You Know It's Time to Act

 I like post-apocalyptic fiction as much as the next guy, but I've often wondered why there's such an emphasis on dystopia rather than on cooperation as the method for going on. In reality, guns and motorcycles and theft are only going to feed you or keep you safe for so long, and it won't help your contributions to the future, i.e., children. The term I often think describing these kinds of novels or movies or TV shows shouldn't be dystopia but nihilist. 

Recently I read The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson and I'd call it an excellent example of what I think is the proper way we need to think about anything like a post-apocalypse. Published in 2020, it presents a world facing the certainty of climate change with nothing having been done to slow it down or even address it. After a devastating heat wave kills millions of Indians over a course of weeks, the UN recognizes something must be done and empanels a ministry designed to focus on both the future and the development of ways to be certain there is one. Various countries, starting with India, decide to ignore the richer nations and their do-nothing procedures and jury-rig a program meant to help themselves first of all and benefitting all other nations secondarily. 

Not to spoil a 500+ page book, but this jump-starts a series of escalating programs and laws that manage to keep the earth turning for the near future. The reason I applaud this "science fiction nonfiction" (as Jonathon Lethem dubs it) and I suppose a reason it was named one of Barack Obama's favorite books of the year is because the solution doesn't lie in guns and marauding bands and white American individuals making heroic sacrifices but in the subtle use of economics, policy, and science to come to terms with our reckless disregard for responsible use. The world finally discovers it needs a Plan B.

What was it? Big parts of it have been there all along; it's called socialism. Or, for those who freak out at that word, like Americans or international capitalist success stories reacting allergically to that word, call it public utility districts...Public ownership of the necessities, so that these are provided as human rights and as public goods, in a not-for-profit way. The necessities are food, water, shelter, clothing, electricity, health care, and education. All these are human rights, all are public goods, all are never to be subjected to appropriation, exploitation, and profit. It's as simple as that.

Democracy is also good, but again, for those who think this word is just a cover for oligarchy and Western imperialism, let's call it real political representation. Do you feel you have real political representation? Probably not, but even if you feel you have some, it's probably feeling pretty compromised at best. So: public ownership of the necessities, and real political representation...

[There] still has to be money, or at least some exchange or allocation system that people trust, which means the already existing central banks have to be a part of it, which means the current nation-state system has to be part of it. Sorry but it's true, and maybe obvious...It is what we've got now, and in the crux, when things fall apart, something from the old system has to be used to hang the new system on, hopefully something big and solid. Without that it's castles in air time, and all will collapse into chaos...It's like being hypnotized; you have to agree for it to work. So we are all hypnotized in a giant dream we hallucinate together, and that's social reality...

 [The] current order is so unequal, so unfair. Old story, of course. Biblical; detailed in Genesis; it's the oldest story, inequality, and never much changed from the start of civilization. So how can we change that? What do we do now?

Now, everyone knows everything. No one on the planet is ignorant of the real condition of our shared social existence. That's one real thing those stupid smartphones have done; you can be illiterate, many are, and still have an excellent idea of how the world works. You know the world is spinning toward catastrophe! You know it's time to act. Everyone knows everything. The invisible hand never picks up the check. The money is already here, it just isn't evenly distributed. Which is to say properly distributed. So now things have broken. We broke them; we broke them on purpose! Riot, occupation, non-compliance, general strike: breakdown. Now it's time for Plan B. Time to act...

Hope and the Courage to Act on It

 

I'm conflicted, I admit. Not a day has gone by since the ignobility of the November vote that there hasn't been an idea floated, an action taken, a decree made, an insult delivered, and thousands upon thousands of lies told, and I have felt the need to talk about it. I've been concerned that, in the wake of the complicity of most media in the pretense all this is normal, there won't be a note for future generations, if there are any, that there were people watching and writing it down and recognizing the wrongness of it all.

So I've felt it's fallen to me. But that's self-aggrandizing, almost worthy of trump himself, that anyone reads these missives, let alone they'll remember that there was someone commenting on it in a way that's worth holding onto. 

Besides, and maybe more importantly, I don't want to be that guy. I don't want what little attention I get to be for a list of lies and laments. That's all such notes would be because frankly just noticing this sort of stuff daily is exhausting. 

I want to be known, if at all, for keeping up a good word, for being the port in the storm, the one who keeps his head when all around them is chaos and dread. I do dread the chaos, of course, because not to do so is to give in to the lie that it's a kind of order, trump uber alles. 

