Archive for August, 2007
August 28th, 2007
Summer’s coming to an end and people are revving up for fall. There’s fresh bitching in the coffee shop, I mean fresh. Corporations, companies, bosses, supervisors, are getting slagged. And the air is on the wrong side of chilly. And there’s no happy light ukulele music playing.
You can feel the thin blue rubber-band in your head stretch. You can see the yellow stickies gather for a frontal lobe assault. Don’t even ask about the paper clips. Especially those big black spring steel ones that can clamp a binder to the side of a desk.
But like H.D.T. in Walden, I’m going to the woods for another few days. In these pre-trib days I’d like to see if it’s possible to enter this fall’s paper blizzard with the serenity of a Siddhartha bhikkus. And if not, maybe find a tunnel or a worm hole to January–where all the dropped reams and calls will be forgotten in the retreaded-hope of a “Happy New Year.” I’m not above the thought of losing a few months of my life for comfort.
That’s the plan. Walden woods. I’ll take the essentials–more than Thoreau perhaps. Fresh pumpernickel, old cheese, espresso, cigars, red wine, and tea for the evening. And books. Lamott’s latest. Music? James Taylor, Jessie Winchester and Jane Sibery are already there waiting in their old cassette jackets.
Just maybe, this head that’s losing more hair every day may surface. Just maybe this face that’s building a case for a fresh outbreak of humility, may turn toward a patch of sunlight and get struck in the eyes. And just maybe, the result might be a moment or two with a demilitarized heart.
Oh relief! Summer’s coming to an end but not everyone’s bitching. Across the room I saw a kindness, a smile. And now I hear a mournful Morrison tune. One that makes me feel happy in its melancholy corona.
August 27th, 2007
…righteousness and peace will kiss each other. (Psalm 85)
Righteousness is a word that probably needs a reclamation project behind it. But here’s a start: Righteousness is relaxing into God. It’s relaxing into the giver of creation, the giver of earth, body and soul. It’s the kind of relaxing that you might call love. And just maybe, you do love, because you find that God is the kind of God who wants to recline with you.
Peace is a word we have a decent handle on. But let me try this for a definition: Peace is the pain you feel when you see some misguided brothers strap on bombs and walk into marketplaces. Peace is the sadness you feel for people who hate each other.Peace is the anguish you experience for both victimizer and victim, because both are your neighbours. Peace is the unexpected experience of inner travail over violence of any type. Peace is a kind of fatal freedom that dizzies you because you’ve been relaxing with God.
Righteousness and peace kiss each other in those times we love God and neighbour intently and equally. Maybe, with any luck, and a visit from grace and mercy, we might experience this kiss once or twice in our lives.
August 25th, 2007
The other evening over dinner, my brother-in-law made the observation that their friendships at the church they once attended, must have been based primarily on church affiliation. Because outside of church reference, there was not the give and take of normal friendship development. And it was not a case of not trying.
This little profundity has stayed with me as something like an explanation of what others have experienced since moving away from a long attended church.
The realization that friendships, taken as something reasonably resilient, may only be church deep, is perhaps one shadow side of an otherwise functioning church.
This is not a comment on the vagaries of human faithfulness and reliability. We all share and carry degrees of infidelity. All of us tend to be busy and lazy at the same moment. As well, the tenuousness of “church-friendships,” if that’s what it is, is not everyone’s experience.
However there does seem to be some shared experience and I am curious as to how broad it may be. Many of us who have or had attended church for sometime, have known people in apparently long and deep friendships, where one person, because of a new direction taken by the church, or an attraction to something perceived as a larger or more genuine Christian experience, has left their church for another one, and as a result the friendship was lost; occasionally even becoming antagonistic. And, at the same time, a friendship, that was outside of church, held without any difficulty.
As a localized phenomenon, this is troubling enough. But indications are that it extends farther across the Christian church.
