Another Man's Meat Archives 2004

GRAFTED IN

2011-05-14T08:46:00.000-07:00

April 7^th was a wonderful day for me, particularly the morning. We left the hotel in Tiberias at about 8:00 A.M. By 9:30 we were in a small tour boat navigating the Sea of Galilee. The waters were calm and the crew was very hospitable. They unfurled an American flag and played our national anthem for us. It was a kind gesture, the sort of thing that has a tendency to tickle the American ego. About twenty minutes into the ride the crew played Israeli folk music and led us in an Israeli folk dance. It was all very nice, but the highlight for me was sitting next to our tour guide, Amos Davidowitz.

I’ve never met a man quite like Amos. He’s part historian, part archaeologist, part soldier, and part philosopher. He’s 100% a family man and thoroughly Jewish. He’s committed to the life and ideals of his kibbutz.

Amos was actually born in Brooklyn, the son of a rabbi. He moved to Israel with his father when he was about twelve. Upon learning this much about his family history, I was curious to know more. Later on the trip, at Yad Vashem, he told us that he can’t trace his roots back very far at all. The Nazis had systematically destroyed all traces of his family tree, including people and documentation of their existence.

Amos the historian and Amos the archaeologist seem to be a unified whole. As we visited sites he would often pick up what appeared to be meaningless pieces of rock. He would hold them up and proclaim, “This is pottery from the time of the second temple.” He’d occasionally take a piece of rock to his mouth, taste it, and tell us that “This is a piece of a clay jar that’s about three thousand years old.” On the temple mount he told us that “Without doubt, Jesus ascended these steps.” “He almost certainly turned over the tables of the money changers here.”

The history and archaeology I’d learned in seminary seemed like dead letter in comparison.

“Chasing terrorists” is one the professional roles Amos claims. He’s a military man. Yet, there’s something very unique about his view of honor, duty, and ethics. He’s given great thought to what he does and why he does it. In 2005 he drafted an “ethical will.” A month or so before I left for Vietnam I had a will drafted. It was short and sweet. “Send the body here.” “Give what little I have to my mother.” Amos’s will is 12 chapters and 42 pages long. The title of the will is “A Path of Peace in the Field of Battle.” The chapter titles give witness to the depth of his thought – “Love is Like Checkers” “Being Jewish, or Anything Else.” “Between Peace and War.” There’s very little I can say that will add justice to what Amos has written. A small sample of his thought will suffice: “I have led men into battle, through battle and to the end of battle, but you can never lead men out of battle. It always stays with you. I fight because my country is at war, but I choose to labor for peace because I know war will solve nothing.”

As we made our way across the Sea of Galilee I sat quietly next to Amos and thought of what are common roots. I’ve seen Salvatore Dali’s depiction of the last supper. Jesus is at the center. He’s blonde and in appearance he’s Aryan. Jesus was a Jew. I suspect he looked a lot like Amos. His thinking was Jewish. His temperament was Jewish. I think he was a man’s man, in the same way Amos is. I don’t think a pasty-faced Aryan could get a small band of Jewish fishermen to follow him. No way!

Amos talked openly about the pain the world of Christianity has brought to the Jewish people over the centuries. One day he talked about the theological stream called “replacement theology,” the idea that the Christian Church has replaced the Jews and Israel as “God’s “chosen.” The idea started early in Christian history and gave a philosophical foothold for those who hated the Jews to formulate even more evil philosophies.

Thankfully, there are newer streams of theology that see Christians and Christianity as having been grafted in to the original vine of history. In Holy Writ we are called the wild olive that has been grafted in. We find our strength and sustenance in roots that are Jewish.

What Amos and the Jewish people have given us is a great gift. We are heirs to a promise of a Jewish consciousness that author Thomas Cahill said “Was animated and kept warm by the breath of God.”

This was Amos’s great gift to me. I’ll always be thankful.

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2006-11-27T11:47:00.001-08:00

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2006-11-27T10:34:00.000-08:00

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Resolution

2006-03-27T09:31:00.000-08:00

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2006-02-23T15:30:00.000-08:00

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2006-02-23T15:08:00.000-08:00

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test 3

2005-09-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

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2005-04-07T19:34:00.000-07:00

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Conversion, Part Two

2004-09-23T12:26:00.000-07:00

For those who might be reading this blog for the first time I recommend that you read Conversion, Part One before reading part two.

On, then, to part two.

While I felt on my own after my philosophical discussion with the rector of our church I didn’t feel totally abandoned. I still had my family; I still had my stickball in the summer and my beloved Boston Celtics in the winter. I still attended church, but something was missing. I recall often being caught up in a sense of wonder in mystery on those Sunday mornings. There were times when I just wanted to float away, hoping to find the the man who hung crucified on the privacy fence of my recurring dream. I wanted to find him and ask him who had done this done him. I wanted to find him and ask why they’d done it. But more than anything I wanted to ask why no one would help him. Praying the traditional “collects” and other “prayers and thanksgivings” seemed to heighten the sense of mystery in me. A few prayers, in particular, have stayed with me through the years. One was a prayer we often recited for our “national life:”

Prayers for National Life18. For our Country”Almighty God, who hast given us this good land for ourheritage: We humbly beseech thee that we may always proveourselves a people mindful of thy favor and glad to do thy will.Bless our land with honorable industry, sound learning, andpure manners. Save us from violence, discord, and confusion;from pride and arrogance, and from every evil way. Defendour liberties, and fashion into one united people the multitudesbrought hither out of many kindreds and tongues. Enduewith the spirit of wisdom those to whom in thy Name we entrustthe authority of government, that there may be justice andpeace at home, and that, through obedience to thy law, wemay show forth thy praise among the nations of the earth.In the time of prosperity, fill our hearts with thankfulness,and in the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in thee to fail;all which we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The other was a prayer we prayed on Palm Sunday:

Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday

The Proper Liturgy for this day is on page 270.

“Almighty and everliving God, who, of thy tender love towards mankind, hast sent thy Son our Savior Jesus Christ to take upon him our flesh, and to suffer death upon the cross, that all mankind should follow the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant that we may both follow theexample of his patience, and also be make partakers of hisresurrection; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

These prayers, as beautiful and rhythmic as they were, only added to the growing sense of alienation I was experiencing. God was out there, somewhere, and I wanted to find Him. Was He just a part of some recurring dream? Was He so transcendent that I would probably never find him? Was He even there at all or was all that I was going through nothing more than ritual?

My weekdays were filled with school, stickball (in season), hanging around with my brother and other kids in the neighborhood. In time I became the stickball champion of Chatham Street. None of the kids in my age group could beat me. For that I had my brother to thank. Those frustrating episodes of swinging wildly at his “pimple ball curve” had prepared me for better things. I can’t say that my childhood was unhappy. When I’ve spoken to people over the years, particularly liberal friends, they have a tendency to feel sorry for me. I’ve never felt that way. In fact in 1995 I expressed my feelings about my background this way:

The Romantic’s Ghetto

Some say their roots are in the landIn the strength and dignity of furrowed country rowsMine are in the blaze of neonGiving light and breath to the tenements lining ghetto streets.Some say their faith was honed on cathedral glassAnd sharpened by regal priestly robesMine was cut on jagged ghetto glassAnd purified by the clatter of subway steel.Some say they have an eye for distant landscapesOr the refined beauty of a mountain stream.Mine is tuned to a ragged ghetto faceOr the cloistered ghetto masses forgotten by the rush of time.Where's the dignity of life to be found?In the land? In a stream?For some it is for sure.....Where is it then for me?It's the romance of the Ghetto that will always fill my soul.© 1995 Phil Dillon

Our family was poor. My mother only had a third grade education followed by a nervous breakdown, and years of hospitalization to support us. In practical terms it meant we had to live as recipients of the welfare state. One of my mother’s failings was her inability to maintain any kind of economic balance. She would shop, see something she liked, and buy it, as she often said, “On the cuff.” That was her slang for credit. The credit would be extended and the bills would mount up. In time there were a long line of creditors coming by looking for their money. Our way of dealing with the problem was to stay on the move. In one three year period we must have moved nine or ten times. In the times I’ve revisited Cambridge over the years I’ve been a great amusement to my wife. We’ve strolled and passed apartment buildings or tenements and I’ve often said as we’ve passed, “I lived there for a couple of months” or “I remember that place too.”

My first sense of anger at my station in life came when my mother would send me to city hall to get our welfare check every month. One visit is still very vividly planted in my memory. It wasn’t the visit that hurt. I’d made enough trips to city hall to swallow my pride and accept the goodness of the state. On this occasion it was a whispered conversation that cut to the quick. While looking for our check he was asked by another counselor, “Who’s this?”
“That’s one of the Dillon kids. This poor kid doesn’t have a chance. His father died a drunk and his mother’s a dolt. He just doesn’t have chance in life.”
His conversation was meant to be out of earshot, but I heard it and it hurt. When he came back to me with the check he saw that I was crying. “What’s wrong?” he asked
I didn’t have the courage to say how I felt. “Nothing,” I responded meekly.
I left, vowing that some day I would be my own man and that I would never again have to be dependent on the goodness of the state for my welfare or dignity.

This incident, along with my growing sense of alienation from God, brought me to my first major adult decision in my life. I made it when I was fifteen. I was at a friend’s apartment watching television on a Sunday night. I don’t recall who was conducting the interview, but the interviewee was J Paul Getty, who was at that time the world’s richest man. The interview was being conducted at his English estate called Sutton Place. I didn’t hear much of what Getty was saying, but I did notice all the trappings of wealth that surrounded him. Something inside of me just snapped. “How can this be?” I thought. “This man has more than he’ll ever need and I have to beg the state of Massachusetts for the little our family gets.” The internal anger hit a crescendo. “There can’t possibly be a God! There is no God! There never was, there isn’t one now, there never will be!”

