WELL SUIT YOURSELF, YANKEE!

by admin on July 10, 2011

Call it what you will but I figured it was just going to be one more A B option, another Another Bloody Parade like any other when Liv felt the need to celebrate her country’s Independence Day in May this year in her small home town. “Please wear a suit, white shirt, tie and coat for the parade” she pleaded.

“Nah, I don’t wanna!” That’s the way I’ve answered my wife regarding such requests when I thought I had gotten over the need to impress her after many years of marriage, especially in retirement. The whining is a lot like our young grandchildren’s negative but mild retorts. Before that I was a bit more polite but eventually she would just kind of roll her eyes and give up on stuff like mall shopping, chick flicks and ballet performances. But now that I think of it I probably have caved in on such requests about 95% of the time, especially when I get that sweet ‘you’d-better-do-it-or-else’ expression; I can’t resist. Is that a not-so subtle Norwegian technique?

“Liv,” I cried, “the event is scheduled for 7 am. Who will be that dressy at that hour in this country? Vikings don’t get up before 9 around here in the summertime and you’ve never witnessed an Arizonan sunrise.” I was amazed. I got my way and dressed informally. I assumed the younger generation guys would be tieless and suit-less, and I still think of myself as one of them but without the whaleboats.

Wrong again! Just about everybody in town showed up, and every male from infants to the elderly were wearing suits, some attired in their splendorous national costumes with the long stockings. I was certain my bride would choose to stand across the street from me but she stood beside me with a ‘He doesn’t belong to me look.” That’s got to be a universal expression among distressed women tolerating obstinate spouses.

I thought I was home free on the dress code after the speeches and the two-hour parade through town but then my Viking mate asks “Are you going to dress up for the 11 am parade?” There was no hint of negotiation in her tone this time. “WHAT 11 O’CLOCK PARADE? You’re kidding me. Do they take another route?”

“Same roads, sometimes different marchers!” she stated firmly, “and I’m not kidding? We will also be having brunch before that; then you’re taking a nap so you won’t have to be grumpy during the 8-hour dinner party tonight that will be pretty much given to speaking our native language, but there will be some wallpaper with pretty flowers to keep you occupied!” When she gets to that stage of calling the shots I’m smart enough to back off.

I stood nicely beside my wife in my best funeral suit. Preachers are never far from retrieving one. The 17th of May is the biggest, most celebrated occasion in the country. Every small burg and big city throughout the land participate in them the same way, dressed up and taking familiar paths. Everyone is invited to join in on the parades. There are brigades of babies in strollers and parents and aged folk with walkers and wheelchairs; every service club, sewing club, poker club and quilting club member marches through the streets…twice!! All national flags are flying from nearby homes and offices. Nearly everyone marches with flag in hand. They wave vigorously at their neighbors, bosses, co-workers, doctors, trash collectors, teachers, merchants, school alums, relatives, and even their pastor and the mortuary director. It’s a great leveling gesture. I guess they go twice to allow everyone in on it. They all looked pretty happy even at the 7 am showing. I was surprised how proud they seemed, the old and young participants. Several of our friends in the parade urged us to join them in the march. I jumped in between the quilters and baby carriages. Seemed only fitting for a pensioned preacher.

I had to ask why everyone appeared to be so celebrative for so long a day. My dinner partner claimed Norway gained independence from Denmark on the 17th of May 1814.

“Is that such a big deal to cause nearly every Norwegian citizen to march with such joy through towns so early in the morning?”

He smiled and replied “Are you serious? Have you known any Danes? They grow the greatest strawberries and potatoes in the world but they speak as if they have a potato lodged in their throats!”

I could understand Danes celebrating with such pizzazz every year if they were being freed from having to live under a Norwegian flag. Have you ever tasted their popular national dish known as lutefisk? Yuck!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ENVYING PASSIONATE GENIUSES

by admin on June 28, 2011

No kidding, I figured I could have become a full-blown genius after coming across a how-to book about 20 years ago titled Fire in the Crucible: The Alchemy of Creative Genius by John Briggs. I purchased it immediately after reading a blurb on the cover that promised the average person doesn’t have to be smart to be one but she has to remain intensely persistent, highly disciplined, wholly passionate and fully focused on what she sees, senses, knows and does, and she must always watch for nuances that others will overlook. I had a leg up on a few of those qualities. I never felt I was all that smart and by the time I read the book I had disciplined myself by jogging daily for over twenty years and composed fully-focused sermons weekly for two-plus decades, a grueling task (Preachers still whine about the relentless return of the Sabbath). I had decent eyesight back then and I was pretty good when it came to sensing/feeling stuff. And the knowing part; well, I had an earned doctorate but I really didn’t feel all that sharp when I accepted the diploma and the president winked at me. What was that about? But I digress. What about the doing? Like most pastors I did myself in doing ministry. Way too many hours and far too many meetings! So, I felt after reading the subject matter I was on the road to becoming a full-fledged genius. I didn’t tell anybody because I wanted it to be a surprise but I couldn’t wait for someone to walk up to me and greet me with “Hey, you’re that genius, aren’t you? Didn’t I see you on the cover of Time magazine?”

 

After reading the book I kicked my jogging up a notch; I read a lot more, worked harder on sermons, kept up on my eye appointments, remained relatively stupid because you don’t want to be too smart; got more in touch with my deepest of feelings; and geez, the doing part, I’ve never missed a day writing three pages of reflections and feelings since I retired over ten years ago. There were times in flight when I didn’t know the hour or what day it was but I managed to stay faithful to that frikkin’ rigorous schedule for a significant portion of my life. OK, come on, what did I leave out in qualifying for the genius medal?

 

I’ll tell you how I fell short, by not risking being brutally honest with my feelings in my pastorates. At some point during my tenure my passion on the job diminished and now I think I know why. It’s interesting that Professor Briggs used the image of a crucible for the genius theme because that’s how I imagine the Insula organ. It’s a cranial vessel teeming with innate urges but it’s difficult to comprehend such volatile undercurrents. It evokes our passionate urges such as lust for life, love and work but we have to be careful when we tap into them because passion can trigger lust for food, wealth, power, sex and orgasms. Throw in fear, anger and rage, and you’ve got yourself a roller-coaster ride on slippery tracks. I thought I had a hint of what they can do for us on the job until I heard and paid attention to a couple of extremely passionate CEO types. They might be considered geniuses in their field. My hunch is they have been able to actualize most of their Insula functions in ways that few mortals have come near doing.

 

Gordon Ramsay is a prominent chef who hosts a TV reality show. And, by the way, eating urges are also part of the Insula family. He’s known for his incredible ability to jump-start four to five-star restaurants that are about to go under. He analyzes the track records of the establishments prior to the visits and spends four days and nights on site. The passion he brings to the scene fuels those of the staff members if they have any and it becomes a crucial element in the process. He does not hold back and can intimidate the most arrogant, egotistical chefs and owners any restaurant might have. The participants know they have to endure the flak because their businesses could likely go under if they don’t accept his severe appraisals. I find it fascinating because he manages to reach extreme levels of emotion, such as deep compassion, fear, anger and near rage within himself and from the crew. He draws out a whole range of feelings, including tears, by having them meet in the late night hours or predawn when they are tired and vulnerable. 2

 

But keep in mind, he’s not processing his own staff; he’s an outsider. What he is capable of doing is getting bosses and subordinates on neutral ground. CEOs, owners and staff workers can open up to each other about their own fears of failing the system.