I would be remembered like John Murray to whom is attributed this: 

You may possess only a small light, but uncover it, let it shine, use it in order to bring more light and understanding to hearts of men and women. Give them, not hell, but hope and courage. Do not push them deeper into their theological despair, but preach the kindness and everlasting love of God.

Quite some thought to be remembered by, isn't it? Of course, John Murray never said nor wrote this. It was attributed to a Time-Spirit counseling Murray in a 1951 pamphlet by Alfred Cole, and somehow made it into a Universalist Sunday text in 1962 and from there into The Larger Faith, the history of the Unitarian Universalists written by Charles Howe. 

But the point here is that, even if Murray didn't write it but Cole created it for his pamphlet, it is still a good distillation of what is important, that we leave people with hope and the courage to act on it. As Ken Davis writes in Don't Know Much About the Bible about the sayings of Jesus, "What's important is that someone said these things or wrote them down." Just as Jesus' words, whosever they may really be, remain a touchstone about how to behave with one another, so Cole's words are a prod to those who comment on the darkness and despair now. As Wayne Arneson reminds us, "The way is often hard, the path is never clear, and the stakes are very high." But "Take courage [because] you are not alone."

Let someone else keep the lists. I will uplift hope. 

Turtle mitzvah

It's a small thing, but isn't that what life is composed of? For my birthday I took a short road trip, just a day out and a day back, spending most of both days driving because I miss driving distances. I drove what William Least Heat Moon called Blue Highways, the state and local roads where you have to slow down when you're near a town or church or school. I wasn't in a hurry to get where I was going.

Where I went is Alabama, where I noticed 3 things: even middle aged men in nice cars don't mind losing a hub cap as one I followed for a length of time did so on a corner, and it bounced off a tree and flew back between us, missing my car by a couple feet; there were many houses, both in and out of towns, surrounded by fences, some houses nice but also many that were obviously abandoned, and often those were fenced in by stronger materials, leaving me wondering if the place was a former or current meth house; and near the Georgia border there was a stretch of about 10 miles with fire hydrants spaced every half mile where there were no houses in sight, and even between abandoned and tumbled down buildings.

I love that sort of driving, listening to the radio and watching the trees and trailers and folks in their yards go by slowly enough I could see them in detail. There was a thunderstorm I drove through for hours that closed 3 roads and a bridge I'd intended to take. I'm glad too because on one of those swtched-to roads I was on I crested a hill and made out a turtle crossing ahead of me. Or starting to cross, as he or she was just off the shoulder and aimed at the opposite side. I couldn't see any water on either side but that wasn't any of my business.

I stopped on the shoulder beside the turtle, who turned about and scurried under my car. I found it behind a wheel and picked them up with both hands and carried them across the road and a few feet past the shoulder where they splayed out all 4 feet and head and contentedly continued on their way. 

I'm not a believer in being directed by God or Fate or the Universe into doing something that makes a difference, but as I got back into my car I felt I'd done something that mattered, that left me feeling blessed. Jews say this is what we feel when we have done a mitzvah. It is a good feeling.

Upstanders

 In "A Problem from Hell": America in the Age of Genocide, Samantha Power introduces the concept of being an "upstander" rather than a bystander. "An upstander is a person who goes against the tide and will protect a victim from injustice. The word is contrasted with bystander, which describes a person who does nothing to help when someone is being mistreated."  In her memoir, The Education of an Idealist, Power reflects on and explains the term:

Somewhere along the way, I began describing the book's protagonists--those who tried to prevent or otherwise "stand up" against genocide--as "upstanders," contrasting them with bystanders. I noted that very few of us were likely to find ourselves the victims or perpetrators of genocide. But every day, almost all of us find ourselves weighing whether we can or should do something to help others. We decide, on issues large and small, whether we will be bystanders or upstanders. 

While Power used it initially to describe people who take action against genocide, it has been broadened, as in the above quote from a teaching website, to mean anyone who stands between the oppressed and their oppressor. It doesn't have to be literally standing, of course, but can be protesting, witnessing, writing, performing, preaching against oppressive policies. Whatever the opposite of ignoring them may be.

Senator Chris Van Hollen, in bringing public attention to the lack of due process for undocumented (or in the case of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, of having documentation proving his asylum status and withholding of removal) people being shipped, against court decisions, to a prison in El Salvador, is an upstander. The lawyers representing New Jersey State and others in litigation against trump's Executive Order denying Constitutional birth citizenship to children of undocumented are upstanders. The millions of people taking part in thousands of protests around the world decrying trump policies and the rise of fascist politicians through the 50501 and other organizations are upstanders. 

