Sand in the Gears

Backwards in a sideways world

April 13th, 2016 Posted in Curmudgeonry | 20 Comments »

Bathroom Man

When I was twelve, we were evicted from our house in Florida, a consequence either of Reaganomics or our failure to pay rent for three months, depending on whose story you wanted to believe. We faced a long, hungry drive back to North Carolina. A neighbor, also from our home state, called me over and shoved a hundred-dollar bill into my hand. She told me not to tell anyone until we were too far down the highway to turn around. “People from North Carolina have to stick together,” she said.

I’m tempted to say I have a complicated relationship with my Southern heritage, but in truth I suppose it’s fairly straightforward. The South and I claim each other as kin because we have no choice in the matter. This in turn makes me kin, of sorts, to people I’ve never met. I don’t suppose that’s a particularly Southern mentality, but I don’t think it’s a universal quality either. I’m sure Texans have helped Texans, for example, the way my neighbor lady helped us. Perhaps people from New Jersey have been known to do the same, though I haven’t heard about it.

So the relationship, you see, isn’t altogether complicated, and probably not all that unique, but I don’t expect anyone not from here would be able to articulate its contours all that well, any more than a stranger could navigate your grandmother’s parlor in the dark without barking his shin on the coffee table. I have an acute sensitivity to infringements on my honor, for example, even though a half-bottle of bourbon will induce me to defile that very honor in every way you can imagine, along with a couple you haven’t thought of. I like grits, but I don’t like sweet tea. I believe the South’s loss in the Civil War was the just outpouring of God’s wrath on slaveowners and their moral accomplices, but I also believe the greatest honor Ulysses S. Grant ever achieved in his mediocre career was shaking Bobby Lee’s hand.

Robert E. Lee, troubled by the ease with which his kinsmen seceded, but siding with them because they were kin. There’s something noble about loyalty to blood, even—or perhaps especially—when that blood is tainted. It’s a backwards notion these days, when most people see past and present with such exquisite moral clarity, leaving those few of us whose vision isn’t so acute to judge the world as having gone sideways, or at the very least, in need of a few shims.

And maybe that quality is uniquely Southern: the inherited predisposition to be backwards in a sideways world.

Don’t misunderstand—in an age of professional schooling and instant communication, we have no excuse for moral blindness. Take the recent law passed here in North Carolina, for example, mandating that every user of a public restroom attend only those assigned to people bearing the equipment matching what he (or she, or s(he), or some entirely new and enlightened signifier even now being conjured in a Brown University anthropology classroom) received at birth.

Now, educated people know this is an evil law. We know this because of the outcry from people who know a thing or two about repression and homophobia, many of them having spent hours cozying with dictators in Cuba, Egypt, Venezuela, and the like. Our moral betters know evil because they have looked evil in the eye. They’ve sipped espresso with evil. They’ve played private concerts for evil.

But we Southerners are a contrarian lot. It runs in our tainted blood. While straight-sighted moral people rightly cower at reproaches from New York politicians, Hollywood mavens, and pornography conglomerates, we perversely internalize them as badges of honor. In fact, the best way to unify we feuding, vengeful, petty, grudge-holding, backwards-ass rednecks is to tell us the Yankees are displeased.

Blood runs hot where morality is concerned, and viewed from that perspective, my state is doing a great service to our sideways neighbors. With so little evil and suffering left in the modern world, good people need a beacon of evil against which to calibrate. Some Southerners are content to play that part, for a time at least, until we can scramble the rest of the way up the moral ladder, which may take another generation or so, by which time the pervasive and homogenized digital mindwash which scours us all every waking hour will have reached its fruition even in this backwards territory, such that our grandchildren have no certainty whatsoever about God or virtue or the purpose of a penis, and better still, no curiosity on these matters, because curiosity breeds questions, and questions beget challenges, and the very last thing our cultural monolith can tolerate is a challenge to its precepts, because if one person holds his head upright then another may follow suit, and another still, until you’ve got yourself a whole mess of curious people asking why everyone else is leaning sideways and calling it straight, and can’t they feel their feet skidding along the concrete, and don’t they hear the change tinkling from their pockets, and aren’t they weary from gripping so tightly just to stay in place, and isn’t it just a little odd that the handful who’ve set themselves up as moral paragons are so desperate to proclaim everything straight, almost as if they believe the moment they halt their carnival barking we’ll take a moment to look around, and to hear the sliding of feet on crooked ground, and to ask: Who put these people in charge?

That sounds almost like rebellion, which I suppose is to be expected from my people, bearing as we do the genes of raging Scots, bull-headed English, enduring Yoruba, proud Cherokee. Tell us what to do, and our instinct is to tell you to go to hell. It’s not an endearing quality, I’ll admit, but maybe it serves a small purpose, because maybe the world isn’t so right-side up after all, and maybe one day we’ll get around to realizing that, and maybe then we’ll need a few people whose feet are preternaturally inclined to lean against the weight of things, people who can lead us backwards out of a world tilted wrongwise.

A Word for Those Who Would Draw Near to Grief

February 17th, 2016 Posted in The Sermons | 15 Comments »

An electric wire runs through her, scalp to sole, and this grief has stripped it bare. His despair inhabits him, and inside he is falling down a dark shaft, falling into himself, into the shadows there.

And here you stand, and you would offer words. Why?

Because this is what decent people do.

Because I don’t want to be thought callous.

Because people are most susceptible to my god when they are broken.

Because I feed on emotion.

Because maybe I can conjure a word to dispel the anguish for a time.

The truth is this: Your words will change nothing. They will evaporate like spit on a hearthstone, or worse: they will be inept, inadequate, an offense. “Think of all the good her sickness did for others,” someone said to me the day I tucked what remained of my daughter into the dirt.
059.Israelite Women Mourn with Jephthah's Daughter

Your words will change nothing, even with the best intentions, because they cannot descend into the grave, cannot breathe life into death. There is one Word that has, that does, that will. Would you quote him, then, in this moment when even he has the decency to practice silence? “All things work together for good, to those who love Christ.” Someone reassured me, in the first year after she was gone, that this is so. Go rejoice at the grave of your own child, then.

It is unfair, I know, that your words will change nothing, and yet you have to say something. How can you not? What then can you say, knowing how inadequate are the words of the whole in the ears of the obliterated?

I am sorry. I am so very sorry.

Yes, but what if that isn’t enough? It isn’t. But if they want to hear more, they will tell you. They control so little else right now, for God’s sake, let them control that. Because chances are they’d rather you listen than speak, for what collects in them is a poison, and somehow it must come out. The grieving, you see, need your ears more than your tongue.

Intolerant mercy

November 19th, 2015 Posted in Curmudgeonry | 14 Comments »

Most of us have never endured war amidst our homes and so we can only imagine, if we care to, the terror that drives people to take their children and elderly parents and spouses and flee all they have known. Now they gather on the shores of the West, but they look like the lunatics who yearn to bathe themselves in our blood, so many of us, our own children and parents and spouses in mind, insist there is no room at the inn.

Yes, we’ve seen that baby Syrian boy washed up on a Turkish beach, his little shoes knocking together in the merciless wake, but we’ve also seen the shootings in Paris, a soldier hacked to pieces on a London sidewalk, a filmmaker butchered on his morning commute in Amsterdam, and we say: Not here. Not us.

Fear makes us ugly. Is that what makes the butchers so cruel? Fear of us, or the light of truth, or maybe just their own bloodthirsty little god?

So here we stand, on one side of the gates, and on the other wait women and children and yes, men. Perhaps every mother’s son of them is a shoemaker or a goatherd, but to us they are glowering, heathenish, each possessing the wicked skill to fashion a bomb or separate a head from its neck. We fear them because we don’t know them, and what’s more, we fear them because we are governed by a president willing to trade Taliban prisoners for a U.S. Army deserter even as he allowed an American Marine to languish in a Mexican prison, because our federal bureaucracy acts as if Amish raw-milk farmers are a graver threat to America than combatants in Guantanamo, because TSA agents excel at confiscating make-up while missing explosives.A_line_of_Syrian_refugees_crossing_the_border_of_Hungary_and_Austria_on_their_way_to_Germany._Hungary,_Central_Europe,_6_September_2015 (2)

Whatever irrational fears animate us to resist Syrian immigrants, to these must be added a reasonable distrust of our own government. Yet even the most competent of administrations would be unable to guarantee every war refugee crossing our border didn’t harbor an intention to slaughter us in our beds.

