Healthcare, SCOTUS, & Playing Nice

The administration of healthcare is a nightmare of complexity in our nation.  We all should be able to agree on that, at least. It’s an issue that is easy to passionately hold forth upon when one is alone with a computer screen, but when looking into the eyes of a human being with a severe illness and dire circumstances, some of the starch tends to run out of us.  At least I hope it does.

Those of us who have passionate convictions regarding the economic and governmental principles that should govern decisions about healthcare should take care, however, in our public responses to yesterday’s SCOTUS ruling. Whatever decisions may be made regarding the future disposition of the issue of universal coverage, there will most certainly be unintended consequences, so some humility is in order from both sides.  What we post online is likely to be retweeted and reposted, shared and re-shared, because everyone is examining responses to the ruling. 

To my friends who are not believers, I say, “Be nice. Venom does not further productive debate.” For my believing friends, let us all start each discussion and debate with an admonition from Colossians 4:5-6, "Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone." (NIV) I am taking the verse somewhat out of context, I realize; however, it’s useful to remember when our conversation is taking place in an e-fishbowl, that our every interaction represents something, and Someone, greater than ourselves. After all, the future of the kingdom does not depend on US domestic policy.

And finally and purely personally, I’d like to just add that people who have never had a moment’s self-doubt scare me most of all, regardless of their political convictions. If we enact our ideal choice of legislation regarding this issue today, chances are that the greatest long-term consequences for our nation will come home to roost a generation or two after we are dead. So we’ll never really know if it was the best decision or not, will we?

Pantsuits, Jim Crow, and the Head that Wears the Crown

My father once admonished, “Be not the first by which the new is tried, nor the last to put the old aside.”  At thirteen, in 1973, I saw no wisdom in his explanation of why I could not wear pants instead of a dress to church, at a time when most things, including fashion, were rapidly changing for women. Dad was not generally one to defend tradition for tradition’s sake, but he was an elder in our conservative church.  For him, there were other considerations -- larger, institutional implications that took precedence over my desire to wear a “pantsuit” for worship.  Then came the day of the rare Alabama snowstorm.  Of course, young ladies couldn’t be expected to wear dresses to brave the elements, at some peril, to attend worship – and the taboo fell on that sparsely-attended Sunday morning.  And so change sometimes happens quickly, despite opposition. But sometimes not.

My father was the superintendent of education who implemented a desegregation plan in the Florence, Alabama, city schools. I recall seemingly endless weeks of tense phone calls and late-night meetings, after which he would come home and stay up long into the night, drinking coffee, taking more calls, smoking, and considering his response to the latest incident. He met with groups of African American parents, spoke at African American churches, pacified groups of white parents, advocated for the plan to the press and to neighborhood groups.  And there were threats.  At the instruction of the police, Dad wore a shoulder holster with a 38-caliber revolver under his suit, especially when he was in his office or a school building at night. A plastic bag in my dresser drawer contains a bullet that was fired at our house one night by some faceless racist who couldn't stand the change that was coming.

This week’s Arkansas Times cover photo is of Dr. George Benson, one of the early administrators of my alma mater, then called Harding College, with the headline “HARDING and the AMERICAN WAY – How a College President Stifled Desegregation.”  The headline, overprinted on a black-and-white image of Dr. Benson, jumped at me from a newspaper box at a Conway diner where I eat breakfast occasionally.  The article recounted a 1958 petition by students and faculty in support of integration.  The writer detailed Dr. Benson’s initial opposition to integration, using Benson's own notes to reconstruct his remarks to the student body. I was fascinated to read the signatures on the photograph of the petition; I was pleased and proud to recognize many names on it. Dr. Benson finally announced that Harding would integrate in 1963.

When my sister, a Harding student, married in 1976, two African American friends were attendants in her wedding, so it never occurred to me when I arrived in 1978 that it had not been long since the campus was integrated. There were any number of African American students, and interracial dating on campus. A few years ago, however, when my eleventh grade history students investigated positions on integration among various church denominations, we learned that the subject of race had been complex, contentious and divisive for many churches and related organizations and colleges.