 

How does chef Ramsay get away with being angry and enraged at times with kitchen crews who tick him off? I do believe he somehow convinces the staff he has an unconditional interest in them and their establishment. During those embarrassing, relentless, berating critiques they feel like children, siblings or parents getting lambasted for their ineptness and indiscretions on the job. They also sense the wrath is emerging from a brutally honest instinct. He’s part of their family in those heated moments but they are also aware that he is a premier chef with an incredible track record.

 

An innate eruption we tend to conceal from co-workers that can lead to stress at home, sleepless nights, popping pills and appointments with therapists is that of anger. A passionate spirit may be enhanced by a degree of appropriate anger and I’ll try to briefly distinguish here between befitting and unsuitable ire. It didn’t happen often on my job site and rarely does anger erupt at home but when it did and does…ooh. Good anger is that which we will risk directing toward loved ones, partners, siblings, parents, children and perhaps our pets. We can get away with it because we feel a vested concern for their welfare and they know it, unless, of course, they’re in their teen years when they may not get it. Not-so-good wrath is the kind we rely upon for flipping off drivers to whom we wish to make a point in the heat of the moment. They are not on our welfare list so it doesn’t mean much for motorists but they might think it does. Inappropriate driving gestures we make that are not to be found in the motor vehicle handbook probably consist of remnants of unresolved ire meant for our loved ones. Ah, but anger for family can transmit an element of unconditional love…most of the time.

 

Now, here’s the problem angered pastors may have on their work-sites when they might ache to let it out. We’d like to think we have a vested love for parishioners but the ire will not come across quite like home outbursts because church members are also not on our welfare list of intimates; the concern lacks the unconditional part. If it’s any consolation those motorists who force us to signal naughty gestures would be a notch or two below our blessed parishioners. Be careful, one of those drivers might wind up being a church member who sits in a front pew on the pulpit side some Sunday.

 

It’s also apparent while watching a television segment that Ramsay is experiencing genuine palpable fear, another innate function, while overseeing the kitchen staff work under pressure with a full house. He knows he could fail to motivate them to turn a corner on their failing business during a real-time TV show. The expert appears to be a nervous wreck during the food preparation and serving stages, and the crew catch that angst. I don’t think I was ever perceived by my staff to have demonstrated such a level of fear in my workplaces but I’m pretty certain I felt such deep dread. Fear is a deep-seated Insula feeling that is virtually always operative in our ministries, especially in declining situations.

 

Just before retiring I met a judge who admitted he retired early after having lost his passion for his work. He claimed he made the decision to hang it up while attending a continuing education event led by a psychiatrist. The speaker began with a blunt question. “How many of you here would admit you’re living with some form of depression, low-grade or higher?” A third of approximately 600 in attendance raised their hands immediately. Another third joined them after some hesitation. I asked the judge what he thought the condition reflected. “I’m not quite sure” he admitted “but part of it might have to do with the fact we work in an environment that deals with ethics but the decision-making too often leads to compromise. The tougher part had to do with fear of failing whenever I was promoted to a new position. I’m not sure one can stay positive and passionate for very long in that line of work with the ever-present fear.”

 

The judge’s comment regarding fear of failure struck a chord in me. Every urban church I served had seen its day and were on the downside when it came to attendance and lucre. And, oh yeah, the greatest of preachers who held forth in them were often thought to be confined to history. I harbored great fear over those churches going under on my watch but I don’t think I revealed on the job how deep it went in me. I might have done better if I had, like Ramsay, been more transparent and let the staff own a piece of my nerve-wracking dread. Most staff members in any line of work don’t care to get in on the corporate leaders’ intense angst. She or he is paid to endure those sufferings but Ramsay lets it out and I believe he’s on to something. The kitchen staff not only detects his fear but experiences it. If nothing else the boss who knows how to parcel it out would likely be more civil at home, sleep better, consume less drugs, save on counseling fees and live a few years longer.

 

On the night of the final session the wild passionate chef affirms each owner and staff person, whether things go badly or well. He also hands out tangible rewards. The high-fives among staff are as jubilant as any celebration on a playing field over a big win.

 

I caught a part of an interview on the Piers Morgan CNN show featuring Jack Welch, the noted wealthy CEO. He must be close to 80; well who isn’t these days, but he was as passionate as any guest I’ve ever seen on any talk show. He periodically lunged halfway across the desk when he spouted forth. He spoke angrily, explosively, passionately and, yes, even lovingly at times. I was put off by some of his radically right-leaning Republican sentiments such as the need for our country to best all other developed nations in brain power, innovativeness and wealth but he was truly energized for an old guy or anybody for that matter. I envied him while watching his volatile antics. My hunch is he would not be one to reveal his fears unless he were to have an outside resource person like Ramsay leading an evaluative charge but he loves a competitive spirit. I could imagine him though confronting and conflicting with his subordinates on the order of the premier chef’s family-style attacks. Passion that allows brutally honest interchanges to emerge in the work place may ultimately generate incredible levels of unconditional compassion, true joy and phenomenal business turn-around successes.

 

 

 

 

 

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Daring to Deal With Church Nightmares

by admin on June 20, 2011

This theme was sparked after viewing a few segments of a TV reality show hosted by a chef extraordinaire, a series titled “Kitchen Nightmares.”Gordon Ramsay travels the world jump-starting struggling high-class restaurants. He deals primarily with the passion or lack of it demonstrated by chefs, owners and staff. It’s an extremely intense process in which he comes at the entire kitchen crew and doesn’t hold back in confronting them. The participants know they have to take the ranting and raving from him because their businesses could go under if they don’t accept his severe evaluations. I found it fascinating because he manages to elicit extreme levels of emotion, such as profound compassion, fear, anger and near rage from the crew. He draws out a whole range of feelings, including tears, by having them meet in the late night hours or predawn when they’re exhausted and vulnerable. I imagined him processing staffs of dying churches but the guy gets angry and cusses big time. He would likely be ousted after the first blasphemous outburst so I figured I might share some thoughts on where I am on the subject of espousing expletives before suggesting how similar endeavors might work in any business setting.

Pre-retirement nightmares can be terrifying for those in any line of work. Some of my most frightening recurring nocturnal dreams had me at my last church on the first Sunday where I’m unable to stop preaching in the first worship service. The sermon goes on and on until members begin pointing at their watches and then shaking them at me. Eventually they start leaving the sanctuary but I can’t stop. When the last person to depart reaches the exit I ask “Are you all heading for morning classes?”

“No,” he barks, “We’re going across the street to the Baptist church where preachers know how and when to cease preaching!” It doesn’t get anymore humiliating or devastating than that for a Methodist parson. The nightmares got worse on occasion when a pew sitter would jump up in my mad dreams and shout “Shut up, dammit, you’ve rambled for over two hours” and I holler back “Go to hell!” If a preacher doesn’t happen to believe in a hell could he get away with such a disturbing outburst in the light of day while wide awake? In times past he would likely be out of work by the following day.

