Two Eyes (Thoughts on Religious Brutality)

Shortly after Hurricane Katrina, I took a short-term job with the para-church organization now known as Cru to help coordinate their hurricane recovery projects. To the thousands of Cru faithful all over the United States, there was no more obvious way to live Christianity than to help those in need, and for the next two semesters, we hosted group after group (the high point being the thousands-strong spring break do-gooders) of students who would camp out, borrow tools and help recover houses and neighborhoods from the wreckage. I traveled to New Orleans quite a bit, though much of my work was from a cushy Orlando office. The real heroes were the student volunteers who took a semester or two off to live and work downtown for the remainder of the year.

During that time, I saw religious conviction at its finest. I mentioned the volunteers who put off their pursuit of the American dream to dig houses out of the mire. I was even more impressed by some of the local churches. One church not only housed our volunteers but refused to let them get away with just eating cereal from the local discounters every morning and, and their members whipped up eggs, grits, bacon and biscuits. People who lost so much in the Hurricane invested their time and treasure to ensure that those who came to help had a proper Southern breakfast. The resource sharing and generosity of those involved showed the meaning of "labor of love."

There was of course, another side to religious conviction. I saw plenty of silliness preached and promised in the name of the prosperity gospel. (One pastor told me his vision of everyone having a big-screen TV) I heard of another pastor using our volunteer efforts to promote his candidacy in New Orleans' local politics. My volunteers told me he had a habit of turning away people who needed help from outside of his voting district. Religious conviction can be a magnifying glass to the human experience. It can bring out our best, and it can very well bring out our worst.

In her Spiegel Online column last week, Sibylle Berg looked at the religious experience with one eye closed. (Note - if you can't read German, Google translate will give you the idea. I quote her using that and my own rough translations) She sees the bad and not the good, possibly because when she looks at the bad, there is so much to see. The column is entitled "Religion Is, When Men Oppress," and "men" is the operative word. While she stands with intellectuals, homosexuals and racial minorities against the religious oppressor, it's sins against women that most draw her venom. She writes:

"That what we in such a conciliatory way describe as "tradition" is nothing more than discrimination, sexism and racism. Instead of being satisfied to stay home and believe something that doesn't concern anyone else, the world is being ruled over by the power of muscle over mind." (that sentence sounds more eloquent in German) 

Her anger is righteous, appealing and rails against a form of repression that any reasonable person should find disgusting. And she has plenty of current events on which to build her case:

"Dealing with the uncertainty of people with idiocy and brutality is a powerful new trend... in Israel the religious are beginning to throw stones at lewd women. In many parts of the world they are still being circumcised, and then there's the death penalty for homosexuals. The urge to separate grows and makes their already difficult lives unbearable."

And there are plenty of events in history to add to her case - crusades, inquisitions, terrorism, human sacrifice and much else. In fact, when it comes to brutality, I don't think there's anything new under the sun - just new faces and new weapons. She has her vision of paradise - a mind your business coexistence that welcomes headscarves, thongs, chaps and animal masks and that "everyone can believe in something that, at the end of the day, won't prevent their death." Western Europe is closer to this, and I sure prefer it hear to Saudi Arabia. But her one-eyed view of things like religion or tradition misses a few things.

First, and briefly, it misses that not all oppression is religious. If Berg would look East, she would find countries where the religious aren't the oppressors, but rather the oppressed. In China, the officially atheist government evicted the Dalai Lama, crushes house churches that don't tow the party line and threatens Muslims and other minorities on the Western Border. Oppression is when men oppress. This has been done under the banner of every religion and with a little creativity can be done under the banner of every philosophy, humanism included. We rarely live up to our ideals, religious or otherwise.