Now – indulge me - back to the pants issue.  Let me be clear, the question of whether to accept women wearing pants to church was in no way substantively equivalent to the question of whether to include as equals in the pew, or the classroom, those whom God includes as equal in the kingdom. But contrast the kingdom with the visible church: administered as it is by fallen humans with preferences and prejudices and petty insecurities that inevitably we bring into the earthly institutions that align their mission with God’s.  Heaven help us.  My father’s response to the trouser question did have this in common with Dr. Benson's: he felt that while he was a watchman on the wall, change would not be sudden, lest it be seen as capricious. Small comfort that was to a black student whose identity was trivialized and marginalized by Jim Crow, but I believe Dad’s reasoning is relevant to this conversation.

I don't defend the indefensible when it comes to any stance against integration.  My students know that I see those who make racist comments, or who romanticize the Old South with its forced labor economy, as the kindred of those who would have tried to hurt my father back when he was integrating that school district so long ago. But part of the job of a history teacher is to caution students against judging figures from the past by the standards of the present.  We may read the documentary evidence, learn about their lives, and discuss them in the context of a greater stream of culture.  We must certainly at some level make moral judgments about their actions – but they were of their time and we are of ours. Each generation has enough for which to be accountable without inserting contemporary sensibilities into the mind of someone from the past.  It’s presumptuous.

“Be not the first by which the new is tried, nor the last to put the old aside,” may seem a recipe for mediocrity -- one that doesn’t appropriately value innovation and clings to tired ideas, or even wrongheaded ones.  It's an expression more rooted in practicality than moral ideals. We prefer to believe our leaders would, on moral issues, act without fear of consequence or reprisal, but the Arkansas Times article illustrated what has always been true: the very young can well afford to be the reckless idealists among us precisely because they are not yet responsible for our institutions. The world needs the passionate vision of young people because they still see the world with a clarity unobstructed by the pragmatic considerations that might lead an older, more powerful man to compromise something important. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown," or words to that effect.

One last personal story: when that same man who held me back from the precipice of "slacks" at worship was young himself and had just arrived back from the war, he became the principal at the tiny school at Williford, Arkansas.  In 1951, he scheduled an exhibition basketball game between his all-white team and an all-black team.  When word got out, he was summoned to Little Rock by the director of the somewhat formidable arbiter of student extracurriculars, the Arkansas Activities Association -- where Dad was informed that he could only play teams “who were members of the all-white AAA or an equivalent association,” and the AAA definitely did not consider the black association equivalent. Dad said he thanked the man and went back to Williford and played the team anyway.  He was young then, and didn't know all the institutional considerations that were at stake, perhaps.

Dr. Benson acted much as many other men of his time who were charged with the protection and growth of institutions both large and small, from churches to country clubs to the armed forces -- he hesitated and resisted doing what was right on this issue out of fear of unpredictable consequences to the organization. Any number of progressive reformers of our nation's government, such as FDR,  likewise did not run quickly to full integration without reservation. They considered both advantageous timing and political fallout.  History is rife with examples of overt racism on the part of twentieth century American leaders, both secular and religious, who otherwise were admirable.  It’s a fact we should neither sweep under the rug nor rationalize. It’s a great tragedy of human history that segregation was played out in our nation long after the Civil War, with the blessing of our churches, and that Jim Crow was given aid and comfort by the highest court in the land. The story of the United States has always been a tale of a circuitous journey toward the ideals of the Declaration: a collective journey toward sanctification, if you will, by a host of the fallen.  

