Are you a saint or a ghoul?

This guts of this post is stolen from the London Institute on Contemporary Christianity- if you haven't heard of them yet, they are a wonderful group of hip Christian writers and speakers. You can subscribe to their meditations, which appear to come out once or twice weekly. A prerequisite is liking the British, of course, because they do have a UK-immersed point of view. A couple of things one might want to consider when reading this meditation on atheism and Christianity-why does Richard Dawkins get his knickers in a twist about Christianity, when it is no longer even a particularly potent cultural force in Great Britain (although Tony Blair is apparently going to convert to Catholicism when he isn't PM anymore)? And what do we make of General Sir Richard Dannatt's ideas about Christianity over here, in a nation whose people would still overwhemingly say that they are Christians?Let alone our President (I hardly dare wonder about VP Cheney-that guy sometimes appears to bat for both sides). My feeling about President Bush is that he uses his faith as a cover for his prejudices-the result is that he has managed in so many ways to make Christians here in the United States appear fundamentalist morons (other countries that claim Christian histories have also done really bad things in the name of democracy or monarchy or conversion, but...one would always like to think we'd do better as small "d" democrats than the colonialists of the 19th century). The point made in this essay remains accurate, though-judge Christian ideals by the words and life of the man Christians profess to follow as Savior, not by how well we actually follow them. Sometimes I wonder whether Christians are more comfortable with Halloween than with All Saints Day!

The Two Richards
Whatever we may think of the appropriateness of what General Sir Richard Dannatt said to the Daily Mail last week, his honesty is welcome. His remarks about the invasion and occupation of Iraq overshadowed some other comments on the ‘moral and spiritual vacuum’ in Britain today. ‘Our society’, he said, ‘has always been embedded in Christian values; once you have pulled the anchor up there is a danger that our society moves with the prevailing wind. … It is said we live in a post-Christian society. I think that is a great shame.’
Richard Dawkins would emphatically disagree. His recent bestselling book The God Delusion puts forward the extraordinary opinion that people in post-Christian secular society are far more moral than those who lived (or live) under the code of one of the world’s religions. Passing over the monstrous evils perpetrated in the 20th century by atheist regimes, the Oxford professor of the public understanding of science delights in describing the horrors carried out in the name of God.
The evidence does not support him, however. In a better-informed discussion of the issue, in his book Is Religion Dangerous?, Keith Ward, former professor of divinity at Oxford, argues that, although religion has been used to justify hatred, envy, greed and fear, no faith has such anti-human values at its heart. ‘Religious institutions’, he writes, ‘can be used by authorities to support their own cause, and the rhetoric of religion can then be used to enlist loyalty to very ambiguous policies, for which the use of violence can seem to be … justified.’
Of course, like all belief systems, different religions embody different worldviews, and these find expression in different values. The core values of the post-Christian West today have been defined, by David Selbourne (author of The Losing Battle with Islam) in the Times, as the ‘doctrines of market freedom, free choice and competition’. Is this threadbare, impersonal vision all that the mighty West has to offer? Small wonder, then, that people are looking elsewhere for a moral compass. What happened to the great Christian principle that we should love our neighbour – of whatever race or creed – as we love ourselves?
Thank you, Richard Dannatt, for the reminder. It’s over to us, now, to help our society to rediscover the transforming message of Christ.
Helen Parry

religion has been used to justify hatred, envy, greed and fear, but no faith has such values at its heart
what happened to the great Christian principle that we should love our neighbour as ourselves?
CLICK HERE - www.licc.org.uk/culture/the-two-richards - FOR MORE LINKS AND TO HAVE YOUR SAY.