Of course it’s not fair to hold the church responsible for psychological and relational ills we bring to it. But there seems, beyond this, something about the church that creates or contributes to a certain dysfunction. And questions remain.
Is the church more body-cast than incubator? That is, does the church act as a presiding system instead of a nurturing facility which would allow relationships to evolve more naturally? This “more naturally” is full of its own complexities of course but it is easily distinguished from what might be seen as the “Christian church layer.”
A layer is something on the outside. It never becomes a proper graft, never grows into the tissue, never becomes the strength and sinew of friendship. This layer exists as a band, a bandage, a cinch, a clamp, always external, never organic or internal. So when a few miles of geography get in the way the cord gives out. Or when a journeyer begins to question church dogma and doctrine, the band frays and breaks. Or when both of these things happen, the tie is cut.
Why? What in the nature of church might create or sustain this sort of sallowness? Does the culture of church, particularly the “sharing,” “friendship evangelism,” or seeker sensitive” type of church impede opportunities for connecting on broader levels?
Is all the requisite activity of these churches an impediment to forming relationships? Does a churches programmatic array become a substitute for relational depth. And does this allow us to skim the surface, keeping ourselves comfortable and dry?
As well, is it possible that churches that never wrestle with hard issues, under the cover of simply “preaching the gospel,” can only cultivate acquaintance? Is it possible that churches that keep all emotional response unruffled, unless it’s of a charismatic variety, can only maintain familiarity and not intimacy? Isn’t soul-ship, that is, the deeper connections, only developed in the rougher waters? And is anything outside of this simply church-life, not life-life?
I know that on many levels this observation is deficient. It’s just that it’s sufficient and ubiquitous enough to warrant at least one post.
August 21st, 2007
I’ve wondered sometimes, how much I contribute to keeping war alive. Does the steam of my half-conscious half-baked desires rise and add to the ethane that war breathes? Does war seep out of our my pours in my grasping after never-enough. Do I breath war into the atmosphere through my impatience; impatience that can set me off envisaging the infliction of wounds on the head of some mere place-stealer.
And what about resentment? How free am I from this time bomb?
Can I liberate myself from resentment without the sense that I am absolving someone who harmed me? A sidestep that misdirects energy and creates no new possibility. Can I keep an experience of being hurt, slighted, snubbed, overlooked or worse, from hardening into resentment? which will always lead to some kind of retaliation.
I’m convinced that resentment holds within itself any and all forms of conflict and the combustive capacity to set off all kinds of wars. And resentment always sustains wars, because while wars are fought by the living, or at least, the still existing, it’s the dead on each side that fuel them.
But this much I’ve contemplated and now believe. That when the dry vapours of resentment, anger and ill intent become saturated by disarmed hearts, peace will condense and rain down and wash over our faces.
This is the dew point of peace. Enough disarmed hearts to soak and quench resentment and hatred.
From where will these hearts come? How do we demilitarize our hearts to where they are innocent of retaliation and free of resentment?
Imagine the imagination of a disarmed heart. The kind of imagination that sees possibility in laying weapons aside, that sees defeat as being an opening, that understands that being killed is not nearly the final word.
August 17th, 2007
Connie Howard, Vue Magazine’s health editorialist and its most widely read columnist, has an important article in this week’s issue.
August 16th, 2007
Life is not Jeopardy. We do need the question first. And we need the right question, to arrive at an answer. And the question is: What would a world without war look like? (This is a question Jesuit priest John Dear asks all the time, and some of the following thoughts are inspired by him.)
Thing is, we need to envision a world without war in order to move towards peace.
Our eyes, so accustomed to violence, our imaginations, dull to all possibilities except new ways to exterminate, and our vision of peace, as coming only through redemptive violence, all this is self-annihilation.
Our survival, our salvation, is in a special kind of knowing blindness that only comes from staring into the radiance of peace. From this comes new sight.
Am I sounding like an old hippy? There’s more.