By the way, a daring conservative minister is making news these days by proclaiming there is no such thing as hell. If it does exist some of Reverend Bell’s parishioners who beg to differ might be praying he’ll get to find it out. We clergy can refer to the term ‘hell’ in the pulpit in a Biblical context but we just can’t utter it on the job when we’re at our wit’s end.

How far can pastors push the envelope when it comes to using controversial expletives without losing their jobs? I never did it but I always wanted to ask my congregations if it’s ever OK for ordained ministers to cut loose with curses on church property when they are boiling over with anger. Where does such intense clergy ire go when it isn’t released on the church site? I’ll tell you where it might burst out…in the preacher’s parsonage. The first word emitted by our first born was a distinct “Dammit!” How did she ever come up with that? We lived next door to a Presbyterian pastor who hated mowing his lawn and let it be known. My guess is…nah.

I can’t count the times I held back in my decades of ministry from letting out a choice curse at a contentious meeting or when things went really bad behind the scenes between services, or during them for that matter. There were a few mean-spirited members throughout my tenure whom I felt should have been cursed at but I resisted the impulse. My hunch is they knew I was aching to cuss them out and they were likely aware they deserved it. Isn’t there just a hint of dishonesty generated in those moments when we swallow it and they sense they earned it?

While writing this I suddenly remembered when I served as an associate pastor in a large church. The first week on the job I was assigned to record prayers for the phone ministry. The senior pastor wanted 2-minute messages, no more and no less. It had to be exact for some reason. While working one late night in a sound booth above the sanctuary I was tired and on my 10th try when I lost it and screamed “Dammit!” I stepped out of the booth around 11 pm thinking I finally nailed it and headed home. At the house I decided to call and listen to the prayer. It was near perfect until it ended with an emphatic “Dammit!” and I may have referred to Jesus somewhere in there. The church was a good 40-minute drive from my home and I made it in 25 but not before a distraught parishioner managed to call in for a much-needed prayer. The next day the senior pastor removed the responsibility for that particular task from my job description.

I think passionate pastors and lay leaders ought to be permitted to cut loose with profane exclamations occasionally inside their temples or at least on the patios. What if by suppressing the urges to vent the stress escalates, heart muscles are compromised a bit and the damage cuts off about one or two years of one’s life?

Could it be we’re built to swear at times and if we fail to express our fair share of expletives bad things can happen to our bodies? And what about the elderly who fall into dementia and wind up cussing like sailors in their final days? Perhaps the need to vent never leaves us; it just gets stuck in our stomach or brain for all time if we hold back.

Perhaps the above musings or rationalization will serve as a lead-in to a subsequent reflection…and then, maybe not.


 

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On Stealing Time Away From Masterpieces

by admin on June 20, 2011

Before getting into a relatively heavy piece on passion I need to make a confession on the subject. It’s a secret I’ve kept for sometime. If there are too many tourists out there like me security guards may have to find ways to bar us from entry to some pretty prestigious places. I just returned from brief trips to England, Scotland and Berlin where my wife and two couples urged me to join them on making several ABC tours; that would be Another Bloody Castle, Another Bloody Cathedral, Another Bloody Cemetery, and several ABMs. No, not those BMs, but Bloody Museums.

Here’s what I want to confess; I have a passion to connect with people and not places, with mortals and not museums, with persons and not paintings, with live beings and not dead ones. I don’t get turned on by traipsing through castle rooms and ancient cemeteries but I do get excited about the notion that I might bump into a live stranger who just may like to really talk and not chat; know what I mean? The Castles, Cathedrals and Cemeteries may be there for centuries but not those specific visitors. I’ve had a hidden agenda of trying to encounter at least one bloody stranger on every ABC and BM tour I’ve ever made. It’s a true passion of mine. It doesn’t always work because most tourists don’t desire to go where I want to take them, away from those awesome places for a bit, especially if they’re first-timers. I’ve had a guy tell me to bugger off but another chap thanked me for getting him out of the bloody place and away from his bloody group for a while.

A passion to connect with people in the now may not be one’s cup of tea but a passion to spend a grand or two traveling the world to bond with departed peoples has its limitations from my perspective.

I came across an article by a professor of philosophy of art who coined the expression “Looking in.” I believe that was the term. He maintained it’s possible to focus on a painting for an extended period of time and bond profoundly with the artist and/or the entire composition. I saw a woman rush out to have a cigaret after zoning in on a particular painting. Wow, how deep did she manage to look in? Do I want to mess with someone who might be in the midst of encountering intimately a famed painter within an ancient piece of art? Well, yeah! I make a do-or-die point of it. How many personal encounters are dead painters allowed over those standing by wanting and needing to bond with a bloody live viewer?

I’ll admit I’ve alienated a few lovers of art over the years by attempting to get their attention to strike up a dialogue in front of a masterpiece, especially when I’m bored out of my gourd. But my piece de resistance highpoint occurred when I hit pay-dirt with a tourist standing in the Sistine Chapel admiring Michelangelo’s awesome work. He was a first-timer who actually walked away from the icon for a while to run deep with me. Hey, I do what I gotta do. It was my one-and-only encounter with a stranger on that entire trip. Do you think the master painter would give a rip if he lost an admirer of his work to a live viewer once in a while if he were still around?

 

So, here’s to those who can turn an ABC visit into an ACE choice moment, Another Clever Encounter.

 

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GETTING ON TOP OF OUR AIR TRAVELS (composed while recovering from jet lag)

by admin on May 16, 2011

It was the worst of times…and it remained the worst of times. Stepping on board flight 270 in Newark bound for Oslo after a 6-hour layover and passing by first-class passengers settling into seats that turn into beds made me sleepy, envious and really irritable. And I’m pretty sure our Insula functions go a bit whacko just after take off. I doubt if the neuro experts have analyzed our deepest cranial urges at 38,000 feet. I know my compassion, fear and anger emissions can go haywire in flight and I’m sure those of most infants get scrambled. They have to wonder if their parents still love them. Some claim the screaming is due to inner ear pressure but I contend it’s caused by inner brain mis-fires. Just a hunch.

Comedian George Carlin had a great line regarding flight travel that went something like this “When someone tells you to get on a plane don’t do it; always try to get inside that sucker!” I use to love to fly but times have changed. We’ve blamed it on Bin Laden over the last decade and fuel costs in the last few years. I don’t recall the excitement of my first flight but I do believe it was more like getting on the sucker than getting inside it.

I can remember the time when a major earthquake hit while I was seated on a bench outside LAX waiting for a shuttle. When the pavement appeared to start rolling and the plate glass window behind me began to creak and crack I glanced at the woman on the other end. She looked startled but then she grinned and shrieked “Oh boy, this is my first one!” She was evidently getting on the quake instead of into it. Me, I’ve witnessed a few of them so I was not all that ecstatic to learn that power lines were down and the shuttle was grounded, so to speak. The shake made her day and messed up mine. If I were to miss the wedding I was scheduled to conduct the nuptial families would likely never forgive me if I had gone missing en-route.

While waiting in line for an on-board lavatory the occupant screamed bloody murder. There is nothing like one’s first explosive in-flight flush. After a long pause the door flew open, a wide-eyed woman stepped out, beamed and exclaimed excitedly “This is my first flight ever!” She was obviously still in the on-top mode, roller-coaster style. Give her time and she’ll join the rest of us inside. I probably felt my first ‘air’ flush exciting too but they continue to put a little fear in me and now they just piss me off. (Hey, it’s an expression the younger generation(s) think is totally appropriate, when we preferred ‘tick off.’ It’s just a matter of time until it appears in a Webster dictionary, and it seemed totally apropos given the context).

