“Rejoice and give thanks for you are in the House of the Lord. This is a day He has made and it is right to honor Him.”
He let his hands drop back to the pulpit. He looked down at the hand-scribbled notes and began to read out loud. “Welcome everyone. I’m glad to see you all here. We have a few news items first this morning. This week, the Ladies Bible Study group will meet at the home of Gladie Schwartz. That’ll be on Wednesday at three o’clock. Will you be serving tea, Gladie? Yes, of course. Parents, don’t forget that summer Bible School starts for the kids next month. I understand there are still plenty of openings. Now, we have several people we need to keep in our prayers. Tom Schilling is at Memorial Hospital in Springfield. He’s supposed to undergo surgery this week and we pray for his quick recovery. I understand Mary Perrings is finally at home recovering from her hip replacement. Let’s pray that her convalescence is comfortable. Finally, Julie Fishburn and her twins go home today, and Jack and Sarah asked me to tell you all that Julie will be back in school in a couple weeks. We should pray for the new family and hope that Julie returns to academic excellence. Now, does anyone have someone special to be remembered or news to share?”
Oh please, no one have anything. I don’t think I could . . . Here we go. Every week, we pray for Edith’s sister. Will she ever just . . . May’s daughter has been in hospital for months now. Yeah, we’re going to pray once again for the republican president. I wonder if that means the democrats are godless. Maybe, since we have to pray for him, maybe the republicans are godless. Bill wouldn’t hear of it being the republicans. Don’t these people know what they’re asking for? “Please bow your heads and remember them in a moment of silent meditation.”
Dear God, are you really listening? Is this really what You want to hear? People begging for themselves? Don’t You get tired of it? Don’t You just want to say, ‘Help yourself’?
“Now let us call to worship. O the depths of your riches and wisdom and knowledge, Oh God.”
They read their lines without knowing what they’re saying. They may as well be reading the text in Hebrew.
“For who has known Your mind or who has been Your counselor? Or who has given a gift to You that they might be repaid?”
Blah, blah, blah. Look at them. Mumbling through, trying to say the words with just the right rhythm so they all sound in unison. It’s not what they say that’s important to them, it’s how they say it.
“Let us worship God!”
In the same way we have for years and years. We say the same prayers as though saying them more than once makes them special. As though something about the words, the particular words, has a more significant meaning. We sing the same songs over and over as though we’re certain that You love the sound of music. And we believe, especially this crowd, especially Margaret Thomas, that the more boisterous we sing, the more pleased You must be. You must not be Mozart or Bach. Maybe Beethoven. Deaf. Do You really like music? Does it please You? What displeases You? Do You feel anything or are feelings a weakness?
“Praise the Lord. I will extol the Lord with all my heart in the council of the upright and in the assembly. Great are the works of the Lord, they are pondered by all who delight in them. Glorious and majestic are his deeds, and his righteousness endures forever. And now join me in the Affirmation of Faith.”
Why do we make people stand for this? Is an affirmation made while seated somehow not as affirming?
“I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ His only son our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and buried; He descended into hell; the third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into Heaven and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead . . .”
Who writes this stuff?
“ . . . I believe in the Holy Ghost; the Holy Catholic Church; the communion of Saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting. Amen.”
I wonder if I inserted something like ‘the preeminence of predetermination’ in this last line how many people would notice.
♫ Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen, Amen. ♫
Thank God for Warren Williams and his Sanctity of Life part. Now I can sit down. I wonder if I asked Warren what the Holy Ghost is if he’d know. Probably not. Yet, he and everyone else here just said they believed in it. Sang a song giving it glory. He wears the same black shirt and white tie every Sunday. Someone with that little imagination . . . of course he doesn’t know. Now, if he came to church in his work clothes, with his sleeves rolled up and a brace of keys clipped to his belt loop, I might not be so quick to judge. I might think he’s not worried about the impression he’ll make. Perhaps he’d be here because he feels it’s where he should be. Perhaps he’d know what the Holy Ghost is. Perhaps it’s the shell of a man wallowing in the shallow water of life while wearing a black shirt and white tie.
“Let us recite the Lord’s Prayer. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil; for thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory, forever. Amen.”
He slowly stepped away from the pulpit and towards the center of the stage. When he’d positioned himself directly behind and above the table with the four wooden platters he stopped and watched the four old men walk down the center aisle, two-by-two. When they’d arranged themselves in a line at the front of the table, the minister bowed his head and raised his right hand.
