“We are assuring you, it will never happen again”

Yesterday was the twentieth anniversary of what is surely among the most important genocidal acts of my lifetime: the attempt to eradicate as many members of the Tutsi population in Rwanda (and sympathetic Hutus, it must be remembered). Below is an essay I wrote nearly a decade ago both as a commemoration of the anniversary and as an example of one kind of research essay for my classes. There are many posts reflecting the acts beginning April 7, 1994, on the internet this week; this one is about the attempt to bring a sense of justice in a particularly Rwandan way.

Abstract:  The Rwandan practice of Gacaca—a process of public confession done before a town’s residents—is helping to quicken the pace of judicial procedures instituted in response to the 1994 Rwandan genocidal massacres.           

 

“We will Never Do It Again!”:

Rwandan Gacaca

 

On February 19, 2003—just a few months shy of the ninth anniversary of the April 1994 airplane crash killing President Juvenal Habyaramana and setting into motion the infamous 100-day genocidal attack on Rwandan ethnic Tutsis—“Judges at the UN International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda...unanimously pronounced former Seventh day Adventist pastor Elizaphan Ntakirutimana and his son[,] medical doctor Gerard Ntakirutimana[,] guilty of genocide” (Fondation Hirondelle, 2003) for their roles in specific killings at Mugonero and Busasero.   They are sentenced to ten years and twenty-five years, respectively.  The Ntakirutimanas are the highest-profile defendants of the ICTR trials, and their unanimous convictions provide testament to the difficult work done by ICTR prosecutors.

            The work has been difficult, but the eleven-month trial, the speediest of the ten decisions the ICTR has accomplished since its 1995 inception, and of which there remain another forty-five, leaves observers optimistic.  After all, the Ntakirutimana’s defense relied primarily on two easy-to-prove points:  that neither defendant was anywhere in the vicinity during the massacres in which they supposedly participated; and in any case, neither actually swung a machete, the preferred method of execution during the massacre.

            Neither fact, however, mattered.  Their guilt was moral rather than physical.  Pastor Ntaki (the familiar patronymic among Rwandans), a Hutu, had received this letter, dated April 15, 1994, from several Tutsi pastors under his leadership:

How are you!  We wish you to be strong in all these problems we are facing.  We wish to inform you that we have heard that tomorrow we will be killed with our families.  We therefore request you to intervene on our behalf and talk with the [mayor].  We believe that, with the help of God who entrusted you the leadership of this flock, which is going to be destroyed, your intervention will be highly appreciated…We give honor to you.  (Gourevitch, 1998, p. 42)

 

            Pastor Ntaki did indeed intervene with the mayor.  The result is described by Philip Gourevitch.

In Nyarubuye, when Tutsis asked the Hutu Power mayor how they might be spared [after the extermination had begun the previous week in Kigali], he suggested that they seek sanctuary at the church.  They did, and a few days later the mayor came to kill them.  He came at the head of a pack of soldiers, policemen, militiamen, and villagers; he gave out arms and orders to complete the job well.  No more was required of the mayor, but he also was said to have killed a few Tutsis himself.

The killers killed all day…At night they cut the Achilles tendons of survivors and went off to feast behind the church, roasting cattle looted from their victims in big fires, and drinking beer…And, in the morning, still drunk after whatever sleep they could find beneath the cries of their prey, the killers at Nyarubuye went back and killed again.  Day after day, minute to minute, Tutsi by Tutsi:  all across Rwanda, they worked like that.  “It was a process,” Sergeant Francis said.  (Gourevitch, pp 18-19)

 

            These victims were the neighbors and friends of their murderers.  Something very strange went on in Rwanda during those months.  And something no less strange occurs in its aftermath.

            One thing that must be understood about the Rwandan massacres is that they did not happen either in a vacuum or in secret.  The murderers, minority ethnic Hutus, members of the same tribe with which President Habyaramana, himself a Hutu, had stocked his government, were well-prepared, armed and trained for months prior to the genocide, and informed of the attack’s timing and pressed on by Radio Mille Collines, Rwanda’s nationally-owned radio station.  There were also a lot of them.  The fifty-five current cases before the ICTR are but a tiny fraction of the 2500 “Category One” killers, described by Samantha Powers (2003) as genocide planners, “well-known” murderers, or defendants who killed with “zeal” or “excessive wickedness”.  Another 120,000 Rwandans await conviction on lesser charges.  It is estimated there were 800,000 individual murders of ethnic Tutsis and moderate Hutus during that one hundred days, and there are many, many categories besides Category One.