Black Flower in the White House

Condoleezza Rice spoke at Harding University last night. It was a delightful evening for the friendly, mostly Republican crowd. She expressed  gracious appreciation to the Concert Choir's performance, offered some reflections on diplomacy and governance in the post 9/11 world, and continued with some thoughts about the future of our country. She believes that our lack of success at providing effective education for our most at-risk young people may be our greatest national security risk.  She referred to her own past as a black youngster growing up in the "most segregated city in the United States" (Birmingham), and recalled that her ancestors were considered three-fifths of a person.  She used historic touchstones throughout the presentation to put current events into perspective. She is completely aware of our challenges, yet she is optimistic about the United States of America. She was self-possessed, easy, and polished. Afterward, she took some questions.

A student asked about reports that Muammar Gaddafi had a crush on her. Although no doubt she has told the story many times before, she still seemed to have an appropriately dignified yet girlish twinkle as she recounted it.

After the dismantling of the Soviet bloc, evil dictator and sponsor of terrorism and anti-American activities Gaddafi began to realize that the world was changing, and he became interested in repairing his reputation with the West. After Libya satisfied some specific requirements, the United States granted the formerly diplomatically-isolated country a visit from Secretary Rice.

When word got out that Secretary Rice was going to Libya, she began to receive calls from foreign ministers -- sort of the international diplomacy equivalent of  "Yo, Condi, you do know he has a thing for you, don't you?" Somewhat taken aback, Secretary Rice made the planned visit, which went completely according to protocol, right up until the end, when Muammar Gaddafi made his move. Imagine...

"Madame Secretary, I have a gift for you..."

"Really, General?"

"Yes.  It is a video that I made...especially for you."

"...oh...a...video, you say?"

"Yes.  Let me play it for you..."

I can only imagine her discomfiture at having to screen a video custom-made by her evil dictator/terrorist sponsor/stalker host, however, I have no doubt she did it with poise. The video turned out to be a montage of clips of her with heads of state and foreign ministers from all over the world. The kicker, however, was the soundtrack -- a song written at Gaddafi's behest by one of the premier composers of Libya. It was entitled, "Black Flower in the White House." No joke.

Condoleezza Rice has impeccable academic credentials, an impressive resume, and as the presidential campaign continues to develop, her name is mentioned frequently regarding a future either as a vice-presidential candidate or cabinet post. What is remarkable is that after last night, I felt like perhaps she might also be a pretty good friend. Someone a woman could go to lunch with, and discuss not only her work and her family,  but perhaps have a laugh at her authoritarian dictator-stalker-guy. I really liked her.

I think Gaddafi was probably right. She totally deserved the creepy honor he tried to pay her. I say let's get the Black Flower back to the White House again. Condoleezza Rice for Secretary of Education.

Lamb of God

She always sits on the last pew – right on the aisle. She wandered into our midst from some run-down rental property downtown, looking as if she were in need – of some basic hygiene instruction, perhaps of some medical care, perhaps even a case worker. She wandered in, as many people do in our downtown church neighborhood; they come in need of a bus ticket or a meal or with broken down cars. Many times, they come less to meet a spiritual need than a physical one, but they come nonetheless and we try to minister to those needs. They come bringing invisible baggage, and leave with -- "a cup of water," as it were. And then, usually, they move on.

Her social skills were childlike. She spoke much, much too loudly. If she were sitting alone and a thought occurred, she might speak it out into the air, as if hoping someone would seize her thread of thought and engage. Many people gave her polite nods; many knew her by first name only; some avoided her completely, passing by on the other aisle. She was odd, after all.

She began to attend almost every function at church, especially the potlucks. She would stay behind to help clean up, making sure people knew she was available when any leftover food was parceled out. “I sure could use that for my lunch tomorrow,” she would say too loudly. She frequently left with a container full of one thing or another.