Second, Berg's righteous anger makes her blind to religion's role in promoting the equity and justice she advocates. With one eye closed, she doesn't see the good folks who refused to mind their own business when Katrina wrecked New Orleans. Or consider slavery. Whatever the religious justification of the original Christian and Muslim slave peddlers, we should remember that it was a motley crew of Quakers and Evangelicals, i.E. religious nuts, who worked to bring down the North Atlantic slave trade. Over a century later, we should remember that Martin Luther King, a Protestant Minister, was one of the most effective forces against the brutality of the USA's endemic racism. King's "Letter From a Birmingham Jail" should be required reading for all people, but please note how he chides his coreligionists for doing precisely what Berg wishes religious folks would do - nothing. King wrote:

"When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.

In spite of my shattered dreams, I came to Birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership of this community would see the justice of our cause and, with deep moral concern, would serve as the channel through which our just grievances could reach the power structure. I had hoped that each of you would understand. But again I have been disappointed.
I have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshipers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but I have longed to hear white ministers declare: "Follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the Negro is your brother." In the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the Negro, I have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, I have heard many ministers say: "Those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern." And I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un-Biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular." (emphasis mine)

When religion is a passive player, it goes along justifying whatever the Zeitgeist happens to be. Those were the white moderates King criticized. True religion, according to the Apostle James, isn't polluted by such worldliness. Instead, it looks after the orphans and windows, the least of these in society. When they stand for something, you get the likes of Martin Luther King and William Wilberforce. It's true for dozens of my coreligionists, women and men, that I know personally. Whenever we stay home with our silent, private faith, and this is too often, we are doing it wrong. If Berg really cares for her oppressed sisters the world over, she'd do well to remember this.

I sincerely hope that all brutality and oppression will go back into the swamp, to paraphrase Berg's closing metaphor. But the desire to taste the divine lies in all of us, and to throw those of us who nurture it under the banner of thugs, bullies and ignoramuses is to look at reality with one eye closed. We Christians believe that the divine came to us, that he walked this earth in a time when both imperial and religious brutality were common. Something Berg wrote reminded me of him. She wrote that "in Israel, the religious are beginning to throw stones at lewd women." This, of course, happened before, and we get a picture of how the Divine confronted it:

But Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.”Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground. At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” “No one, sir,” she said.

“Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.”

Whitney Houston and the Joyful Noise

It's a strange sadness, the sadness I feel at the news of Whitney Houston's death. I've never been much of a pop music guy, and I could never be called a real Whitney fan. I never bought an album, and I only know the songs that the casual radio listener would know. I remember my mother singing along to "I Wanna Dance with Somebody"in the kitchen back in the day - probably having a welcome respite to those incessant children's albums (as I am now all too familiar with). I remember being annoyed as a Middle Schooler when it seemed like "I Will Always Love You" was the only thing they played on the radio. Yet even with my distance and preteen attitude, Houston's voice always stuck with me more than her fellow pop divas and more than pretty much all the other voices that haunt my speakers.  

I think I know why. In several places, the Psalmist invites us to "make a joyful noise to the Lord." Houston sang with an unhinged joy, the kind of joy you see in a two year old girl when she dances to her favorite song. As far as I can see, none of her talented contemporaries had that. Maybe they could match her in attitude or showmanship or however else you measure divas, but they couldn't match her in joy. The joy recalls that famous scene in Chariots of Fire where Eric Liddell, the Scottish missionary who was preparing for the 1924 Olympics is accused by his sister Jennie of ignoring God's work to run all the time. He tells her, "I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I can feel his pleasure." (And for what it's worth, Ian Charleson beautifully captures Liddell's joy in the film)

Houston sang as if she could feel God's pleasure, and it was infectious. Yes, her problems were legion - a bad marriage, drug abuse and all the trappings of deification. I can't say I'd have done better. I can only pray the same prayer I pray for any of us: God have mercy on her. I can only hope that she has been found with Jesus, where her voice can soar with the joy of the heavenly hosts. 