The shame of it is that many of us could police our communities well enough, if left to our own devices and traditions. I’ve lived in two small towns over the past ten years, neither, fortunately, beset by the combination of joblessness, welfare dependency, and drug addiction sweeping rural America. People here assume you have a job, that you go to church, that you have kids and you know where they are at night. We’re hopelessly backward and many of us aren’t all that well-read and some of us are probably even a little proud of that. We’re shockingly — in many cases quite illegally — armed. Our children grow up to be the youngsters politicians send to war. We know our neighbors. We notice strangers. Being in the country, we know what bullshit smells like, and, not living in the city, we have little taste for it.

Many of us know what it’s like to be dead-broke, and probably every blessed one of us has sat through — if not participated in — a Christmas play in a little brick church, so we all know the story of Mary and Joseph and the manger. What I mean is that many of us have a heart for the poor, and for the people who don’t fit into polite society. We give our neighbors jobs when they’re out of work. We invite our country-ass redneck relatives to the Fourth of July picnic even though we know they’ll embarrass us.

The point is, many of us would be willing to accept some refugees into our communities. We’d give you work if we had it, we’d bring your children into our schools, we’d feed you at our Wednesday-night church chicken suppers.

Just remember that we’re backward and simple-minded and violent. If we see a cluster of you meeting in a basement night after night, expect the local cops and a few deputized citizens to drop in unannounced. Looking to buy ammonium nitrate? If no farmer around here will vouch for you, you’re in for some unpleasant questioning.

Constitutional rights? Those are for citizens. You’re still a guest, and we’ll evict you when we like, on terms as rough as you want to make them.

And just so you’re prepared, don’t expect to catch any of us bobbing our heads when John Kerry says Islam is a religion of peace. That doesn’t mean we’ll stop you from building a little mosque, but if you’re not stringing up a black shroud and an American flag every time some nut murders innocents with your god’s name on his lips, you’d best have fire insurance. And if we catch you passing out al-Qaeda tracts, expect an ax handle to the head. Try to indoctrinate any of our kids, and you’ll likely go missing for good. There are a lot of fields and hollows out here.

It’s cruel-minded and unenlighted, but probably a far better deal than refugees can expect elsewhere. And I suspect a good many of them would urge us to take our intolerance a step further. They know, after all, what real barbarity is, and the price of being soft in the face of it. They’re exactly the kind of neighbors, by the way, we’d like to have. Who in a generation or two could be more solidly American, in our eyes, than anyone raised in Manhattan or San Francisco.

But none of this is acceptable in the modern, civilized, rights-strewn, sensitive American landscape. We prefer the devil’s choice: either admit refugees under the administration of our vast, unwieldy, unaccountable federal bureaucracy, or leave them to the wolves. There’s no room, in other words, for common sense, for country wisdom, for community control and its accompanying compassion, which runs deeper than you might expect, were you to confine your understanding of average Americans to what you read in Salon. And this explains more problems than just the current refugee crisis — a crisis, like so many others, that our own short-sighted, inept interventions fostered, and which, like the others which bedevil us, we’ll forget as soon as we can.

In my dying time

September 21st, 2015 Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

So I’ll just begin with an admission that I know it’s crazy and macabre and most certainly narcissistic. What I’ve been doing in my essays lately, however, is forgetting, for just a little while, that someone might read them. Just to see what happens. To push the boundaries and whatnot. And when I set aside the fear that someone may disapprove, I come up with admissions like this: I have very definite thoughts about how I want to die, and none of them are pretty.

Perhaps it’s a latent desire for purgation. I don’t know. But the point is, I wrote this, and some of you will like it, and others of you will not, and you will worry over my soul or my theology or my mental health and that’s all very kindhearted of you. Please rest assured that now, more than any other time in my life, it is well with my soul. I hope you understand I wrote this, as I’m endeavoring to write everything, just in an effort to be true. To say a true thing in a raw enough way that a person can hear it, in this world stuffed to the brim with cliché and falsity.

Anyway, here’s an excerpt:

They say it’s easier to conjure faith in desperation, but I suspect the opposite is true, that all we hold in our trembling hands, when the earth charges up to embrace us for the last time, is what’s really there, what we really believe, what we really love, be it God or ourselves or our children or our comforts, or likely some combination of these, with salvation turning perhaps not on a choice so much as on the algorithm, on our hammered-out parameters of love.

You can read the rest of it here.

I know some of you wonder why I don’t write more. I swear that I do, only it’s not essays. There’s a novel afoot. Maybe one day you’ll read it. Until then, thanks for reading the sentence or two I hurl into this meager space.


July 22nd, 2015 Posted in The Sermons | 1 Comment »

Maybe you’ll like my latest Image essay, about the struggle for single-mindedness among we sophisticated, double-minded types. Here’s an excerpt:

“The soul will follow the body,” is how Fr. Stephen Freeman summarizes a point made by the Christian monk Evagrius in the fourth century A.D. Do what is right, and your resistant soul will learn. This formulation turns the tables on what I’ve practiced most of my life, which is doing right when I feel like being a good person, or because I’ll get in trouble if I don’t, or because I’ll feel bad if I don’t, or because I like stepping outside myself to survey the good works of Saint Tony.

None of which is a recipe for single-mindedness. For creating in obscurity. For sticking to the nest. Carrots and sticks and self-image will drive you only so far.

You can read the rest here, on Image Journal’s fancy new website.

Dance For Your Life

July 3rd, 2015 Posted in Snapshots of Life | 1 Comment »

The thing is, I lied about being able to dance when I was courting my wife. How often do people dance any more? Sure, people put on some kind of godawful thumping tribal ritual-sacrifice music and grind up against each other, but that’s not dancing. Nobody dances any more, right?

Until there’s a dance, to which you are invited, and where you are expected to, well, dance. So I wrote a couple of essays about learning to dance. Here’s an excerpt from the first:

“We are learning a country-western waltz. This is distinctly different from a Viennese waltz. I didn’t grow up in the West, I’ve never been to Vienna, and my only dance lessons were when my grandmother would toss back an extra snort of Blue Nun, stoop to clasp me cheek-to-cheek, and dance a tango in the living room.”

And here’s an excerpt from the follow-up essay, about our big night:

“We fly across the country and drive hours to a community where people leave the keys in their pickup trucks. I throw my scarce talents into helping prep the barn, and Maggie disappears with the rest of the bridesmaids. We see each other just a little over the next day and a half, and then the wedding is upon us. The groomsmen are all lean cowboys in black hats. They are ranchers and rodeo riders.

A lesser man might feel insecure.”

You can read them both starting here.

Death in Charleston

June 18th, 2015 Posted in Faith and Life | 18 Comments »

Tonight I made my way home through rain driven from a shrouded sky. It struck the scorched asphalt, and everywhere was steam. I remembered the verse, how rain falls on the just and the unjust, and as I squinted against the blanketed white and shifting curtains of rain I considered how the reverse is true: sometimes the righteous are struck down alongside the unrighteous.
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Right now, those who intend aid and those who aim to exploit are descending on Charleston, and I have no counsel to add to theirs, at least none that most people want to hear. I do have four sons, however, who want to know why a boy would sit for an hour in a prayer service, and then murder all those praying people, those people who welcomed him though he looked nothing like them.

So what do you say to your children, who know of boys murdering worshippers in their church, of boys beheading saints on a Libyan beach, of boys shooting schoolchildren? Do you tell them that they are likely safe, as if all is well so long as horrors befall other people? Do you tell them it will get better? Do you tell them the television chatterers have the answers?

What can we tell our children about this world we have made for them?

I tell them what little I know to do, in the face of evil. It’s simpler and harder than sophisticated adults want to hear. It has no grand quality. It’s not ambitious, it’s not ”scalable,” you can’t get a grant for it, you can’t run it out of a federal agency.

All I know to do, children, is what we’ve been told since grace rained down on hard-hearted man: love your neighbor as yourself. Love him until he sees the light, or until he cannot stand the sight of you. Love him with no purpose beyond loving him. Love him where he is, love him in spite of him, love him unto death, as you have been loved.