At church this morning I sat in back, because I needed to leave a few minutes early. The congregation of 500 where I worship sings without instrumentation, and I usually like to find a sweet spot - close enough to the front to be able to follow the song director without lagging behind, but not so close that my eyes cross trying to read the screen, so I was a little annoyed at my seating arrangements going into the service today. The service began, and the director lead Twila Paris’ “Lamb of God.” And then I heard it from over my shoulder. It was an unpleasant, harsh sound which drowned the beautiful harmonies of the song, to which her singing bore only a vague similarity. It was almost comical, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think with that right behind me. This would get old by the end of the service...I wished I had sat somewhere else. I completely stopped singing; I couldn’t find my note over that noise anyway.

Your only Son no sin to hide
But You have sent Him from Your side
To walk upon this guilty sod,
And to become the Lamb of God.

She painstakingly sang each and every word far too loudly, as a preschooler might sing. It was an innocent, awful, ernest rendition.

Your gift of Love they crucified
They laughed, and scorned him as he died.
The humble King they named a fraud,
And sacrificed the Lamb of God.

She continued without missing a beat, visibly concentrating on the screen, unaware that her dissonance might be a distraction to the worship of others. I heard each word for the first time in a long time.

Oh Lamb of God, sweet Lamb of God --
I love the Holy Lamb of God;
Oh wash me in His precious Blood
My Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

I was so lost I should have died
But You have brought me to Your side
To be led by Your staff and rod
And to be called a lamb of God.

Oblivious to the appraisal of those around her, she drew me reluctantly and ashamed to a gift of worship this morning. I was reminded of Isaiah 64:6, “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” She reminded me that Christ longs for each one of us -- poorly dressed and dirty, whatever infects or infests us. No refinement or wisdom or pedigree or eloquence or elegance impresses him –- the holy one needs nothing from me. He benefits not at all from the beauty of my performance, from the appropriateness of my clothing, from the insightfulness of my presentation, from the tightness of our harmonies. We each come to him the same way -- helpless and hopeless in sin. But he cleanses and heals and nourishes and offers peace and reconciliation, and when it is all said and done he sees us, each one, as holy and blameless, and as worthy. Then he takes even “the least of these,” and empowers us to minister to those around us, as she did for me today, to his glory.

Thank you, sister.

Raise Your Voice

Tonight was singing night.

The first Sunday evening of every month, the assembly at my church begins with a succession of little ones each taking the podium (that is, standing on a box behind the communion table) and leading the entire congregation in a song of their choice, starting with the youngest and progressing roughly according to age. After all, Jesus said, "Suffer the little ones to come unto me," and under the "decency and order" clause, we figure height is as good an organizational tool as any. Tonight, four-year-old Reece led the charge. Usually he announces "one t'ousand fort-teen" or something similar, and launches into the melody, counting on the faithful to follow along.

During the first seconds of each song, the air is close with anticipation, as we all root silently for the kid to make the song happen. If the tiny song leader falters, some parent from a pew will seize upon a key that is singable and bear down loudly until the congregation picks it up and falls in line. Occasionally if the young song leader pitches the song too low, we rewrite the entire arrangement on the fly; the basses sing the melody and the sopranos do high harmony, so the parts all get sung. One thing about a cappella church music is that the arrangements are usually stacked with moving parts and echoes or countermelodies, and it just doesn't work unless someone gets about the business of filling in the blanks -- so we do. "No part left behind,"as it were,  to support the youngster who is up there staring down the faithful and leading the praise.

What will Reece remember about these nights, I wonder?  Will he remember the carpet on the box he stands on, the nicks and scratches on the black trim of the communion table, the smell of the foam that covers the microphone, the voices of the old folks who occupy the front pews?  Will he remember the feeling of the blood pounding in his ears as he finds 350 people looking back at him?  Will he remember Albert's kind face up in the sound booth?  Will he recall the love in the room?  I think not. Often we don't recognize love for what it is.  Sometimes love hugs and kisses and gives presents, but sometimes love just fills in the alto part from a distant pew, to support one of His little ones who is learning how to fill a "grown up" job in the kingdom.