As I look back on it now, the decision didn’t make sense. But it didn’t have to. Anger and alienation were to be my “guiding principles” for the next ten years.

When I got old enough I decided to leave Massachusetts. I joined the Air Force in 1961, did my boot camp at Lackland AFB, an uneventful tour in California, and some time on temporary duty in Washington D.C., and then got an assignment to Ernest Harmon AFB, Newfoundland. The assignment was, actually, quite providential. My mother was born in Newfoundland, in a little fishing village called McIvers Cove. This gave me the opportunity to meet relatives I would never have been able to if it hadn’t been for the Air Force assignment. During my time in Newfoundland I spent three leaves in McIvers, all of them wonderful. My aunts, uncles, cousins and other assorted relatives were all very kind, gentle people. I grew to love them. One uncle, in particular, captured my heart. His name was Fiander Louis Park. Fi (pronounced fye), as he liked to be called, was a tall man, almost toothless. If you’ve ever read Richard Brautigan’s “Confederate General from Big Sur” you’ll get a small glimpse of what Fi was like. The one tooth in his head seemed to float from place to place. One morning at breakfast it would appear to be in the upper right part of his mouth. The next morning it seemed to be on the bottom left. And, no dear reader, it was not my imagination. When I visited McIvers Fi was my official tour guide. He would glide down McIver’s dirt road to my Aunt Mabel’s to get breakfast each morning and then take me from place to place. Some days we’d just go up to his cabin. On others we’d go out in a dory together. If would row (he insisted on it) and I would sit and view the breathtaking cliffs of McIver’s and the other inlets in the area. On one excursion we saw a couple of whales. Fi whispered to me, “Look my son. Look I think they might’s be a couple of blues. Oh my son, have you ever seen the likes?
“No Fi, I’ve never.”
They’s beautiful, ‘eh?”
“They are.”
“Oh my son, my son.”

It was on these journeys that I would occasionally recall the mysteries of Christ Church and the man being crucified on the fence from years before, but I would try to dismiss them as soon as the thoughts came. I had decided that I would enjoy these moments for what they were. Life, as I’d come to believe, had very few good moments. One had to enjoy them, endure the rest of life, then die, rot, and be forgotten. That was the sum total of life as I saw it back then.

While in Newfoundland I developed a pretty nasty drinking habit. It was on one of these alcohol induced interludes that I had my first adult encounter with grace. It was during Newfoundland’s very brief summer. A group of us had a few days leave from Ernest Harmon, so we decided to take the time in Corner Brook, which was a few hours north of the base. Most of the guys had girlfriends they visited there. I went just for the amusement. On our first night we found a spot near the water, unloaded the beer and whiskey, and set up a bonfire. The spirits were flowing freely for a couple of hours until we ran out. By this time most of us were too drunk to do the sensible thing, which would have been to stop. I don’t know who made the decision to get more and how Larry Clyde Jones and I got nominated to go to Corner Brook to get more. But we got nominated and agreed to go. Larry owned a little MG Midget, something like the one pictured in the link. Larry adored it because, as he often said, “It’ll go like a bat out of hell.” We got ready to go and were interrupted by one of the girls with us whose name was Eloise. She’d made the decision to go with us because she was concerned for our safety. She was, as I later found out, a “Salvation Army Girl.” “I wonder how fast this thing will go with three people in it?” Larry said, as we took off. I was sitting in the passenger seat and Eloise sat between Larry and me, which made us one very compact pile of humanity cramped into a very small place. I couldn’t see how fast Larry was going, but as I looked out the window I saw the water get more distant as we climbed the steep hill that overlooked our bonfire. Larry laughed and whooped it up as we careened around the winding road, going higher and higher. Suddenly, on a sharp turn, Larry lost control of the car and we flew off the road. We started plummeting end over end down the cliff that overlooked the water. As we did I could see the car crumpling around me. I then felt a strange sense of peace. I don’t think it was a sense that every thing was going to be alright; it was a peaceful sense of resignation. We were going to die and that was it. I’m not sure how many times the tiny car turned end over end, but we finally landed on the shore about 200 feet below the cliff that we had launched from. My first thought was curious. I was sure I was dead. But I felt alive. “Well, ain’t this about a hoot,” I said to myself. “You’re dead. You’re alive. It’s all the same thing.” I then felt the warmth of blood running down my nose. It was then I realized that I was still alive. I looked to my left and saw Eloise. She was unhurt. I heard Larry moaning. “I’m all busted up. Oh, God I’m gonna’ die.” I found a hunting knife that Larry kept in the car and cut what was left of the convertible top so that we could extricate ourselves from the car I now feared was going to explode. I got Eloise out and found that she was not hurt at all. Not even a scratch! We then tried to move Larry. But it was impossible. The clutch had somehow come down on his right foot and jammed it into the floor. We couldn’t move him at all. Our only hope was to get help. With our fellow revelers still drunk on the beach any hope of having them even think of us was remote at best. Eloise and I decided that our best hope lay in climbing up the cliff to see if we could find help close to us. We left Larry knowing there was a chance that the car could explode, but we figured that there was nothing we could do for him without help. As we climbed the cliff I could hear Eloise praying, “Dear, dear Jesus, help us. Dear, dear Jesus help us. Dear, dear Jesus, help us.” The first sight I remember when we got to the top of the cliff was a small house. The lights were on. We scrambled to the top and ran across the road and pounded on the door. “We need help real bad,” I pleaded as an old man who looked somewhat like Fi answered the door. In about a half an hour the RCMP arrived. We took them across the road to show them were the car, and Larry were. I’m not sure how long it took to get Larry out of the car, but fortunately the “Mounties” did. Larry had suffered two broken legs, a broken foot, collarbone, pelvis, and two ribs. I had a bloody nose and Eloise was unhurt. The “Mounties” were amazed. The only theory they had was that having Eloise in the car with us had compacted us to the point where we couldn’t get buffeted around as the car made its plunge. Their other theory was that “Someone was looking out for you tonight. You should be dead.”

In order to maintain my philosophical stance I claimed the option of chance. “It was just pure luck that things happened the way they did,” I later thought. “It was just pure chance and nothing more.”

I just checked my word count and see that I’ve now gone over 2,500 words on part two. I meant to finish this all up in two parts, but I’ve either been too long winded or there’s more to the story than I believed. At any rate, I’m going to have to close this part out and leave Vietnam, William Shakespeare, and my encounter with Jesus for part three.

Hopefully you’ll bear with me through this. Part three to follow tomorrow.

Conversion, Part One

2004-09-22T15:39:00.000-07:00

“Within the Christian community there has been a great divide between those who understand salvation in essentially private or essentially public terms. In the privatized version, salvation is essentially a matter of my getting my soul into heaven, while the rest of reality we call history can, quite literally, go to hell. This is the stereotype (my emphasis added) of a certain kind of fundamentalist and revivalistic Protestantism. In this version of the Christian message the world is condemned, and the most urgent question, indeed the only question is, “Are you saved?” Christians outside the fundamentalist camp have been generally critical of this understanding of salvation. They have insisted that the gospel is of public significance, that it provides a context of meaning that illuminates human experience within actual history. Thus it has been thought that fundamentalism, with its focus upon privatized salvation, is indifferent to history, while liberal Christianity takes history seriously but shortchanges the quest for private, or personal, salvation. This way of understanding our differences is, I believe, no longer adequate.”
Richard John Neuhaus – The Naked Public Square (page 15)

No one I’ve read in the last ten years has expressed better than John Neuhaus the tension between these two Christian camps and the political world we live in today.

On one hand you have a group (liberal Christianity) that until the 1980’s had dominated the American social landscape. On the other you have a group (Neuhaus calls them fundamental or revivalistic) who, after a long absence, have re-entered the public debate. That has meant, in turn, that one Christian camp, which was almost unchallenged in the public arena for decades since the 1925 Scopes trial, had to compete with a rival to get its message out to the public, particularly those with political power.

The debate began in earnest in the 1980’s with the ascent of the Moral Majority and other conservative Christian organizations.

Now it must be explained that the rise of the “religious right” was not only a response to the politics of the time, but also to the theology.

For me the debate began back in the late seventies and early eighties when I was attending seminary. I was working toward a masters degree in theology, having decided to avoid the master of divinity program the seminary offered. I did it because, as I used to tell other students, I wanted to avoid becoming “smarter than God.” I’d read enough theology, particularly Thomas Altizer, to know that there are times and circumstances when one can profess to be wise and actually be a fool. We used to have raging debates about the theology of the times, particularly the “God is dead” theology that was in vogue. A sample of Altizer’s wisdom follows to give you a flavor of what I mean:

“Only when God is dead can Being begin in every Now. Eternal Recurrence is neither a cosmology nor a metaphysical idea: it is Nietzsche’s symbol of the deepest affirmation of existence, of Yes-saying. Accordingly, Eternal Recurrence is a symbolic portrait of the truly contemporary man, the man who dares to live in our time, in our history, in our existence.”

Seminarians used to love to run around quoting Altizer in those days. My question to them was always, “How would explain that to a cab driver or a stevedore or a baker or a butcher or a candlestick maker?” They couldn’t (or wouldn’t) of course, but it didn’t seem to matter to them. Did the “God is dead” theology, and other theologies of the time, build their faith. Read these words from Altizer, put yourself in seminary classroom, and imagine what they would do for you:

“Another and intimately related form of Christianity’s new estrangement was posed by the historical discovery of the eschatological "scandal" of New Testament faith. Modern scholarship unveiled a Jesus who is a "stranger and enigma to our time" (Schweitzer’s words) because his whole message and ministry were grounded in an expectation of the immediate coming of the end of the world. The Jesus whom we "know" is a deluded Jewish fanatic, his message is wholly eschatological, and hence Jesus and his message are totally irrelevant to our time and situation.”