The poor fisherman

June 11th, 2015 Posted in Faith and Life | Comments Off

From my latest essay at the Image Good Letters site:

I am a tense and irritable man with occasional bouts of cheerfulness tempered by fatalism. I am a hard man with whom to live. I spent yesterday griping at my kids not to drown in the river, not to pick up snakes, not to fall into the fire pit. I pray and pray this morning.

Help me not to be a boulder hung from the necks of my children.

Let them not be lost. Come to them where they are.

Make them better than me.

My seven year-old strolls down the riverbank in his brother’s overlarge Crocs. He is clutching his little blue and red fishing pole. He steps gingerly into the river up to his knees. He wobbles. He faces downriver like me and flicks his lure into a swirl of water.

Not like me, I want to tell him, but what other way can he know? How does the son of a poor fisherman learn to catch fish? We two of us stand in shoes too big to fill and we catch nothing.

There’s more, including a 1970′s evangelical meme, a hospital bed, shouted Bible verses, and seven hot dog meals in a row. You can read the rest here.


May 22nd, 2015 Posted in Faith and Life, The Art of Parenting | Comments Off

Here’s an excerpt from my latest Image essay if you’re interested:

Isaiah returned to the scene of the crime to survey his work. It was a damned atrocity. Paint ran haphazardly against the grain, tacky pools of it collected on the surface, and thick rivulets had crawled down the sides and hardened.

“Look at it,” the boy said, his arms spread wide. “It’s beautiful!”

Two days later I sat in my car beside a lovely city park and vomited. I texted my wife: “I think I just had a panic attack.”

I don’t think I had a legitimate reason to panic. I wasn’t being attacked by a bear, after all. But there was the feeling of panic, and there was definitely the vomit, and so there I was.

You can read the rest here.

Letters to camp

May 18th, 2015 Posted in The Art of Parenting | 8 Comments »

My youngest boys, Isaac and Isaiah (10 and 7), depart today for a week-long summer camp, which is a cause for excitement on their part, and quiet trepidation on mine. “Keep your money in a stinky sock,” I advise them. “If somebody picks on you, that’s the opportunity to forgive and turn the other cheek.” I take 10 year-old Isaac aside to add, however, that he is to level any bigger kids who pick on his little brother. That’s what 13 year-old Eli did for Isaac last year, so it’s a family tradition, and tradition is important in these chaotic times.

When you send your children to this camp, you drop off with them a bundle of envelopes, one for each child, for each day. That way every child gets mail each day, with notes from family members, chewing gum, little flashlights, and whatever other trinkets you want to send along. I know I usually focus on grief, pain, and immanentizing the eschaton here, but I thought you might like to see the notes I wrote to each boy, just so you know that sometimes I am not, in fact, grim.


Dear Isaiah,

I hope that your first day at camp has been fun, and that you haven’t been eaten by bears. I also hope you haven’t eaten any bears because that will give you serious farts. I love you!


Dear Isaac,

I hope you’re having fun and haven’t become a wild jungle boy who runs around naked and sleeps in trees and grunts instead of using proper English. Don’t forget that you’re a civilized young man.

                                                                                                                Love, Dad



Dear Isaiah,

I’ve been thinking about what I wrote yesterday, about eating bears making you fart, and I believe I was wrong. So if you get a chance to eat a bear, go right ahead. I miss you lots and lots.

                                                                                                                Love, Dad

Dear Isaac,

I was thinking about what I wrote yesterday, about you becoming a wild jungle boy who sleeps in trees, and I guess sleeping in a tree is safer than the ground, so if you have become a wild jungle boy, keep safe from wolves by sleeping in that tree. I miss you!

                                                                                                                Love, Dad



Dear Isaiah,

I’ve been thinking some more about the bear thing, and while it’s okay to eat a bear, I don’t think I want you running around past bedtime hunting a bear. It’s probably not safe, plus you’ll get mosquito bites. I love you!


Dear Isaac (Jungle Boy),

I just read somewhere that mosquitos live in trees, so if you’re sleeping in trees, best wear some clothes so you don’t get bit you-know-where. Hopefully you won’t get kicked out of the jungle boy tribe just for wearing a little underwear.

                                                                                                                Love, Dad



Dear Isaiah,

One more thing about bears: while it’s okay to eat one, and maybe okay to hunt one if you don’t stay up late, it’s definitely not okay to bring one home as a pet. Bears eat too much and they poop all over the yard. I can’t wait until you get home!

                                                                                                                Love, Dad

Dear Jungle Boy (Isaac),

When you’re packing up to come home, don’t forget to look under there




Just made you say underwear!

Which you’d best be wearing when you get home, because your jungle days are over, and it’s time to start being my little boy again. I can’t wait to see you!

                                                                                                                Love, Dad

Legos in the Deep

May 1st, 2015 Posted in Faith and Life | 2 Comments »

Like many, I passed this spring through Lent. It felt longer than in past years, because there has been a kind of Lenten work being done within me, it seems, since last fall. Nothing terrible, nothing traumatic, just a gradual scraping away of the soul’s fat, like miserable Eustace when Aslan sinks his claws into that dragon skin he’s acquired. Sometimes in my scraping it feels like he hits a bone, and I think there’s nothing left to scrape, until I look down and see the scraping’s only just begun; there’s layers and layers of dark and bloody dragon fat still clinging to my shivering soul, and somewhere within that, presumably, a light that wants shining.

So I wrote something about some of that, kind of sideways because you know that’s my specialty. It ended up being two parts, for which I apologize or accept praise, depending on your inclination. Here’s a bit from the first:

“Christ is risen from the dead,” we sing, “trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.”

Over the centuries, this resurrection faith has been the defense offered to those—be they pagans, rationalists, theologians, or that hybrid of the three whose natural habitat is the school of divinity—who accuse us of idol worship and necromancy. We reverence icons and ask saints to pray for us because our faith—once shared by all of Christendom—is that they aren’t dead.

And here’s a snippet from the second:

I found myself in a monastery, where a priest said something in the course of a lecture that rattled me. I don’t recall his exact words; they amounted to what any Sunday schoolboy knows, which is that we are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses.

I sought him out later. I could scarcely contain my trembling. I explained to him that my daughter had died a few years prior. “What you said before,” I asked him, “does it mean that she’s seen all the things I’ve done?”

Imagine your worst sins. Imagine your three-year-old child watching you commit them. Do you understand my fear?

You can read the first here, and the second here.

A Darkness That May Be Felt

March 9th, 2015 Posted in The Sermons | Comments Off

Some of you may like my latest essay at Image, about the 21 young men murdered by ISIS in Libya. Here’s an excerpt:

These stories are now fantasy to us, or nearly so. Abraham holds the knife to Isaac’s throat, Jacob wrestles a holy messenger, David fells Goliath—the action rises and falls in an old familiar tale of sin and blood and redemption, of endless genealogies, of a recalcitrant flock, of a bitter vine, and we grafted onto that vine thanks to Jesus, sweet Jesus, Jesus teaching, healing, then climbing his cross, and after that dread day, the empty tomb and the upper-room church, then the letters from Paul and a few others, then something about the end times, hallelujah, and now a Bible in every house and praise choruses on our tongues, and after these our Sunday dinners and perhaps the shake of our heads at the bad news coming from those ancient territories, those darkened world’s corners so very far from the God-blessed U.S.A.

God’s people traveled into Egypt for food, even as their remnant now travels from it seeking work, as thirteen young men traveled from their Nile village of El-Aour, along with eight from other locales, these twenty-one joining scores that departed villages and towns, hoping to feed their families just as Joseph’s brothers once did. They were sojourners there.

And we are here. Sometimes we forget here isn’t home, just as we forget the people sojourning there are our brothers and sisters. They shuffle the same windswept and sandy roads our adoptive forefathers traveled, darkening the sand with their blood, with their tears and with blood.

You can read the rest here.

The beast without

February 20th, 2015 Posted in The Art of Parenting | 14 Comments »

“Isaac’s being a jerk,” my seven year-old, Isaiah, says about his older brother. They have been sledding over new-fallen snow.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he keeps knocking me off my sled.”

“Why do you think he did that?” I ask. I’ve been trying to help my children consider how sometimes they incite one another.