“Help us who have received so freely from you to give as freely in our turn, and so have the pleasure of giving as well as the happiness of receiving. Amen.”
When he’d spoken the last word he lowered his hand and the four men each took a platter. The minister turned to go to his chair which was the cue for the four men to begin collecting the offering.
I wonder how we’ll do today. Will it be another meager Sunday? Perhaps it’s a referendum on my ability as a minister. A sort of tip . . . for services rendered. What will I earn? Ten percent? We’ve managed to try and deflect people from thinking like that. It’s a tithe to God. Give a portion of your income to God. It’s really kind of an obvious bait and switch. It can’t be that anyone here believes the money goes anywhere but to my salary and the national headquarters. Well, June Sommers might not know it. She believes she’s visited by angels. She would probably think that angels come down and gather all the offerings and haul them up to heaven storing them in God’s vault. He must have quite a stash. June . . . June. If you only knew your few dollars bought me my egg salad sandwich I’m having for lunch today. I eat your tithe to God. Everyday.
Oh no . . . Jim Shearer’s making change in the offering plate again. Fred caught him once putting in a dollar and taking out four ones, like he’d made change for a five. He told me that Jim was stealing money from God. Fred thinks I should confront him. What Fred really wanted to say was the Jim was stealing his money. I told Fred I’d talk to Jim. I still haven’t. What am I going to say? ‘That’s my egg salad sandwich you’re taking out of the offering plate?’ Besides, Jim probably needs it more than I do.
I wonder if it’s time to readdress letting younger people collect the offering. It’s getting harder and harder for Tom to get up and down the aisle. He leans on the pew for support while waiting for the plate to come to him. Before you know it, he’ll have a walker rigged with a tray for the offering plate. And Joe seems to be in such pain. I’m sure if I take it to the Elders, though, I’ll get shot down again. There’s no rule for it. It’s tradition. It what their father and their father’s father did. If it was good enough for them, it ought to be good enough for us.
What is it about tradition that’s sacred? It certainly is. This crowd may not admit it, but it certainly is. Maybe what’s sacred is the comfort that routine allows. Yeah, that’s probably it. If they say things the same way, use the same arcane language, sing the same songs everything will be the same. There’s comfort for them in the fact that nothing changes. It’s got nothing to do with praising a deity or living a good life. Routine is holy, change is evil for no other reason than change is uncomfortable. I wonder if they think comfort is in God’s favor while discomfort or change is in His disfavor.
Time to get up.
♫ Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; praise Him, all creatures here below; praise Him above, ye heavenly host; praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen. ♫
“The Old Testament reading is from Proverbs, Chapter 3, Verses 13-18. “Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding. For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold. She is more precious than rubies: and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her. Length of days is in her right hand; and in her left hand riches and honour. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her: and happy is every one that retaineth her.” These are the words of our God. Amen.”
“Now join me in singing Breathe On Me, Breath of God.”
God, I hate singing. I can’t carry a tune, the music is always in the wrong key for my voice, and I hate standing in front of everyone as though proud of my inability. And I know they can tell how bad I am. It was Marilynn that said, “Reverend, it’s so heartening to see you standing up there trying so hard to sing.” All I could think to say was, “Thanks.” What I felt like saying, though, was “Marilynn, it’s so heartening to know that the stained glass windows were made so carefully and well that they could withstand all the years that you’ve been shrieking.”
Careful, I don’t want others to see that I’ve got something else on my mind than the hymn.
“Today’s New Testament reading is from the Gospel according to Matthew, Chapter 7, Verses 24-29. ‘Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock.
“ ‘And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
“ ‘And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand.
“ ‘And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.
“ ‘And it came to pass, when Jesus had ended these sayings, the people were astonished at his doctrine,
“ ‘For he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.’
“A reading from the holy scriptures.”
Now for the hard part.
“I was going to . . . The Gospel according to . . . No. I can’t.
“Do you see this?” he waves a handful of papers in the air. “Do you know what this is? It’s the sermon. It’s not mine. It’s not yours. I printed it out off the Web yesterday. I made a few changes, added some contractions here and there, found an appropriate joke and added it to the beginning. But it’s not mine. It belongs to someone whose job it is to write these things. They probably stuck him in a small room with a computer, said ‘Write a sermon on . . . uh . . . the sanctity of marriage,’ then closed the door. The person who wrote this probably composed it, biblical references and all, in less time than it would take me to deliver it. Impressive, no?