If there are any cab drivers who happen to be Christians reading this post I’ll translate briefly for you. Your faith is useless and you’re on your own in this world. Comforting words, wouldn’t you say?

The divide between the Christian camps I mentioned earlier came into focus in these classes. The long and short of what I learned was that if I wanted to be engaged in the world I’d better act like God didn’t exist at all. So, if I’d come to seminary to learn and then go out into the world and contribute meaningfully to society I had to abandon the very faith that had brought me there. I could go and call it Christianity. I just couldn’t act like it really meant anything.

But I was, as Altizer had said, a man who would “dare to live in our time.” I was a fundamentalist who, I believe, had his feet on the ground.

I hadn’t always been that way. I won’t bore you with the details right now, especially after you’ve had to muddle your way through a couple of snippets of Altizer. Perhaps in some later post I’ll fill you in. I’ll give you just enough to let you know what experiences guided my decisions in life.

It’s safe, I believe, to say that my background truly did inform my pilgrimage. My father had died when I, my brother, and sister, were very young. He died of tuberculosis which had been helped along by alcoholism and the stereotypical Irish gift of melancholy. My mother went into a deep depression and was subsequently “hospitalized” for years. This left us as “wards of the state.” We were sent to a preventorium in Mattapan (a suburb close to Boston) to ensure we were taken care of and to also ensure that we didn’t contract the tuberculosis that had killed my father.

While I can’t say we were treated badly there, I can say that I came to see that kindness does not always translate into caring. The kind of caring I experienced in Mattapan was one that taught me to always be grateful to my benefactors. The kindness seemed to me to have no inner life at all. It had all the outward trappings of kindness, the food, the medicine, etc. But it didn’t have any of the inward signs of caring. I never remember once having anyone ask me how I felt about wanting to go home with my mother. I never heard anyone ask me what I wanted to do.

This, for me, was lesson number one. I was state property.

Lesson number two came later. My mother was released from the “hospital” after about eight years of therapy, shock treatment, and God knows what else. At that time my brother was sent to a trade school, my sister to some relatives in Maynard (another suburb of Boston), and I got to go home to live with my mother in Cambridge, just across the Charles River from Boston. One of my mother’s first tasks was to get me some “religion.” She started sending me to Christ Church, which still holds the distinction of being the oldest church in the city (it was established in 1759). I have very little in the way of significant memories of my first few years there. As I grew and became more thoughtful, though, things changed. In the two or three years after my mother and I moved to Cambridge my brother and sister also came back home. We were a family once again after years of separation. They were among the happiest years of my life. While my sister and I didn’t get along especially well, I still loved having her at home. But my greatest joy was being around my brother. We spent our non school time playing stickball. He was four years older than me and used the age advantage he had to the fullest. I don’t remember how many sixteen hit shutouts he pitched against me in those days, but there were a lot. He took great delight in allowing me to load the bases and then turn to his patented “pimple ball curve” and strike me out to end every threat. As the ball would pass my stick (bat) he’d howl with delight, “Yerrrrr ouuuuuttttt.”
I’d have a momentary fit of anger, but I really didn’t mind. Just being around him was enough for me.

It was around this time that I began to develop my own religious thinking. We became acolytes at Christ Church, read from the Book of Common Prayer, took instruction, and observed the mysterious liturgy of the Episcopal Church. I developed a real interest in matters of faith during those days. I attended classes “religiously.” I even started having dreams about mysterious things. One recurring dream was of me sitting at our apartment window and seeing “a man” being crucified on the privacy fence that surrounded our complex. After five or six episodes I asked the rector of the church what the dream meant. “I don’t know,” he responded.
“Could it have been God talking to me?”
“Maybe.”
“What would He be saying?”
“Well, I’m not sure He was talking to you so I can’t really answer the question.”
There was really a more burning question for me, a question that had haunted me since I was a little boy. “Does God know when you’re going to die?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I just do.”
“You really want to know.”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid that’s something He doesn’t know. It’s not like He’s got a clock and says, ‘well it’s 6:00 PM, I guess I’d better go and get Phil Dillon.” It just doesn’t work that way. You wouldn’t want it that way.”
“I would.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know He’s not just out there. I want to know that He’s here too.”
“I wish I could help you but I can’t.”
“Was that Jesus in my dreams?”
“Well Jesus went to sit at the right hand of God.”
“Do you mean He’s not here?”
“Well, He’s here because you’re here.”
“Why can’t He be here and there at the same time?”
I got no answer, only the silence that told me I had asked one too many questions.

The second lesson I learned in my youth was that I was, as many theologians say, on my own.

As I look back at it now I realize that I was having a dialogue with the rector about transcendence and immanence. I wanted both, but I got no answer then. It was to take years until I did.

In my next post I’ll explain how J Paul Getty gave me the final nudge in my abandoning of faith, how William Shakespeare brought me back to a place where I could believe, and how the Jesus who hung on the privacy fence in my young dreams answered the questions no one else could.

Conversion, Part Two, tomorrow.

Bits 'n Pieces

2004-09-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve been out of commission for a few days. I spent part of yesterday dealing with a cranky hard-drive and part getting a bit of exercise. The hard-drive experience was sight to behold. It’s a good thing I have a good, forgiving, Christian wife. After the frustrating hours I needed some balance, so I went to pump a bit of iron, which I hadn’t done in three weeks. I’m glad I did. I’d gained a few pounds since becoming a (very) minor member of the “blogosphere.” At the rate I realized I was going to wind up looking like Jabba the Hutt sitting in front of a PC every day. My wife said it best – Balance!

The following post is what I call “Bits ‘n Pieces.” I’ve pulled some pieces of news from place to place together. So, here they are:

Spinning for Votes

Since I’ve been out of commission John Kerry, according to the media, has developed four point plan for Iraq. It’s interesting that none of the four supposed points were enumerated in the AP piece. But that’s okay. Most of us know what Kerry’s plan is:

I dunno’
I really said that I did know, but didn’t really know in a “nuanced” way
I dunno’…I dunno’…I dunno’.
I dunno’, dammit!

If the good senator keeps it up we’ll have trouble planting him one day. He’ll have to meet his Maker one day, and let’s hope his head stops facing up instead of down when it stops spinning.

Sensitivity Anyone?

I came across an interesting website a few days ago. It’s called strategypage.com. The page is sponsored by Jim Dunnigan, who not only knows quite a bit about military affairs, but also has the courage to attempt to plant a garden in Manhattan. I browsed through the archives and found an interesting piece on Iran’s hopes for European complacency in their drive to develop nuclear weapons.

Given John Kerry’s plan to align more closely with Europe if he’s elected, the post gives valuable insight into what a Kerry administrations position on Iran might be:

“Iran continues to stonewall UN nuclear weapons inspectors. Iran apparently feels that the European nations and the UN will not impose sanctions in an attempt to stop Iran's nuclear weapons development program, and would turn on Israel if the Israelis launched an air strike to destroy Iranian nuclear weapons facilities. Basically, the Europeans are not all that worried about Iran developing nukes, feeling that the chances of these weapons being passed to terrorists, or used against Israel, are very low. The Europeans note that the Iranian "world Islamic revolution," has been more rhetoric than anything else over the last decade, and feel that eventually the Iranians will mellow.”

Sensitivity anyone? I’m sure the Iranian ruling party would love to deal with a complacent Europe and a sensitive American president. Not me! Such a policy could only be termed as “recklessness anyone?”.

Getting’ Too Close for Comfort Now

The scandal over the forged documents CBS used in their 60 Minutes piece is getting close to the DNC. I watched Joe Lockhart squirming around in an interview with Fox News this morning. The interview might be a harbinger of things to come for the Democrats. The “improved” battle might well be, “Let’s get back to the issues.” I say, let’s talk about the issues and let’s investigate. It’ll be fun to watch Lockhart, McAuliffe, Begala, Carville, etc all squirming for the next six weeks.

Meanwhile, Back at Michael Moore’s Ranch

I saw this morning that Michael Moore is trying to rally the troops. A sample follows:

Dear Friends,

“Enough of the handwringing! Enough of the doomsaying! Do I have to come there and personally calm you down? Stop with all the defeatism, OK? Bush IS a goner -- IF we all just quit our whining and bellyaching and stop shaking like a bunch of nervous ninnies. Geez, this is embarrassing! The Republicans are laughing at us. Do you ever see them cry, "Oh, it's all over! We are finished! Bush can't win! Waaaaaa!"

Hell no. It's never over for them until the last ballot is shredded. They are never finished -- they just keeping moving forward like sharks that never sleep, always pushing, pulling, kicking, blocking, lying.

They are relentless and that is why we secretly admire them -- they just simply never, ever give up. Only 30% of the country calls itself "Republican," yet the Republicans own it all -- the White House, both houses of Congress, the Supreme Court and the majority of the governorships. How do you think they've been able to pull that off considering they are a minority? It's because they eat you and me and every other liberal for breakfast and then spend the rest of the day wreaking havoc on the planet.

Look at us -- what a bunch of crybabies. Bush gets a bounce after his convention and you would have thought the Germans had run through Poland again. The Bushies are coming, the Bushies are coming! Yes, they caught Kerry asleep on the Swift Boat thing. Yes, they found the frequency in Dan Rather and ran with it. Suddenly it's like, "THE END IS NEAR! THE SKY IS FALLING!"

No, it is not. If I hear one more person tell me how lousy a candidate Kerry is and how he can't win... Dammit, of COURSE he's a lousy candidate -- he's a Democrat, for heavens sake! That party is so pathetic, they even lose the elections they win! What were you expecting, Bruce Springsteen heading up the ticket? Bruce would make a helluva president, but guys like him don't run -- and neither do you or I. People like Kerry run.”

Hey, Michael, you had an honored seat among the scornful a while back. You sat next to Jimmy Carter as I recall. You’re one of the leaders of this pathetic band.