            The ICTR obviously cannot try each case, nor is it designed to try, a la Nuremburg, a specific class of cases.  Eventually, each case is meant to arrive in Rwanda’s regular court.  Helping them get there is a specifically Rwandan process called gacaca.

            Gacaca (pronounced ga-CHA-CHA and so-named “for the leaves of grass on which traditional leaders sat while they resolved community disputes” [Powers, p 48]) is a once-a-week judicial procedure attended by the rescapés, or Tutsi and Hutu survivors of the massacres.  Inaugurated in 1999 by Rwandan president Paul Kagame in an attempt to lessen the strain on the country’s prisons into which suspects had been crammed since mid-1994, gacaca is “a public confessional process that recalls both the Salem witch trials and a Mississippi Christian revival” (Powers, p 48).  Powers describes one such gacaca she witnessed in Niyikazu, Butare:

            One group of prisoners arrived on foot, dressed like other villagers in worn blue jeans and smudged Nike T-shirts, African sarongs, and an assortment of flip-flops, loafers, and bedroom slippers…They were hauling stools and benches, on which their fellow townspeople sat during the day of exhausting testimony.  Although there was hardly any supervision, none of the prisoners tried to make a dash for the hills.  The local prison chief explained, “It is not in our culture for people to try to escape.”

            A second group of prisoners arrived dressed in pink prison uniforms…Some of the prisoners has starched their shirts for the big day.  All seemed giddy, enjoying the change of scenery and the first hope in seven years of eventual release.

            …[A] handful of prisoners in the jail’s musical troupe made their way into the center of the courtyard, which was by now ringed by more than a thousand onlookers.  One prisoner played the bongo drums and four strummed guitars, several of which had been painted pink to match their prison uniforms.  The musicians…were joined by prison singers, who danced to a rhythmic song about murder, confession, truth, liberation, and reconciliation.  The beat was catchy, combining reggae, polka, and gospel singing…When the song reached its final stanza—“We are assuring you, it will never happen again”—the three prison dancers twirled around and  swished their hips to the tune, all the while making a throat-slitting motion, and wagging their fingers to indicate admonition.  “We will never do it again!” (p 49)

 

            This seems the stuff of satire, ripe for mockery, but the truth lies in that phrase delivered by the unnamed prison chief:  “It is not in our culture for people to try to escape.”  These people had done terrible deeds and it has become in their best interests to confess them because they have nowhere else to go.  Those who, after the return and victory of the Rwandese Patriotic Front from Uganda, decamped to Tanzania or Congo or Zaire to escape vengeance, have, for the most part, returned.  The number of former murderers living in close proximity to their former victims is of course a sore point—Gourevitch ends his book with the story of Jean Girumuhatse, a returnee from Zaire who had run a roadblock and who admitted to killing at least six people, and his request of Laurencie Nyirabeza, a rescapé whose family he killed and a woman who he himself struck with a machete, for her “pardon”—however, as President Kagame has said, “We have no alternative.” 

            Gourevitch’s tale ends as Girumuhatse describes the genocide as “like a dream.” 

“It came from the regime like a nightmare.”  Now, it seemed, he had not so much waked up as entered a new dream, in which his confession and his pat enthusiasm for Rwanda’s reform—“The new regime is quite good.  There are no dead…There is a new order”—did not require any fundamental change of politics or heart.  He remained a middleman, aspiring to be a model citizen and to reap the rewards.  When the authorities said kill, he killed, and when the authorities said confess, he confessed.  (Gourevitch, pp 310-11)

 

            This, it would seem, is the particular advantage of the gacaca:  that one who needs to confess will do so, and be sent further along the chain to ultimate responsibility,  while one who has nothing to confess will be absolved.  Of the 8000 prisoners presented at gacaca, nearly 2000 have been freed, not on technicalities but on the say-so of their neighbors.  Such a system is unlikely to work in the US—we are more a nation of Pastor Ntakis, who loudly declares, if not his innocence, then his lack of responsibility for the consequences of his actions—but gacaca seems a uniquely effective Rwandan solution to a uniquely Rwandan problem.