“Because he’s evil.”

Well, then.

“My sisters pregnant I can’t wait to find out if im gonna be an aunt or uncle,” is what the girl tweeted. By the time I saw a screenshot of her words, they had traveled pretty widely. What an idiot, people said. Glad I’m not that stupid. I thought the same things.

Witch burning gummy bears

Some weren’t content just to mock her to one another, they went to her Twitter timeline and told her she was stupid. Because the mark of intelligence is marking stupidity of others, I guess.

I went too, because I had begun to wonder: is anyone that dumb? I scrolled through her tweets, and watched time reverse itself: from the latest, where she asked why this harassment was happening to her, and told these strangers to leave her alone, to hours earlier, before she was beaten down, when she gave back as good as she got, to days before that, before someone decided she made a nice target. She’s a girl who doesn’t always attend to her grammar and likes the things that girls like and has an okay sense of humor. She’s just a girl. She isn’t an idiot. The tweet about being an aunt or uncle was a joke.

And as it turns out, lots of people have said the same joke. Not everyone has had strangers pop out of the woodwork to belittle them for doing so, but some have. I suppose they got off easy—even this girl so widely mocked that she shut down her Twitter account­—in comparison to Justine Sacco, who tweeted a joke about AIDS before boarding a flight to Africa in 2013, only to land and discover it had traveled the globe, and that she had been portrayed as a monster.

I saw there’s a movie coming out, a retelling of the mangled-beyond-recognition Dracula story, in which he is a hero who takes on vampiric powers to save his family. As I’ve written elsewhere, this is a trend in movies, to rehabilitate monsters. It’s a curious thing that we are humanizing monsters, yet are so quick to beastialize humans.

Because he’s evil.

It was funny when my son said it, but a little chilling. You know how I worry. What if Isaiah is going to become one of those dreadful puritanical hate-preachers on low-budget cable TV? We should never have given him an Old Testament name. What if he sees with a child’s prescience that his brother really is evil? I’m failing as a parent. Failing failing failing.

So in the spirit of practicing what I preach about considering how our actions incite others, I think on the conversations they’ve overheard, in which I question someone’s motives, in which I denounce some political figure or corporate charlatan, in which I rail against the people tearing down Western civilization.

Yes, that happens a lot at our dinner table. I like to imagine one of them will write a colorful biography about their father one day.

There’s my muttering about this church or that company, about a neighbor who lets her kids run up and down the street all night. And let’s not even consider the things I say while driving.

I don’t know why we want to think the worst of people, except maybe because it allows us, in a false and perverse way, to think better of ourselves. “Thank God I’m not like that tax collector,” said the Pharisee on his holy road to hell. Isn’t that each of us, in our own hearts, every day? No matter what we’ve done, we can always find someone worse. Thank God.

We think the worst of people, and we say it, and it’s a cleverly disguised way of saying we are good people, or maybe just that if God is in the business of paying people back, there’s a long list of folks he should scorch before he turns his awful eyes to us. It’s a small and mean kind of prison-camp thinking when you ponder it, but here we are.

And here I am, and here are these children, doing as I do instead of as I say, yet again, and the hard truth is all my saying doesn’t matter one tiny damn unless I change my doing. I want them to be better than me. How I want them to be better than me. But the thing is: I can’t send them down that road alone, can I?

When He is Silent

January 30th, 2015 Posted in Faith and Life | 27 Comments »

A reader whose younger sister recently died wrote me to ask how I endured, during the time of my daughter’s sickness and death, the silence of God. It’s something I’ve written about here and here, and in my book. I’ve talked about “saudade,” a Portuguese word meaning “the presence of absence,” which is how you feel, every day for the rest of your life, when you have lost someone you love. Their absence is a weight, it is a presence. You carry it with you everywhere. As I’ve written before, October—the month she died—still lays me low, so that I can barely function at times.

This weighty nothing is also what you feel when you cannot discern God’s response to your cries. It’s what you feel when you beg, when you bargain, and still death does not pass over your home, but comes inside, presses the breath from the lungs of the one you love, and then stays, a great shadow, a great nothing presence.

It feels like a betrayal, when God is silent. But what would I have him say? You are special, Tony. I’ll divert all the world’s suffering from your shoulders, because I love you more than the rest.

Yes, that’s exactly what I want him to say.

In truth it’s not the silence that crushed me, that enraged me, it was his refusal to give me what I wanted, which was to see my little girl grow up, to hear her voice like music in our house, to watch her married and to cradle her children, to go before her.


To go long before her.

He wouldn’t even give me what I begged for at the end, which was an easy death for her. Let the pain pass into me, sweet Christ, just ease her suffering.

Some of you know how I came unraveled in the years after, and what it cost the people around me. I told myself God was silent, and perhaps he was, though there were times, I realized later, when he spoke through small graces: a nap when she needed it most, the sweetness of an apple, her finger pointed to whatever she saw dancing about the ceiling, be it light or angels.

But maybe other times he really was silent, and maybe the reason is because I could not bear the answer.

Sometimes, after all, the answer is No. And when we ask why, the answer is little better: It is not for you to know. “May God give you grace…” said Israel to his sons as they took his youngest child into Egypt. “If I am bereaved, I am bereaved.” And Job, after hearing that all his children have died: “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. As it seemed good to the Lord, so also it came to pass. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” Holy men looking heavenward to declare: Whatever I have was not mine, and so who am I to charge God with wrongdoing when he allows it to be taken?

This is a hard thing to hear, especially as you watch your beloved suffer. As you hear her try to draw breath, for in this she too is asking God, only to receive silence, and to join that silence with her own. The Lord gave her, yes, but how could he take her away?

How could you? I wept this at him. I spat it at him. How could you?

It is not for you to know. This is the truth behind much suffering. Far better people than me have written about what to make of this, and how to bear up under the burdens of this broken world, and I have no wisdom to add to theirs. I can only tell you what I think I have learned about the silence of God, which is, first, that I have often mistaken what I did not want—small mercies when a miracle is in order—for silence, and second, that sometimes silence is all we receive because we cannot yet bear the truth, which is that none of us is any more special than the other. We all of us labor in a sundered world and in it we are allotted our joys and our sufferings. Our deliverance often comes not, as Oswald Chambers noted, from these sufferings, but within them.

If nothing else, suffering lifts our eyes from this shattered plane to the world that is coming, that already dwells within our hearts, at least sometimes, and which will be written out in new flesh, in a new heaven and a new earth. We are sojourners through suffering and through mercies, not always in equal measure. But we are sojourners, which means this is not our home, yes, but which means also that we have a home to which we are going. We are stumbling homeward and we are battered but he carries us, make no mistake, even when he is quiet. Perhaps especially then.

Temple of bones

January 19th, 2015 Posted in The Sermons | 10 Comments »

Every baptism in the Orthodox Church entails an exorcism, as I learned last Easter when I was baptized into the Church. It was nothing desperate and dramatic like some of us remember from The Exorcist; in truth the devil and his minions flee from Christ and the Cross, having been sundered by both.

There was no desperation in the exorcism, but there was within me. I renounced the evil one with quaking voice, and tried to conjure from dry throat the saliva to spit outward across the threshold where I stood, to spit on the devil and thereby all my past involvement with him and all future temptation to heed him again.

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I could not read my part well for tears, then there was the tub of water and I beneath the water, crouched low and tight as a baby in the womb, lest some part of me remain dry and vulnerable like Achilles’ heel. Then there was air and light and the circled parishioners singing, and I delivered from the tomb.

Delivered, yet enframed by these diseased bones. “Work out your salvation with fear and trembling,” urged the saint who surely knew that working grace into the bones means drawing out its opposite as one might a poison. This is a holy surgery, a divine displacement, and it is by no means easy.

My oldest tells me he is working on cultivating kindness within himself, and he is, we all see it. When he slips he’s discouraged, and so I tell him a hard thing about salvation: It is not only a working out of poison but a workout, which is why St. Paul likened it to a marathon.

I used to pray for humility, I tell my son, believing God would simply hand it over to me. But that’s not so, I explain. He gives me humility by humbling me. He teaches me gratitude by allowing loss. He teaches me to love by letting me be wounded.