Some Blogs of Note

About a week ago I tuned in to La Shawn Barber’s blog. I highly recommend it. There’s great insight and sprited debate. Also on my highly recommended list is Broken Masterpieces, which like La Shawn’s looks at the world, politics and our times from a conservative Christian point of view.

That’s it for today. I’m going to tune in to a blog or two, possibly make a comment or two and call it a day. Tomorrow, if the “inspiration” stays with me I’m going to post a piece called “Conversion,” which will be about my journey from atheism to Christianity.

Thou Shalt Not - One Conservative Christian's Response to Bill Clinton's Remarks at Riverside Church

2004-08-30T17:14:00.000-07:00

For about a year now Nancy and I have developed the habit of watching Booknotes almost every Sunday night on C-Span. It says at least a couple of things about us. One is that we’re not what you’d call very exciting people. Another would be that we prefer to listen without the aid of a talking head to explain what we’re seeing.

Last night we tuned in a bit early and saw the tail end of about thirty minutes of comments Bill Clinton made at Riverside Church in Manhattan.

He covered a lot of ground in a half an hour. From the more mundane to the profound, it was classic Bill Clinton. Some of his more salient points follow:

He’s a Southern Baptist, considered by the religious right to be an apostate
Politics dictated by faith is not the exclusive property of the “right wing.”
Faith includes, among other things, concern for the poor, concern for the environment, and truth in campaign advertising
The religious right has turned “liberal” Christians into two dimensional cartoons
That fundamentalism and hate are our real enemies
That the “religious right” is dominated by “absolutists”
That the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth are violating one of the Ten Commandments (Thou shalt not bear false witness)

I’ve had a chance to digest his “sermonette” and have decided to comment on his remarks, beginning with the more mundane and proceeding to the deeper elements of his thought:

Point One – Great! That’s wonderful! I think that Southern Baptists are, by and large, wonderful people. As for whether or not he’s an apostate, I can’t say. I’m a Charismatic and really don’t intend to tell the Southern Baptist Convention who is and who is not in good standing with the church.

Point Two – Christianity is not the exclusive property of either wing, left or right. The problem that the left has is that it did lay almost exclusive claim to religion in the public arena until the 1980’s, when Christian conservatives and fundamentalists, who for the better part of the twentieth century had not been as politically engaged as the left, became not only politically active, but also politically effective. Conservative and fundamentalist Christians who had, by and large, abandoned the political arena now returned. Why had they abandoned it? I believe, was due in part to a reaction to the “social gospel” promoted by “the left” in the latter part of the nineteenth and early part of the twentieth centuries. The split came in the form of emphasis; it was not a split that meant that one wing or the other was apostate. The advocates of the “social gospel” preached a message of salvation that was communal in nature. That is, salvation was seen as being a social phenomenon, emphasizing those elements above the personal elements of soteriology. The conservative elements of the faith preached a message of salvation that was directed to the individual. The emphasis was on proclamation. The debate raged into the seventies and eighties. I can recall many discussions between the two camps while I was in seminary from 1975 till 1980. The debate itself never produced a resolution. The logjam was broken by groups like the “moral majority.” These conservative para-church organizations had a profound impact on American politics. They supported the “Reagan revolution.” They got involved in local politics. They became a political force with a social agenda that had to be reckoned with.

It’s that effectiveness and power that angered the left in the eighties and angers them today. Father John Neuhaus put it this way (in The Naked Public Square – Religion and Democracy in America):

“Describing the religious new right as a division of the new right carries the odious implication that religion is being “used” for partisan purposes. That is undoubtedly the case. Similarly, it is charged that, for instance, that the National Council of Churches is “used” for the partisan purposes of the left. Generally speaking, that too is the case. Viewed from within these different worlds of politicized religion, however the accusation is not so odious. It does not call into question the motives or sincerity of the actors. There are obviously different agendas for social and political change in America. If committed believers favor one agenda over another – as publicly concerned folks inevitably do – then they marshal whatever resources they have, including religious resources, to advance that agenda. They are criticized for employing religion for giving their agenda the character of a holy crusade. They respond that their agenda does in fact engage questions of ultimate right or wrong and therefore warrants panache of holiness. The issue is not one of religion “being used” for politics, but whether one thinks the left or the right is right. It is not a matter of being used but of being of service. What to one person is exploitation of religion is to another the exercise of responsibility.”

The conservative movement within American Christianity has become powerful and effective. Conservatives have entered the political arena and their ideas have taken hold in the free marketplace of ideas. That’s what bothers the left.

Point Three – Of course Christianity, whether it’s liberal or Conservative, calls its adherents to an active faith that includes concern for the poor and stewardship of the good earth we inhabit. It also calls its followers to embrace the truth. But when it came to campaign advertising I believe Mr. Clinton’s exegesis was flawed. The word “campaign,” according to Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible, does not appear in the Bible. The word “advertise” appears only twice (Ruth 4:4 and Numbers 4:14). I’m not trying to make light of his argument, but it’s important to see that his argument about truth rests on a flimsy foundation. It’s based on an assumption that the political advertising of Mr. Kerry’s opponents is not true. It’s a claim he can’t support, but somehow believes that making the argument will make the case. Truth doesn’t work that way. It’s verifiable and supportable and stands on its merits. The American electorate will have to weigh the issues and decide whether or not what Mr. Kerry’s opponents are saying about him is true.

Point Four – Neither I nor any of the conservatives or fundamentalists that I know has it within their power to turn religious liberals into “two dimensional cartoons.” It’s not that we don’t believe in miracles. We do. Could it be, I wonder, that this condition may be self-inflicted?

Point Five – Fundamentalism is our real enemy. Hidden in Mr. Clinton’s catch phrase is the idea that if you’ve seen one fundamentalist you’ve seen them all. If it were to be put into a syllogism it would look like this:

Osama bin Laden is a fundamentalist and fundamentalism is a dangerous enemy
Phil Dillon (you may also insert any name you wish) is a fundamentalist
Therefore, Phil Dillon (or any other Christian fundamentalist) is a dangerous enemy

It’s just a small twist of Aristotelian logic, but it goes a long way to affirming the absurdity of Mr. Clinton’s argument. Using his logic I could prove the following, for example:

Dogs are animals with four legs
Turkel (my cat) has four legs
Therefore, Turkel (my cat) is a dog

Point Six – The religious right is dominated by “absolutists.” I guess the question in return would be, “In what sense?” For example, fundamentalist and conservative Christians almost universally acknowledge that we can know “the Absolute.” We’d like to think that’s normative Christianity. God knows us and we can know Him. I could go into more depth about transcendence and immanence here, but it’s enough to say that normative Christian belief includes the ability to know God. Do we, on the other hand (as Mr. Clinton’s remarks imply) subscribe to totalitarianism or arbitrary despotism? The answer is an emphatic “Nooooooooooooo!” We subscribe to representative government. We know tyrants and despots when we see them and, as they say in this part of the country, “we’re agin’ ‘em.” If the time ever comes in this country that we see a real despot, I can assure our liberal brethren that we’ll take to the streets with them.

Point Seven – This is the real meat of what Mr. Clinton was getting to. This was all about the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth. They’ve violated one of the Ten Commandments. They’ve borne false witness against John Kerry. The Swift Boat Veterans, in turn, have brought evidence into the court of public opinion and have challenged Mr. Kerry to bring his charges into that same court, with his evidence. Mr. Kerry’s antagonists have said that it is he who libeled and defamed them and all Vietnam veterans in 1971 and they’ve put the charges in their own words: (Unfit for Command, p. 119-120):

“I served with these guys. I went on missions with them, and these men served honorably. Up and down the chain of command there was no acquiescence to atrocities. It was not condoned, it did not happen, and it was not reported to me verbally or in writing by any of these men including Lieutenant (jg) Kerry.

In 1971-1972 for almost eighteen months, he stood before the television audiences and claimed that five hundred thousand men and women in Vietnam, and in combat, were all villains – they were no heroes. In 2004, one hero from the Vietnam War has appeared, running for president of the United States and commander in chief. It just galls one to think about it.”
-Captain George Elliott, USN (retired)

“In 1971, when John Kerry spoke out to America, labeling all Vietnam veterans as thugs and murderers, I was shocked and almost brought to my knees even though I had served at the same time and in the same unit, I had never witnessed or participated in any of the events that the senator has accused us of. I strongly believe that the statements made by the senator were not only false and inaccurate, but extremely harmful to the United States’ efforts in Southeast Asia and the rest of the world. Tragically, some veterans, scorned by the antiwar movement and their allies, retreated to a life of despair and suicide. Two of my crewmates were among them. For that there is no forgiveness.”
-Richard O’Mara

John O’Neill and Jerome Corsi, authors of the book, conclude by saying (p. 185):

“Why then do we oppose John Kerry in such a public way? It is no so much resentment at his false charges or his exaggerated and fictionalized self-promotion, although this is certainly present. What motivates us is a genuine fear for the consequences to our nation if its safety is placed in the hands of so cynical and shifting a commander in chief.

We were not war criminals, either fighting in Vietnam or remaining here as citizens of the United States during time of war. No man who ever died as an American POW in a North Vietnamese prison was ever forced to hear our testimony in support of the enemy. Yet forgiving and forgetting are not the questions here.

The question is one of fitness and character. The loyalty that is indispensable to successful command cannot simply be restored because a person now wants to be leader. John Kerry might well continue in the Senate, but as commander in chief he has, unfortunately breached the trust it would take to hold his band of brothers together. In the end, our objection to John Kerry is not in his past; it is the future as predicted by his past.”

I am also secure in the knowledge that John Kerry is using a monstrous lie upon which to build the rungs of a ladder to power. As I’ve said in other posts, I served in Southeast Asia and never saw any war crimes or atrocities, never heard or received any command to engage in any. I never knew anyone in my year there who said they had seen such acts or had received any directives to commit them.

