I just read an article about former Latter-day Saints who have begun to gather. One reason, they say, is to help them with their loss of the culture. They don't miss the gospel, but miss the culture. I found it interesting, because I lean a bit in the opposite direction.
For five and a half years, I've served in the Branch Presidency at the local Juvenile Detention Center. Our gatherings are simple and I have often described them as the gospel without the culture. We don't have much in our little Branch that resembles a typical Ward, but what we do have is the sweet, comforting, need for and companionship with the Savior. During that five plus years we've served under two Stake Presidents. Each of them, in an expression of love and encouragement has told me of his conviction that if the Savior were here, He'd be ministering at the Detention Center. On both occasions, this was my reply, "President, He is and He does."
This is not to say that the Savior is not actively present in a typical Ward. I'm sure He is. But sometimes, I've found the clutter, commotion and flurry of activity around programs and meetings and expectations and disappointments and anticipations and meetings and competitions and rumors and reports and guilt trips from the pulpit, and comparisons and cliques and did I mention meetings?.........
I've found it what? Disconcerting? Disappointing? Unfulfilling? Can't really put my finger on it. Can't really even criticize it. Don't really miss it. Can hardly bare to live without it. I guess it's kind of a love/frustration relationship. Both, I suppose because, despite that earlier list, there is love and service and compassion and friendship and inspiration and meetings and brotherhood and companionship and fellowship and meetings and encouragement and understanding and rejoicing and testimony and refreshments and meetings and instruction and spirit and Spirit and did I mention meetings?.......
I attended my home Ward yesterday for the first time in months. It was all there, including the gospel. It was a joy to greet and worship with old friends and new ones. It's amazing how a Ward can change in five and a half years. Wards, like people, have their imperfections and their flaws. This is how it was intended. Wards are like hospitals only the doctors and nurses and paper pushers and custodians are also patients in every sense of the word. If your doctor has a cold, is his diagnosis and treatment any less needed or precious? Of course not. If you gave him a mug of chicken soup would the service you return be of any less value than what he offered you? Probably not. We each bring ourselves to the table of the Lord by participating in a Ward. Inevitably we each bring our strengths as well as our weaknesses. Who's to say which is the greater blessing to the whole. Both are God given (see Ether 12:27) and both bring a dynamic to the Ward that invokes the necessity of the Grace of God, not only in our individual lives but in the entirety of our Ward, our Stake and indeed the Church.
In our own lives, weakness is an opportunity to learn, grow and be strengthened. If it frustrates us it is because we have excluded God from the equation. The same is true of a Ward. Weakness, there too, is an opportunity to learn, grow and be strengthened. If is frustrates us it is because we have excluded God from the equation. His Grace is sufficient for all men and all Wards too.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Billowing Sails
I've written in the past on manipulation. I've pondered the phenomenon extensively. First hand, I've been severely manipulated and I'm here to admit that I've dished out my share too, over the years. While, I'm not perfectly refined in my ability to resist its influence, or for that matter to resist using it occasionally, I have become more keenly aware of its insidious presence.
Yesterday I was called on the carpet for going on strike at work. My strike could be construed to be manipulation except for one important, missing element. Manipulation is defined as playing upon someone else to ones own advantage. I was striking for the kids' (my clients in this case) advantage not my own. I went to work there in the first place for the kids, not myself. Now, having said that, I'm quite certain that my employer will, to some degree, doubt that claim. Though he probably doubts it less now, than he did before. Without going into detail, I struck, because my clients were being cheated out of respectful, competent service and I was determined to get it for them. I had attempted for three weeks to use diplomatic means to accomplish my ends, but to no avail. In the end the strike failed too.
Anyway, back on the carpet, the meeting began with a threatening posture. I was amused, because I felt no threat and told them as much. There was nothing they could do to me that in anyway distressed me. This was very difficult for me to get across to them. One, in particular, is a "died in the wool" control freak. Manipulation is his sword. It was as if I was a ghost and his sword passed through me with no effect. He kept on swinging it repeatedly, as if the next blow might somehow make contact. His frustration reddened his face like a rising thermometer. Had I parried with a sword of my own, it would have been different. Instead the wind he blew on me passed harmlessly by, because I had not furled my ego sails. I had nothing to prove, no reason to resist, so I didn't.