So expect to stumble, I tell my son. It’s a sign you’re making progress up the hill. What I don’t tell him, because I think he has to learn this on his own, is how warranted is this fear and trembling. Be careful what you pray for, child. Have a care. There is no grace worth having that comes cheap. These bones are a temple being swept clean and some of them will be scourged.

Have a care for the salvation you seek, I might tell him, for to ask is to receive. It is an indwelling and so an exorcism; it is entering the tomb and springing from your grave and neither will be what you expect.

It is a kind of death, boy. It is dying that you may have life, but it is a dying, and dying is never easy.

I imagine he’ll learn this in his own time. For now his are the labors of a boy, struggling up the hill that is at once the Mount of Olives and Golgotha. There’s time enough, God willing, for him to witness for himself what waits atop each.


January 15th, 2015 Posted in Faith and Life, The Sermons | 17 Comments »

I’ve been working on contentment, which mostly means I’ve been praying for God to help me be content in whatever circumstances I find myself, then griping at him when I face trials that might help me learn contentment. But I’m trying, I swear. Those of you who know me know that my life thus far hasn’t been what I’d planned. Maybe no one’s is, and maybe that’s for the best, for most of us, given what a mess we tend to make of things.

The point is, I’ve been sick for a couple of weeks now, flu followed by “walking pneumonia,” which is a funny saying because I haven’t really felt like walking anywhere. Some of you who know me well know that I am a worst-case scenario thinker, which will work out swimmingly in the event of apocalypse, but otherwise leads to gloomy thinking. So as I was mired in this illness that has been reluctant to leave my bones, I imagined dying.
St Roch Cemetery Merci
I mean, it’s going to happen, you know. To most of you as well. So I ponder it. In lingering illnesses past, my death thoughts have been to hope it’s not upon me yet, because I have important things to do. There’s an underlying sense that I have within me some greatness yet to be manifested. God would be cheating me and the world, in other words, if he were to yank me from this mortal coil too soon.

But as I lay not dying but contemplating dying, I took stock with perhaps a more measured eye. My children need me, this woman who married me despite all my failings and brokenness needs me, but am I indispensable? There’s nothing I will give them that God can’t give them a thousandfold. I have no great wisdom, no holy practices, certainly no worldly wealth to offer. But I love them. How I love them. Yet God can replace even that, because he, of course, loves them more, and he governs all things, whereas I’ve been doing well these past couple of years just to govern myself.

What of my work? Does my company need me? I like to think I’m valuable, but certainly I’m replaceable. With some difficulty, mind you, especially if the you reading this happens to be my boss. But still.

Yes, but my art. Surely there is some great book I will write? I have written a couple that I hope have some beauty in them, but greatness? I don’t even know what that means any more. Whatever greatness is, I doubt it resides in my head or heart.

But here’s the thing: This is good. It’s better than good. See, because God doesn’t need me for anything he wants to get done in this world, not even the things most important to me, like taking care of my babies and my wife, like penning a sentence that makes someone sigh, like speaking a little of the kind of truth that makes people hiss. I am essential to none of this. I am unnecessary to creation.

Better still, I deserve nothing. Lying, cheating, grumbling lump of self-obsessed narcissistic preening egotistical futility that I have been, I dare not claim one more second of breath, one more dollar of income, one more child’s hug.

And yet, here I am. It’s all a gift, do you see? Every hour from this one forward is an absolute mercy. And if that doesn’t bring a man to believe in the unquenchable love of God, well, I don’t know what will.

In his novel, Peace Like a River, Leif Enger’s narrator, Reuben Land, reflects on what he’s wanted, what he’s lost, what might yet be coming in his life. “Fair is,” he concludes, “whatever God wants to do.”

I didn’t always think so, but now I say: Amen.

Light in Darkness

December 27th, 2014 Posted in Faith and Life, Theology | Comments Off

It feels almost unseemly, hurling another post at you so soon after the last, given my long absence before. Think of me as the gregarious but wayward uncle, come to inhabit your kitchen for the Christmas season. He’ll likely take up his bag and be gone one morning without so much as a goodbye, but then again you never know—maybe this will be the year he finally accepts your invitation to live over your garage.

And then he’ll be at your table every morning, telling you stories that are different than the ones he’s told before, yet the same, and you’ll be stuck with him because, well, you did ask.

So, another Christmas meditation of sorts. Here’s an excerpt:

The world soon obscures that childlike vision. Many of us learned to see Christmas as a time of plunder. For some, it became a season of annoyance, even bitterness. For nearly all it became a gaudy carousel operated by madmen, and we all grabbing hold and clinging, because how can you let go? How can you disappoint those who await presents? How can you not hang the decorations you’ve accumulated in the attic?

How can you avoid the parties, the gatherings of fractured and factious family, the recitals and plays, the renderings of Tchaikovsky or Handel (because this year our kids are going to get some culture if it kills us!), the homeless-shelter outing (see, kids, howgood you’ve got it!), the never ending trips to the grocery store?

You can read the rest here. Enjoy your Christmas, and remember, no matter what the stores and radio stations and neo-Puritanical anti-liturgical sourpuss culture mavens may claim: IT LASTS TWELVE DAYS.

Madonna and Child

December 24th, 2014 Posted in Faith and Life | Comments Off

This past year, most of my scarce scraps of writing time have gone into revising a novel, which is currently in the hands of a small number of potential agents and even a potential publisher, though I’m sure I’ve jinxed myself by saying so. I have been writing a few other things, which I usually try to update here and on my Facebook page, and I’ve largely abandoned my guilt about not writing more here, because that guilt is a self-generated thing, insofar as you’re probably getting along fine without so many original missives in this space, and my blog doesn’t really care, so long as I keep feeding coins into the hosting-fee meter so it doesn’t disappear into nothingness. Which means the only one who feels bad about not being that once-or-twice-a-week-essayist we all used to know and love is me, and it’s not guilt so much as the ongoing consternation about what my brand should be and my platform and other words that suck the soul from a writer as soon as he casts his thoughts in their direction.

The point is, I’ve written something perhaps you might like, and though it begins with the escapades of a particularly famous mononymous star, it wanders its way toward, in that fashion of mine that some of you like and all of you not reading perhaps don’t like, this season in which we find ourselves. Here’s an excerpt:

If hell is absence of the heavenly then we’re wallowing in it. Percy labeled it a disease that “eats to the marrow,” and surely that is us: marrow-rotted and common as dirt, leaning Godward when it suits us or when we have no practical alternative, but always with the intention of making him relevant, as if what pleases us is what’s divine, as if we got here first and he is the one who ought accommodate himself to us, as if we are owed.

You can read the rest here, if you like. And even if you don’t like, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, or a passable Christmas, or if nothing else, an abatement to whatever burdens happen to be weighing you down these days.

Politics, porn, and football

October 14th, 2014 Posted in Curmudgeonry | Comments Off

Some of you may like my attempt, though it probably deserves more thought, to articulate why we pay little attention to big-money sports in my home. Here’s an excerpt:

Now, let’s not quibble over semantics; I know the Canadians spent millions on a national curling center, that parents of gymnasts fork over thousands for training, and so on. By “big-money,” I mean the sports swamped by wealth, and by its concomitant power over our hearts.

A power that induces fans to overlook thuggery, that induces college officials to cover up child molestation rather than jeopardize their football franchise, that encourages millions of boys to waste years perfecting the throwing and bouncing of balls at the expense of basic math and grammar skills.

I wrote much of it while listening to men down the street bark at their children during a Pee Wee football game. Not that I hold an unbending principle against barking at children, but what struck me was how that hour, other than perhaps (perhaps!) whatever time they spend in church, might be for many boys the most emotionally intense in their week. The time they feel most attuned to the true hearts of their fathers. And there’s something wrong with that, a kind of metastasis of the trivial. It’s not the inherent fault of the sport, of course, but ours for letting it get that way, or maybe for letting everything else become so drab in comparison.

If all that isn’t enough to provoke you to read it, consider how I equate big-money sports to pornography and politics. And as a side-thought, imagine a community invaded by none of those. Oh, and here’s the link.

The turned back

August 27th, 2014 Posted in Curmudgeonry, The Sermons | 79 Comments »

I will tell you something about courage and cowardice. I will speak primarily about men, because I am a man, and because the evil that grieves me was glimpsed by men, and these men turned away their eyes.