Air travel ain’t what it use to be. I recall the days when stewardesses tripped over a passenger’s foot and they would always apologize, “So sorry! ”Now flight attendants sternly warn you to keep your feet out of the aisle. And what about the old days when we had to reach for the service tray, now it can serve as a bib. The seats are so jammed tight I’m pretty sure I’ve felt the heartbeats of seat partners at times, and what about the leg room or lack of it? I often opted for the spacious exit seat areas, now they charge 50 bucks a pop for them. I can remember the times when pilots cracked a joke or two over the intercom. That’s when the crew were likely on top of the flight and not confined to the innards. And what about the carry-on luggage these days? They are now extra heavy and packed to the hilt. If one of those babies were to ever fall on a hapless passenger there is a chance it could result in some serious brain damage.

Here’s reminder of a past flight experience. It was a fun, over-the-top episode that happened just a few years ago on a Southwest airline. OK, I guess it was before Bin Laden messed with our sky travels. Evidently the cabin crew became aware that no one on board seemed to be in a business mode or asleep so an attendant announced that we could play some games and there would be gifts for the winners, mostly free drinks. She began by saying “Let’s have some fun; you people are looking a little bored. First we’re going to ask you to guess the accumulated ages of the crew members. Be kind.” We were. Then she said they were going to run a roll of toilet paper down the aisle and we had to guess how many squares there were. Thirty six. Finally, she asked those who had a good clean joke to come forward to tell it. I got me three great quips for sermons on that trip. They were always hard to come by. By the end of the games we were half way up the fuselage. I believe the co-pilot joined in on part of the party.

There ought to be a way to enjoy air travel without causing a crash. We can either strive to get on planes or tough it out and stay P O’ ed inside those suckers for the rest of our flight days.

 

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GROOMING OUR KIDS FOR EXTREME LOVING

by admin on May 7, 2011

“The absurd is born of the confrontation between the human call and the unreasonable silence of the world.” (Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus, 1942).

There is no way I’m going to cease musing over the lust theme and remain silent on the subject until I feel I’ve considered every aspect of those damned Insula functions, urges that are likely nudging us to respond to some form of universal human call. What if our deepest urges to bond unconditionally with beings and nonbeings emerge from an innate ‘neutral’ lust drive that doesn’t distinguish between the two entities? What if we are built to bond deeply with all mortals and the natural order but the urge to do so, the human call, can lead to…well…orgasms? What if it’s a natural, indiscriminate drive and we’ve only experienced fleet moments of unconditional compassion because we have been conditioned to suppress the pull of the human call given the potential consequences?

What if we have refrained from bonding intimately with strangers, neighbors, extended relatives, co-workers, pupils, teachers, et al, and the only reason we don’t is because we have been taught not to go there? Does the forewarning, and the need to repress those urges to bond unconditionally, have to do with the likelihood they will lead to chaotic sexual conduct? Is the suppression based on the fear of molestations or indiscriminate impregnations?

Oooh…and what if we have to rely upon lust emissions from the Insula to run deep with most anybody or any thing we meet? We would like to believe we have compartmentalized forms of lust inside that cranial organ, one for loving a cactus and one meant for a lover. But maybe not; what if our lust drive is destined for any kind of deep bonding and we have to monitor those irresistible pursuits but we’ve caved into an arbitrary outside judge that makes the call over what we innately possess?

About three days a week I view an advertisement of a tutorial program on the wall of a YMCA gym while working out on a particular weight machine. The poster portrays an elderly African-American man and a young Hispanic girl with book in hand smiling at each other. I was surprised and delighted by how intimate their bond seemed. I wondered if he engaged with his own kids or grandkids with that seemingly same glowing demeanor. But I’ll admit that I had a momentary outside judgmental thought of the two appearing to be a little too intimate. What if….? Fortunately or unfortunately my next brief reflection went right to the scary Insula workings that can possibly lead nice looking people astray. Was the tutor in complete control of his extreme faculties? Was he carefully and cautiously relying upon only on his forebrain notions with the child? Was there any part of his innate urges contributing to that encounter? And if there were tiny bits of lust in the connection would that be inappropriate if they did not lead to stronger emotions? Too much information here; ya think?

Maybe it’s ludicrous to even consider attempting to risk relating deeply in some societal venues. I once touched on this subject in a sermon in a service that had scores of public school teachers and a number of professors in attendance. I stated categorically at one point that school systems are devoid of any sort of deep bonding between pupils or teacher-to-student intimacy. I figured there might be some negative feedback from that accusation by educators present in the service. One gentleman rushed toward me after the service and bellowed “I’ve taught for over fifty years and I would say our school systems are bereft of any form of intimacy and that’s dead wrong!” He’s a highly regarded teacher who has published numerous books for schools systems across the country.

We assume that families generate the deep love bonds at home but I’m not sure parents are capable of loving at the depths of their beings within family units. It pains me to admit it but I believe the deepest of intimacy occurs when we not only engage with but enter into one’s Insula functions. I love my kids and grandkids dearly but I don’t think parents connect with their children’s deepest fears, anger, rage and/or lust feelings. We can provide for and even sacrifice to care for their physical and mental welfare and affirm them in their endeavors but when it comes to unreserved interaction with our children and youth the urges have to flow both ways and I doubt if we want to go there. That can mean therapists who counsel primarily out of their reasoned faculties are incapable of connecting with such profound levels unless they too are willing to go there. We may bond deeply as friends with our kids and grandkids but that differs from becoming enmeshed with each other’s base emotions.

So, what if ‘outsiders’ were allowed to bond profoundly with young people, our kids, within school systems? It would be necessary to monitor the encounters and maybe only allow single meetings with no follow-up but with the ability and permission to enter deeply into each other’s primal emotions. Maybe we are inherently designed to engage with all mortals at that level of human interaction.

Even if they could go there parents may not have the time or the inclination to plunge to those visceral depths with their brood. They’re stretched thin with their own work schedules and worries, and they do well just to keep up with the chauffeuring demands. During my ministry counseling years I observed that parents seldom had the energy to do any deep bonding with their children. They might keep thinking they would get to it but even within the ‘healthiest’ of families there may not be as much deep connecting going on as we might believe. Maybe the task is virtually impossible.

It might seem unfair to be denied the opportunity to bond unreservedly with our own offspring but we need to keep in mind they are called out by their human potential to run deep with mortals in their life journeys. Our tasks as parents are given to grooming them to meet the human call and not amass as much deep love as possible within our homes for the good of the order.

We may be genetically designed for risky loving in the outside world but we also might find that kind of compassion enriching and more natural than hoarding family love bonds. So the goal is not to strive for a family-first status but a world-first ranking. We rely upon our immediate families for moral and emotional support to be able to survive loving categorically a world that may not seem all that lovable.

“The world is hard to love, though we must love it because we have no other, and to fail to love it is not to exist at all.” (Mark Van Doren, Autobiography, 1958).