  

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works Cited in this Essay:

 

Fondation Hirondelle.  (2003, February 19.)  Elizaphan Ntakirutimana.  Retrieved March

1, 2003.  http://www.hirondelle.org/hirondelle.nsf/caefd9edd48f5826c12564 cf00 4 f793d/b327fbfdb8707d83c12567cb003390c8?OpenDocument

Gourevitch, Philip.  (1998.)  We Wish to Inform You that Tomorrow We will be Killed

            With our Families.  New York:  Farrar Strauss Giroux.

Powers, Samantha.  (2003, January 16.)  Rwanda:  The Two Faces of Justice.  The New

            York Review of Books, pp 47-50.

                                     

no regrets

I had an interesting conversation the other day that has stayed in the back of my mind since then, sometimes intruding on other thoughts. I had seen a psychiatrist--my first time, suprisingly I think, given how many times I've sought counseling--and during the course of our interview she asked, "Do you have any regrets about your past? Your drinking, drugs, your homelessness?"

I said, confidently, "No. No, I don't."

A  while later, in relation to another matter, she brought the subject up again. "You're certain, nothing you would change? Not your drinking or being homeless?"

"No," I repeated. "I don't want to romanticize it but there were things about those times of my life that I really liked and I'm glad I did."

And later, again, she said, "I've seen hundreds of people and no one, ever, has said he has no regrets about any of his past, so you're a first for me."

That's what is stuck in my brainclot. This notion that everyone else regrets his or her past misdeeds or perceived misadventures, and the suggestion that maybe I ought to regret them. I'll admit there are some instances I wish had turned out differently--some people I wish I'd been kinder to, some I wish I hadn't been so forgiving with, and those situations might have led to changes in my life--but with the major issues of my life, my decision to drink, to take as many drugs (outside anything to speed me up, tho coffee is as much a drug as any other) as I was offered, to pack up my belongings and go on the road instead of finding a new home after a few months on the street, I don't regret a thing.

No mistake, those were often difficult things to go through, but I'm happier I went through them than if I'd avoided them. I like the sense of disconnect and lack of control I get when I drink; I never had a bad trip on acid or peyote and weed was a very good friend; my homelessness helps me to remember to keep slow and not to take things as seriously as I might otherwise.

But I can't be the only one. I've known many homeless people and there have been some who choose to continue the life because they're comfortable with it or because they like who they meet or they feel safer. I've known a lot of drinkers and druggies who partake because they genuinely like it. It may be that such people never go to see psychiatrists and so are underrespresented. But I don't believe for a second I'm the only one who has who will admit to it.

at the mall

I know my wife doesn't understand, but I like malls. I'm not much of a shopper--with the exception of books I tend to walk into a store knowing what I want and leave as soon as I locate it--but I enjoy being in a place where I can be comfortable and see people moving around aimlessly. I like it in short doses I should explain. I don't care for the recycled air or the omnipresent mutter of music over the PA systems or the lights from stores. But give me a comfy chair and an atrium or just a skylight and locals wandering and chattering and I can spend the day there. There is, of course, the added attraction on a day like today of a warm, indoor walk. I know I can live without malls. Most of my life they were too far away or didn't exist. But like comic books and movies and drinking they add something to my life that I can celebrate.

“BEER, AND THANK YOU”

 

A Sermon Delivered to the Unitarian Society of

Menomonie, WI, March 23, 2914

 

I want to start out this morning talking about a death that affects me profoundly and maybe surprisingly. The Reverend Fred Phelps, Sr., of the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas, died Wednesday night about midnight.

            I don’t know what the weather was like that evening in Topeka when he died, and I don’t want to make light of his death, but I wondered if this man, a member of what the BBC had once chillingly called the most hated family in the United States, had chosen such a cold, harsh, desolate time to depart this life, as if a reminder of the desolate theology and God he served.