“No. It isn’t. There’s no heart in it. It’s a mathematical equation. Take some of this, some of that, add a bible verse and a parable or two and, voila, a sermon on the sanctity of marriage. Next!
“Let’s try something new, and I need your help. We’re all going to say the Pledge of Allegiance. I’m serious. Okay, ready? I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
“See? Could you hear it? You were beautifully in unison. Have you been practicing? Of course you have. All your lives. You can say it without thinking. But do you really know what you’re saying? You might answer, ‘I’m giving my allegiance to my country’ to which I’d say of course you are. Are you? I’ve got you thinking about it, don’t I? You’re probably going back to your high school civics class memories to dredge up what a republic is. Some of you may start wondering about what indivisible means. Others may be thinking ‘What’s Reverend up to? What does it matter if I don’t think about what I’m saying?’
“Oh, but it does.
“When do you think you learned the pledge? When you were young probably. Grade school or kindergarten. Maybe even younger. You probably remember memorizing it and learning to say it in such a way that it sounded good in unison. Every morning you’d stand behind your desk, put your hand over your heart, face the flag and say the pledge like a song—occasionally confusing indivisible with invisible. We all did. You were too young to know what a republic was, what it meant for a nation to be indivisible. You just said it and said it until it became a matter of fact. So matter of fact that when you became old enough to know what you were saying, it never crossed your minds to stop and think about it.
“Let’s try something else. Let’s all say the Lord’s Prayer again, only this time you can stay seated. I know, that’s a bit out of the ordinary and it may throw you off, but that’s okay. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from sin, for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.
“Very good. You started off a little rough, but then you must have heard those around you and you all found the common rhythm you always have.
“Now, what did you say? You have to think about it don’t you? Have you ever stopped to think if it’s really what you believe? Or is it something you learned in Sunday School a long time ago and you’ve been saying it ever since? Like the Pledge of Allegiance.
“First, let me point out that Matthew says this is what a prayer to God should sound like. It has the correct form for prayers. Luke, on the other hand, leads us to believe that this is the prayer that God expects. I won’t go into the whole history of how the prayer has changed in its translation from Greek into Latin into all the other languages. There have even been changes in the English version. You all know the Methodist adopted a slightly different Lord’s Prayer than the Presbyterians adopted.
”Let’s get beyond that though and stop for a moment and consider what’s in the Lord’s Prayer. Take, for instance, ‘thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’ Here we are praying for God’s will, what He wants, to be done right here. It’s as though we’re saying that even though we want His will to be done, it’s not here now or it may leave at any moment. If God was to have His way on earth, could you imagine praying for it to happen? Kind of sounds like God is sitting in heaven watching things transpire down here on earth with the curiosity if we’ll get it right or get it wrong while we’re down here praying that we’ll get it right. Is that what you believe?
“Then we go and ask that he forgive our debts. What debts are we praying for relief from? That’s pretty selfish of us, isn’t it? What if God’s intent is to teach us humility through debt? But, there’s a qualifier at the end—as we forgive our debtors. Maybe that’s why God hasn’t done anything about the current level of credit card debt in this country. Let’s think about this. If we truly believe that God will forgive our debts if we pray for it, what’s the point of being a debtor?
“One last thing, and then I’ll get to the point of all this. In the Gloria Patri we sing our praise to the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Ah, the Trinity. God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. Are they three things or one? I think most would believe that they’re three distinct things. You know, there’s God, then God’s offspring, then there’s this mysterious other thing, the Holy Ghost or Spirit. There are some who say they’re separate and distinct, yet inclusive of each other. Confusing? It gets worse. There are some tenets of Christianity that say that the Trinity is simply different manifestations of the same thing. So when you sing the Gloria Patri are you praising three things or one? You’re praising it. Shouldn’t you know?
“If you say you love John LeClaire’s latest novel, aren’t we to assume that you’ve read it? If you say you don’t believe in the feature of the string theory of matter that results in multiple universes can’t we assume that you’ve at least heard of the theory and what it’s about? Don’t we need to be able to explain what it is we believe? If we praise something, don’t we need to know what it is we’re praising?