Of course, someone in the rear of the auditorium may not be acting out of love, but just singing the words instead. Sad for that person.  Love frames pedestrian obedience as calling.   It energizes every enterprise. It changes "sing along with the kids" into "lift up the future worship leaders of the church."  A loving motive enriches us as it glorifies the Father and helps the youngster. Reece may not remember the love in the room, but we frequently don't recognize love when we receive its benefits.  We all stand on the shoulders of those who raised us, taught us, or perhaps sang along with us when our own early solo efforts were insufficient -- and in a way,  it's all the sweeter that we aren't aware of the support at the time.  That's what we call grace.

A Lesson from Dr. Manor's Traveling Archeology Show

Sitting cross-legged on the print carpet in my family’s den sometime during the latter days of the Nixon administration, my father mused, “Some day, if the world goes on, I will no longer be here…and if the world goes on even longer, there’ll come a time when no one remembers that I ever was.” There was more to that conversation, but that particular moment is frozen in memory—perhaps because, to a child, any thought of a parent’s death is startling, and perhaps because Dad said it so matter-of-factly. He wasn’t given to melodrama, but he thought deeply about great truths and didn’t back down from sharing with a kid after he’d ruminated on them for a while.

Tonight was what, being a history teacher,  I have affectionately dubbed “Biblical Archeology Wednesday.” For six weeks, my church has been the recipient of lessons at our mid-week meeting from the intrepid Dr. Dale Manor, a professor of archeology.  He arrives each week wearing a memorable tie, with a laptop and slides and a stainless steel case, foam-lined. In it, he transports artifacts, which he displays with little labels on a piece of fabric on the communion table. It’s a dog and pony show he’s done many times before. One thing I have learned from him:  it’s a cliche of the trade, but for guys in his discipline, one man’s trash truly becomes another's proverbial treasure, if it’s buried for a millennium or two. In a way, looking at someone's discards from long ago compels us to put our own lives into perspective.

For thousands of years, people have contemplated their own demise, as Dad did that night.  Tonight’s presentation by Dr. Manor explored how people of the ancient world viewed the idea of an afterlife. He surveyed Canaanites, the Mesopotamians, and Egyptians – all of whom clearly believed that they would live somewhere after death. The evidence? Burial artifacts and cultural documentation, such as the Egyptian scroll depicting the scene of final judgment – the “weighing of the heart” ceremony. The Egyptians believed that there was a correlation between our worthiness and our eternal destiny, the end of which would be revealed in a ceremony where the heart was weighed against a feather on a scale of justice to reveal one’s fate in the afterlife. An impossible standard.  Not many would pass the test, I’m thinking.  Perhaps none.

We looked at some signals the Hebrews had given us in scripture; there were signs that they, too, believed that somehow they would go to rest “with their fathers” after death. David the king took comfort in the belief that he would see his dead child again. Various figures in the Old Testament are described as being “gathered to their people” after death. Job said, “after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God.”  Christ reminded the Sadducees that God claimed to be “the God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob,” and that He was clearly not the God of the dead, but of the living.  Of course, the New Testament is filled with resurrection talk and promises of an afterlife.

The most fascinating tidbit tonight was an artifact found in a Jerusalem escarpment burial cave called Ketef Hinnom. In the burial trappings of a Hebrew family was a silver amulet, and inside was a rolled-up sheet of silver which, when unrolled, revealed the “Priestly Benediction,” Numbers 6:24-26:

The LORD bless you and keep you; 
the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you;
 the LORD turn His face toward you and give you peace.

This find was significant for dating the writing of the Old Testament and for confirming the reliability of existing manuscripts. At the time it was found, it was the earliest occurrence of a Biblical text in an extra-Biblical document, significantly predating the earliest of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Tonight it is significant to me for another reason. We were encouraged by Dr. Manor to consider this scripture that we have read and sung as a benediction for so many years -- not as a parting blessing from an assembly-- but as a processional for loved ones who stand on the doorstep of the next life, waiting to see the Lord’s face and confident that they will be graciously received. If we all relied on the weight of our hearts to balance some supposed scale at that time, we would surely be without hope. But through the Lord’s provision in the perfect sacrifice of Christ, Christians can have faith that we will be seen as “holy and blameless” by the loving Father who greets us there. Yes, someday you and I may die, and no one here may even remember that we lived.  But there is something better waiting through that door.