            I’m not about to write a eulogy for Fred Phelps but I do want to remind you of some wisdom from John Donne. In his Meditation number 27 he famously writes, "No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind..." The quote has become so ubiquitous as to have lost much of its original impact. But it manages to retain an impact and a truth beyond its simplicity.

I don’t eulogize him but I mourn Fred Phelps. I also mourn the death of ideas and cultures and languages, of whole populations of insects and birds and mammals and fish wiped out before we ever had an opportunity to know of them, of civil discourse and sitting silently before answering and owning up to what one has said. But I mourn Fred Phelps a little differently than those because he was are a part of my experience of the world and I think I'd be the worse for not having known about him.

Unlike Phelps, and I presume unlike you, I have little room in my theology for hatred. Not of groups of people and, I hope, not of individuals. I continue to work on my intense, let’s call it disfavor, of Ronald Reagan and Dick Cheney, but for all other people I like to think I am, at worst, ambivalent. In my theology, god is everything that makes up our experience, including the way we treat one another, the thoughts we have and act on, the toast we have for breakfast and selecting the bread and toasting and smothering it with butter as well as where the bread and the toaster parts and the cows and grass and water that make up the butter came from. This idea that god is a verb, simply is the way everyone and everything behaves, is something I picked up from born-again writer Anne Lamott. But it didn't originate with her. It was probably Jewish mysticism as exemplified in the Kabbalah that came up with the idea. In the contemporary world this is called pantheism, which posits that the divine itself composes all that is the universe, and thus that God, if that’s the name we use for it, is not separate from reality but is what constitutes it. As a result, Fred Phelps, his church, his hatred and his obsession, are as much an expression of God as Jesus and Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr.

Physicists have calculated that exactly the same amount of matter resides in the universe today as did moments after the Big Bang, and if that is the case then nothing ever goes away, it simply changes form. Fred Phelps qua Fred Phelps is on his way to becoming another series of atoms in another form. (Whether the new form acheives sentience, as in reincarnation, is another matter.) What I’ve wanted to find since his death is a cartoon memorializing him by showing Jesus explaining to him, "Look, it says right there in Mark, I hate figs!" because I think that would be a funny way to eulogize him.

But as Adam Weinstein in an excellent essay on the website Gawker points out, Phelps and his Westboro family, despite whatever else we might say about them, are at least consistent in their reading of the Bible. He identifies them correctly, and the term is not meant to be pejorative—Unitarian Universalism also grew from these roots—as Primitive Baptists. The “primitive” label would be more contemporarily termed “original;” that is, these are Baptists who, in early Nineteenth Century America, refused to allow modernizing influences to water down God’s message and authority. As Weinstein notes, doing so would have made no difference anyway, since they believed in predestination, which said God already had or had not chosen you for admittance to eternal life.

Weinstein does such a good job of enumerating the Calvinist idea of what the Bible teaches, what I learned in seminary by the acronym “TULIP,” that I’m going to quote him in full.

·         The total depravity of man. This one is everything: Human beings' default mode is damnation (thanks, Adam and Eve). We are not merely headed for damnation, though: We are depraved, alienated from God and goodness and unable to return to goodness by yourselves. In short, humans without salvation are all irredeemably terrible. Does that sound bleak? Well, that's the way it is, according to Calvinists.

·         Unconditional election. This is the predestination thing. God in His omniscience and in his mercy will save some of you. He already knows whom He will save, and he's not doing it because you're nice or funny or pretty, but because He can. Deal with it.

·         Limited atonement. Jesus died to save some people. But not all people. Just the ones God has elected. You can't atone for you sins, and maybe Jesus can't, either, because at the end of the day, maybe God heard your prayers and Jesus', and said "Yeeeeeeeeeeah no."

·         Irresistible grace. How do you know if God has saved you? Oh, you'll know. Because he'll touch you with grace, and you won't be able to refuse. No matter what a dirty philandering murderous gay Episcopalian you may be, God might save you, and you will heed His call, because that's how He rolls.

·         Perseverance of the saints. Once you go saved, you never go back. Here's the thing about an omniscient God: If He's elected you for salvation, you're getting saved, even if you keep being a dirty philandering murderous gay Episcopalian. That's just how grace works. No takebacks!