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Turning Green With Lust

by admin on May 2, 2011

“I am a man who has spent a great deal of his life on his knees, though not in prayer. I do not say this pridefully…I am a naturalist and a fossil hunter, and I have crawled most of the way through life. …In man, I know now, there is no such thing as wisdom. I have learned this with my face against the ground. It is a very difficult thing for man to grasp today, because of his power; yet in his brain there is really only a sort of universal marsh, spotted at intervals by quaking green islands representing the elusive stability of modern science – islands frequently gone as soon as glimpsed.”  (Loren Eiseley, anthropologist and author of The Star Thrower, 1978)

 

What if our deepest concern for the environment emerges from innate urges and we only catch fleet peeks of the ‘quaking green islands’ in our overly-used rational noggin? What if we’ve been inhibited by cultural or religious constraints from allowing those urges to surface? Is it possible we are getting hammered on the wrong part of our heads when it comes to caring about land, sea and sky? We might need to tap into our basic instincts and be driven by some form of lust before we can really give a rip about ecological matters.

 

Mustering enough compassion for the environment may be not unlike garnering sufficient empathy to sustain a prayer. Both efforts might be limited to mild, toned down forebrain sentiments. I want on this topic to try to make the case that mortals could be genetically designed to hunger for intimate connections with subhuman entities but possibly those instincts get suppressed. W.H. Auden, in the introduction to Eiseley’s publication, states that the anthropologist’s “numinous encounters are with non-human objects – a spider, the eye of a dead octopus, his own shepherd dog, a starving jackrabbit, a young fox. It is also clear that he is a deeply compassionate man who, in his own words, ‘loves the lost ones, the failures of the world.’” Did those mystical encounters match the unconditional compassion he felt for his loved ones? And how much distress did he undergo in the struggle to be present to both love worlds?

 

Over the last few weeks two narratives based on naturalists who struggled to strike a balance between their love for nature and devotion to home life caught my attention. A PBS segment on John Muir, the quintessential conservationist, revealed the fervor for his work in the wilderness and the intimate connection with a married female pen pal, and later his wife. His passion for engaging with the natural order was likely fueled by the intimate support but not without struggling to make a marriage work given the years he spent away from home.

 

The second account was that of an NP Radio interview with Phillip Connors, a fire watch employee. He has spent six months a year for the last 15 years alone in a lookout tower in a New Mexico forest and only sees his wife on the off months. “…if going into the wilderness is something he really needs to do; they’ll find a way to make it work. The quiet, self-reliant lifestyle speaks strongly of Connors, and he knows he needs to return each year.” (by NPR staff 04/23/11)

 

Loren Eiseley would spend years apart from his loved one when he ventured into remote wilderness regions. Not only that but he might climb a telephone pole near his home and spend four or five hours examining a spider spinning a web before dawn.

 

What’s with these people? What gets into them that stimulates such focus and commitment? Are they basically loners who love the solitude? Do they need to escape from mortals in order to tolerate life? Until I bumped into a couple of nature lovers three decades ago I would have guessed such dedicated naturalists were running from something but I’ve come to believe they’ve discovered how to be at one with creation in ways that are incomprehensible for most of us. And I think they have managed to tap into lust-like drives that keep them going back for more. We are expected to confine and preserve our deepest passions to home life. Lust is thought to be limited to sexual drives and confined to marital bonds.

 

Is there a place for lust when it comes to connecting with the natural order? While composing these thoughts/feelings I recalled an occasion thirty years ago when a colleague known for his reclusive lifestyle invited me to take a walk on the beach. I figured it would be on the order of a walk in the park, meaning we might hike a mile along the shore up and back, roundtrip! Oh no, it was not to be. I stumbled behind him for at least 6 miles… one way! We trudged over rocks and seaweed, and forded a few inlets along some of the most remote coastline of the Pacific. When we reached one particular secluded area he gracefully stepped out onto a few semi-submerged rocks, stood facing the ocean and shouted “This is the most beautiful, sensuous, all-consuming spiritual spot for me in all creation. I’ve never told anyone and you may not get what I’m going to confess but I always masturbate in this sacred space whenever I’m here.”

 

He was right. I didn’t comprehend what he had just admitted. I cringed thinking he was about to invite me to join him in such a ritual or he was going to do it right then and there. He remained in place for a few minutes, turned toward me fully clothed and remarked “We need to start back.” I was so relieved…no make that ‘exhausted,’ by then I asked him if we could climb up a nearby cliff and flag down a public bus.

 

Soon after the beach walk another colleague who also led a highly disciplined contemplative life felt the need to convey to me one day that he had bonded with a needle-infested 30-foot saguaro cactus in a remote area on the desert floor. I didn’t ask him how he did it. He too claimed he experienced an epiphany, a spiritual high that was astounding. So, one pal could have been arrested for his actions and the other might have been hospitalized for his.

 

I respected their devotional acts but I could not resonate with their spiritual breakthroughs. Over time I began to comprehend their seemingly bizarre acts when I came across the scientific findings of the Insula functions and learned of the negative influence Max Weber instilled in cultures a century ago regarding the place of lust in our lives. He was the noted sociologist who pointed out mortals had evolved to become a highly rational species and warned against the irrational drives we possess. It made sense in that time but the fear of denying our loved ones our deepest yearnings persist to this day.

 

We may not have tested our hunger for bonding intimately with the natural world to know what it might be like but if and when we do we need to be prepared for the strain that can emerge between our loved ones and those outside yearnings. Steven Pinker, in his book, The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature, contends “Family love indeed subverts the ideal of what we should feel for every soul in the world.” I would add that familial compassion can also undermine the ideal of what we should feel for the environment.

“We need the tonic of wilderness [and]…nature.”  Henry David Thoreau, Walden

 

 

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Praying From the Depths

by admin on April 25, 2011

OH, S–T, Was That A Prayer?

“The world is the sum-total of our vital possibilities”

Ortega y Gasset, The Revolt of the Masses, 1930

“O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!”

John Keats to Benjamin Bailey, 1817

Would it help if I were to hold back on relentlessly referring to the Insula emissions in my writings for a while and refrain from dealing with subjects other than unconditional loving and lusting? I truly intended to move on from those ardent cranial functions and come up with some fun stuff, lighter thoughts but for some reason I’ve received a bunch of requests lately from relatives and friends asking me to pray for a loved one or an acquaintance. They seem to think I’m some kind of specialist when it comes to praying and I have more time to offer them in my retirement. Well, as clergy I guess we ought to be pretty effective in that department but I had to wrestle with whether or not I should tell them how I pray. I never let it out during my active ministry years.

 

I came to the conclusion after praying for a couple of decades in a traditional way to a transcendent God to whom I was merely making referrals. It was on the order of pestering a Maker with such appeals as “OK, Lord, I’ve got four more people that need your attention. As I recall it was five yesterday. I’m pretty busy with stewardship campaigns and endless meetings but I’m sure it’s no problem for you to be there for them.”

 

You may have guessed I’m going to attempt to somehow tie Insula functions to prayer life. Have you thought about this? Do we pray mainly out of our forebrain faculties; that is, do we rely upon the rational part of our brain for that purpose? Are we merely imagining and thinking about those for whom we pray? How do our feelings become engaged in the plea? Do our Insula stirrings, our deepest emotions, cross over to the seat of our reasoning powers in those moments? Could it be we only get a small portion of the messy mid-brain sources that spill over into our thinking cap domain?