I have long concluded that there are essentially three things one can do to respond to a manipulator. They are: comply, lie and rebel. If you think about it, those are, in order, the way we usually respond to manipulation. In my encounter yesterday, I discovered a fourth. I'm not sure what one word I can give it. Release, perhaps. Ignore? Not quite. Um, how about Evade. Still, not right. I guess I'll have to think about that for a while. Let me know if you have any suggestions.
Anyway, this fourth method is a difficult one, had I, for example, been a young father with a family to care for and protect. My controlling, manipulating boss would likely have had much more power to influence me. I'd have had my responsibility sails furled and his wind would have pushed me right where he wanted me. The fabric of such sails is not canvas, but fear. I would have feared letting my family suffer the consequences of my lost job. He'd have had me right where he wanted me. I'd have been forced to reject my quest in exchange for capitulation and compliance, Probably too, I'd have had to grovel and plead for forgiveness and a second chance. Pride after all doesn't demand humility, but humiliation. Then, I'd have had to endure doing my job at a level that was beneath what I've been given to offer and less beneficial to the kids. The consequence of which is a numbing, drudgery of unhappiness and regret.
When I was a kid, my Dad got in a fist fight with one of the students at school. He was Vice-Principal at the time. He and the kid went to their respective homes to clean up. Serious blood had been spilled. The faculty, including my Mom, had an emergency meeting in which they informed the administration that if that youth was ever allowed to darken the doorway of the school again, they'd all walk. Their resolve was unanimous! Meanwhile, Dad was at the student's house, working out a resolution to their conflict. Part of that resolution was an agreement that the boy would be well behaved and that Dad would tutor him to ensure his graduation. When Dad discovered that the faculty had insisted the boy be permanently expelled, he plead for them to change their minds. They wouldn't. So, Dad went on strike. For six weeks he stayed out; privately tutoring the young man. Unpaid, for six weeks, he stuck by his guns and quietly lobbied the other teachers until they finally rescinded their decree and allowed the youth back in school. There was no further trouble. The boy graduated.
The wind the faculty blew on my father had no effect. Why is that? I think it was because of Dad's determination to do the right thing and because of his faith that regardless of the consequences the right must prevail. Perhaps if the fabric of our sails is faith, rather than fear, the ill winds of manipulation will always have no effect, furled or not.
Now, you might say that I failed to follow my father's example because I quit. You might be right. But as I saw it I had only two choices. It was made plain that the condition, under which I would be allowed to keep my job, was to continually unfurl sails of fear. I wasn't willing to do that, so with no drama and no misgivings, I humbly resigned.
When we deal with these troubled youth we often counsel them to quit justifying themselves and start dealing with their issues. My boss wouldn't follow his own advice. Not once in our interview did he consider the issues I had, but rather all of his language was focused on justifying his position. Things are not about to change under those conditions. So another way of looking at it is pride versus humility. If the winds of pride blow on prideful sails there is certain to be resistance. That resistance changes the position of the boat. But if the sails are woven with fabric of humility, the winds of pride have little effect. Consider Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego for example. The King, manipulatively threatened them, but they were humble and full of faith. Even the threat of the fiery furnace failed to alarm them, or to change their position.
I still don't have a word for it exactly, but today I've concluded that if our sails are woven with the warp of faith and woof of humility, and if our ship is rigged with masts of truth, a hull of integrity, rigging of discipline and with God at the helm, the winds of fear and pride will not harm us and the winds of love and joy will propel us to the safe harbor of God's embrace.
Note: The people I mentioned here are not bad people. They are good, faithful Latter-day Saints. They are just like me, doing the best they know how. Were I in their shoes, I might, quite likely, have behaved just as they did. I left their names out for that very reason. Perhaps I should further apologize for even using their story to illustrate what I'm just now trying to learn myself. In most respects they are better people than I am. They just made such good fodder for my further examination of manipulation that I couldn't resist the opportunity.