Pay to Potty? Only Under the Following Conditions

Whenever I'm in Europe (nowadays, that's pretty much all the time), I get a lot of advice. No, not personal advice, except for one time when a lady at a restaurant said I shouldn't allow my daughter to throw silverware at her. (strict, these people! Strict!) No, I mostly get advice about how my home country, the good ol' US of A, should be run. All sorts of issues come up, but lately, economics have been the hot topic. You see, they blame our current economic difficulties on a brand of cowboy capitalism that enriches the fat cats at the expense of Joe and Jane Average. Now, I agree, it's horrible to enrich yourself through exploitation. But friends, I've seen an insidious form of exploitation, exploitation of our basest needs, right here in virtuous Baden-Wuerttemberg. It happened while I was at Stuttgart's Main Train Station and I urgently had to use the restroom (note to my British readership: restroom is American for loo, which is slang for toilet, if you're still not with me).

Now, as the patriots over at Stuff America Does Best have pointed out, public restrooms are treated as a right, are readily available, and unlike other public institutions, they don't have to make ends meet with funding drives. But this isn't so in Europe, as I discovered in Stuttgart. No, in order to come to the appropriate place of relief, I needed to fork over a Euro (which is like a buck forty!) to a company called "Rail and Fresh Public Toilet Facilities," which is just one brand name of Hering International. Do you know what that means? Somewhere sits a German fat cat wearing a pin striped suit, legs crossed and propped on his antique oak desk, teeth clenched around a cuban cigar that he only takes out to yell at his Swedish secretary (named Kitty), and all he has to do is listen to the Euros plop every time we have to go plop. This is an atrocious form of predatory capitalism - demanding our cash when we're vulnerable and dancing in desperation. 

Ok, I know Rail and Fresh offers clean facilities and scent sprayers among other amenities, and plenty of women have already told me that they'd gladly shell out a Euro for a clean place to sit, but such luxuries necessities should be a given, not extra incentive to have us pay to do what our ancestors have always done for free using chamber pots kept under the bed. To get my hard-earned Euro, Mr. Monopoly Man's German cousin, you're going to have to offer the following:

1. Scent sprayers must spray top-of-the-line cologne, none of the cheap stuff. I prefer Eternity by Calvin Klein, but you'll have to offer a variety to suit the needs of your clientele.
2. Complimentary champagne, served in a crystal glass
3. Sauna, complete with steam room and optional Thai Massage 
4. An assortment of wordy and snobby newspapers and magazines, including the following: The Economist, The Guardian, The Times, The Financial Times, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, The Washington Post, Die Zeit, Die Welt, Der Spiegel, Die Frankfurter Allgemeine, Die Sueddeutsche Zeitung and all of their French, Spanish, Italian and Turkish equivalents. What? USA Today? If you must. But no tabloids. We want this place to be classy. 
5. A flat screen TV in each stall and over each urinal 
6. Silk toilet paper
7. Relaxing music, yes, but performed live by a professional string quartet
8. Professional cleanings, yes, but by the cast of Downton Abbey 
9. A short Circus Olay show, repeated on the hour
10. Beat Poetry reading every Friday
11. A warm towel after you wash your hands provided to you by a man in a tuxedo who speaks a southern accent. Doesn't matter from which country - it could be the southern part of the U.S. or the southern part of Portugal, as long as it's a southern accent. 

If none of these services are offered, then I will be forced to go with the competition. And by competition I mean a dark corner of the train station. Or one of the port-o-potties reserved for the Stuttgarter 21 protestors. Or a toilet on a parked train. 

Elmo Among Other Monsters

When it comes to Sesame Street, my daughter is following in my footsteps. I love Sesame Street, still do. It was the only show that I was both consistently allowed to watch and enjoyed watching. The show's educational, yes, but not only did it "make learning fun," but it captured the joy of learning things, a joy so many of those drab hygiene and physical science videos we watched in school never had. Add in smart pop culture references and characters kids and adults can care about, and you've got yourself a fine piece of television. So in this new age of the Information Super Highway, one of my first acts as father was to plop my kicking baby in my lap and watch YouTube videos of classic Sesame Street. She loved it so much I can't open up the lap top to do something important (like write a blog or goof off on Facebook) without having my daughter run up, grab my leg and in her best "melt papa's heart voice" say: "Letter B?"