 

The frontal lobe is given to speech, reasoning, intellectual processing, memory and language. Is that all we need for our praying endeavors? My guess is when we pray for someone we start with our memory, reminding ourselves of the one who has asked us to pray unless we have a history of engaging with that person. So we may think about or use our mind to picture the one who asked for the prayer, or the one to whom it’s to be directed.

 

Do our Insula functions kick in and do we really want them to come forth in our prayers. Keep in mind they would be oozing out of the wellspring of our deepest feelings but maybe they are not appropriate functions for a prayer. Would we want the plea to be associated, for example, with unconditional compassion, fear, anger, rage, lust, eating sensations and orgasms, sentiments common to that weird mid-brain organ? Here’s the catch, the Insula evidently houses our main source of empathy, so how do we access it and possibly separate it out from the more fervent eruptions? Do we dare trigger those primal urges in our meditative moments? My hunch is we screen out the fiery stuff and go for a more cerebral approach when it comes to our praying.

 

Learning about how our brain works seems to just complicate things. It was a lot simpler in the old days of church life when we assumed all of our sincerest feelings emerge from the heart, that sweet appendage lodged in our chest that’s known to shoot love arrows into the hearts of others.

 

Maybe we would do better in our prayer life if we risked releasing some of our deeper emotions. What if anger or sheer rage belongs within a prayer over a still born baby, for example? I recall a time when the moment a premature baby was pronounced dead in the IC unit the mother looked across at me and screamed angrily “Well, godammit, pray or do something, REV-ER-END!” When parishioners use three syllables to get the title out you know you’re in trouble. I had dipped into primal stuff in that moment and was experiencing too much fear, anger and frustration to emit a prayer. I truly wanted to simply shout right then and there “Oh shit!” The volatile expression would be coming from that piece of my brain that emits the most honest and forceful sentiments we mortals possess.

 

How can a preacher stand there over a dead baby and launch into a prayer for mom that flows mostly from his reasoned faculties? The petition might sound nice and seem necessary but maybe it is so unreal in the moment and dishonest that it’s not all that helpful. As a pastor in that situation I felt some responsibility to and empathy for the mother so a sudden exclamation like “Oh shit!” would suggest the expression was boiling up from the depths of my Insula, from the bowels, the guts of who I am at the core of my existence. It would not necessarily have implied I was angered by and cursing at the Almighty for not being helpful in the moment but that my innate primal energies were not enough to meet the crisis. The exclamation was not in the form of an “Ah, shit!” but a definite “Oh, shit!” The former shriek might be meant for an absentee Landlord while the latter could refer to one’s own finite makeup.

 

I think surgeons who lose a patient on an operating table are more inclined to mutter “Oh shit” than “Oh God” at those times. If they had felt some empathy for the patient before the operation and responsibility for keeping him or her alive the Insula urges would have been activated.

 

When commercial planes are headed for a crash the last words expressed by pilots and co-pilots recorded on the retrieved black boxes are more often than not screams of “Oh shit!” whether they are uttered by believers or non-believers. Why? My hunch is their feelings in those final moments have to do with the responsibility to and empathy for their crew members and passengers. Compassion toward familiar crew members would be more compelling of course. We may have been created to live that way. It’s an instinctual gesture and thank god we have it in us to go there.

 

A best friend and colleague left a message on my cell a couple of years ago confessing he was going to take his life. When I was not able to get to him before he shot himself I did it again, I screamed “Oh shit!”  I wondered afterward why it would not have been “Oh God.” It struck me that I had not thought of the grand Creator in that instant. It would likely come later. My angst had to do with the fact I and others were not able to use our vital abilities to keep him from doing himself in. I’m not living with as much guilt as I am frustration for not being able to engage our Insulas in a way that would have perhaps generated some combined synergy that may have made a difference in his life. This line of reasoning or feeling is pretty audacious but obviously I feel strongly that we beings have more untapped sources in us than we could ever imagine.

 

I began to sense such presumptuous inklings in me about 30 years ago. An elderly church member called me from her ICU room and asked if I would visit a young, single parent father and child in the room next to hers. She had overheard that the 5-year-old daughter was not expected to live through the night. Any ICU visits can be tough but cold calls on strangers can be rather terrifying. When I stepped into the room and introduced myself as a pastor the young father let me know he was not into church or prayer. He claimed to be a ‘stubborn scientist.’

 

It was a situation that allowed me to go for broke by testing a theory I had about prayer life and convincing him and myself that mortals can possess and produce vital healing powers on occasion. I told him I would be not only thinking about him through most of the night but attempting to sense what he and his child were up against. I would not be lifting up prayers asking for help from the Almighty on high. I had a child near that age so my empathy had already been sparked. I could feel that his agony and love for his child had to be off the compassion charts. I told him I would be focusing on their synergy and my energy about every hour.

 

Here’s the audacious part; I pressed him to believe there is a ‘pulling power’ in such situations involving patients in full or semi-comas. They can on occasion be coaxed back to life.

 

“What!” he muttered softly. “What do you mean by ‘pulling power? I’ve never heard of that.”

 

“Neither have I.” He had to think I was nuts but he was desperate. “Look,” I assured him “there is often a gray area between life and death and perhaps your energy force can impact that demarcation zone. Just keep talking to her, urging her to come around and don’t let up on it. Try to stay focused and so will I.”

 

I assumed he was going to tell me to leave but he thanked me in the spirit of a good scientist who had just been given a lab assignment.

 

When I stepped into the room early in the morning the child was sitting up chatting with her father. The nurse announced that Olivia had turned an astounding corner. The father jumped up and greeted me with “Isn’t it a miracle, preacher, the medicine must have finally worked.” Sentiments of a confirmed scientist, but I was still not quite sure the ‘pulling back’ theory was valid at the time. I also figured I was probably dealing with a run-away ego. In the light of day the notion that we have within us the potential to charm beings back to life was incomprehensible to me in that situation. I was willing to concede the scientists in the lab were the miracle workers together with some help from a grand Architect when it came to bringing back patients from near death.

 

Some 20 years later I witnessed how close we can come to that delineation zone on the other end of life. While making a hospital call on a close colleague and friend I learned he would not live through the night. He was in a mild coma, unable to speak but capable of feebly gripping his wife’s hand. He was obviously in severe pain. She finally grabbed his hand and asked him to squeeze hers if he was 8 on a pain scale of 10. He was. “Is it above 10?” It was. “Is it beyond 12?” His grip was firm. Tears streamed down her face as she urged him to let go. The heart monitor portrayed a flat-line within a matter of five minutes. We may have incredible resources residing in us for affecting life on either side of the spectrum.

 

Maybe I need to return to a positive account, so, back to the ‘pulling power.’ Bob Woodruff, the co-anchor who succeeded Peter Jennings, was on assignment in Iraq when he sustained shrapnel wounds and underwent surgery for a head injury. He was not expected to live and there was a chance he would not make it through his month-long medically-induced coma. I learned second-hand and can’t confirm it but I understand Bruce Springstein, the singer and a friend of Woodruff, told his wife to convey to her husband that when he comes through a special song will be awaiting him. When he did emerge from the coma he immediately feigned strumming a guitar. He was unable to remember family names or what had happened to him at the time but that promise may have played a part in bringing him back.