Yesterday I was called on the carpet for going on strike at work. My strike could be construed to be manipulation except for one important, missing element. Manipulation is defined as playing upon someone else to ones own advantage. I was striking for the kids' (my clients in this case) advantage not my own. I went to work there in the first place for the kids, not myself. Now, having said that, I'm quite certain that my employer will, to some degree, doubt that claim. Though he probably doubts it less now, than he did before. Without going into detail, I struck, because my clients were being cheated out of respectful, competent service and I was determined to get it for them. I had attempted for three weeks to use diplomatic means to accomplish my ends, but to no avail. In the end the strike failed too.
Anyway, back on the carpet, the meeting began with a threatening posture. I was amused, because I felt no threat and told them as much. There was nothing they could do to me that in anyway distressed me. This was very difficult for me to get across to them. One, in particular, is a "died in the wool" control freak. Manipulation is his sword. It was as if I was a ghost and his sword passed through me with no effect. He kept on swinging it repeatedly, as if the next blow might somehow make contact. His frustration reddened his face like a rising thermometer. Had I parried with a sword of my own, it would have been different. Instead the wind he blew on me passed harmlessly by, because I had not furled my ego sails. I had nothing to prove, no reason to resist, so I didn't.
I have long concluded that there are essentially three things one can do to respond to a manipulator. They are: comply, lie and rebel. If you think about it, those are, in order, the way we usually respond to manipulation. In my encounter yesterday, I discovered a fourth. I'm not sure what one word I can give it. Release, perhaps. Ignore? Not quite. Um, how about Evade. Still, not right. I guess I'll have to think about that for a while. Let me know if you have any suggestions.
Anyway, this fourth method is a difficult one, had I, for example, been a young father with a family to care for and protect. My controlling, manipulating boss would likely have had much more power to influence me. I'd have had my responsibility sails furled and his wind would have pushed me right where he wanted me. The fabric of such sails is not canvas, but fear. I would have feared letting my family suffer the consequences of my lost job. He'd have had me right where he wanted me. I'd have been forced to reject my quest in exchange for capitulation and compliance, Probably too, I'd have had to grovel and plead for forgiveness and a second chance. Pride after all doesn't demand humility, but humiliation. Then, I'd have had to endure doing my job at a level that was beneath what I've been given to offer and less beneficial to the kids. The consequence of which is a numbing, drudgery of unhappiness and regret.
When I was a kid, my Dad got in a fist fight with one of the students at school. He was Vice-Principal at the time. He and the kid went to their respective homes to clean up. Serious blood had been spilled. The faculty, including my Mom, had an emergency meeting in which they informed the administration that if that youth was ever allowed to darken the doorway of the school again, they'd all walk. Their resolve was unanimous! Meanwhile, Dad was at the student's house, working out a resolution to their conflict. Part of that resolution was an agreement that the boy would be well behaved and that Dad would tutor him to ensure his graduation. When Dad discovered that the faculty had insisted the boy be permanently expelled, he plead for them to change their minds. They wouldn't. So, Dad went on strike. For six weeks he stayed out; privately tutoring the young man. Unpaid, for six weeks, he stuck by his guns and quietly lobbied the other teachers until they finally rescinded their decree and allowed the youth back in school. There was no further trouble. The boy graduated.
The wind the faculty blew on my father had no effect. Why is that? I think it was because of Dad's determination to do the right thing and because of his faith that regardless of the consequences the right must prevail. Perhaps if the fabric of our sails is faith, rather than fear, the ill winds of manipulation will always have no effect, furled or not.
Now, you might say that I failed to follow my father's example because I quit. You might be right. But as I saw it I had only two choices. It was made plain that the condition, under which I would be allowed to keep my job, was to continually unfurl sails of fear. I wasn't willing to do that, so with no drama and no misgivings, I humbly resigned.
When we deal with these troubled youth we often counsel them to quit justifying themselves and start dealing with their issues. My boss wouldn't follow his own advice. Not once in our interview did he consider the issues I had, but rather all of his language was focused on justifying his position. Things are not about to change under those conditions. So another way of looking at it is pride versus humility. If the winds of pride blow on prideful sails there is certain to be resistance. That resistance changes the position of the boat. But if the sails are woven with fabric of humility, the winds of pride have little effect. Consider Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego for example. The King, manipulatively threatened them, but they were humble and full of faith. Even the threat of the fiery furnace failed to alarm them, or to change their position.