 

Weinstein concludes “There's a God who saves some people and screws the rest over for eternity, and there's nothing you can really do about it. If there were, He wouldn't be God, and you wouldn't be a depraved, terrible not-God quivering mass of id urges…As the old Presbyterian joke goes (Presbyterians still take the Calvinist points quite seriously): ‘God has answered your prayers. The answer is no.’”

            Let’s not allow ourselves a moment of triumphalism, saying, “Well, that’s what’s wrong with those fundamentalists, they see the world entirely in terms of black and white, right and wrong, them and everyone else.” Because the truth is, as easy as that may seem to us to make the path through worldliness it actually makes being Christ-like (as they might say) the more difficult. Because the Bible and their tradition tell them in no uncertain terms that you can’t just live quietly with this determination. You must proclaim it, no matter who it hurts, no matter what discomfort it is to you, no matter what the consequences might be. God demands no less than complete obeisance from you and God says, quite specifically in Mark 16:15-6: “And [Jesus] said to [his disciples, ie, everyone who would be a Christian], ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation. He who has believed and has been baptized shall be saved; but he who has disbelieved shall be condemned.’” From the perspective of Fred Phelps and other Original Baptists what’s wrong with everyone else, including most self-proclaimed Christians, is that they won’t do that. In our arrogance we refuse to accept God knows what is right and has told us very explicitly what our responsibilities are and it is their responsibility to point that out. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses and Seventh-Day Adventists and other sects that grew out from that root, they are meant to be prophets, not telling what will happen in the future but what must happen as a consequence of disobedience.

The abolition movement, the temperance movement, the social gospel and social justice movements, the civil rights movement—all of these came about as a result of the efforts and influence of the Original Baptists, also known as Hardshells. Should we thank Fred Phelps or his clan from Westboro? Not even I would go that far. Some things should remain beyond the pale of human interaction and public displays of hatred should be among them. But we should recognize that there is great complexity in people no less than there is in life. From the 1950s until he was disbarred, Fred Phelps was an active and effective lawyer on behalf mostly of black clients, winning settlements against institutional racist practices and police abuse. In the late 80s he was given several awards by the groups Blacks in Government and the NAACP.  Indeed, no man is an island. Neither is anyone just a single attribute.

I mourn the death of Fred Phelps, then, as a fellow part of god, for the good he did in his life, for his role as a man, as a lover, as a father, and as a leader. It's sad that his legacy will be a rank hatred of people and ideas his theology couldn't prepare him to accept, and it's sad that for some people that will be reason to, if not celebrate, then dismiss his death. But life, like everything else we do, has consequences, and this is his.

            We justifiably cherish, as Americans, as members of different generations, as UUs, and as members of this congregation, our sense of social justice, of what needs to be done and undone. In the aggregate, we have had tremendous influence on the world, sometimes for ill, mostly for good. As individuals, many of us have worked in support of causes ranging from opposition to war to women’s choices to raising the minimum wage to helping the homeless and improving conditions for the mentally ill and people in poverty. Perhaps when we die the media is unlikely to cover efforts we made to change the world. But it is unlikely we will be referred to as having belonged to the most hated family in the country or as having left a legacy of angry and exclusive theology.

There is a song by a writer named Bill Callahan called, appropriately, “The Sing.” He describes having a day when he’s surrounded by people but says only two things to anyone. Now before I tell you what those two things are, I want you to think about what such a day is like. A day in which you say only two, at most two, things to people. I’m not talking about talking to people outside your immediate family or your significant other. Such a thing as that is lonely enough, I know. I’m not talking either about only wanting to say two things to people—we all have days like that, when we want no or nearly no contact with others and huddle into ourselves, keeping mum. I’m talking about days when there is almost nothing to say and nearly no one to say it to. But for a moment think about leaving your house and going through your day as you do normally and in that span of time saying only two things to anyone. That’s a lonely experience and while I’ve been lonely in my time, I don’t think I have ever been that lonely.

 

            Here are the lyrics to “The Sing.”