The American Taliban Prequel

Tonight I’m thinking about John Philip Walker Lindh, who was caught and imprisoned by the U.S. during the 2001 invasion of Afghanistan.  I’m  also thinking about my childhood experience at Maywood Christian Camp.  I think it must have been in 1968, although I can’t prove it.  Mothers were not nearly as obsessed with documenting childhood then, and my memories are vague.  I was perhaps eight years old and had never been to any kind of camp, or much of any place else,  before. I think it was in Tennessee, although I can’t prove that, either. I do think these events actually happened, however, because I can prove it with dental records.

We boarded a bus at Northwood Hills Church of Christ in Florence, Alabama, and off we went to the hardship of the wilderness, much like the Isrealites, who were also God’s people.  When we arrived,  they divided us into cabins which were named, I think, for the cities in Canaan.  I was in Shechem A.  There was a Shechem B as well.  There was a cabin named Gilgal, and one called Bethel, and Shiloh.  I don’t recall the others. 

I remember they served us cold chocolate milk in glistening aluminum pitchers at breakfast, and that I ate eggs for breakfast with great relish, which was odd because my mother’s eggs on the breakfast table at home nauseated me.  I remember that I won third place in the archery contest.  I remember that I made some kind of wooden box with tiny square tiles on top, and a lanyard, although I didn’t quite know what one was supposed to do with a lanyard.

I dived into the swimming pool one day and somehow chipped my front permanent tooth on the concrete, leaving half of it at the bottom of the pool.  No one called my parents or a dentist, or tried to retrieve the lost part.  I don’t really know if I called it to the attention of anyone in authority.  Today insurance and physician information along with signed liability waivers would be required before participating in an activity during which I could potentially have disfigured myself, but back then parents just put us on the bus and happily shipped us off, no questions asked, and the camp shipped us back on schedule, scratches and dents notwithstanding.

One thing I recall clearly, and that is that the showers were communal ones.  By that I mean they were not merely in a central location, but they were –- well—communal.  No stalls, no walls, no curtains.   I recall my complete mortification at the idea that I was expected to disrobe right there in front of God and the older girls with body parts I did not have yet – and tend to my personal hygiene.  So I refused.  I swam every day, but  during shower time I made myself scarce, and not once during the week did I join the other girls who were less modest and more conscientious about their personal toilette.

I also recall saving my one clean sweatshirt, a white one, to wear back home.  The last morning of camp I donned the sweatshirt, brushed my chlorine frizzed hair -- which was, by this time, a bush -- put on my glasses and headed down toward the bus, tripping over a root and tumbling head-over-heels down a clay embankment to land in an untidy heap at the bottom where the bus was parked.  

When I arrived back at the church, after riding the entire way with the bus windows open and the wind blowing through my ever-expanding hair,  singing "Kum Ba Yah" and "Michael Row the Boat Shore" all the way back, I bounded to the door of the bus to greet my mother with a gap-toothed smile, the red clay of Canaan's land covering both my clothes and my face. She hugged me and took me home as if nothing were out of the ordinary, for dental intervention the following day.

Flash forward to the American invasion of Afghanistan, when the U.S. army captures an American citizen named John Philip Walker Lindh. He is wearing the garb of the enemy and aiding the Taliban. There was a great outcry about his treason, and a photo of "The American Taliban” was on the cover of Time magazine. 43 years later, my saintly mother’s only comment when she saw his photo on CNN?  "He looks exactly like you when you got off the bus from Maywood Christian Camp, dear."  Ouch.