Coffee Culture Kingdom

Amid all the hoopla extolling our new urbanism, one down-to-earth mom defends suburbia here.

I love folklore. Lewis's conversion is spurred, I'm told, by a conversation with Tolkien in which the old mythmaker challenged Lewis's atheism/agnosticism with this idea: "Christianity is the One True Myth."

This proverb makes all other myths borrowers from the Real Story. So, I read folklore like a gold miner.

I read a Russian folk tale recently that I had heard before, but never read in this form, called the Frog Princess. You can read it here. I loved this line: "Morning is wiser than evening." I find that to be true as well, though as a recovering night-owl, my findings are coming at a great personal cost.

Getting up early (and the corresponding commitment to get to bed before too late) has seemed to open up options. And yes, morning seems to give wisdom that the evening doesn't give. But, is morning wiser than evening as a rule? I must admit that even as I write this, I am still convinced that night counsels deep wisdom that the morning never knows. David knew this, and writes in his famous 119th Psalm, "At midnight, I rise and give you thanks."

Aaahh...vindication!

Speaking of death, I read a poem today by a friend, Mary Setliff, recently recognized by a local poetry festival, in which she potently describes cancer taking a friend. Her poem is called "The Bones of a Swan (for Will)."

Reading it, I was reminded of something that I read recently: swan bones are used in mythology to describe a magical building material out of which anything can be made. Imagine that: enchanted swan bones givng us "make-anything-you-can-dream-of" two-by-fours.

With my swan bones, I would build a city where anything you can dream comes true. And in that city, cancer, and death, wouldn't take anyone, but would transform them.

What a miracle that such a city has already been built, not with swan bones, but with the flesh and blood of a perfect Man, Jesus, whose death and resurrection works the most Perfect Magic of All.

And then, the last enemy, death, shall be defeated.

I heard a fascinating line of poetry yesterday, quoted by Maya Angelou, who is celebrating her eightieth birthday. The poet she quoted was Edna St. Vincent Millay, who fancied, in this composition, "Conscientious Objector," that though she couldn't avoid death, would only give it only what was due, and not a penny more:

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death.

The idea that we can have some measure of control over what we give to Death is part of the fabric of the human heart. After all, God has embossed Eternity there, and the soul's vector necessarily launches us into another, invisible world.

But St. Vincent Millay's words are, in the end, no more than wishful bravado. Ancient David has a more certain hope, and one more comforting as we think about the Tax Man's, or Death's, Approach...

I will not die, but live, And tell of the works of the LORD. (Psalm 118:17)

Death, as certain as taxes, takes its mortal toll from every man, woman, and child. But some pay Death more than they must, for they pay the pound of flesh from their own breast. Others find release from such payment in God's own offering of Himself to Death on the cross.

For such ones, death is all that is paid to Death, and not a penny more.

Reading here today about the phenomenon of the "unconference" and how it is the in-person equivalent of Web 2.0, I was struck with the image of what must have been a lively interaction between "speaker" and "audience" at the ancient church councils.

Of course there must have been politics, and certainly there is also a good deal of politics at an unconference as well.  "No distinction between speaker and audience" is a tenet of the unconference. My denomination, a modern strand of Presbyterianism, should consider these principles for some of its meetings.

As threatening as this kind of democratization might be to our system of government, it could prove to be quite useful.

Jason Clark has published last month a review of a book, Did Jesus go to the Theatre? by an author named Nick Page. I love the title, and am interested in the book. Here is a link to a presentation by Page.

While riding the bus to the airport this morning, I met a kind stranger who, after taking a deep draught of his starbucks iced vanilla frappuccino, said, with something of a breathless passion, "Oh thank you Lord."

I smiled, looked at him, and said, "Amen!"

He replied, "Right on...I really do try to say thank you every day..."

I nodded, thought of how many people go through that daily prayer ritual (either verbally, or simply with unspoken devotions) while dosing with whatever is their favorite caffeine delivery instrument.

I added, with a smile, pointing to his coffee: "Its the little things you have to be thankful for." He nodded, agreed, and returned my grin.

It really is about the little things.

It's hard to argue with Grandma.

Of the many "wise sayings," she often told me, one came to mind the other day as I was helping a neighbor clean: "if everyone swept in front of his own front door, the whole world would be clean."

Problem is, though, sometimes others can't sweep in front of their own front door.

So as true as my grandmother's old proverb is, its radical emphasis on the individual ignores the power of, and central significance of, the community.

In the end, neither the individual, nor the community, can exist without the other.

Philosophers have long struggled to answer, or solve, this problem of individual vs community, also known by the technical term, "the problem of the one and the many."

Some theologians have argued that this "problem" can only be solved with the historic orthodox concept of God as "three-and-one."

Sweeping, as it turns out, is a project for the Trinity.

I had an opportunity to power wash our driveway this week and was amazed at how much filth and grime accumulates over time. Tires, bikes, paint, dust and dirt, as well as crayons and other odd leavings (we have children around the house) all were among the off-scourings of my labor.

We're not neat-freaks about our home; it is a tool whose usefulness won't be helped by constant cleaning. But I do occasionally get out to sweep the driveway. I've never cleaned it like this before, though.

Daily cleaning of the soul, as helpful as it is, cannot replace those once-in-a-great while scrubbings that come through special and devoted exposures to God. Its hard to believe what builds up over time.

Now, its hard to believe how clean the driveway is. What an inviting feeling it creates as you enter our home. Our lives.

Anne has just finished her manuscript. As an aspiring author--I probably have a dozen different book ideas rolling around in my head--I appreciate her toil and trouble, and congratulate her! My friend told me last week that I would be haunted by these books until I get them out. That comment struck me; it made book writing sound like some form of verbal self-exorcism...is your head spinning yet?