“I know I’ve asked a lot of questions this morning and given few answers, but that’s the bottom-line of this impromptu sermon. We all come to church each Sunday and do the same thing over and over without a thought for what we’re doing. Many of you were part of this church from the day you were baptized. You came to Sunday School because it’s where your parents brought you. You learned the Lord’s Prayer, the same one, word-for-word, that we said today. And you never thought to ask why you say it, because it was expected. You learned the Ten Commandments, the twelve disciples, the Gloria Patri, the Trinity. You learned it all, and nothing at all.
“Did you ever wonder why we sing? Yet we sing every Sunday convinced that what we’re doing is praising God. We sing the same songs over and over. God must love Rock of Ages because we sing it about once a month. When I pick out the hymns we’ll sing what do you think I’m thinking? I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. I choose hymns based on the topic of the sermon someone else wrote. I have a book that says if I want a hymn that fits well with, say, marital fidelity choose one of these hymns. Or I look for one that’s a perennial favorite, like Rock of Ages. It’s got nothing to do with what God wants to hear. How could I know that?
“Don’t be satisfied with religion as a habit. For most of you, going to church is just that—a habit. It’s like your morning routine. You get up and do it without thinking. You dress in the same Sunday clothes, you know when you’re supposed to stand, you say the Affirmation of Faith and Lord’s Prayer without knowing what you’re saying, you sing the hymns by memory like you were reciting the alphabet.
“Religion isn’t something that allows us once a week to hang up logic on a peg, put reason on a shelf, hide introspection in the back of the cupboard. Religion should engage our intellect. Make us think. Belief in God shouldn’t be the final word. It should be the first word in a lifelong intellectual endeavor. Faith shouldn’t be the end of questions. It should help us ask the next question.
“So when you leave here this morning, don’t go home and sit down to your pot roast and potatoes and green beans and say the same prayer you’ve said since you can remember . . . the same prayer your father and his father said. Think of something new to say. Talk about what I’ve had to say. Talk about what the Trinity is. Talk about whether God is active or passive in the world. Discuss what faith and belief are. Bring intelligence back to religion.
“Let us bow our heads in silent prayer.”
Oh boy, you’ve done it now. No tips for you. I’ve probably offended every one of them. All except those that were asleep. They’ll be offended when they hear about what I said, though.
“Please rise for hymn number 702.”
But why should they? I was encouraging them to use their minds. I might have sounded like I was saying they’re lazy with their religion. Maybe I did infer that they use Sunday to be stupid. But I did it with the intent of rattling their cages a bit. Putting them outside their comfort zone. I guess we’ll see.
The minister made his way down the right aisle, past the ten-foot stain-glass windows dedicated to the founding church members.
Their singing sounds different. I don’t hear Marilynn. Not a good sign.
He arrived at the back of the sanctuary, turned and faced the congregation. Their backs were to him.
This is kind of appropriate. After a sermon like that, positioning myself so their backs are to me.
“May we each understand and contemplate the nature of our beliefs and of God; may He bless you and keep you, may He shine his countenance on you and give you peace. Amen.”
With the first note of the Prelude and Fugue in G Major, he turned and opened the double entrance doors. He then took his station to one side to shake the hands of the congregation as they filed out.
As is always the case, the first to pass him were children, dashing to their freedom, he thought. The first adult to get to the entrance was Fred and his wife, May. Fred stopped short of the minister. The minister smiled at Fred and put out his hand. Fred stared at the minister for a moment without returning the smile, then he turned to his wife and hustled her past the minister keeping himself between the minister and his wife. He didn’t accept the minister’s hand.
“Have a good day, Fred, May,” the minister said to their backs.
As he said that, Bob and Jackie slipped by without a word. The minister turned to face Mike and Peg.
“I’m glad you came today.” They avoided looking at the minister and left.
Frank shook the minister’s hand and said, “Fine sermon today,” but the minister knew that Frank had slept through the entire delivery.
When half the congregation had left and he’d only shaken the hands of three people, the minister left his station at the entrance and returned to the front of the sanctuary. As the remaining people departed, he sat down in his chair behind the pulpit.
Ahab, behold my white whale. How would you have handled this? Should I nail a silver dollar on the cross?
It has been a while since I posted anything here. So, here I am again. What follows are a few poems I've written lately. I'll have a story to add next.
DULCINEA SMILES
I'm something less than I think I am
and likely more than I want to be.