News accounts from England reveal that over 1,400 children in the borough of Rotherham were systematically brutalized over the past decade. The authors of this damning report indicate that the actual number is likely much higher. The report also details gang rapes of 11 year-olds. Children doused in gasoline and threatened with matches. A “grooming” process that entails addicting children to drugs. Children murdered, others missing.

Lidice Memorial - Memorial to Child Victims of War - By Marie Uchytilova - Near Prague - Czech Republic - 03

Local police have known about this for over ten years. So have all manner of child welfare authorities and local government officials. They convened conferences to discuss it. They combatted it with guidelines and policies. They bravely met for many hours, and boldly authored internal memos.

Perhaps we should expect no more when community preservation is outsourced to bureaucracies, but the unavoidable reality is that on many occasions, Rotherham police came upon children being sexually exploited—in some cases, in the very instance of being raped—and arrested no one. The perpetrators are Pakistani; they might call us racists. The children seemed to consent. These gangs are violent.

All of which amount to an admission by those police officers that they are cowards, and something less than men. I’m reminded of the janitors who discovered Penn State coach Jerry Sandusky’s rape of children, and who said nothing, for fear of losing their jobs. They were cowards too, and deserve to be remembered as such.

We have lost the willingness to call evil by its rightful name, and the courage to stand in the face of it and say: “No. Not here. Not on my street. Not in my city.” There is no limit to the hells men devise when no one opposes them. “What’s the point?” a Rotherham victim asked investigators. “I might as well be dead.”

The men and women who failed her might ask themselves the same question. We might all ask it. What is the point, really, in preserving our comforts—our lives, even—if to do so we must become so small, so dark-hearted, that we turn our backs on the most vulnerable among us?

I suppose none of us knows whether he will be a coward until the moment demands courage. “Be prepared in season and out of season,” the apostle Paul wrote to Timothy. As far as we are concerned, perhaps this entails recognizing that the season is upon us—an evil season, a season when children worldwide are treated like so much trash, when questions once governed by common sense are now fodder for intellectual word-play, when an army gathering under a black flag is both a reality and a metaphor, for war rages in the hearts of men, and it is coming, is here already, in our neighborhoods and our homes and our own hearts, we good and decent people who are perhaps only better than these cowards because the hour has not yet come when evil stands on our doorstep and demands entrance.

And what then will we say? Will we tell ourselves it’s not as bad as it seems? Will we pretend steadfastness is someone else’s job? Will we promise that this is only a small compromise, that when the situation really demands it, we’ll be brave?

Cowardice has a thousand justifications. But to the wounded, it always looks the same: averted eyes, a turned back, something resembling a man or a woman walking away.

On just saying no

July 18th, 2014 Posted in Curmudgeonry | 1 Comment »

Related to my previous post, I have an essay at Good Letters digging into the hypocrisy of evangelicals, as represented by the American Family Association, who simultaneously support the Drug War while demanding that we reject child refugees from that war. Here’s an excerpt:

We sponsor both sides of this war; we constitute the primary North American demand for illegal narcotics, and we supply the gunships, automatic weapons (sometimes to drug dealers themselves, lest anyone forget Obama’s Fast and Furious scandal), and tactical support. We arm both sides, and we turn our backs on the carnage.

Only now the carnage is at our doorstep. They come shell-shocked, disease-ridden, hungry. And sadly, self-professing Christians are some of their loudest detractors. Never mind that Americans have five churches for every immigrant child. Never mind that these same churches spend millions sending their privileged children on brief junkets we call “mission trips,” presumably to reach the very kinds of people who now huddle at our border, begging for help.

The essay ends with some Biblical exegesis to complement that offered by an American Family Association official in support of keeping the refugees out. Seems he didn’t read far enough in the Bible story on which he hangs his hat. Shocking.

Thy kingdom come

July 3rd, 2014 Posted in The Sermons | 50 Comments »

I don’t think they love their children any less than I love my own, which tells me something about what their lives must be like, to send their babies away. Their children stream northward in droves—as many as 60,000 this year—and we don’t want them. We don’t want their skin lesions and their hungry bellies, we don’t want their parents and aunts and uncles likely to follow, we don’t want them taking our jobs and clogging our classrooms and driving without insurance on our roads. We have no place for them in our country and certainly not in our hearts.

I understand there are political and economic realities that don’t go away just because I feel pity. One political party sees in immigrants a chance to build its permanent dominance; the other fears destruction. The accountants, meanwhile, see fiscal disaster. We’re already trillions in debt, with unfunded liabilities that will bankrupt many unsuspecting communities in the coming decade. Worse still, a lower portion of Americans have jobs than at any time in recent memory. People are scared, and they are angry.

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So some of them do all they know to do, when they see busloads of hungry immigrant children barreling into their communities. They form barricades, and they tell them to go home. They’re shouting at the accompanying phalanx of federal bureaucrats as well, but I don’t suppose that nuance is understood by the children looking fearfully at them through the bus windows. “We don’t want you here!” a man shouts. I suppose he speaks for a good many of us.

The U.S. government estimates 60,000 immigrant children this year. There are over 300,000 churches in America, most of them hewing to a mission of spreading some kind of good news. What good news? Salvation. The coming kingdom. A God whose will, we pray, be done on earth as it is in heaven.

And what is his will? That’s not for me to say, but it is for me to ask, and for you to ask. It’s for us to ask, and then to listen. Are we listening, we who spend millions to travel overseas carrying the Gospel to the lost, now that God is sending tens of thousands of them our way?

I know there are geopolitical practicalities that transcend the priorities of my stupid bleeding heart, but 300,000 churches and 60,000 children.

What if, instead of greeting the federal agents with protest signs, we greeted them with petitions? Give us these children. We will feed them, we will clothe them, we will give them shelter. We will teach them and we will pray over them. Their parents, God help them, sent them away, and now here we stand to make good on the faith or hope or desperation in which those mothers and fathers sent them forth. Give us these children, and we will find a way. We will show mercy, because while we can scarcely agree between ourselves on anything else, we agree that the kingdom of heaven includes a hand stretched out in love.

It’s utterly impractical, I know. But how have we done so far, Christians, with practicality? For Christ’s sake, let’s not be known for our practicality.

Cantering to the gas chamber

June 18th, 2014 Posted in Curmudgeonry | 11 Comments »

A society doesn’t capsize all at once; it leans by degrees. It tilts, and the opinion mavens who are its deckhands rush about reassuring everyone that it’s the horizon that is at fault. We are finally leveling things, they say, now clip your belt to the rail so you don’t go overboard. The enlightened canter society, they level it to their horizon-scorning vision, and then, once a sufficient pitch is reached, gravity takes care of the rest.

I can’t calculate the current slope of the Great American Degradation, but when I read about doctors shamelessly subjecting infants to experimental risks while concealing those risks from the parents, I feel my ankles pop. Researchers at the University of Alabama-Birmingham medical center experimented with oxygen given to dramatically underweight infants, in an effort to fine-tune common treatment practices. The result was greater incidence of blindness for one group of babies, and more deaths among another group. Here’s an excerpt from my recent essay at Good Letters:

A review by the Office of Human Research Protections (OHRP) in the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services concludes that risk-disclosures to parents were inadequate, because they listed potential benefits, but mentioned no dangers beyond possible skin irritation from the oxygen monitors. The researchers defend themselves by noting that none of the babies received oxygen outside the range deemed acceptable in standard medical practice. Therefore, they explain, they told the truth when they told parents that “there is no predictable increase in risk for your baby.”

But of course they were predicting risks, at least amongst themselves and their funders. This suspicion was the entire purpose, after all, of the study—to test whether premature infants are subjected to unnecessarily high risks of blindness by current practices. But because no such study has conclusively shown this, there is no scientific proof of the danger. Thus the researchers felt justified in not disclosing their hypotheses to the parents. There was no math, after all.

Well, there is now.

This isn’t just a story about researchers making bad decisions. This is a direct consequence of our modern perversion of science, which leads us to assert that the only things which can be known are the things about which we have data.