To get to the heart of the issue theologically, which was the issue raised by Mr. Clinton at Riverside Church, we who have produced the evidence against him have not borne false witness. It is, in fact, the Democratic Party’s nominee who bore false witness against us over thirty years ago. And he’s using that lie as a basis to assume power. In the end, Mr. Kerry can rattle his saber at the Swift Boat Veterans and their supporters. Bill Clinton can use a twisted exegesis in a flimsy attempt to take the moral high ground. As a veteran, as a Christian, as a citizen of the United States I have not only the right, but also the responsibility to speak now. So do the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth!

Strainin' Out Gnats and Swallowing Camels

2004-08-28T20:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon I read a piece posted on Adeimantus titled “Media Matters (Literacy and Honesty Don’t).” The essence of the piece, as I understood it, is that many in the media are now so concerned with the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth and the inroads they have made that they are now swinging wildly, blindly at any veteran who moves or who dares to agree with the “Swifties.”

I linked to the “Media Matters” site and saw what the writer was talking about. After I read a bit I decided to post a comment about a piece titled “Two Military Records – Two Standards.” The piece was replete with complaints about “media bias” against the junior senator from Massachusetts, “case studies to demonstrate that the media has focused far more on the good senator’s record than the President’s, and so forth. It was a classic matter of “straining out gnats and swallowing camels.”

I decided I would respond, using their site’s response mechanism:

I can't say which way this campaign is going to go. I can say this, though. I'm a Vietnam veteran (1964-1965) and I've been silent for close to forty years. Now I have questions that I believe demand answers. Why, for example, won't Mr. Kerry release his FULL military transcript? Why did he implicate over 2.5 men and women who severed our country with honor during those days.
You can say what you want but I know the truth. The truth is that Mr. Kerry used us in 1971 and he's trying to use us now to serve his political agenda. He may win, but he will never, never, never have my vote!

I was surprised this morning when I got the following reply:

To Phil
So Phil, does it matter to you that Bush ran from the war, while Kerry volunteered to serve? Does it matter to you that Kerry wasn't trashing the troops, he was trashing the leadership - who he said perpetuated the troops' atrocities - and trying to get the troops home? Does it matter to you that Bush's idea of supporting the troops is to send them into harms' way without a good reason?
Phil, if you vote for Bush, you're not just a total sucker who doesn't read, you're Karl Rove's wet dream.

I didn’t know exactly how to respond. About the best I could do was “I love it when you talk dirty to me.” I really wanted to say, “Think man, don’t react,” but I saw that it was hopeless. When someone’s “strainin’ out gnats and swallowing camels” they’ve come close to bottoming out.

This morning I turned on MSNBC, hoping that I would get some coverage of the Olympic Games. Instead I got Bill Press ranting about the Swift Boat Veterans. He’d concluded that they were right wing lunatics whose game had now been played out. Poor Bill! He must now be suffering from eyestrain and in need of the Heimlich maneuver after strainin’ all those gnats and trying to swallow those camels.

I got curious to see who else might be straining and swallowing. Well, lo and behold I came upon Eleanor Clift and read a couple of her pieces on MSNBC’s website. The subtitle to one piece titled “Fighting A Phony War” follows:

Is the real aim of the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth to divert attention from Iraq?

Another follows from a piece titled “Bush’s Sleeper Cells”:

Karl Rove makes Chuck Colson look like a girly man. Colson didn’t have the audacity to go after John Kerry’s military record when President Nixon was looking for dirt on antiwar leaders. After researching Kerry’s medals, Colson, who now heads a prison ministry program, backed off. “Maybe Chuck knew he was going to find Jesus back then because he had a degree of shame,” says a senior staffer to a Senate Republican.
These men fought; they didn’t come home to a hero’s welcome, and they’ll never forgive Kerry for protesting the war and branding them as war criminals.

And another from a piece titled “Faith versus Reason”:

Voters have the choice between a president who governs by belief and a challenger who puts his faith in rational decisionmaking.

What could I possibly say to Eleanor in response? “Strain harder...Swallow harder…Strain harder…Swallow harder!

Why are so many on the left missing the point? I think they were blinded by their own euphoria.

When John Kerry accepted the Democratic Party’s nomination his supporters sensed that the anointing was the first step toward a grand coronation to be held in January. They believed that the race was over. Operation Iraqi Freedom was losing support. The economy seemed to be stumbling. They had issues and a candidate who was “botoxed” up and rarin’ to go. What could possibly go wrong?

The feeling was something akin to what Abraham Lincoln’s enemies must have been feeling in 1863. The war was going badly, so badly in fact that it seemed that Lincoln had no chance to be re-elected. Editorialists blamed him for the mounting casualties. Some portrayed him as a monkey when he issued the Emancipation Proclamation. He had even suspended civil liberties. Then came Gettysburg in July and the rest is history.

Many historians now believe Lincoln was, and perhaps always will be, our greatest president. History records that he was the man who didn’t waiver when he believed he was right. History also records that he was the man who saved our national union and freed millions from the evil grip of slavery.

Would a lesser man than Lincoln have compromised during those difficult years? Thank God that we cannot change that course of events. Thank God that the veterans of that battle, who bled and died on Little Round Top, Devil’s Den, the Peach Orchard, Culp’s Hill, and other sites along the battlefield, answered that question for us. They did their duty and the course of events in the war changed.

I’ve digressed, but I believe I’ve made my point. The Democrats, once savoring the taste of victory over a HATED political enemy, have run into the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth and more than just a little bit worried. And they should be! The “Swifties” and many veterans who support them are now saying things that are resonating with enough of the American electorate to change the course of this election.

The Democrats and their supporters are now leveling counter-charges. We’re right wing lunatics. We’re Rove’s “wet dream.” We’re “Bush’s Sleeper Cells.” We’re ideologues who don’t have the capacity to think rationally.

Well, they’ve really missed the point. They really have “strained out gnats and swallowed camels.” All the attacks on our credibility, all the allusions to us as terrorists, all the rhetoric about our capacity to think, all the insults, only serve to galvanize us. Unlike their champion we aren't going to get lost in translation. Our message is straightforward. John Kerry is using slander and libel as a platform to power and we intend to confront him. And, finally, we're getting stronger. We’re becoming, as statesman Edmund Burke once put it, “little platoons.”

To the Bill Presses and Eleanor Swifts of the world we must seem small. The pope seemed small and insignificant to Josef Stalin too. An advisor had warned him about getting into any kind of conflict with the pope or the Church and replied, “How many divisions does the pope have?” It took a while, but he and the communist party found out!

So, go ahead Bill. Go ahead Eleanor. Keep strainin’ and swallowing. We veterans aren’t going away. This is a battle that’s been forty years in the making. We didn’t choose to fight it; your standard-bearer did. Now that the battle’s been joined we intend to fight it. We aren’t going away!

Adeimantus

2004-08-28T15:28:00.000-07:00

I spent part of yesterday afternoon catching up on my reading. A few months ago it used to mean our local rag or the Kansas City Star. But since I’ve begun blogging things have changed. I now either read or browse my way through a lot of blogs. What I’ve discovered is that it’s a bit like filleting a good fish. In order to get to the meat you’ve got to pick out the bones. Well, earlier this week my wife showed me a site called Adeimantus and I found the meat.

Some of you may be wondering who Adeimantus is. In classic literature Adeimantus is one of the respondents in The Republic . Adeimantus is the mature, seasoned respondent, the one who looks at issues critically and responsibly.

That’s what I believe his blog is all about. The work on this site is thoughtful, thought provoking, well researched, well written, and well worth reading. I recommend it highly!

The Romantic's Ghetto

2004-07-31T23:19:00.000-07:00

The Romantic's Ghetto
Some say their roots are in the land
In the strength and dignity of furrowed country rows
Mine are in the blaze of neonGiving light and breath to the tenements lining ghetto streets.

Some say their faith was honed on cathedral glass
And sharpened by regal priestly robes
Mine was cut on jagged ghetto glass
And purified by the clatter of subway steel.

Some say they have an eye for distant landscapes
Or the refined beauty of a mountain stream.
Mine is tuned to a ragged ghetto face
Or the cloistered ghetto masses forgotten by the rush of time.

Where's the dignity of life to be found?
In the land? In a stream?
For some it is for sure.....Where is it then for me?
It's the romance of the Ghetto that will always fill my soul.
© 1995 Phil Dillon

Remembrance

2004-07-31T09:57:00.000-07:00

I missed the anointing this past Thursday. Like a lot of Kansans I was watching Seinfeld reruns. Given a choice between crass comedy and crass politics, Elaine, Jerry, George, and Kramer seemed to be better viewing than the display in Boston.

Yesterday I finally decided that, in order to be a good citizen, I needed to find out what Senator Kerry had to say. So, I read the transcript of his acceptance speech on the DNC web page. There were two things that struck a cord with me. The first was his remembrance of the state of our Union after the September 11 attacks. The second was his brief outline of a Kerry administration’s “use of force” doctrine.

I’ll cover remembrance in this essay and the “use of force” doctrine in a subsequent essay.

There was a ring of truth in what he had to say about unity:

“Remember the hours after September 11th, when we came together as one to answer the attack against our homeland. We drew strength when our firefighters ran up the stairs and risked their lives, so that others might live. When rescuers rushed into smoke and fire at the Pentagon. When the men and women of Flight 93 sacrificed themselves to save our nation's Capitol. When flags were hanging from front porches all across America, and strangers became friends. It was the worst day we have ever seen, but it brought out the best in all of us.”

There was a brief moment of national unity. But it was all too brief. The weeds of discontent that we thought had died in a blaze of national unity on September 11 had only been dormant

I can’t say when it all started. The discord was sown subtly, slowly, and, for the most part, unintentionally. Once sown, the weeds dug in and the discontent spread. There were shades and variations. In some parts of the country it resembled chickweed. In others it took the form of pigweed.