I still don't have a word for it exactly, but today I've concluded that if our sails are woven with the warp of faith and woof of humility, and if our ship is rigged with masts of truth, a hull of integrity, rigging of discipline and with God at the helm, the winds of fear and pride will not harm us and the winds of love and joy will propel us to the safe harbor of God's embrace.
Note: The people I mentioned here are not bad people. They are good, faithful Latter-day Saints. They are just like me, doing the best they know how. Were I in their shoes, I might, quite likely, have behaved just as they did. I left their names out for that very reason. Perhaps I should further apologize for even using their story to illustrate what I'm just now trying to learn myself. In most respects they are better people than I am. They just made such good fodder for my further examination of manipulation that I couldn't resist the opportunity.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Book Review - The Continuous Atonement by Brad Wilcox
Those who know me, know I encourage everyone to read Stephen Robinson's Believing Christ. I would still encourage most friends to read that one first. But, then I would insist that they read this one.
The Continuous Atonement has such a fresh, sweet, uplifting perspective. You know how, when you're searching radio stations and the receiver lands on one playing LDS music, you can recognize it instantly? Not because you know the song, but because all LDS music seems to have a familiar ring to it? There is something almost generic about it. Well, there is none of that in Wilcox's writing.
Other examples come to mind. I love to hear a new convert pray or speak. Especially one, who was spiritually mature, before joining the church. They don't express themselves in the same ways we are used to hearing things in Church. They don't use the same old cliche's and they seem to bring a fresh vocabulary to the familiar and well worn truths. What they say is not different, but the difference in how they say it, sheds new light and fresh perspective on old topics.
So it is with Brother Wilcox. Every chapter is a fresh, hopeful, delightful expression of things we've long been taught. Each adds bright fresh flavor and texture that captivates and inspires. I have read lots of books on the Atonement and this one tops my list! Thank you Brad, for sharing part of the depth and breadth of your understanding, with one, such as I, whose mind has such a hard time breaking out of the ruts of the past.
The Continuous Atonement has such a fresh, sweet, uplifting perspective. You know how, when you're searching radio stations and the receiver lands on one playing LDS music, you can recognize it instantly? Not because you know the song, but because all LDS music seems to have a familiar ring to it? There is something almost generic about it. Well, there is none of that in Wilcox's writing.
Other examples come to mind. I love to hear a new convert pray or speak. Especially one, who was spiritually mature, before joining the church. They don't express themselves in the same ways we are used to hearing things in Church. They don't use the same old cliche's and they seem to bring a fresh vocabulary to the familiar and well worn truths. What they say is not different, but the difference in how they say it, sheds new light and fresh perspective on old topics.
So it is with Brother Wilcox. Every chapter is a fresh, hopeful, delightful expression of things we've long been taught. Each adds bright fresh flavor and texture that captivates and inspires. I have read lots of books on the Atonement and this one tops my list! Thank you Brad, for sharing part of the depth and breadth of your understanding, with one, such as I, whose mind has such a hard time breaking out of the ruts of the past.
Book Review - The Map Thief by Heather Terrell
Sweetie read this book some time ago and recommended it to me. I'm glad she did. I love historical fiction. This one may be a bit of a stretch, because Terrell's premise is not entirely accepted as history. As a postulation, though, it is intriguing, possible and amazing.
Heather Terrell tells the story from three primary perspectives. Each of them is informative, thrilling and credible. The perspective of Zhi, the Chinese Enuch who serves as navigator and cartographer for Admiral Zheng He (early 1400's), is one of honor, sacrifice, discovery and courage. The story as seen through the experience of Antonio, navigator for Vasco da Gama (late 1400's), is one of bewilderment, dismay, integrity and adventure. And, finally, the perspective of Mara, a modern recoverer of stolen artifacts, is one of principle, intrigue, determination and romance. Blend them together and you have a picture of cross cultural synchronicity that spans the centuries and which, despite political posturing, brings a sense of meaning and purpose to history.