That’s not an indictment of science, mind you—of experimentation and measurement and testing falsifiable hypotheses. It is an indictment of the materialism and utilitarianism that have crept into scientific fields as we’ve abandoned their philosophical underpinnings. If you reject the human elements of science—the intuition, the tacit knowing, the sense of beauty and truth and rightness that has always guided scientific inquiry—then you dehumanize scientific efforts. You divorce morality from expediency. You make weaker, voiceless human beings—in this case, 1300 mostly poor and minority babies and their families—means to the ends of the stronger.

And your denuded reasoning allows you to get away with it. “There was no predictable increase in risk,” the doctors say. They still believe it. Some of their comrades believe they shouldn’t have been required to get permission in the first place.

History tells us where this leads. I write that not with a fear of sounding alarmist, but with a desire to sound the alarm. This does not end, believe me, with scientists quietly obscuring risks to their poor black subjects in Alabama. It ends, as it always has, in fanaticism—fanaticism which pretends it is something else because it cloaks itself in the language of cool rationality, of scientific progress, of unblinking commitment to the greatest material good for the greatest fit number. It ends, for those deemed weak or useless or dangerous,  in the gulag and the gas chamber.

Do you feel the weight shifting? Best clip yourself to the rail.

Scientific passions

May 29th, 2014 Posted in Curmudgeonry | Comments Off

Forty days have passed quickly and the feasting is over, so I suppose I should start putting together words again. When it’s not on this novel I’m revising, my writing mind has been on science—on the art that is genuine science, and the bullying that is scientism, and our persistent modern confusion of the two. I recently wrote an essay over on the Image Good Letters channel, in response to science popular Neil deGrasse Tyson’s claim that philosophy is irrelevant. Here’s an excerpt:

When you delve into the history of science, you don’t find a phalanx of impassive researchers asking questions, gathering data, and methodically testing hypotheses. You find visionaries—the scientists who make history, anyway—gripped by insights that precede their scientific tests. “Eureka,” Archimedes is said to have shouted, as he leaped from the bathtub where he first intuited a means of precisely measuring the volume of irregular objects. Eureka: I have found. His belief about reality preceded the proof.

Likewise did a PhD student named Louis de Broglie argue—with insufficient empirical data—that electron particles have physical waves. Albert Einstein, when Broglie’s skeptical thesis advisors wrote asking his opinion about the student’s theory, urged them to pass him, based on the elegance of his work. His theoryfelt right. A few years later the data emerged, and a couple of years after that, Broglie received the Nobel Prize in Physics.

“Only a tiny fraction of all knowable facts are of interest to scientists,” wrote scientist and philosopher Michael Polanyi. A scientist’s decision about what to explore—what drives him to the doorstep of the Scientific Method we were taught as children—is something altogether ignored by that method, but critical nonetheless to discovery: what Polanyi called “a sense of intellectual beauty.” Scientific discovery is, Polanyi believed, an emotional response to glimpses of an undiscovered reality. A scientist is very much like an artist in that regard.

Somehow we’ve gotten the notion into our heads that discovery stems from breaking down things into parts, and those parts into parts, and we’ve concocted a myth that scientific truth is simply a matter of applying impartial measures to these micro-parts, when discovery has always entailed human judgment, and a sense of rightness, and of elegance, and other concepts that resist micro-splitting, all of which are dependent on culture, and philosophy, and other messy packages.

There’s so much to be unpacked there, from how we approach global warming and evolution theory, to how we teach our children. And I confess 90 percent of the reason I care is because of the pervasive smugness of people like Tyson, and Stephen Pinker, and Richard Dawkins, and their refusal to understand how rooted they are in their own biases and philosophies. It just makes for, well, bad science. So in that, I like to think I’m actually pro-science in my anti-scientism. Anyway, here’s a link to the Good Letters essay if you’re interested.



April 17th, 2014 Posted in Faith and Life, The Sermons | 26 Comments »

When we tucked what remained of that little girl into the earth, I was relieved it was over. I was filled with something that felt like transcendence. We had weathered the storm, we had kept the faith, we had given her back to God, and now we would await patiently the life of the world to come. How peaceful and triumphant and emptied of worldly concern I thought myself to be.

There is something essential and beautiful in lamentation. It is a witness against death, and we should bear witness, because death is an abomination and an obscenity. A great perversion of the Christian faith is the transformation of funerals into celebrations. Death is a destroyer, and this is why we sing, as we celebrate the triumph of a Messiah: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death.” Death is an abomination and death is being trampled down and we who would live eternally shall bear witness against it.

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Death is woven into our flesh, and so is lamentation, though we avoid it with our culture that whistles past the graveyard. Even pagans would believe in a victory over death, but if that victory matters, surely then all the blood of the ages gone stilled and black has been a tragedy—a tragedy stretching from the garden sin to brother killing brother to our own dark-hearted acts, yours and mine. To deny the tragedy is to deny our deep yearning for liberation. To refrain from lamentation is to deny, then, what is in our own hearts.

When the Ewe that bare him

Saw them slaying her Lamb,

Tossed by swelling waves of pain she wailed forth her woe,

And moved all the flock to join her bitter cries.


Gone the Light the world knew!

Gone the Light that was mine!

O my Jesus, that art all of my heart’s desire:

So the Virgin spake lamenting at thy grave.


Who will give me water

For the tears I must weep,

So the maiden wed to God cried with loud lament,

That for my sweet Jesus I may rightly mourn?


Who will give me water for the tears I must weep? I learned, in the years after that graveside parting, what comes of the incomplete lament. Our hearts will be broken. They can only be healed after breaking. I have unlearned much of what I thought I knew, and likely still imagine I know more than I really do, but here is one thing I believe I have learned, which I share with you as we walk with Christ toward Golgotha: Let your heart be broken.

Let your heart be broken, and remember the fullness of the Paschal refrain we will sing come Sunday, come judgment day, come the day of our liberation: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life!”

Today hath Hades sighed, crying: “My power hath been swallowed up; for the Shepherd, crucified, hath raised Adam; and those whom I possessed I lost. Those whom I had swallowed by my might, I have given up completely; for the Crucified hath emptied the graves and the might of death hath vanished.”

The presence and the devil

April 9th, 2014 Posted in Faith and Life | 1 Comment »

Some of you may appreciate my latest “Good Letters” essay, which is about redemption and communion and other heavy things. I know, a marked change for light-hearted Tony. Here’s an excerpt:

“I lingered at the edges of another church in the following months, and then not at all. The shape of a newly divorced and even harder drinking man is not well-suited—at least it can seem to him, in his vanity and stupor—to pews. I drifted, and far.

My memory of that long descent’s end is the memory of a voice, nightly, over the phone. That voice spoke truths I’d forgotten apply to me: truths about forgiveness, about purpose. It was not the voice of an angel, but close enough, and to this day the sound of it conjures for me salvation.

I still hear it every morning, because it is the voice of a woman who chose to become my wife, long after I stopped believing I deserve such a thing. She took my hand despite my past, took it though her cancer left us unsure if she would live long past a honeymoon. We had no money, no home. Each of us bore a sickness. Today we are mending, and we have a house in a little town, and my children love her more than I imagined possible.”

You can read the rest here.

Which will falter

April 3rd, 2014 Posted in Faith and Life, The Sermons | 16 Comments »

In the gathered dark freezing rain scaled the limbs, the leaves, and every outstretched thing. We woke to the thrum of a power line fallen, its light so savage we had to shield our eyes. Electric fire inhabited a tree despite the battering sleet. Its branches burned amidst a world gone to ice and it was an awful, holy thing.

Power spilled from the severed line until someone threw a switch. What sound remained was the sleet like a campfire skillet. It sapphired the dawning landscape, and trees bowed beneath it.

The first thunder came an hour later, only it was not thunder, it was the crack of a limb tearing loose, a long and remorseless crepitation that was followed by silence, then a thump. Some minutes later was another crack, another thump. All day long the sky fell.

Three trees

There is no predicting which trees will break, nor how they will falter. Some shed limbs as a rebirthing, others lose not a one. Some are sundered to their roots, as if a rotten core had crept up through the center of them, or had been birthed within them, had been inside them from the beginning, only to be revealed in the testing hour.

A pin oak behind my house cast down a dozen widow-makers, a proud magnolia fell into itself grotesquely. A pear tree shed half itself across my driveway. Branches speared the earth, some of them a foot deep, because when you stretch to heaven you have much further to fall, and your breaking is perilous to all around you.