Drinking while sleeping strangers
Unknowingly keep me company
In the hotel bar

Looking out a window that isn't there
Looking at the carpet and the chairs

Well the only words I said today are "beer" and "thank you"
Beer, thank you
Beer, thank you
Beer

Giving praise in a quiet way
Like a church
Like a church
Like a church that’s far away

I've got limitations like Marvin Gaye
Mortal joy is that way

Outside a train sings its whale song
To a long, long train long, long gone
Then silence comes back alone
High as scaffolding

'Til the wind finds something to ping
When the pinging things finds the wind
We're all looking for a body
Or a means to make one sing.

Callahan conjures with the two things he says to someone a homey situation. He gets up and goes about his day and at a bar, maybe where he’s staying, maybe one he knows, he says “beer” and “thank you.” We’re left to imagine the conversation on the bartender’s side. Maybe he’s asked “what do you want?” or gives him a nod while wiping down the bar in front of him. And Callahan answers with a specific, non-specific request: “beer.” Not Budweiser or Miller Lite or even a further question, “what do you have?” which is the question I always ask. But a single word which, in its vagueness, says it doesn’t matter what the bar carries or what brand he’s given, he just wants a single taste in his mouth: “beer.”

            He’s been defeated. He’s drinking in a bar where people sleep at the tables. I’ve been in those bars. The TV’s on, not for the game or information or even entertainment, but for the company. What you’re drinking isn’t so important as the act of drinking. He looks out a window he only imagines, and at the floor and the empty chairs. He faces his limitations which are probably considerable, and he hears a train that wails in its loneliness, and even the silence with which it’s answered is alone.

But the second thing he says is much more specific. We imagine the bartender has set a glass down and Callahan says “thank you.” The bartender has given him what he asked for and now he’s thanked him. Is it possible that everything we can ever say to anyone can be reduced to those two phrases? Beer. Thank you. I mean, telling others what we want and then, after they’ve given it to us, thanking them. As Callahan says, “giving praise in a quiet way.”

            Well, if we’re not particular, that might work. But what if we are more particular? What if, in fact, what we want isn’t something as simple to supply as milk or a book or beer but something a lot of us lack? What if the something is correction of a social injustice? I’m not certain Reverend Martin Luther King’s requests could be reduced to “justice” or “equality.”      More importantly, perhaps, is the “thank you” that follows. Perhaps, had he lived to see his requests granted by the United States, King would have said “thank you,” but if so it was only out of his innate politeness. I’m not certain it was the majority’s ability to grant that request. After all, equality and justice aren’t really options on some menu society places before us. They are, per the first of our Seven Principles, a part of the inherent dignity granted every human being. And rounding out the seventh is the suggestion that such dignity is accorded every member of the interconnected web of being.

            But I am not Martin Luther King, Jr., much as it pains me to admit. Perhaps none of us is. Perhaps a Reverend King only appears every millennium while Fred Phelps’ are born daily. Perhaps in our attempts to make an impact on the world, our attempts to inculcate justice, to make amends for injustice, to encourage peace or equality or to just get everyone to live together a little more easily, we are sending out, like that train, our whale song to something or someone who’s long, long gone. And we’re answered with silence that itself is alone.

            But that isn’t all there is. Somewhere, our song touches something or someone. Something we don’t recognize, someone we don’t know. We all have at least one story—and without knowing it we’ve probably got a lot more—of people we find out we’ve touched gently, gracefully, with our lives that we hadn’t even known about. We all have stories about others who’ve touched us without knowing, why assume that’s only a one-way street? That we’re only the recipients and not the givers? The pinging thing finds the wind. It may never come back to us but that doesn’t matter. It goes on. “We're all looking for a body, or a means to make one sing.” We may never see the result, the body, of what we do, of our efforts, of the sacrifices we make. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we touch one another, somehow, somewhere. And the chord we touch in one another is what makes each of us sing.

 

god is fred phelps

"No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind..."

This quote, from John Donne's Meditation 27, has become so ubiquitous to have lost much of its impact. But like many phrases and concepts of the Christian Bible, it manages to retain an impact and a truth beyond its simplicity.