I think the story could have been fattened a bit with more detail and imagination, but I loved it all the same. The concept and possibilities it explores were more exciting and credible to me than anything Dan Brown has cooked up. Kudos to Heather Terrell on a fine second book. I think I'll look up her first and take it for a spin.
Heather Terrell tells the story from three primary perspectives. Each of them is informative, thrilling and credible. The perspective of Zhi, the Chinese Enuch who serves as navigator and cartographer for Admiral Zheng He (early 1400's), is one of honor, sacrifice, discovery and courage. The story as seen through the experience of Antonio, navigator for Vasco da Gama (late 1400's), is one of bewilderment, dismay, integrity and adventure. And, finally, the perspective of Mara, a modern recoverer of stolen artifacts, is one of principle, intrigue, determination and romance. Blend them together and you have a picture of cross cultural synchronicity that spans the centuries and which, despite political posturing, brings a sense of meaning and purpose to history.
I think the story could have been fattened a bit with more detail and imagination, but I loved it all the same. The concept and possibilities it explores were more exciting and credible to me than anything Dan Brown has cooked up. Kudos to Heather Terrell on a fine second book. I think I'll look up her first and take it for a spin.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Pets?
They say that pets are wonderfully therapeutic. On what planet? In my world, they provide nothing but stress.
When the kids were little I tried all kinds of pets. In those days I believed some good might come of them. Every attempt was a disaster. We tried Cats, most of which drove Sweetie nuts for countless reasons. One wouldn't shut up, another barfed on the rug, repeatedly, another had mange or something. Eventually, she, who brought them home, made me find another home for them. We tried Dogs, Sweetie hated the way they mournfully looked at her when she wouldn't give them her full attention. We tried Hedgehogs; not warm and fuzzy enough. We tried Chinchillas, which were warm and fuzzy, but didn't like to be cuddled. We tried an Iguana, whose only redeeming quality was that finally I was more handsome than somebody. We tried parakeets who taught us all about death and loss. We thought Zebra Finches were cute and at first their little beeps were charming. We found out you can only take so many beeps. We tried rabbits and I shudder to even describe the disaster that was, poor things. One of our many Easter Bunnies, gave birth on Easter. She came to us in a family way. And we thought we could avoid that by getting only one. I have a couple of rabbits now, but I don't see them as pets, but rather as food storage.
Then there were the turtles. We started with three little dime store Sliders. I couldn't imagine they were happy in that little dish with the palm tree sticking out. I made an elaborate aquarium/terrarium, stocked it with frog's eggs and installed the turtles. The eggs hatched. The turtles dined voraciously on polliwogs, got spoiled, refused to eat anything else and died. Furious, I became an expert on turtles. Eventually, I had five species and up to a dozen, thriving, healthy turtles. The local Vet sent all sick turtles to me. I was a good Turtle Doctor. Once recovered, most owners didn't want them back. For a long time, I thought Turtles were the perfect pet. They weren't much trouble, kept quiet, were fascinating to watch, didn't mind being ignored, didn't eat much, didn't shed, and stayed where I put them. Eventually, I tired of them though and closed up shop on that project too. I closed that episode, convinced that owning nature was criminal, unsatisfying and no longer for me.
Then our little Caboose came along. She begged for a pet and eventually we got her a Cat which we neutered and tagged and all the legal, ethical and expensive nonsense which that entails. He was handsome and well behaved. He was quiet. I was tempted to love him, but he sheds 24/7/365. I can't stand to be near him. Everyone else steers clear too. Cat fur everywhere. Gag. To keep him company the gals brought home a female kitten, which we also eventually neutered and tagged. That one has a great coat and hardly sheds at all, but she's looney and won't hold still to be petted or to just sit in your lap. Instead of keeping Nolly, the male, company, she teases and pesters him to distraction. Itty Bitty, the female, came crazy, Nolly grew that way.