I’m reminded of John Lennon’s Imagine. Lennon’s point was that nothing changes without imagining the change. Peace, not simply the absence of war, needs to be imagined.
And now for the Christians… Ghandi said somewhere that Jesus was the most active practitioner of nonviolence in the history of the world and the only people who don’t know that Jesus was non-violent are Christians. And why is that? Because we still believe in a schizophrenic God of love and wrath, grace and sacrifice, mercy and retribution.
How about this? Violence, born of twisted mimetic desire–which is a way of saying you are less than me and anything you might be or have is at my disposal–is the root evil. Jesus came to release us of that. How then is it possible to be a Christian and support the Iraq war, any war, any violence, organized, state sponsored, whatever, and be a Jesus-follower at the same time?
Please tell me Franklin Graham, Charles Stanley, and possibly every other professor at the Dallas Theological Seminary, how else you read “I desire mercy not sacrifice.” Time we all ”go and learn what this means.”
August 14th, 2007
Well, this might be interpreted as a poem about reincarnation. But really, it’s the process I go through every morning before I make it to work.
We are fired into life with an urgent longing. -Cloud of Unknowing
Spun out from that great ball of blue yarn,
I catch a trailing thread.
Winding it, braiding it around my wrist,
I knot the end, and snip it off.
The free end makes magnificent soundless waves,
and slowly flattens as the blue ball spins it back to itself.
And I fall, and I land, attenuated.
There are others here,
fired out of life by some urgent longing,
now entombed in something like steatite.
Still others sit cross-legged,
almost floating,
clutching handfuls of something like hope.
I’m six times lighter here.
And on this lesser light,
have the time to train my eyes to look directly into the sun.
I know if I turn I will see Centaurus,
and am tempted.
But my piece of braided blue string,
recalls for me Eros and Isthmus,
where nearness and distance dwell.
And I wait with these newly blinded eyes,
to be fired back in.
Yet my God is from of old, working salvation in the earth. -Hebrew poet
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August 13th, 2007
“Scatter the peoples who delight in war” is a line out of the Psalms but it could have been a line from a Michael Franti song. A latecomer to his music, I was initiated last night, at the tale end of the Edmonton Folk-Fest.
Franti, bare-footed, and looking a bit like what you might imagine an old testament prophet looks like, and sounding like one, (except of course when he does Sesame Street nostalgia) is a new anti-war voice that is hard to dismiss. Because even if you don’t like his incessantly pro-peace, avant-garde reggae-rock, he is someone who has pointed his body in the direction of his words and taken, as he puts it, “the risk of peace.”
He’s gone to Iraq, sung on the streets of Baghdad, sung in Palestine and Israel, and because he supports troops–but not the war–he has sung to U.S. soldiers.
He’s not naïve about the complexities of conflict. You get the impression that he’s a listener and that as a result knows where to aim. He’s able to discern the big systems that delight in the dividends of war from the those of us caught up by them.
I grew up in the wake of “Universal Soldier” and “For What It’s Worth,” but I’m trying to think of anybody since Peter, Paul and Mary, Buffy Saint Marie, occasionally Dylan and Neil Young, that’s been as unshakably single-minded in trying to undo war and violence.
Franti, energetic, disarming, a presence, a hot band, danceable message-music, and a following, plus a realistic grasp on the Iraqi war…will he make a difference?
August 12th, 2007
Let me introduce you to author Cheryl Kaye Tardif and her story…and how she is using one story to help homeless people.
Thanks, Steve, for having me visit Grow Mercy on Day 12 of my ‘Touring the World’ virtual book tour, where I’m promoting my latest novel Whale Song, a novel that will change the way you view life…and death. This is the first stop where I get truly personal, sharing a very painful part of my life…but one that is also filled with hope.
First, I’d like to pose a few questions. If you saw a beggar on the sidewalk, hand out for a bit of change, would you scowl, judge him and walk by? Or would you say ‘Sorry, I don’t have any change.” Or would you buy him a coffee and donut? Or would you hand him some money?