I know I should be writing about the political scene (two weeks until the barbarians bring down Rome!), pontificating on latest diatribe of the atheist Richard Dawkins (his brand of what one reviewer termed "nihilistic Darwinism" may be too erudite for me-I barely understood the reviewer's critique), or talking trash about football. I seem to be stuck in "family mode" these days, so you need to go elsewhere for your excitement. The kids had dinner with their dad, as they usually do on Mondays, and I picked them up in the parking lot of the diner where we often meet for this ritual. There's something really tawdry about a divorcing couple exchanging children in a public place. The only reason their dad and I do it this way is because it is often easier than trekking the extra 20 minutes to the other person's house-but it still reminds me of the dissolution of our family, and my responsibility in that. Possibly it's salutary to feel the lash of guilt now and then, because we are always being warned about the horrible effects of divorce on children, and ours seem to be navigating relatively well. The only obvious effect of this low rent rendezvous place on the children is that they almost always seem to want to play the "claw", the hook which, much more often than one would think, has picked up stuffed animals and dropped them into a chute for Sian or Colin to bring back to our home. One of them, a blue and white animal of uncertain gender, creed, race, or country of origin sits on my bed, a present from Colin. Last night, conscious of the time, I refused to allow them money or time to attempt to beat the claw, and we drove home. No sooner did we arrive but Sian declared she was very hungry, and sat down to a salad sandwich (I know her dad feeds her). Colin needed to do his reading. The problem was that by the time Sian had eaten and Colin done his 20 minutes of reading the time had crept by 9:00. When Colin came into Sian's room to have a chat with her as I was attempting to get her to turn off the lights, I lost my temper and walked out, threatening them with the worst punishment in our little family-that I would not stay with them when they went to sleep. No entreaty swayed me, cruel creature that I am. Skulking in my tent like Achilles, I looked across the hall. There was Sian, on Colin's bed, reading him a story before he went to sleep. Softened by this domestic scene, I went back in to give them bedtime hug-forgiveness all around. It was only this afternoon that I discovered that the whole scene had been staged for my benefit by Sian and Colin in hope that I would relent of my ill behavior and sit with them while they went to sleep. Laughing merrily as we wended our way back from her school, Sian said they had expected their scheme to work because: "You are such a sap, Mom!" Since we were our way to Dairy Queen, I have to admit she is probably correct. I can't figure out why I don't feel repentant myself.

Undimmed by time

They've known one another for just a little over 50 years now. Time has left its mark on both of them, but it has not dimmed the affection they feel for each other. The younger one has a debilitating chronic illness that keeps him inside his house most of the time. The older man suffers from a few ailments, but still travels the globe, honored and feted as the foremost African-American historian of his age. They met as young professors at a New York City college-one near the beginning of a long and successful teaching career, the other already famous in his field and about to become even more eminent. Both outsiders in their own way-one Jewish, one black-they developed the habit of walking together around the college where they both worked, and ending up at a deli where they continued to share ideas and confidences over corned beef and pastrami. Neither of them eats corned beef or pastrami now, of course. Over the past five decades, they have edited books together, visited each other's homes, attended conventions, and become friends with one another's spouses. Any relationship that goes on for more than half a lifetime, extending well beyond the deaths of their two beloved wives, is not uncomplicated-nonetheless, they are, the older scholar told me when I visited him recently, like brothers. In New York for a speaking engagement this past week, he took a cab from Manhattan and visited the younger man, who had recently suffered a fall and was confined to bed. What did they discuss? I can only imagine-what does one talk about when Thoreau and Lincoln and Du Bois and Douglass are like old friends, to be summoned to butress an argument or illumine an anecdote? When I heard of the morning spent together, I rejoiced, and I wept, for the durability of the friendship and the constraints, the cruel constraints, that time lays on the strongest of us. But my dad didn't seem in the least unhappy-he was pleased, I think, to be taken out of the bounds of illness into the wider world of history and politics and theory that has been his true home for so many decades-and to see his dear friend, who cared enough to reinforce, with grace and delicacy, the bond between them, only strengthened by the years.

Down with Love?

At the end of The Real Thing, the wonderful Tom Stoppard play, Henry, the playwright's playwriting hero/anti-hero, throws a single on his record player (the play was first produced in 1982). As the curtain comes down, the audience is treated to the strains, not of a Mozart concerto or Renaissance madrigal, but to the Neil Diamond/The Monkees tune, "I'm a Believer." An extended riff on the themes of marriage, the uses of language, and the persistence of love, the play examines the protagonists's evolution from emotional immaturity to tempestous infatuation with his lover and then spouse Anne, to extreme frustration as a writer and husband to acceptance and renewed passion...and the possibility of a love that is real (natch) and lasting. When I saw the play, some years after it was first produced in London, I walked out of the theater radiant with Stoppard's refracted love affair with the English language, and hopeful that if love was possible for Henry, this self-infatuated and passionately intelligent creation of a passionately intelligent playwright, then it might be possible for me. Many years and a marriage later, I am still trying to parse the mysteries of romance, love, love within marriage, and love outside of marriage. Having a deep mistrust of the sentimental, I tend to shy away from cliche and infatuation. Knowing how difficult it is to sustain the white hot heat of sensual and emotional intoxication in a relationship, I prefer to calibrate my words, to move incrementally, to watch, assess, weigh and commit one step at a time. On the other hand, I thrive on relationships that offer kindness and trust, passion and daring. So who knows? You'd think I'd have learned something since I encountered Henry and Anne all those years ago in a darkened theater...I have, you know. I've learned that however many times (to paraphrase Sting) I build fortresses, or stumble across somebody elses defenses, I am still amazed, exultant, and humbled when the bridges get built and the battlements set on fire.