So now I live with two neurotic cats. They wake me in the night to let them out. They can't decide if they're coming or going. I shudder to think of the hours of sleep they've cost me over the years. Everybody protests when I suggest we get rid of them. Go figure, nobody even notices they exist. I wouldn't either if I could sleep through their caterwauling.
I grew up in a day when you drowned unwanted creatures like these, or you hauled them off somewhere and dropped them off, or you clubbed them with a shovel and buried them some place. Now-a-days, people get arrested for such things. I know, I see those, scary TV shows where armed police arrest people for such things. Who wants to go to jail for animal cruelty. Why can't there be laws that prosecute cats for human cruelty for crying out loud! After all, in a human/feline relationship, who really owns who? Who is really in charge?
And so I suffer, and wait, and hope. I see dead cats in the road all the time. Hope rises within me, but they're never mine.
When the kids were little I tried all kinds of pets. In those days I believed some good might come of them. Every attempt was a disaster. We tried Cats, most of which drove Sweetie nuts for countless reasons. One wouldn't shut up, another barfed on the rug, repeatedly, another had mange or something. Eventually, she, who brought them home, made me find another home for them. We tried Dogs, Sweetie hated the way they mournfully looked at her when she wouldn't give them her full attention. We tried Hedgehogs; not warm and fuzzy enough. We tried Chinchillas, which were warm and fuzzy, but didn't like to be cuddled. We tried an Iguana, whose only redeeming quality was that finally I was more handsome than somebody. We tried parakeets who taught us all about death and loss. We thought Zebra Finches were cute and at first their little beeps were charming. We found out you can only take so many beeps. We tried rabbits and I shudder to even describe the disaster that was, poor things. One of our many Easter Bunnies, gave birth on Easter. She came to us in a family way. And we thought we could avoid that by getting only one. I have a couple of rabbits now, but I don't see them as pets, but rather as food storage.
Then there were the turtles. We started with three little dime store Sliders. I couldn't imagine they were happy in that little dish with the palm tree sticking out. I made an elaborate aquarium/terrarium, stocked it with frog's eggs and installed the turtles. The eggs hatched. The turtles dined voraciously on polliwogs, got spoiled, refused to eat anything else and died. Furious, I became an expert on turtles. Eventually, I had five species and up to a dozen, thriving, healthy turtles. The local Vet sent all sick turtles to me. I was a good Turtle Doctor. Once recovered, most owners didn't want them back. For a long time, I thought Turtles were the perfect pet. They weren't much trouble, kept quiet, were fascinating to watch, didn't mind being ignored, didn't eat much, didn't shed, and stayed where I put them. Eventually, I tired of them though and closed up shop on that project too. I closed that episode, convinced that owning nature was criminal, unsatisfying and no longer for me.
Then our little Caboose came along. She begged for a pet and eventually we got her a Cat which we neutered and tagged and all the legal, ethical and expensive nonsense which that entails. He was handsome and well behaved. He was quiet. I was tempted to love him, but he sheds 24/7/365. I can't stand to be near him. Everyone else steers clear too. Cat fur everywhere. Gag. To keep him company the gals brought home a female kitten, which we also eventually neutered and tagged. That one has a great coat and hardly sheds at all, but she's looney and won't hold still to be petted or to just sit in your lap. Instead of keeping Nolly, the male, company, she teases and pesters him to distraction. Itty Bitty, the female, came crazy, Nolly grew that way.
So now I live with two neurotic cats. They wake me in the night to let them out. They can't decide if they're coming or going. I shudder to think of the hours of sleep they've cost me over the years. Everybody protests when I suggest we get rid of them. Go figure, nobody even notices they exist. I wouldn't either if I could sleep through their caterwauling.
I grew up in a day when you drowned unwanted creatures like these, or you hauled them off somewhere and dropped them off, or you clubbed them with a shovel and buried them some place. Now-a-days, people get arrested for such things. I know, I see those, scary TV shows where armed police arrest people for such things. Who wants to go to jail for animal cruelty. Why can't there be laws that prosecute cats for human cruelty for crying out loud! After all, in a human/feline relationship, who really owns who? Who is really in charge?
And so I suffer, and wait, and hope. I see dead cats in the road all the time. Hope rises within me, but they're never mine.
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