It's important to note that these are all legal actions done by folks who, in many cases, have little at stake themselves in the situations they protest. They take the higher ground of determining that, in the words of Fannie Lou Hamer, "Nobody's free until everybody's free." 

The Thunder of Butterflies

I'm certain I can't be the only one feeling as if he's living the aftereffects of Ray Bradbury's magnificent story, "A Sound of Thunder," can I? 

 Eckels stood smelling of the air, and there was a thing to the air, a chemical taint so subtle, so slight, that only a faint cry of his subliminal senses warned him it was there. The colors, white, gray, blue, orange, in the wall, in the furniture, in the sky beyond the window, were . . . were . . . . And there was a feel. His flesh twitched. His hands twitched. He stood drinking the oddness with the pores of his body. Somewhere, someone must have been screaming one of those whistles that only a dog can hear. His body screamed silence in return. Beyond this room, beyond this wall, beyond this man who was not quite the same man seated at this desk that was not quite the same desk . . . lay an entire world of streets and people. What sort of world it was now, there was no telling. He could feel them moving there, beyond the walls, almost, like so many chess pieces blown in a dry wind .... 

But the immediate thing was the sign painted on the office wall, the same sign he had read earlier today on first entering. Somehow, the sign had changed: TYME SEFARI INC. SEFARIS TU ANY YEER EN THE PAST. YU NAIM THE ANIMALL. WEE TAEK YU THAIR. YU SHOOT ITT. 

Eckels felt himself fall into a chair. He fumbled crazily at the thick slime on his boots. He held up a clod of dirt, trembling, "No, it can't be. Not a little thing like that. No!" 

Embedded in the mud, glistening green and gold and black, was a butterfly, very beautiful and very dead. "Not a little thing like that! Not a butterfly!" cried Eckels. It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across Time. 

Eckels' mind whirled. It couldn't change things. Killing one butterfly couldn't be that important! Could it? His face was cold. His mouth trembled, asking: "Who ­ who won the presidential election yesterday?" 

The man behind the desk laughed. "You joking? You know very well. Deutscher, of course! Who else? Not that fool weakling Keith. We got an iron man now, a man with guts!" The official stopped. "What's wrong?" 

Eckels moaned. He dropped to his knees. He scrabbled at the golden butterfly with shaking fingers. "Can't we," he pleaded to the world, to himself, to the officials, to the Machine, "can't we take it back, can't we make it alive again? Can't we start over? Can't we­" He did not move. 

Eyes shut, he waited, shivering. He heard Travis breathe loud in the room; he heard Travis shift his rifle, click the safety catch, and raise the weapon. 

There was a sound of thunder.

The Revolution Was Televised

I've been reading books by writers who lived in autocratic countries and this is from Andrei Codrescu's The Disappearance of the Outside: A Manifesto for Escape. He describes the first indications of Romanian regime change in December 1989.

The first nationwide sign of trouble was booing at a Nicolai Ceausescu speech broadcast over state radio and television, which technicians tried to cover up with canned applause before "going to black." Ceausescu then issued his "shoot to kill" order to local party bosses by closed circuit TV. His regime's public broadcast were limited to two hours per night, and consisted entirely of propaganda; at his trial, Ceausescu said that he didn't want to tire out the people. A few days later, with perfect ironic symmetry that testifies either to the neutrality of the medium or to history's black sense of humor, Ceausescu's own execution was aired over and over on the screens he once controlled...Television literally woke up the country...It was television unlike anything ever seen in the West, an outpouring of images that startled not just Romanians but the world...The extraordinary thing about what Romanians and the world (via CNN and French Television) were seeing on their screens was not just the sudden news and field reports, but the open invitation to the Romanian people to come and speak freely. Consequently, mobs of people milled in front of the tanks outside Studio Four, clamoring to get in with messages ranging from the profoundly serious to the profoundly silly...When the flow of people slowed, the twenty-four-hour station aired things unseen and unheard-of in Romania: MTV videos stolen from satellites, and Italian and German soft porn. Romanians saw bare breasts on television for the first time in history...The National Salvation Front of Romania--prompted by their rapt audience--instituted a series of reforms that often seemed improvised right in the studios: freedom of speech, opening of the borders, release of all political prisoners, five-day work week, landgrants to peasants, abolition of the death penalty, popular elections in the spring...For a time, Romanian television was the central nervous system of the revolution. Gil Scott-Heron was, it seems, wrong when he said, "The revolution will not be televised." This revolution was entirely televised.