Then it was caught up in the currents of our time.

In their subtlest and most insidious form these weeds of discord destroyed our collective memory of what had happened that day. We forgot the victims and began to search for reasons for the brutality of the attack. Introspection replaced resolve. What had we done?

Here in Emporia the local newspaper, in its editorial work, began to ask questions about causes. Was it our wealth? The answer seemed clear. Our consumer society was now paying the price for its arrogance. We had also become a nation consumed by anger, they concluded. We needed to collectively repent and move on. Political voices chimed in. One politician addressed a high school class and concluded that, while we believed that Osama bin Laden was a terrorist, others believed he was a freedom fighter, fighting against American imperialism.

My problem was that I couldn’t move on. Nor could I accept the notion that I and millions of my countrymen were responsible for the terror inflicted that day. I responded in the only way I felt I could. I tried to make my voice heard. I wrote and pleaded for remembrance. I wrote the following to Patrick Kelley, one of the Emporia Gazette’s editorial page editors:

“It’s just like you, Mr. Kelley, to get it almost all wrong (your editorial dated 9/9).

Well, Mr. Kelley, I can see right through you. I think Bob Dylan expressed my feelings best when said, “I see through your eyes and I see through your brain like I see through the water that runs down my drain.”First, you offer us trivial solutions – stop consuming and don’t be angry any more.

Mr. Kelley, my guess is that you’ve consumed a lot more than I have since last September. So, spare me you’re your self-righteous “insight.” As for anger, I think I’ll maintain mine, thank you. In fact, I happen to think it’s justified. I happen to think it’s a righteous anger.Second you decry any response that you see as “jingoistic.” That is, don’t be too patriotic, don’t be too devoted to “national interests,” and don’t be too belligerent.Mr. Kelley, my patriotism isn’t blind. In fact, my eyes are wide open. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ll paraphrase it from Sweeney Todd for you – “there are demons lurkin’ about.” And, those demons are in Baghdad or a cave in Tora Bora, Afghanistan, not Washington, D.C.

As for being too nationalistic, I can tell you what I was doing on September 11th and the days after that last year. I was shedding tears with Americans of all stripes – Native Americans, Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Buddhists, Atheists. I cried with gays and straights. I cried with Republicans, Democrats, Independents.

One of the enduring memories for me of those days will be a train ride my wife and I took to the Grand Canyon. It was September 14th. As the train rolled along, my wife and I sang the anthem “This Land is Your Land” and other uniquely American standards through our tears with Americans from New Jersey and Michigan and Nevada, folks we’d never met before and will probably never see again. I remember how close I felt to them then. I see, even now, how close they still are to me.

I’ll always remember the look of horror that registered on the President’s face when the news of the attack was relayed to him. Do you remember what he was doing that day, Mr. Kelley? He was reading to schoolchildren in Florida, African-American children, Hispanic children, Caucasian children, children who reflected our “national” diversity and goodness.

I’ll always remember a conversation that I had near the end of September with a very close Muslim friend from New Jersey. He confided in me that he feared a backlash against Muslims in America. I remember crying then, too, as we shared our late nineties experiences together in what we called our little marketplace of ideas, he as a devout Muslim and me as an Evangelical Christian. I told him that he and his family would be safe anywhere in America, but that if he felt the need for safety that he could come to stay with us in Emporia, Kansas. I told him that, while our theology diverged, our humanity converged and I told him that the overwhelming majority of Americans respected his right to believe as a Muslim and would defend that right to the death (I even now remain convinced that being a Muslim in America is safer than being a Muslim in Baghdad now or was in Taliban ruled Afghanistan). I told him that our national response would be sure and just. I still believe that today. I think our administration believes that too. I believe they’ll follow that course nobly.

I’ll always remember meeting Billy, a Navajo Indian guide at Monument Valley, Utah about a week after the 11th. As he drove in and out of the potholes in the valley, he told of his experience as a U.S. Marine. I remember how his face beamed when he told us of how proud he was of learning to become a Navajo medicine man. I remember as if it were a few minutes ago when he stopped and gently sang a Navajo blessing on us. I can hear his gentle voice as I now write. And, I remember our shared outrage at what had been done to our fellow citizens a few days earlier. I remember our shared conviction that the evil of the 11th could not be allowed to stand or repeated.

That may be too nationalistic for you, Mr. Kelley, but it’s not for me.

As for belligerence, I think I have that right too. Belligerence was thrust on us, not by us. I don’t know what you were doing on that morning, but I know what I was doing. My wife and I were having breakfast at a small B&B in New Mexico. At that same time, some of my fellow Americans were boarding transcontinental flights in Boston, bound for west coast meetings or a Disneyland vacation. Others were going to work at the World Trade Center. American mothers and fathers and children were probably on the Towers’ observation decks together, gazing at a great American city on a beautiful late summer day. In the eyes of Osama bin Laden those might have been, in some twisted way, belligerent acts. What’s my point? It’s this. Osama bin Laden and his minions (I include among them Saddam) probably lamented that more of us weren’t murdered that day. You see, Mr. Kelley, it wasn’t all an isolated incident to be forgotten by just getting over our anger. It was an act of war! It was an act of war against those who died and their families! It was an act of war against me! It was an act of war against my wife! It was an act of war against my children! It was an act of war against you! It was an act of war against liberty! It was an act of war against decency! It was an act of war against anything that good people in this country consider noble and just!

If all of this makes me “jingoistic,” Mr. Kelley, I accept the epithet with great pride. I’ll gladly wear that mantle. You see, I refuse to have my commitment to God and country debased. I know in my heart that I’m justified. I know because I understand the difference between good and evil. Further, I’ve probably reflected on the momentous issues laying before us as a nation far more deeply than you could ever imagine. I don’t take my responsibility as an American citizen or as a citizen of the world lightly. I’ve wrestled with the words of scripture. I’ve wrestled with the words of Aquinas and Augustine. And, I’ve come to the following conclusion. If a choice between an “evil peace” and a “just war” is thrust upon me, I will choose the latter. My firm conviction is that the President and our leaders are wrestling with issues of war and peace in much the same way.

Now, as I sit here, I think of all that’s happened in the past year and wonder how you could possibly think so little of your fellow citizens to not know that we’re well able to distinguish between righteous and unbridled anger. I wonder why you feel the need to chide us about materialism and anger, as if we were the cause of what happened. Is it contempt? Does it come from the shallowness of your own being? I honestly don’t know.

While I pray fervently that we can come to a just conclusion without war, I will not shrink from whatever responsibility is thrust upon me if it does.A year ago all I could do was cry in anguish. Today, I’m prepared to sacrifice. I also believe that millions of my countrymen are as prepared to sacrifice as I am.

A year ago, I believed the words of the prophet – “Let justice roll like might rivers.” I still believe those words today. I further believe that our national cause is just and we have responsibility before the Supreme Judge of history to ensure a just outcome to the evil that was inflicted upon us.

As you can see, Mr. Kelley, I feel very strongly about this. I haven’t just been blindly consuming this past year, nor have millions of my fellow citizens. I haven’t trivialized this monumental affront as something that just getting over our anger will solve. Neither have millions of my fellow citizens.

If all of this seems bothersome to you, Mr. Kelley, I offer a solution. It will satisfy your need as a journalist to report on evil and mine to confront it. It’ll satisfy your need to sell copy and mine to see that justice prevails. Send my letter to Osama and Saddam. Offer them an invitation on my behalf. Tell them I’ll meet them on Commercial Street or at exit 130 or maybe even somewhere out on the Flint Hills. Tell them any time of day or night will be fine. Tell them to come prepared to defend themselves (that’s more than Osama gave to thousands of my countrymen last year or Saddam gives to his countrymen today). Tell them I’ll be there armed with righteous anger and might. Tell them I’ll be there before them and the world. And, tell them, I’ll greet them with the immortal words of Rooster Cogburn, “Fill your hands, you sonsabitches.” If that’s too undignified for your tastes, you can use David’s words to Goliath and the Philistines that he would give their “carcasses to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth.”

I got no response.

The third anniversary of the attack is approaching, a little more than a month away now. One tyrant has been plucked from a spider hole. The other is still in hiding. The weeds of discontent have almost completely choked the unity out of our national life. A lot has changed.

Me? I haven’t.

In his autobiography, All Rivers Run to the Sea, Elie Wiesel describes a man named Moshe. His fellow villagers sometimes call him Moshe the Drunkard. They sometimes call him Moshe the madman. But when the Germans came Moshe was one of the few who sounded the warning. Wiesel’s last memory of him was as Moshe the beadle – that is the court messenger. He describes his stark message – “But Moshe the beadle is different, for he lived our destiny before any of us. Messenger of the dead, he shouted his testimony from the rooftops and delivered it in silence, but either way no one would listen. People turned their backs so as not to see his eyes, as though fearing to glimpse a truth that held his past and our future in its steely grip. People tried, in vain, to make him doubt his own reason and his own memory, to accept that he had survived for nothing – indeed, to regret having survived.”

In his acceptance speech Mr. Kerry asked us to remember.

I haven't forgottenNor will I.

The Tailor Made Salvation Suit

2004-07-30T06:22:00.000-07:00

Went down to the salvation store one day
You know, the place with the pretty windows
And the pretty people who looked pretty much alike

Sat down with the pretty people and listened to the clerk,
A pretty man with straight teeth
And..............................a crooked smile

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Hat size?
Seven and an eighth you say
How about six and three quarters?

Doesn't fit?
Work at it, son. Work at it
Look at all these folks around you”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Shirt?
Fifteen and a half-thirty three, you say
I think we just may have one fourteen-thirty two left in stock

Are you sure it doesn't fit?
Don't breathe so hard, son. Please don't breathe so hard
Now put some money in the plate”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Britches, son, gotta’ get you some britches
You look like thirty-thirties to me
You say you're thirty ones?