Hot mamas

Ever so often I venture from the merely ridiculous (the political scene) to the totally mysterious (male-female relationships)...so those of you who suffer from excess of sobriety will just have to bear with me ...or skip this post and do your taxes (only 6 more months until April). Earlier this fall, those who chronicle cultural trends were busy yakking it up about a snippet of information that has recently come to light: one third of single women aged 40-60 (or was it 45-65? some number in that general vicinity) are dating guys who are at least ten years younger than they are. On the surface, this seems like good news for women above 40 (which includes myself). Without being compulsive about it ( for instance-the idea of a diet is anathema in my house) many of us try to stay in good shape, both physically and mentally. We have a right to expect the same of the guys we date (of any age). All of the chat about "cougars" (predatory older women looking for sex) misses the point-that it's about time that women had the freedom to find happiness with the right man, whatever age he is. As I said in a post a couple of months ago, I have no problems with this trend, nor of being a part of it, if I meet the right man. At the same time, I'm beginning to feel a little less naive and a bit more skeptical. Who are these guys (ten years younger or more) who have a thing for older women? Are they just looking for a good bedside manner, or for something more substantial? How young is too young? In a relationship where the woman comes with more experience and perhaps more baggage, who sets the agenda? What if the younger guy has no kids? Is he going to "get" what it's like to be a mother, with all of the responsibilities, passion and crazy love that goes with parenthood? I have no answers. I wish I did. I have the feeling that a relationship with a younger guy is like any other one: when it's right, you can make even the most tricky adjustments. It doesn't really matter whether he is young or older-its more crucial that you share similar values, eccentricities, passions, and a sense of humor. Hot mama? Sure hope I am. But, like most other women running a three ring circus called a family, working and volunteering, I'm also a babe with a lot on her mind. I'm a woman who definitely knows what she wants, and wishes to meet a guy to whom that is attractive...particularly if it happens to include a guy like him. H.M.

Where's the bowl?

Driving home after a nice, quiet run, I noticed that the driveway was littered with athletic equipment. Various kinds of sports were represented among the clutter: a badminton racquet, pads for hockey, a tennis racquet, balls, a bicycle, scooters, several skateboards and...could those be ice skates? I was, frankly, baffled by the presence of a box of Cheerios in the garage. I picked it up and took it inside. As a mom, one must harness one's energy for larger questions like: will that wet towel ever make it back into the room where it belongs ? The first thing on my mind was making sure that the neighborhoood children playing some rather esoteric game moved the other sports apparatus they were using off the lawn and back...onto the driveway. It was only later that I remembered to ask Colin and Sian why they had brought a box of cereal out to the garage. To be honest, I don't remember the answer-it may have had something to do with feeding a "rescued" caterpillar. The only thing missing from the driveway was the caterpillar, which had moved into the house and was now living in a recycled box replete with leaves, sticks, and airholes. It is possible, however, that the Cheerios were really taken outside for conventional purposes-after all, I also found a cereal bowl outside on the driveway. But somehow I doubt that in this case, the simple explanation is the best-after all, the milk still was in the refrigerator.

Hunting and Havens

I live in an area where hunting is a part of normal life (for humans, and, I suppose, for birds of prey). It used to be, a friend of mine tells me, that the local public schools were on holiday the first day of hunting season-maybe now that's what they call an "in service day." When I run down past the lake in the increasingly chilly and dark afternoons, I often encounter archers or men in camouflage carrying shotguns. Although I am aware than about 40 percent of American householders own guns, I still feel a shiver of fear when I run past the hunters. Donning my perkiest smile, I give them a friendly "hey there"-and let the adrenaline push me up the steep hill towards houses, and lights, and places where the inhabitants take their meat out of the freezer in a form that little resembles the animal from which it came. I can understand why hunting deer around here might be necessary. I can comprehend eating the meat of the creature one has shot. I just cannot understand getting pleasure from killing it. We have several deer that visit our little development. Last week the kids pointed to one, quietly resting in our backyard. As I mowed the lawn late that afternoon, it sat there observing me-and didn't move far when I got close to it. Eventually the little brown animal with the pointy ears moved back into the trees, where it munched on fall leaves and watched me as I mowed-up and around, diagonally and at an angle, making a game out of what can often seem a chore. As I watched the mower dissect the grass and blazing fall leaves into mulch, I pondered the beauty of the scene, happy that this tame young deer found, at least for an evening, a fire free zone in a dangerous month.