I know that these questions pose a moral dilemma for most. The first thing that seems to come to mind is that the beggar will only use the money for nefarious purposes–booze or drugs. And we have an aversion to helping anyone with those addiction problems. We also judge these people. Some of us think, “I worked hard for my money. Why should I give it to him when he can’t be bothered to get a job?” Some of us feel that we should ‘protect them’, buy them food or drink so they don’t spend it on a bottle of rye. Some of us give the money, thinking ‘it’s his choice’.
A while ago I heard two girls in a downtown Wendy’s discussing a man pushing 
a cart outside. They called him a “bum”, laughed at him, and said he “should get a job”. In their callous naiveté, they thought a job would solve everything for this man. They had no concept of the fact that a person with addictions is physically and mentally unable to keep a job, without a lot of support and therapy. Spurred on by a burst of anger, I stormed outside the Wendy’s with a nearly full container of fries and I asked the man if he wanted them. The light in his eyes was the only answer I needed. Everything he owned was in that shopping cart, with no money for the day’s meal. I talked to him for about 5 minutes, and that man had stories to tell. An avid reader and educated fellow, he once had a job, a family…everything. Then he lost them all. I gave him some money, let him make his own choice for his life.
The opinion of these girls is a common one, and I will admit that even I have had those thoughts, once, about two years ago. Until something happened to change the way I view other people, especially those begging for change. Something that made me want to face those girls and yell, “Don’t laugh at him! That could be your father! Your brother!” But I didn’t. Instead, I went outside and spoke with a man whose life was measured by the belongings in a rusty shopping cart. I’m glad I did. And I owe my actions to my brother Jason.
A number of years ago, I invited my younger brother to come stay with us in Edmonton, Alberta, to look for work and help him get a fresh start. He had been living on Salt Spring Island in BC, and like a typical young person, he’d been getting into some minor trouble. In his early 20s, he moved to Edmonton, and everyone thought his life was just beginning. We never suspected what would happen. Not really.
On January 23rd, 2006, my 28-year-old computer-genius brother with his crazy humor, copper hair and freckled face was brutally murdered. It happened early in the morning in a cold, dark alley not far from the Mustard Seed Church, with no witnesses. I try not to think of his last moments, but it is hard not to imagine him begging for help, or crying for my Mom. Even typing this now is difficult. It’s been over a year since Jason died, yet sometimes it feels like yesterday. I miss him. I miss his laughter, his practical jokes and his generous spirit.
My brother led the life of that man with the cart. He had been homeless for a time, had tried numerous jobs, but his alcohol addiction overwhelmed him. He was on medication, off and on, for depression, and refused to keep in touch with our family. In some ways, he was determined to break free from his lifestyle; in some ways, he wanted us to be separate from it. Even though he lived in the same city, I never knew where he was from one day to the next, and long months would go by with no contact. To be truthful, I was relieved. There is nothing worse than watching someone you love spiral out of control and know that there’s nothing you can do to stop it. His choice, his life.
The morning that the police found Jason was a day like any other for me. I didn’t see the news, and even if I had, they had not released a name. So I went to work, writing in my office like any other day. I was finishing a second version of Whale Song in hopes that it would get picked up by a bigger publisher. And then someone knocked on my door…or the doorbell rang. I don’t remember. When I saw the two men on my doorstep I immediately assumed they were politicians. It was election day. They asked if I was Cheryl Tardif. I said yes. Then they asked me if I had a brother named Jason Kaye. I said yes and let them inside, thinking my brother was in trouble with the law.
It’s funny, that day–funny in a weird dreamlike way. Everyone in my family, including me, had always said that we were expecting a call from the police to say Jason was dead. We had even imagined that he’d end up in an accident, or stagger into a ditch and peacefully fall asleep. We knew he was an alcoholic and we knew he suffered from mental illness. But still, as I sat at my kitchen table with the two detectives, I didn’t really see it coming. Not at first. Not murder.