 

Rembrandt was known for seeing the world of his day more clearly and had a greater insight than many of his contemporaries in the 17th century. I wonder if he might have had a different take on near-death matters. OK, this is a humongous stretch, but after viewing that magnificent piece of art it struck me the prophet may have urged Lazarus’ loved ones and friends to bring him out of what could have been a 4-day coma. I happened to notice, or more precisely, I wanted to detect that the droopy eyes of the near-deceased brother were directed toward his family member and friends and not Jesus in that rendering. Was the prophet urging the bystanders to pull him back from the abyss?

 

 

 

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Dealing With the Topic of Lust in Temples

by admin on April 18, 2011

If my mother were alive today she would likely ask “Why O why did you choose to co-lead a church men’s retreat on the subject of lust?” And I would have to admit “Well, mom, it probably had something to do with having sat down at a table comprised of six rather attractive women in their thirties at a wedding reception in San Diego three years ago. It was the only available seat in the hall, honest. We chatted for about ten minutes when I decided to interrupt the inane prattle that often permeate receptions with a blunt question. ‘What are you watching on TV these days?’”

 

The stark inquiry was met with silence for a minute or so. I heard one dinner partner whisper to another “Do we have to tell him. My God, he’s a preacher!” They remained quiet so I asked “Do you watch ‘Sex in the City?’ Finally an answer came from one who turned out to be a new mother. “Nah, it doesn’t do it for me.” More silence.

 

“Then what do you watch?”

 

“Alright, I’ll tell you” the new mommy sputtered “most of us watch ‘Desperate Housewives’ and ‘Gray’s Anatomy.’”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, for me ‘Desperate Housewives” touches on the kind of stuff I wrestle with almost daily; raising kids, housekeeping, outside jobs, love, anger and rage.”

 

“Does it allude to anything else that is helpful?”

 

“Well, if you must know, yes, it gets at pure lust.”

 

There were several nods to the affirmative on that note.

 

“Well,” I badgered one more time, “what does “Gray’s Anatomy” do for you all?”

 

A young woman on the far end of the table smiled and admitted “It deals with more lust!”

 

A dinner partner seated next to me quipped “Are going to report us?”

 

“OK, I want the names of your pastors and priests and I want them now!” Some nervous laughter ensued.

 

That evening I visited a widow in her mid-80s, a member of my former church. After some catching up on church news I thought, what the heck, and asked “What are you watching on TV these days?”

 

She blushed, changed the subject and continued to talk church. I pressed again “What about your TV watching?”

 

She was reluctant to let it out. Finally she dropped her head and confessed. I watch ‘Gray’s Anatomy,’ ‘Desperate Housewives,’ ‘Two-and-a-Half Men’ and not much else.”

 

I just had to ask “Why?”

 

She grinned and half-jokingly replied “None of your business, Pastor.”

 

It turned out she agreed with most of the perceptions of the six young women whom I had pestered that afternoon.

 

I’ve always assumed women talk to each other about what they might watch and read, and why. But men, well I don’t ever recall guys getting together to discuss urges such as anger, fear and lust. OK, maybe ire and dread but not the latter instinct. Then I thought, why not. What would it be like to bring together some testosterone-generating types to at least consider the subject? Right off, I imagined someone else leading the discussion. I also assumed there would be some soul-baring in the process.

 

Why has lust remained an unmentionable topic for discussion within congregations? Is it too unmanageable, too misunderstood, too explosive, too scary, too dangerous to pursue? Is it because our religious leaders are not trained to tackle such matters? Are clergy or lay leaders incapable of comprehending fully or partially their own erotic drives? I ran the idea by a few men who’ve been a part the men’s retreat I’ve co-led over the past three years and they approved of the idea.

 

The courageous pastor/co-leader, Dr. Dave Summers, had this to say about the retreat experience “I was hoping we could create a safe place for conversation on a topic that is virtually never broached in church. I think most were taking tentative steps in our conversation, trying to step into a place of honesty but with caution, modesty and undoubtedly some trepidation. We had a few brave souls who shared their rites of passage, but along with their courage seemed to need an immense dose of grace and forgiveness for moments of sexual exploration gone awry.

“I’m certain we scratched the surface of the proverbial iceberg but I have only picked up positive comments from those who attended the retreat.” Dave felt we gave them “a measure of honesty, possibility and acceptance that is rarely known in the church on this subject. The sociologist in me wishes we had done an anonymous survey at some time about their secrets. We would find much, I’m sure! Still reveling in the great weekend!”

 

I doubt if I would have led such a retreat on my own. The pastor has not only backed me on the retreats in which I dealt with primal feelings on unconditional love and rage but he urged participants to dig into some of the most erotic material in the scriptures on this theme. Some blushed while reading from the Song of Solomon. It was great grist for the mill.

 

I don’t recall preparing a sermon or presentation that caused me to fear someone might stand up to tell me to sit down as I did on this assignment. While composing the lectures for the event I came across a quote by Ralph Keyes that helped me stay the course. He maintains that “Writers choose the most dangerous path of all: the one that leads inward, into the unmapped caverns of their secret selves. How daring can you get? ‘I love all men who dive!’’ said Melville…” (The Writer’s Book of Hope).

 

I felt a little more daring than dumb and that also helped a great deal.

 

Young people have had their libidos heightened big time in our culture through bombardments of erotic images and scenes portrayed in advertising, television, novels and films. As far as I know faith communities have not stepped up to address honestly and directly the lust drives of members of any age.

 

A middle-aged church member, Jim Jeffries, who served for years as a counselor for the youth programs in his church and taught literature in a high school had this to say about the subject. “This is an issue for us all, and despite having ramifications for us all till we meet our maker, has for the most part been placed into the hands of children’s ministries and youth programs to guide young church members as they explore sexuality. How effective those programs are, is hard to measure. However, it seems from my perspective, that those early ‘gropings’ were the end of any ‘help’ with the changing nature of our sexuality. This sort of “sexual laissez faire” attitude is the norm since the subject requires much wisdom and courage to teach in our churches that inhabit a world of absolutes and simplistic thinking.

 

Jim goes on to suggest “The church leaves us to our own life-long groping or using WWJD bracelets for a reminder of something, as we try to figure sexuality out at different times in our lives. Maybe the church should leave us on our own and only seems to leave us on our own; but the reality, I am sure, is that the church is very much involved in helping members through private counseling that discusses sexuality.  Nevertheless, I wonder could some of those ‘messy’ consequences of ignorance about sexuality have been dealt with in a more proactive way through the church community? I think so.”

 

A friend and colleague, Rev. Hobart Hildyard, had this to say about the lack of involvement with the issue. He wrote “The subject is known intimately to every one of us, but never expressed.  It has nuances for each individual.  It begins in childhood, and continues all the way to residency in dementia care units.  I observed the sexual tension among residents at a nursing home where my spouse had been residing. We talked about it in our Alzheimer’s support group, but of course never about our own.”