 

I mourn Fred Phelps as I mourned Adam and Nancy Lanza and Lou Reed and my friends and children I've never met and my mother and my pets and animals that were only with me a short time. I mourn equally the death of ideas and cultures and languages, of whole populations of insects and birds and mammals and fish wiped out before we ever had an opportunity to know of them, of civil discourse and sitting silently before answering and owning up to what one has said. But I mourn Fred Phelps and the others differently than those because they are a part of my experience of the world and I think I'd be the worse for not having known them.

 

In my theology, god (small "g" for the same reason we don't capitalize "People") is everything that makes up our experience, including the way we treat one another, the thoughts we have and act on, the toast we have for breakfast and selecting the bread and toasting and smothering it with butter as well as where the bread and the toaster parts and the cows and grass and water that make up the butter came from. This idea that god is a verb, simply is the way everyone and everything behaves, is something I picked up from born-again writer Anne Lamott. But it didn't originate with her. It was probably Jewish mysticism as exemplified in the Kabbalah that came up with the idea. In the contemporary world this is called pantheism, and I'm comfortable being called a pantheist.

 

Physicists have calculated that exactly the same amount of matter resides in the universe today as did moments after the Big Bang, and if that is the case then nothing ever goes away, it simply changes form. Fred Phelps qua Fred Phelps is on his way to becoming another series of atoms in another form. (Whether the new form acheives sentience, as in reincarnation, is another matter.) I have looked in vain for a cartoon memorializing his death by showing Jesus explaining to him, "Look, it says right there in Mark, I hate figs!" because I think that would be a funny way to eulogize him. But as Adam Weinstein points out, Phelps and his Westboro family, despite whatever else we might say about them, are at least consistent in their reading of the Bible (and I ought to mention my unique thrill at seeing the theological Calvinist acronym TULIP used on the Gawker website). Christians, Calvinists, Evangelicals, and Fundamentalists might not like to claim him, but the truth is the Westboro Church has as much right to claim themselves part of the fold as anyone else.

 

I mourn the death of Fred Phelps, then, as a fellow part of god, for the good he did in his life, for his role as a man, as a lover, as a father, and as a leader. It's sad that his legacy will be a rank hatred of people and ideas his theology couldn't prepare him to accept, and it's sad that for some people that will be reason to, if not celebrate, then dismiss his death. But life, like everything else we do, has consequences, and this is his.

what the sun said

To help me deal with this winter, I've been reading several books that lie for at least part of their narrative on extremes of weather, whether cold or heat or rain or whatever it might be. One of these books is a science fiction novel from the mid-90s called Evolution's Shore.

It takes place in the early 2000s, specifically 2008, six years after Saturn's moons are observed winking out of view. A year later a meteor strikes Mt Kilimanjaro and immediately grows a vegetation no one can identify but that serves to fully cover the mountain and grow at an exponential rate. It immerses everything within in and nothing that enters returns.

So it's said. There is one person who has left. Peter Werther is an early victim of the meteor, a member of a hang-gliding group that was thought decimated by the landing. It turns out, however, that the vegetation, which has come to be called The Chaga (named perhaps for the ubiquitous chaga mushroom?), had kept him alive in a manner of speaking for five years before expelling him. Gaby McAslan is a reporter for SkyNet (based on BSkyB rather than on the developer of the Terminators) who has been put into contact with Werther and has come to hear his story.

But what has struck me best and is the reason I am transcribing some of McDonald's novel here, is that the group Werther has been staying with since his "release" are called the New Millennium Travellers and are a perfect complement to what the Rainbow Family can become in an international manner. Werther's reason for being with them, too, resonates clearly with me.

The Travellers' camp was only a few miles beyond...,down a long dirt road that turned off the track to the Safariland Lodge and meandered along the shore of Lake Naivasha. Their wagons were pitched in the shelter of a stand of flame trees. Some were propped up on cinder blocks, wheels removed, a final surrender to the fuel shortages. There would never migrate along the world lines again. A beautiful hand-painted wooden sign stood over the entrance to the settlement. WHAT THE SUN SAID was its name.

What the sun said was dust. What the sun said was flies. The sun said heat. The sun said melanomas.