But someone was watching over me. My brother had left me some ‘gifts’. My husband showed up a minute later. He’d finished work extremely early that day. (Thank you, Jason.) When the detectives told me my brother was dead, that he had been murdered, there was no screaming or crying, no sinking to the floor like I would have imagined. Just a quiet calm that settled over my heart, and a quiet voice in my head that said, “This is the day you knew would come. Jason’s gone.”
The police told me that they had some problems tracking down Jason’s next of kin. After all, my last name is Tardif. I use Kaye, my maiden name, for writing purposes only. They called some Kayes in the area but none of them are related to us. And here was another gift. Jason had told his friends that his sister Cheryl (no last name) was an author in Edmonton who had wrote a book about whales. That’s it. That’s what the police had to go on. They Googled my name–and there I was.
Another gift: three months later, Whale Song was picked up by a bigger publisher and was re-released as a special, revised and expanded edition in April 2007, with a special dedication to my brother Jason. Whale Song is his book now. And as a result, I decided early on that it would benefit others who are struggling with life, addictions and mental illness.
That is why every time you buy a copy of Whale Song, you are helping three organizations: Hope Mission, Mustard Seed Church and the Bissell Centre. 5% of my royalties will go to EACH of these, to help combat poverty, homelessness and addictions. I invite you to order today, spare that bit of change, because I’m begging for it now…on behalf of those in need.
Today, August 12, 2007, not only can you help support these organizations, you also have a chance to win one of 44 prize packages. To qualify, you must first order Whale Song on Amazon.com or Chapters.ca on August 12th only. Then, go to my contest page and follow the instructions and rules very carefully.
Order Whale Song from Amazon.com
Order Whale Song from Chapters.ca
44 Prizes Contest rules.
Thank you again for letting me share my brother Jason with your visitors. For more information on Jason Kaye, please visit his memorial site at http://www.jaysporchmonkeys.com
I am also begging for change—not money, but change in how we look at others. The next time you see a beggar with his hand out, I hope each of you will think for a moment, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” Spare a little change in how you think, grow mercy…and gain a bit more soul.
~Cheryl Kaye Tardif
author of Whale Song, The River and Divine Intervention
http://www.whalesongbook.com
August 10th, 2007
…some delightful and interesting thoughts and quotes about Sinead O’Connor’s new CD, Theology
She wanted her songs to convey the benevolent side of God as opposed to “this rumored angry war-making God” who “gets libeled every day.”
“There’s a lot that’s beautiful about religion,” she said. “It’s just you get some … nutters that misinterpret it.”
I was steered to this by my sis-in-law Rose. Reading it, I did remember the tremours set off by Sinead O’Connor’s ripping up the Pope’s picture all those years ago.
It was a fustian bit of stage play. But everyone’s entitled an occasional outburst against church intransigence and the power structures that keep it hide-bound. And the 
Catholic church (Fundamentalist church as well) still has a life-sucking unregenerate side that needs poking at.
I suspect Sinead’s approach has not softened, just matured. And in this it has become rich, graceful, compelling and powerful.
This is the way James Alison approaches the necessary changes in the Catholic church. Already a graceful thorn under the church’s armour, his voice will work its truth slowly into the seams and rivets until all that rusty shit falls away. Glory! Perhaps the same thing is going on in the Evangelical church through voices like Brian MacLaren and Tony Campolo.
Previous Posts
But like H.D.T. in Walden, I’m going to the woods for another few days. In these pre-trib days I’d like to see if it’s possible to enter this fall’s paper blizzard with the serenity of a Siddhartha bhikkus. And if not, maybe find a tunnel or a worm hole to January–where all the dropped reams and calls will be forgotten in the retreaded-hope of a “Happy New Year.” I’m not above the thought of losing a few months of my life for comfort.
Front Porch Pictures