 

How difficult can it be to wrestle candidly with our own personal sexual desires in a church setting? Well, we tried our best at the men’s retreat to deal frankly with the subject of lust but it was not easy to divulge our own feelings regarding our sexual urges. I guess we could have attempted to get a show of hands on who is watching pornography, or who is having trouble restraining themselves in the lust department. We didn’t ask for flat-out admissions from the participants or the pastors. The small group dialogue, which was focused on sentiments that most of us had never volunteered to even discuss up until those moments, was cautiously and carefully couched in the third-person mode. That’s about as daring as it got but it was a big step for many of the members. A few men managed to open up one-on-one with participants outside the meetings.

 

How do we assess the positive side of lust or stimulation or arousal? We can start by recognizing it’s an innate drive that leads us to coitus and procreation. We can’t call that bad but it has been considered by many religious orders all-out wrong and dangerous outside wedlock.

 

What about fantasies and dreams apart from observing lewd pictures? Are those natural urges that need to be suppressed or appreciated? What if it is necessary for middle-aged and elderly men to imagine or view lewd scenarios to be stimulated to the point of needing or wanting to have sex with their spouses or partners? What if it’s a way to reenergize or jump-start hormonal systems?

 

Is mild lust permissible or should we repress those feelings? For example, what about viewing women’s volleyball? Is that an inappropriate pastime for guys? Can we view such alluring images and remain a proper member of a congregation?

 

I’ve felt compelled to watch bikini-clad, lotion-soaked volley-ballers who play on Venice beaches given I attended Venice High School. I stay loyal to my hometown games. And it seems only fitting to watch such televised U.S. games in my wife’s home town in Norway. I figured it was an international event that brought world citizens together. OK, I’m scrambling now to rationalize why I may overdose on one-gender volleyball games.

 

Where and when do guys cross the line on such scenic activity? Is it when we fantasize having sex with one of those beauties? When we feel aroused? When we compare them to our spouses? When we focus too intensely? When we realize we’ve watched a dozen games in one sitting? When we become addicted to the point of not remembering we have a lover in our midst? And do we devalue those whom we watch by objectifying them. If we do get aroused do we admit it to others? Well, it depends on whom? Do we reveal it to a loved one, therapist, pastor, our parents, our pals?

I sent out the Volleyball scenario to several colleagues to get their responses for our theme. One recipient in his mid-to-late 80s called and left a message thanking me for the material. I called the next day and his wife answered the phone. I figured he was the only one in the house receiving my drafts. She said, “I read your volleyball account;” When she paused I panicked. Then she stated that it reminded her of a book she read in which the author tells about the time he was sitting on a beach with his wife when a beautiful woman in a tiny bikini walked close by. The author claimed the arousal he experienced got focused on his spouse. My friend’s wife then asked if I thought that might happen more than we know. I was too stunned by her frank recollection to think straight. I just muttered “I’m not sure.”

Is lust primarily meant for moving mortals toward procreation? Is it a human instinct designed to ready beings for coitus and not a source of emotion meant for other purposes? And if so, how have we managed to overcome or get around that innate urge? Not well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hanging On to Some Dangerous Discipling

by admin on March 22, 2011

In about my second year of seminary I learned enough about John Wesley’s demands upon his followers to cause me to wonder whether or not I could truly qualify to be a Methodist. Years later I came across a graphic account of why I had felt that way. A biographer of John Wesley describes what it might have been like to follow the founder’s lead in his day. He states “It is a proof of the irresistible vitality of the Methodist movement, that neither danger, violence, nor intimidation had the slightest effect upon its advance. The number of people who were frightened away from Methodism was exceedingly small; the number of those who were gained by the Methodist example of courage . . . and above all by the superb coolness of Wesley himself, was exceedingly great.” (John Wesley, C.E. Vulliamy)

When I was asked to offer my views on the meaning of Discipleship in the United Methodist Church my mind went right to that quote. Evidently the kind of discipleship Wesley had in mind could not promise safe passage for his followers. I recall being around some bold Methodists who were willing to sign on for such hazardous duty. Before I graduated from seminary a few of my classmates were jeopardizing their physical welfare by volunteering to be present on or near the front lines during the Watts Riots in Los Angeles. Professors and students dared to enter into harm’s way by marching with Martin Luther King. A few were jailed for their actions. A seminary student was sent to South Africa to learn from and engage with clergy risking their lives while protesting against the government over the Apartheid stronghold. I bumped into a Methodist missionary in those years who was on leave after having risked his life, and was nearly killed, shuttling Congolese Methodists across a border during a rebellion. He planned to return to the Congo to continue his ministry. When I asked why he replied “Why not?” My guess is if he were still around and able he would be on his way to Libya to offer his services.

During my first church appointment we lived next door to an Episcopalian priest who had confronted the Los Angeles County Sheriff for allowing police to brutalize Hispanics and gays while being apprehended. An unmarked car with plain clothes officials kept a vigil for months in front of his house. On an evening when they were not present his home was riddled with bullets. Father John managed to live through those harrowing years. I asked him if he thought he might have some John Wesley blood in him. He smiled and uttered “I just might.”

I kept thinking where and when I might earn my stripes as a Methodist. Some of the fear I experienced early on during my Skid Row chaplaincy stint was tough but that angst diminished after a few weeks. While serving as a campus minister during the Vietnam years we provided draft counseling for those interested in signing on for Conscientious Objector status. We were vilified by church members and the campus community. I never received a death threat but I was spat upon by a few irate citizens who disagreed with our ministry. I figured it was all part of being a disciple of Christ in the spirit of Methodism.

When I became a pastor of a local church the daring part of ministry began to subside. It was also about the time we had two children born into our lives. The congregation took on some justice issues related to seniors in the secular community in the vicinity of our church but there was very little if any ‘danger, violence, nor intimidation” Villiamy alludes to among Wesley’s followers in the 18 century.

Do we Methodists have to be threatened, hassled, harangued or hanged to be eligible to be a follower of Wesley these days? Robert Hutchins, a gutsy educator, claims “A civilization in which there is not a continuous controversy about important issues.is on the way to totalitarianism and death.” (University of Utopia, 1953). Maybe denominations can spiral into demise by staying out of controversial waters. Perhaps we have not been curious or furious enough over issues; maybe we have stifled our truest convictions.

Frankly, just by merely being a pastor of a local church I often felt hassled and harangued. In my later years in active ministry I was scrambling just to keep up with the responsibilities of increasing the attendance, membership, and hanging on financially. I felt I succeeded by just keeping the buildings up, making endless pastoral calls, conducting countless weddings and memorial services, attending never-ending congregational, district and conference meetings, and trying to have a home life. And, by the way, Wesley didn’t have kids nor did he have much of a marriage and don’t think I didn’t keep that in mind throughout my tenure.

But.but, I’ll have to confess that the terrifying moments of ministry kept me hanging on during the times I felt our churches were mostly caught up in providing safe havens for their members. I’ve been shaped deeply by my parishioners and colleagues whether through beyond-local-church ministries or inside my congregations. I just wish I could have witnessed a bit more boldness and courage among our laity and clergy.including me.

We need to keep in mind, especially in this time of institutional decline, that “the number of people who were frightened away from Methodism was exceedingly small; the number of those who were gained by the Methodist example of courage.was exceedingly great.”

At my age now I take some comfort in the sentiments of Seneca. He admitted that “Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.” (Letters to Lucilius. Ca. 60).

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