Tents and awnings billowed limply in the slow, hot air. Wind chimes set on ornamental door-posts barely tinkled. Japanese fish kites hung open-mouthed, stirring their streamer tails. Stranger fruit hung from the branches of the flame trees: things like cracked leather cocoons bound with steel wire. There were three of them, each about five feet long. They turned slowly anticlockwise to Coriolis force. A long generator chugged, most of the camp's power came from silent solar panels. All the vans had small steerable dishes on their roofs: the economics of techno-nomadism was that the information revolution had made it not only a desirable lifestyle, but a necessary one. You followed the sun and lived the lifestyle in harmony with the planet until one day the fuel ran out and left you stranded in the heat and drought of Africa's Rift Valley. With the Chaga approaching.

The Kilimanjaro Event had made East Africa the social navel of the planet. International Bright and Beautiful, and those who clung around them hoping that brightness and beauty were contagious, followed the planetary media circus to the plains in the shadows of the mountains. Most had moved on when Africa and things African slipped out of fashion. Some remained. They found room for their humanity to resonate in Africa's great spaces. They made their camps under the big sky and settled into sun-warmed introversion and the evolution of white-boy ethnicity. The men of What the Sun Said were bearded and sat about with their hands dangling loosely over their knees, watching what was watchable. The women, naked to the navel, carried their babies slung at their waists and intimidated Gaby with the firm upturn of their breasts. Children in beads, feathers and zinc oxide war paint on noses and cheekbones came running to greet the visitors. Their skins were tanned hard brown, there were flies around the corners of their eyes and mouths.

"Are you the people come to talk to Peter?" they asked. "We're here to take you to him. Come on." They pulled Gaby...along...In one of the big, billowing saffron tents, someone was playing a thumb piano...

This was what a man come back from the heart of darkness looked like. His face was tanned that dark brown peculiar to Teutons gone native. His hair was blond, long and worn in the community style; shaved at the sides, plaited at the back...He had the palest eyebrows she had ever seen. He did not effect the white-boy ethnic chic of the Sun-Saiders. He was dressed in a relaxed linen suit over a simple white T-shirt. No jewelry. No tattoos or ritual scarification or body piercing. His only idiosyncrasy was a leather biker's glove on his left hand...A swirl of warm wind set the black pods hanging from the trees swaying into Gaby's peripheral vision.

"They are into rebirthing," Peter Werther said, observing Gaby's distraction. "Spiritual metamorphosis."

"There are people in those things?"

"In sensory deprivation. They let them out after three, four days. The thing seems to be that they don't tell you how long they are going to leave you hanging, or even if they are going to come back at all. Face the fear and pass through is the experience. I think that after three days upside down in this heat, you will believe anything you are told about yourself. There are always willing volunteers, and not just from the community."

...[Peter Werther continued,] "I am sure you are wondering, why this place, why these strange people with their strange rituals? Well, they are a good people, it is a good life they lead, but the real reason is simpler. They were the first people I met when I came out of the Chaga. I walked, you see. I was brought to the edge, and told I must leave now, and I just walked north. They do not ask questions, you see. They accept...[These] people, in their months of travel, gave me the time and space to learn about myself, and what I have been changed into, and what it is I must do. And now I think I know, and I am ready, and these people have let me bring you into their peace and calm because they agree with me that the world needs to hear what I learned, back there."

do we want to be gated?

As America grows more liberal, conservatives are retreating into a variety of isolated subcultures and, when necessary, making or manipulating law to insulate them from contact with the masses. Like a cultural manifestation of Going Galt. Welcome to white America’s waiver society.

For years I've noticed, on the periphery, the carving out of small enclaves of privilege and paid-for security on the margins of big cities and thought it only the backlash of a wealthy, formerly dominent class. Sort of reverse Bantustans. But this essay also suggests the attempt to inoculate some groups from the rule of social laws they're increasingly uncomfortable with. As the author points out, it's of a piece with stand-your-ground laws and Affordable Care Act opt-outs, as well as proliferation of members-only communities where private security services operate as if they're in a Green Zone. Such a development should be offensive in America. We justifiably pride ourselves on everyone being equal before the law, and while that's not always true, and maybe never has been, it's an ideal worth seeking. "I want my country back"? It's debatable it was ever yours to begin with, but beyond that it excluded far, far too many people from its largesse. We are better than that. Good pride, like good religion, should be inclusive.