 

 

 

 

Lionesses' Teeth

 

This 2nd round of the trumpanista government, while it often leaves me depressed, has also roused in me the sensation about how important my religious faith is to helping people remember they're worthy, they're strong, and they can help. Thus, I'm reposting a sermon from 2013 which is also a reworking of a message from 2 years before that that focuses on those attributes we uniquely have and why they are necessary. (This post is so old that the technology taking people to associated websites will ask if going there is really what you want to do. I have checked them, and yes, they are safe."

   

“Lionesses’ Teeth”

 

Homily presented to the

Dakota UU Church of

Burnsville, MN,

 

            Normally during my celebration of Flower Communion my contribution is a freshly-plucked dandelion.  Taraxacum officinale.  I use it because we all recognize it in its omnipresence, as indestructible as love. 

            We have yet to see them this year because of the incredibly late winter we’ve experienced—only a week ago my wife and I were stranded because our driveway had sixteen inches of snow unceremoniously dumped on it by whatever malevolent snow-god or whatever sleeping spring-god there might be —but I guarantee you they will be coming and they will be everywhere.  The dandelion is the cockroach of flora.  They existed long before our species rose up from the proverbial swamp and after we return to the dust they will continue to be here. 

The name “dandelion,” which I’d always assumed referred to the yellow mane of the flower and its seeming vanity, actually comes from the French dents de lion, “teeth of the lion,” and refers instead to the deeply serrated rosette of leaves that poke up from billions of lawns, in abandoned lots, between the cracks in concrete, in the clefts of mountain crags and skyscrapers, and sometimes tufting out of the useless chimneys of houses where no hearths have burned in decades.  They are perennial and rely on bees and flies to pollinate, and when they’re ready, the wind carries their seeds on tiny parachutes to new places.  Sometimes they fly as much as several hundred meters.  They do not need us at all.

            Dandelions are often used as a medicine, usually involved with blood, the liver, and gall bladder.  Its juices aids detoxification and bile flow, promotes lactation and the immune system, and helps reduce eczema and cough and asthma.  The root can be dried and ground up and added to coffee, like its close relative chicory, and the leaves are often delicious in salads (although I’ll admit I have to add a lot of butter to make them palatable).  And most of us are of an age when we have had dandelion wine.

            Had Jesus been born in, say, Kansas rather than in the Middle East, the Sermon on the Mount might have included the following: 

Consider the [dandelions,] how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. 

             Now don’t mistake all this information for anything like love for the dandelion.  I relish nothing more this time of year than to walk barefoot among my lawns, swiping the heads off these parasites with a few well-aimed kung fu kicks.  There is a deep, satisfying, bottom-of-the-gut joy that comes with yanking a 3 foot long dandelion root from my gardens.  Few things are as pleasurable as watching the beasts disappear under the deck of my lawnmower.  I do not love the dandelion.  I tolerate the dandelion.

            Because, try as I might to eradicate it, the dandelion remains as much a part of my life as a part of my landscape.  I cannot escape its existence.  I mow and weed and even spray the lawns, and still they come back up.  That is their unique power. 

A story now, a contemporary one, about motherhood that serves to relate how people are like dandelions.  Our relationships with our mothers, with either parent actually, can be pleasant and problematic at best.  I had what I think was a pretty good relationship with my late mother and with my dad, secure at all times in the knowledge that, no matter what, they loved me and wanted nothing but the best for me.  Those among us who are mothers or parents likely have that same assurance that they, too, love their children no matter what. 

            This week we saw the end of a news story that adds a different, more complex concept to this topic.  I refer of course to the story of the three girls, now three women, in Cleveland, the first of them abducted nearly eleven years ago, the last of them nearly nine years ago, all three found alive and relatively healthy in the home of their presumed kidnapper. 

            We can have only the barest inkling what Melissa Knight, Amanda Barry, and Gina DeJesus experienced over the past decade.  We should be thankful for that.  Worse perhaps, we are even less capable of imagining what the six year old daughter of Amanda Barry and her captor, whose name has yet to be released, has experienced.  If she is fortunate she herself will retain little memory of what her life to now has been. 

[Note:  In illustrating this post I purposely chose a photo in which her daughter's face is blurred.  There are many images available where it is not but I think she should be allowed as much privacy as possible.]