Whaddya’ mean, 'These britches don't fit,' Bub?
Don't get testy with me, sonny boy
These britches fit every man, woman and child in this place”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Son, I'll tell you one thing for sure
Socks will be easy
You know.....one size fits all

Young man, you're becoming difficult to deal with
Look at all these nice folks around you
Do you hear any of THEM complaining about the size of THEIR socks?”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Let's get on to shoes, son, you're holding up the line
You say, size nine
That's fine

Oops, the nines went out the door with a group of malcontents
They just went walking down the street
Anyway, son. We're all sevens here now. We're all sevens”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

What's that you say, son
How long does it take to fit into something that doesn't fit?
It takes time, son. You'll get your money's worth

Does anyone here ever do anything?
We're fitted just right for sitting
That's doing something, don't you think?”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

How long's it take to learn to say something that isn't right?
Watch yourself sonny, you're gettin' close to home
Back off, you hear.....back off!

We talk and talk and talk
About what?
You ever heard of theology, sonny? You ever heard of theology?”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

You know something, sonny-boy
Maybe you can't afford what we sell here
Didja’ ever think of that?

Somebody along the way has filled you full of cliches, son
Like..... "talk is cheap"
You'd better go now, son...."Time is money"

Well I turned away from that crooked smile
And walked on out the door
Went to find the malcontents
I knew that they had more

© 2002 Phil Dillon

Leavin' Memphis

2004-07-29T15:37:00.000-07:00

Early in 1999 my wife and I were living in Memphis. In many ways we had lots of the things that folks in the south dream of - the ante-bellum home, the good paying jobs, Corky’s Barbeque, the Picadilly Cafeteria, the New Daisy Theater, and so on. But I was at the place where the only thing I was dreaming about was retirement and Memphis was not in that dream. In fact, when friends asked me what I wanted to see when I retired I almost always responded, “I want to see Memphis in my rear view mirror.”

What was it about Memphis that had driven me to this point? I’ve searched for words and the best I can come up with is “corporateness.” Our daily ritual was one of dealing with one sort of corporation or another. Our work placed us in our company’s corporate headquarters, which was corporate and beaurocractic to the “nines.” Sundays were no escape from the weekly corporate grind. We found early in our tenure that church in Memphis was corporate church. There were Baptist “campuses.” There were Methodist “campuses.” There were Assemblies of God and Charismatic “campuses.” We tried one or two and gave up. Even some of the greater Memphis communities were corporate. Take a drive east from downtown Memphis on Poplar Avenue through Germantown or Collierville some time and you’ll see what I mean.

We were being smothered by “corporateness” at every turn and knew we had to escape. We thought at first our escape route might lead to Florida. We checked Florida home prices on the internet and they seemed very reasonable, but it didn’t take long for us to realize that Florida already had enough retirees. And, the thought of having to wear seersucker was more than I could bear. We gave a day or two of thought to New Mexico. Too “new age,” we concluded. New England (my birthplace)? Too cold. New York or New Jersey? Too crowded.

And, so it went until that glorious January morning. At breakfast my wife said that she had dreamed of looking at homes in Emporia, Kansas. I tried not to appear ignorant, but curiosity got the better of me. “So, Coach, exactly where is Emporia? I’ve never heard of it.” Her answer revealed her innate innocence sprinkled with just a hint of guilt. “It’s in Kansas.”
“I know it’s in Kansas, but where in Kansas is it? Kansas is a big, big place.”
“Well, it’s about a hundred miles south of Kansas City and a hundred miles north of Wichita, but it’s only fifty miles from Topeka.”
“You mean it’s out in the middle of nowhere, right”
“Well, no. It’s close to the Flint Hills.”
“What are the Flint Hills?
“You’ll see and you’ll really like them”
She was cutting through my defenses. My resistance was growing weak. The thought of another twenty or thirty years in Memphis wasn’t what I could call a secure fortress. I only had one more question: “If we retire there will I have to wear seersucker?”

I gave in and decided it would be alright to take a trip to Emporia to “spy out the land.” We drove up to Emporia a few weeks later. A day or so after that we bought an old Prairie Victorian that we’ve since found has needed at least five years of T L C. A few months later and we found ourselves packing up to go. I’ll never forget the night I left Memphis. My wife was already in Emporia, so as I crossed the Hernando-Desoto Bridge I called her. “Get out in the street and beat the drums,” I rejoiced. “I see Memphis in my rear view mirror.”

We’ve lived here for over five years now. We’ve left the sophistication and culture of the city, although we do have an arts council here in town. The annual Saint Patrick’s Day parade amounts to about three or four pickup trucks adorned with Kelley green crepe paper, so it’s not the grand event a person could see in a big city. There’s not much in the way of military might protecting us from the outside world. Oh, there is the Taliban vintage tank in front of the National Guard armory that overlooks exit 130 on the highway, if that means anything. Our Prairie Victorian is a far cry from the ante-bellum we owned in Memphis. And, Bobby D’s Merchant Street Barbeque can’t compare with Corky’s in Memphis. But the important thing for us is that we’ve left the “corporateness” behind. Emporia and the Flint Hills are about as far from corporate as Memphis is from Kansas.

And that’s what we love about life here.

Dinner at Noam Chomsky's

2004-07-29T10:12:00.000-07:00

It’s dinnertime at Noam Chomsky’s
Home of…..enlightened conversation
Home of…..the best and the brightest
Home of…..good food

It’s dinnertime at Noam Chomsky’s
Elite Street, where the pretty people gather, where the ragged pass by
Close to Skid Row…..but not too close
The pretty faces gaze, sympathetically, out the window…..untouched

The pretty people drift in, slowly, purposefully
Insatiable appetites
Straight teeth…..polished teeth…..sharp teeth
Crooked smiles

They sit, gracefully
Feet adorned with Gold toes and Ballys
Versace hiding, yet revealing, their nakedness
Lapels by Bill Blass

At a corner table they muse, thoughtfully
“Oh, the nuances of rogue states.” They nod at each other approvingly
“By the way, is Zinfandel appropriate with filet of fundamentalist?
Do you suppose Heinekin would be alright with boiled orphan a la Swift?”

A secluded corner table
Lies and metaphors mix, a media tossed salad
Flesh rips intermittently
Under the weight of the pretty peoples’ molars

At a cozy corner tale
Wine and conversation flow and flesh is devoured
Linen napkins dab human debris
From the corners of crooked smiles

It’s Noam Chomsky’s place
Where the ‘catch of the day’ is pricey and sinewy
Where the sound and fury are endless
Where compassion’s thrown out with the garbage at the end of the day

© 2002 Phil Dillon

Reflections at Mile Marker 109, Kansas Turnpike

2004-07-28T07:20:00.000-07:00

Until I retired last November I drove through the Flint Hills to work in either Wichita or Topeka almost daily. In the four years or so I made the drive of fifty or a hundred miles each way it never wore on me. There was, from day one, a bond between me and the sea of tallgrass I passed through. On one trip about two years ago I stopped and wrote down what I’d been sensing for so long. It was a beautiful spring dawn. At mile marker 109 I stopped. Wichita, to my south seemed an eternity away. I’m not sure if I really captured the fullness of those few minutes along the turnpike, but I guess it was more important that I expressed what I felt than how I expressed it. So, the words came out:

It’s the cusp of dawn. I’m chasing Orion’s Belt and bull-haulers down the Kansas Turnpike. At mile marker 109, about a furlong or two south of the cattle pens, I stop.

The occasional rush of southbound traffic breaks the dawn silence. Like a general poised in his appointed place, I review the early morning parade. Saints and scoundrels, gospel singers and politicians, truckers, ranchers, engineers, doctors, lawyers, accountants, mothers, fathers, children, all pass by. Problems and opportunities wind their way down the highway with them.

I touch the highway sign. Mile marker 109. I feel the bits of rust creeping up on the metal. It’s man-made, temporal, placed on the edge of the eternal. It speaks. “This is where you are.” It speaks of commerce and progress passing by. It speaks of cattle and concept drawings on their journeys past a solitary milepost planted on the edge of eternity.

I turn, take a step, and cast my gaze across the prairie. Like the storied astronaut of my youth, that one small step transports me from one world to another. Thoughts pass by. Some pass quietly, humming like the Toyotas and Fords on the highway. Others I hear in the distance. Their low, grinding hums become roars as they draw near, like the Peterbilts and Kenworths hauling their precious cargoes from Chicago to Dallas or the Twin Cities to San Antonio.

While the darkness has not yet surrendered to the day, there are hints of color along the rim of the eastern sky. I sense that they carry the faint whisper of an announcement of the millennium to come. The ageless ritual proceeds, moment by moment. Light overcomes the darkness. The unbroken sky and the endless sea of grass now join together in a hymn of praise. The morning breeze caresses the tallgrass. The blades of grass, in turn, wave gently to and fro, worshippers caught up in the glory of this moment.

Thoughts glide effortlessly through the air, then stop to gently kiss the earth. The earth gratefully receives the kiss from above and pleads, “Maranatha…..Maranatha.”

A hawk circles above, wings outstretched, reaching for an unseen spire. As he circles, the dawn sun touches him, revealing his priestly robes and eyes of fire.

I sense that I’ve entered a great cathedral. I’m overwhelmed by my own smallness. I fear. The hawk descends slowly, gracefully and speaks. “You are indeed small. But, fear not. You’re known…..You’re known. This is where you are. Mile marker 109. This is the place where the line between now and forever is drawn. Here you own nothing, but are given the grace to be a part of everything. The language of the world you left is ownership. The language here is stewardship. This is the place where moth and rust do not corrupt.”

His appointed ministry complete, he now lays hold of the morning currents and moves effortlessly off to the east.

I feel the warmth of a tear as it drifts slowly down my cheek. My epiphany’s complete. I turn back and take another small step, returning to the world I left moments before. I take my place in line with my fellow travelers, the builders and dreamers, the movers and shakers, the commerce and the concepts. Our daily procession has taken us past this place…..mile marker 109.