There is no telling which will crack and which can bear the weight, and this is true of you, and me, and perhaps even some we hold invincible.

Sometimes the ones we thought strong topple, while the stoop-shouldered endure. They endure because they bend beneath the weight, they shoulder it as beasts of burden and within them is something like faith that it will pass.

And it does pass, and we give thanks for the maiming, for the shedding of our weakness that could not bear the weight, the proud or sickened parts of ourselves that might have spread to the roots if not for the awful and merciful storm.

Civilizing the civilizers

March 31st, 2014 Posted in Curmudgeonry | 1 Comment »

What happens when you gather thinkers in thrall to scientism, and ask them to list the most important books for civilization? A compendium that includes books on robot sex and immortality, but nothing on plumbing, or farming, or the God recognized by a third of the world’s population. As you might imagine, I take issue with that, as you can see in my most recent Good Letters essay. Here’s an excerpt:

I learned about The Long Now Foundation via Brain Pickings, a website that describes itself as a “cross-disciplinary LEGO treasure chest.” Aptly, this captures both the breadth of Brain Pickings offerings, and the constriction of its worldview. Both evidence a breathlessness over science and man which is captured by lopping off the disquieting portions in the opening to A Tale of Two Cities: we live in the best of times, an age of wisdom, a season of light…

The Long Now Foundation was established by futurists “to provide a counterpoint to today’s accelerating culture and help make long-term thinking more common.” One of the Foundation’s mitigations is the Manual for Civilization, envisioned as a 3000-volume collection spanning four categories: “cultural canon” (note the careful ellipsis of article), “mechanics of civilization,” “rigorous science fiction,” and “long-term thinking, futurism, and relevant history.” This last is defined as “Books on how to think about the future that may include surveys of the past.”

The past may be useful in service to the future, in other words, but what we need is not a remembrance of the past so much as a continual march into the coming centuries, our superior sensibilities as metal-halide lanterns piercing the darkness. A gimlet eye might perceive here the very shortened attention span its creators despise. Can anyone possess enduring wisdom who is besotted with his own age?

You can read the rest here.

The worldly vision

March 28th, 2014 Posted in Curmudgeonry, The Sermons | 22 Comments »

(Note: An expanded version of this essay—which attempts to address some of the objections leveled in the comments below as well as at The American Conservative—is over at On Faith.)


I am angry, and so I hope you will forgive me for whatever I write that offends, unless you need offending, in which case I hope you receive it in love.

I am angry at the people who, having sponsored children through World Vision, having developed relationships with these little ones who now depend on them, would so easily threaten to walk away. I am angry, as well, at self-professing Christians who imagine, with neither humility nor understanding, that their novel interpretation of the Bible is grounds for forcing the rest of Christendom to come along with them on their journey into apostasy.

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”


Those of you who were outraged by World Vision’s state-pressured recognition of same-sex marriages, would you turn your backs on the little girl in danger of being sold into sex slavery in Thailand, the little boy in Haiti whose mother cannot feed him, for a point of dogmatic purity in an organization which is not the Church?

Do you demand the same purity of the sports teams you root for, of the stores where you buy your comfortable clothes, of the grocery stores where you buy your steaks?

Do you think the Church so weak that it needs affirmation from the Human Resources department of World Vision to maintain what was instituted by God?

The world heads deeper into sickness, and sometimes people who call themselves Christians are leading the way. For them we pray, not because the Church is endangered, not because marriage is endangered, but because their souls are endangered. Cutting off funds to poor and defenseless children will not save one soul. So on what grounds will you justify it, when your own day of judgment comes?

And to those of you who bathe yourselves in righteous indignation at World Vision’s reversal, who believe that your personal revelations outweigh centuries of Church tradition and teaching, who haven’t the slightest charity towards your brothers and sisters, casting our refusal to embrace your beliefs as evidence of hatred in our hearts—and thereby, conveniently and cheaply, a superior love within your own—shame on you.

“Therefore let us not judge one another anymore,” writes the apostle Paul, “but rather resolve this, not to put a stumbling block or a cause to fall in our brother’s way.”

You lay down stumbling blocks at every turn. You do it despite believing that any building with a cross and a preacher is a church, which means that you have the freedom to start whatever churches you like, and establish whatever ceremonies you choose, and call these marriages, and declare that God smiles on them. Your beliefs give you the freedom to worship God however you see fit, but this does not content you, because you need the rest of Christendom to agree with you. You would make your brother choke down the idol’s food, and call him unchristian if he does not. You derive your righteousness from pointing out the mote in his eye.

Some would defund poor children to make a dogmatic point; you would risk that funding to make your own. You decry the actions of your brethren when you are no better.

The Church has withstood apostates from the beginning. It has withstood politics, Muslim invasions, totalitarian oppression, even the malaise and indifference of Western modernism. It will endure, long after the current heretics have been replaced by more outrageous heretics. It will endure even as a thousand counterfeits spring up, ten thousand false teachings, a hundred thousand false prophets, a million impersonators of Christ. The Church does not veer into apostasy, apostates veer away from the Church.

And for them we should pray. We should pray for them, and perhaps they can pray for us, and maybe we can even talk about our differences—with each other, rather than to outsiders who look on our strife with pleasure. Maybe, even, we can speak truth to one another in love.

“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

Tell me, are any of us doing this very well? I’m certainly not. I could spend the remainder of my life trying to get this right. How about you?

The sickness

March 20th, 2014 Posted in The Sermons | 33 Comments »

I write this on the day Fred Phelps, pretender to ministry, hater of gays, vitriolic picketer of soldiers’ funerals, has gone forth into the Judgement he welcomed for others. In the days leading up to his demise there was talk among some, who hate him deeply for his hatred, of picketing his funeral. Of holding signs and repaying his corpse. Someone in his church replied that they don’t have funerals, because this is to worship the dead. I suppose in another generation they’ll be banning crosses as idols, and in the generation after that they’ll be drinking Kool-Aid and waiting for the spaceships, because hatred is a kind of madness.

Hatred is madness, and it is sickness, and it spreads with contact. So does one man’s hateful act jeopardize the soul of his victim, and thus did Fred Phelps do his best to fill up hell. I wonder if he ever thought he was really saving anyone from anything, or if all his public testimony was really just a perverse celebration.


It’s easy to hate a man like Fred Phelps, and just as easy to say that we should have hearts filled with pity for him, for the sheep who followed him. It’s easy for me, anyway, because that was never one of my sons in a box, body flayed by a roadside bomb, his memory dishonored by shouting, sign-bearing heretics. I can’t imagine that horror without also tempting myself to hate him even now, to hope he burns as he ached to see others burn. Me, who was never wronged by him.

In truth, people like me need someone like Fred Phelps. He made me feel better about myself. I am as the Pharisee who gave thanks he was not the tax collector—a comparison to which some might object, on the grounds that in that story, the tax collector was a humbled man, aware of his sins and begging mercy.

But none of us knows what transpires in the heart’s final beating. We can never know until it is we who lay waiting for judgment, our hearts softened or hardened or indifferent. Perhaps Fred Phelps saw, in his final seconds, the cost of his life, the dreadful bloody stink of it, rising up to heaven. Perhaps he saw and he begged forgiveness. And perhaps—how scandalous to think it—he was forgiven.

And while the state of his heart is now a settled and secreted thing, perhaps mine turns, as well as yours, on whether we are willing to pray that it was so, that the likes of Fred Phelps could be saved from the sickness that consumed him. Perhaps such a merciful heart is, in the end, all that saves any of us from his sickness.


(The photo above, according to Wikimedia Commons, is of Fred Phelps, aged 3, hugging his sister Martha-Jean, aged 2, as they stand in the shadow of their father, Fred Wade Phelps. Of the elder Mr. Phelps and his eventual rift with Fred Phelps, the latter’s son, Mark Phelps, once told a reporter: “I remember my grandfather crying. I remember my grandfather telling him to get back in the Methodist Church and stop all this nonsense.” Mark Phelps said that when his grandfather died, his father was broken up, and attended the funeral—showing, perhaps, that love can, at least sometimes, overcome the lies we tell ourselves about God.)