            There are so many things to be said about this situation, about the Castro Brothers’ activities and what they hoped to accomplish [update]; about the women’s years in captivity and in physical, emotional and sexual abuse; about how this situation happened in a neighborhood of a major American city and not in some Hills Have Eyes outback; about the unwillingness of police, despite what are supposed to have been multiple reports by neighbors, to investigate beyond the front door of Castro’s home; and most especially, there are things yet to say about Charles Ramsay and his willingness to expose his own past—because in this brave new networked world there are no past sins that can’t be found—in order to do the right thing. 

            But what I’d like to talk about is Amanda Berry and her daughter.  And how what little we know might suggest about motherhood and resilience.  The story as it’s come to us is that a week ago today Ariel Castro left his home to eat at a local McDonald’s.  If he did this on a regular basis we don’t know, and if he didn’t why he chose this day to do it, no one apparently knows, but when he did Amanda Berry took the opportunity to scream as near the door as she could until someone responded.  Charles Ramsay did, and it’s a testament to his heroism that this man, who partied with Castro, eaten BBQ with him, played music with him, didn’t say “It’s a domestic matter” and turn around, and after listening to her story that she was being held against her will kicked the bottom panel out of the door.  Berry, carrying her child, squeezed through the broken panel, hugged Ramsay, begged him to take her to his house to use his phone, and then called police.

            Some of us might routinely play a mental game with ourselves in which, if we were caught in a disaster and could save only one thing, what would it be.  To make it more interesting we often presume that there are no people or animals involved, to make it a specifically material question.  What thing would we save?  Amanda Berry did not have the luxury of pretending or of there being no person involved.  The material object she left with was her daughter.

             To put this decision in perspective, consider what myriad complications must have been involved over the past six years.  Berry was just under seventeen when she was abducted.  After years of sex with her abductor and probably his brothers—we presume the middle brother, Ariel, is the abductor because it’s his house the women were found in but the abductor could be any of the brothers[see update above] or, worse yet, someone we’re not even aware of—she is pregnant at twenty and delivers a daughter into the dark, airless, sunless existence she’s come to figure will be her future.  We don’t know if she wanted this girl or feared for her existence, born into the same situation she’d been held captive in, and it’s likely it was a combination of both sensations and any number of others.  She may have wanted to abort the fetus, although we have heard suggestions from one of the the other women that Castro beat her when she was pregnant to spontaneously miscarry.  So what we are left to guess at is that either Amanda fought vigorously to have this child or that Ariel, who DNA tests have proved to be the father, had a change of heart over this pregnancy and decided to allow it to be brought to term. 

            This girl, born into a situation her mother was abducted into, and raised only in the company of the other two abducted women and the Castro brothers—what can be going through her head?  She is six years old, she has known only these six people in her life.  Two of them are her parents.  One of them carried her out of her world into the unknown, into what she can’t possibly know.  So while we can’t know what Michelle, Gina or Amanda has gone through we can, with some certainty, know what Amanda’s daughter is experiencing now:  Absolute, unqualified, quaking fear.

              It seems to me, as an outsider looking in on parenthood, that this is one extreme part of what it means to be a mother:  To deliver your child into great uncertainty and, when the time comes, to help her escape into greater uncertainty.  But that is what you must do. 

            It’s well known that among lions it’s the female, the lioness, who hunts and who is really the fiercer of the species so it may be that the distinctive feature about dandelions—their serrated leaves, the dents de lion—may more accurately be termed the dents de lioness.  Perhaps the natural reaction as mothers, as parents, even as proponents of religious liberalism, is to emulate the dandelion—stubbornly resistive to any attempt to root us out, to burn us out, and even to the natural tendency of entropy to crumble us from within. 

            Our message, the message of religious liberalism, the message of people who see great complexity to parenthood—that it is better to be alive than to be dead, that to treat anyone as less than the glorious being that he or she is is itself an evil, that children and the people we’re responsible for need safe food and safe water and safe places to live, and that these are not starry-eyed ideals but necessities—must be heard.  We must endure for these messages to be heard.  We must become ubiquitous and obnoxious, unwilling to be pressed from our perch.  We must be willing to grow quietly beside the more beautiful and cozened strawberry and rose and lily so to suck up some of their excess nutrient and water until we can elbow those more popular petals aside to take the place we’ve earned.  To endure as a faith and as a people we need to be as tough, as resilient, and as uncompromising as the common dandelion.