I'll Never Go Back to Egypt

2004-07-27T06:59:00.000-07:00

I just read, with great interest, a column by Eric Alterman posted on the Center for American Progress website.

In the column, Mr. Aterman cites an essay by Thomas Frank, a transplanted Kansan who has gone on to bigger and better things.

I'm a transplanted Bostonian, living in Emporia, Kansas. I've lived here for a bit over five years now and have a pretty good sense of what life and politics are like around here.

Mr.Frank has gotten quite a bit of press here in Emporia since he published his essay titled Lie Down for America in the April edition of Harper's.

His early life in Mission Hills and a two hour visit to Emporia were apparently enough in his mind to look at Kansas as a whole and say things like "Out here the gravity of discontent pulls in only one direction, to the right, to the right, further to the right. Strip today's Kansans of their job security and they head out and become registered Republicans. Push them off the land and the next thing you know they're protesting in front of abortion clinics. Squander their life savings and there's a good chance they'll join the John Birch Society."

Mr. Alterman applauds Mr. Frank’s work, noting that the Republican Party is employing a two-fold strategy – get the “rubes” up in arms about values and then pick their pockets while they’re needlessly paying attention to those values.

After reading Mr. Alterman’s piece and excerpts from Mr. Frank's I've detected three common themes. First, Kansas, like Caesar who had too much Gaul, has too many conservative Republicans. Second, Kansas is a community of kulaks and serfs who have been manipulated, contrary to their interests, by the rich and powerful. And, third, Alterman, Frank, and the Democratic Party are here to save us from the Republicans and ourselves.

For more than a few of us “rubes” it’s a bit confusing. We knew we needed saving, but we were under the impression we already had a Savior. If Alterman and Frank are right our soteriology is flawed at best and heretical at worst.

How could one possibly argue against such noble theses, especially when they’re stated so eloquently? All we Kansans need to do is put our collective fates in their hands of compassion and they'll take care of us. They’ll defend us! Why would we reject such a generous offer?

My five years here in Kansas and my first twenty growing up in the shadow of Harvard University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology have given me a few reasons.

The most compelling of those is experience.

My brother, sister, and I spent our first few years growing up in Boston's "south end," which in our time was Boston's version of Hell's Kitchen. We had all the classic disadvantages many on the political left love to exploit, an alcoholic father who did menial work (he was an ice-man), an un-educated mother (she actually did go as far as the third grade), and an overcrowded tenement on Withington Street we called home.

Our one "advantage" in life was our loyal support for the Massachusetts Democratic "machine." We learned early on that any Dillon worth his or her salt was a Democrat through and through. After all, it was the Democrats who were really concerned with our welfare. The Democrats were the "party of the people."

I don't know how long it took for my brother and sister to come to the point of disillusionment, but the time came for me during the fifties. My brother had graduated to a trade school, my sister to live with relatives in Maynard. I graduated to Washington Elms and Newtowne Court, government housing projects sandwiched between Harvard and Kendall Squares, just a five cent ride on the MTA to either Harvard University or MIT.

My epiphany came slowly, incrementally, over time.

I recall often having my mother send me up to City Hall to pick up our ADC or Welfare check. It was a walk I came to dread as much as any condemned man must surely dread the gallows or the execution chamber. I suppose I should have been grateful. After all, the Massachusetts Democratic "machine" had my best interests at heart. But I freely confess that it grew increasingly hard for me to feel thankful for the “party’s” generosity. I accepted the money as much grace as I could muster, but I also learned that each time I made the walk and held my hand out a sale was being recorded. I was selling my dignity to the Democrats for fifty or sixty dollars a transaction.

Looking back at it now I see what a trap it all was. I was the poster child for the nobility and generosity of the "party." I was, in the minds of the machine, the hopeless waif, the son of an alcoholic who drank himself to death and a dolt of a mother. I would never be able to succeed without the support of the welfare system.

So, for years I had to accept, against my best interests, the role of "lawn jockey" for the machine. I rarely saw my benefactors, except when I made that dreaded walk to City Hall or when election time rolled around. Then Tip O’Neill’s precinct captains would be sure to drop by and enroll me and my mother in the latest version of the "get out the vote for the Democrats" game. While I should have questioned their intentions, I didn't. After selling my dignity for a few bucks a month, selling my labor for a few empty political promises didn't seem too hard at all.

I don't know how I made it, but, against all odds, I actually completed high school, graduating in the upper half of Cambridge High and Latin's class of 1960. I was hoping for college or a good job. I found neither. The good jobs were taken by people with better pedigrees. But how could I complain? They came from loyal Democratic families just like I had. And, while I felt that I was college material, I had to accept the idea that my address and background disqualified me from attending the good universities, the Cornells, the Columbias, the Yales, the Stanfords, the Harvards, the MIT's.

Not despairing, I joined the Air Force in 1961. While college or a good job would have been nice, serving the country and the ideals of John Kennedy didn't strike me as the end of the line. I served ably and well for eight eventful, tumultuous years. There was the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Cold War, the assassination of JFK, LBJ's "guns and butter" economy. I did tours in Texas, California, Washington D.C., Newfoundland, Vietnam, Panama, Ohio and other posts around the world.

Vietnam was the point of uncoupling for me, the point at which my epiphany became complete. It came about half way through my tour, during a Christmas lull in the fighting. Like many GI's I received an anonymous "care" package from the states. Mine was from some unknown sorority pledge attending Bryn Mawr College. I opened it expectantly, hoping to find some token of appreciation. What I found instead was a can of Ken-L Ration dog food with a gift card that read, "Eat hearty, you rotten animal." A fellow American, a product of American liberal education had done what the Viet Cong had been unable to do with a gun. I was badly wounded.

Life had come full circle for me. I'd graduated from Boston's South End to Cambridge's government housing projects to the Vietnam War. I'd moved down the social ladder from hopeless waif to party lawn jockey to rotten animal. And it was all because the Massachusetts Democratic machine had my best interests at heart.

Wounded men, if the wound isn't mortal, will cling to anyone who will help. For me the help came in the form of Anita Bryant. I attended a USO Christmas show at Tan Son Nhut Air Base a few days before Christmas. There was Bob Hope who was wonderful. And I think Miss World might have been there. But more than anything for me there was Anita Bryant singing "Silent Night" and closing by telling us that a lot of Americans cared about us, were praying for us, and hoping we would all come home safely.

I left and prayed that night for the first time since I was a child. In the years between those two prayers the thought of praying never really occurred to me. My thinking had been, "Why invoke the aid of The Almighty when the Democratic Party is looking out for your best interests?"

So, I prayed and I believe the prayer was heard and answered.

I embraced evangelical Christianity and the divorce with the Democratic Party was complete. My life could now move forward.

I left the Air Force a few years later. I went to Judson College, a small Baptist school about thirty miles west of Chicago and got an undergraduate degree in communications, with "High Distinction." I then attended seminary in Kansas City and got a Masters' degree in theology. I did most of it thanks to the GI Bill and academic scholarships.

I suppose there are some who might argue that the GI Bill was given to me generously by the Democratic Party. I maintain that I earned every penny.

From that point to this I've lived what I believe is a modestly successful life. I had a good career with FedEx and have recently retired. I'm happily married. I'm a man of modest means.

I take a daily walk through the streets of Emporia and can't say that I see what Alterman and Frank see. It's not that I don't see problems. They're here alright. There are dogs that bite occasionally around here. There are some folks around these parts who occasionally write bad checks. There are a few slum-lords. And, there's institutional inertia, to be sure. But when I compare it all to the government housing projects I grew up in, with their crime, hopelessness, decay, and perpetual dependency it doesn't seem so bad.

I suppose I'm like a lot of Emporians who mindlessly focuses on values and steadfastly refuses to genuflect every time I read something produced by the Illuminati. But, in the last year or so I've read Mr. Alterman’s work, some of Mr. Frank's, George Soros's, Karl Marx's, Charles Darwin's, Paul Erlich's and others. I've also had the opportunity to read the work of Walter Berns, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Solzhenitsyn, Augustine, Aquinas, Richard Perle, and others during the same time. I've also re-read my way through Holy Writ.

I've done that and have made the same comparisons I made between the streets of Emporia with the streets of Boston's "south end" and Cambridge's government housing projects. My conclusion remains the same. The sins they accuse the Republicans of committing are the sins they're actually guilty of. While they accuse the Republicans of manipulating us, I maintain that they treat people "less fortunate than them" as if they were chattel to be displayed as signs of their superior wisdom and compassion.

Centuries ago, at a time of great travail, the Children of Israel almost went back into the "bitter bondage of Egypt." They heard the wheels of their oppressors' chariots and the whips of their charioteers cracking in the distance and nearly grew faint of heart. As I sit here in twenty first century Kansas, reading the work of men like Alterman and Frank, I can also hear the scream of the wheels and the crack of the whips in the distance. I sit here now filled with memories of bitter bondage, memories of Washington Elms and Newtowne Court, memories of “guns and butter,” memories of a Christmas “gift.” The past collides with the present and interrupts the serenity of my life here in the Kansas Flint Hills. These pharaohs of the electronic age confess they don’t understand why I so steadfastly refuse the liberation they offer. They plead with me to return. “Don’t go too far.” “Make sure you leave your children with us.” “If you can’t leave the children, then leave us your cattle and goods.” But experience has taught me that returning would mean, once more, having to make “bricks without straw.” In these moments I, like the Children of Israel, sometimes grow faint of heart. In these moments of weakness I may even momentarily mistake the sound of the whips cracking for the siren’s song. But I’ve learned here in the Kansas Flint Hills that these moments of weakness will pass. And I’ve learned there’s one mistake I’ll never make again. I'll never go back to Egypt!