A martyr to my future death, fearful
that it will take something from me
I shouldn't have been entrusted with,
something less valuable than I imagine.
I'm the crow, the raucous charlatan,
cawing its importance and presence
diverted by a sliver of silver foil
for which it drops the thistle seeds
from its grasping black beak
as it picks up the useless glitter.
I’m Don Quixote without Sancho,
but with a lance broken in youth
shattered when the east wind blows
and impotent in the eyes of Dulcinea.
I’m something less than I think I am
and likely more than I want to be.
NOVA
It was a slow burn,
smoldering unnoticed,
gathering energy
until it could absorb no more
and in the flare of an evening spark
it blew itself apart.
Soon there was nothing left
dying faster than it had once lived,
devoid of all that it had been
while what it could be
was forever gone, yet even now
I see what no longer exists.
LIFE OF A MAYFLY
The mayfly slides from its larval hull,
riding the current while wisp wings
dry in the moist air. It waits to face
a two-hour life of sex and death.
Rising from the surface film
it’s buoyed upwards by a lurking
trout who misses when it slurps
nudging the mayfly airborne.
I wonder if it feels that its life
lasts a lifetime, if seconds crawl
so it can relish each moment
of its brief and hectic existence,
a life of finding a larvae mate,
of driven sex that lasts for half
its hours so utterly draining
it slips unnoticed into nothingness.
In a distant spinning dust cloud,
elements coalesce, a planet is born
and from that alien place
my life, my brief existence,
plays out so fast to seem that
it ends in the slurp of a trout.
This is from a website (answersingenesis.org) I stumbled across the other day. I was dumbstruck. The effort it must take to be this ignorant of facts is astounding. For me, nothing is quite as fearful as ignorance parading as religion.
Although the Bible does not tell us exactly how long ago it was that God made the world and its creatures, we can make a good estimate of the date of creation by reading through the Bible and noting some interesting passages:
-
God made everything in six days. He did this, by the way, to set a pattern for mankind, which has become our seven day week (as described in Exodus 20:11). God worked for six days and rested for one, as a model for us. Furthermore, Bible scholars will tell you that the Hebrew word for day used in Genesis 1, can only mean an ordinary day in this context.
-
We are told God created the first man and woman—Adam and Eve—on Day Six. Many facts about when their children and their children’s children were born are given in Genesis. These genealogies are recorded throughout the Old Testament, up until the time of Christ. They certainly were not chronologies lasting millions of years.
As you add up all of the dates, and accepting that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came to Earth almost 2000 years ago, we come to the conclusion that the creation of the Earth and animals (including the dinosaurs) occurred only thousands of years ago (perhaps only 6000!), not millions of years. Thus, if the Bible is right (and it is!), dinosaurs must have lived within the past thousands of years.
*******************************
The Bible tells us that God created all of the land animals on the sixth day of creation. As dinosaurs were land animals, they must have been made on this day, alongside Adam and Eve, who were also created on Day Six (Genesis 1:24-31). If God designed and created dinosaurs, they would have been fully functional, designed to do what they were created for, and would have been 100% dinosaur. This fits exactly with the evidence from the fossil record.
*******************************
Evolutionists declare that no man ever lived alongside dinosaurs. The Bible, however, makes it plain that dinosaurs and people must have lived together. Actually, as we will soon see, there is a lot of evidence for this.
God sent two of every (seven of some) land animal into the Ark (Genesis 7:2-3; 7:8-9)—there were no exceptions. Therefore, dinosaurs must have been on the Ark. Even though there was ample room in the huge ship for large animals, perhaps God sent young adults into the Ark that still had plenty of room for them to grow.
Well, what happened to all the land animals that did not go on the Ark? Very simply, they drowned. Many would have been covered with tons of mud as the rampaging water covered the land (Genesis 7:11-12,19). Because of this quick burial, many of the animals would have been preserved as fossils. If this happened, you would expect to find evidence of billions of dead things buried in rock layers (formed from this mud) all over the Earth. This is exactly what you do find.
By the way, the Flood of Noah’s day probably occurred just over 4,500 years ago. Creationists believe that this event formed many of the fossil layers around the Earth. (Additional fossil layers were formed by other floods as the Earth settled down after the great Flood.) Thus, the dinosaur fossils which were formed as a result of this Flood were probably formed about 4,500 years ago, not millions of years ago.