There has been, however, a cultural shift since my childhood of sitting on our plaid-green couch to watch a show brought to you by the letter "K." You see, one of the biggest appeals of Sesame Street was that it was always a little rough around the edges. The street itself appeared a bit dirty, the characters lovable but gritty, the pictures and film had sort of a Public Television residue that smelled of cheapness and passion and authenticity. But this has changed. Sesame Street looks gentrified. Take a look at the website. You won't find smoother edges in Buckingham Palace. It's as clean the surgery ward. There's been a change, and I can sum it up in one word: Elmo. 

No question Elmo is the Street's most popular character. No question. If you visited the website, then you were greeted by his sweet furry face. That same face makes the little icon on the URL. He's everywhere, including my daughter's crib and coloring books. He's ingeniously designed for maximum cuteness and cuddliness. The cute one with a cute voice, and his cuteness has spread all over Sesame Street like a funny picture on Facebook. When I was home for Christmas, my mother wanted me to go to the local art house theater to see a documentary about Elmo's mover, shaker and speaker, Kevin Clash. His story is a powerful, feel-good, American-dream story of the best kind. No doubt he's a genius at his chosen career, and if there's a puppeteering pantheon, then he will sit with Jim Henson and Frank Oz to judge us all. But I couldn't see the film. There were some scheduling difficulties that explained this. But the truth is, I hold a grudge against Elmo. I miss the old furry monsters, like the ones in this old "C is for Cookie" video. 

It's not that the old monsters have been fired. Cookie, for one, still plays a prominent role (though the good folks at Sesame Street are reigning in his gluttony to help confront America's childhood obesity problem). And if you look through the website's list of muppets, you'll find characters like Herry, Frazzle and the Two-Headed Monster, all monsters of the old school. The old-school monsters weren't like cuddly kittens. They were more like your crazy uncle's biker friends. You know who I'm talking about. They were rough. They drove American-made motorcycles, drank beer from the bottle and had powerful, meaty arms. In fact, they may have both showed you your first tattoo and given you your first sip of beer. Your love for them was mixed with fear. They weren't ones for snuggles, but if you ever had a problem with a bully, needed repair work on the tree house or were threatened by a rabid dog, you knew you could count on them, just like you could count on old-school monsters. Now, not only are they crowded out by Elmo and his relentless sugartooth, but they're in a sad state. Look at their pictures on the website. They look like they've been thoroughly scrubbed and shampooed by a child-marketing expert. 

I don't mind Elmo's existence. Cuddles are necessary, and I wonder how many of today's conflicts could be solved (or at least eased) by a good snuggle. But life has rough edges, and Sesame Street's greatest strength was that it could acknowledge this and still take joy in singing, laughing and learning. 

Of course, the Elmo promotion is on to something. My daughter loves Elmo, the same way she loves puddles and pretty dresses. With no prompting (certainly by me), she was drawn to them. Among her army of stuffed animals, she has two Sesame Street dolls: Ernie and Elmo. Ernie was my favorite growing up. My daughter likes Ernie, and Ernie is my daughter's main sleeping partner, because by chance we threw him in the crib when it was dark outside and she needed a friend. But as much as she may try to hide it, Elmo is her favorite. She just sees him first. Elmo's like that gregarious kid in your third grade class that always made your teacher smile in a way she never could for you in spite of your obvious superiority in both behavior and grammar. Whenever we watch that old "Letter B" video, her next request is "Elmo." Doesn't matter which Elmo video, and there are lots to choose from. And, given time and mood, I indulge her. But I use my fatherly authority to throw in some old-school monster videos too. After all, there's more to fatherhood than snuggling.