Just Don’t Call Them Biblical Values
Gary Blaine

Republican candidate Rick Santorum has criticized President Obama’s faith this week and stated that it is, “Not a theology based on the Bible.” Mr. Santorum seems to have a vision of America that is a theocracy based on Jewish and Christian principles. Mr. Santorum’s comments invite a host of questions that theocrats inevitably raise. Why a Jewish and Christian theocracy as if these two traditions were synonymous and meant the same thing. Which Judaism of the Hebrew Bible would he endorse, that of the pre-Davidic monarchy, or the Judaism of the various kingdoms of Israel and Judah, an exilic Judaism or post exilic Judaism? Or does he mean the theology of the Jewish peasant, Jesus, prior to the crucifixion and resurrection or the post resurrection community through the Council of Nicea? After Constantine everything “Christian” changes through the Dark Ages to post-Christian America.
I wonder if Mr. Santorum really imagines a United States government based on the Bible. As I read the Bible the nation would spend little time debating questions about gender orientation and put a tremendous amount of work and money into caring for the poor. There are only about six, possibly nine, Biblical references to homosexuality. But there are hundreds of references about the poor, God’s concern for the poor, God’s commands about caring for the poor, the consequences of not providing for the poor, and the blessings on those who provide for the poor.
I am not sure Mr. Santorum would win the endorsement of the Chamber of Commerce, banks, and corporations because a distinct value of the Bible prohibits usury. In the strict sense, usury in the Bible is any interest on loans, not just exploitive loans. And how about the year of the Jubilee? That Biblical value would require that all land borrowed, stolen, purchased, or seized for unpaid debts would return to its original owners. The Jubilee Year, every fifty years, would mean that all debts are forgiven.
Mr. Santorum wants to finish the wall that separates the United States from Mexico to stop illegal immigration. Never mind that it won’t really work given the massive border that surrounds the U.S. More importantly it is not a Biblical concept. Torah speaks repeatedly about caring for and even protecting foreigners and aliens. In fact, the Deuteronomist instructs us to “Love you therefore the stranger: for you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.”
Finally, do most Americans really want Biblical values when it comes to issues of national defense? Does Mr. Santorum really want to beat our drones into plowshares and our nuclear missiles in pruning hooks? I’ll bet nobody at the Pentagon, the Defense Department, or proud investors in the military industrial complex would vote for that. Biblical values require us to seek peace and reconciliation and not commit acts of violence against even our worst enemies. Mr. Santorum might do well to re-read the Sermon on the Mount.
Without a doubt people will argue with me about same-sex marriage, the abuse of entitlement programs, capitalism and a free-trade economy, the necessity of secure borders, and a strong military presence in the world. Their values will reflect their worldview and political ideology. Just don’t call them Biblical values.

Whitney's Death

The death of Whitney Houston has taken over the media. One morning news program devoted its entire two hours to her life, music, and demise.
Without a doubt Whitney Houston was a magnificent entertainer. Her voice spanned three octaves, delivered with soulful power. Not for a moment would I diminish her talent. Her career inspired many artists and her music touched the hearts of thousands of people.
Sadly, Whitney Houston is one more name in the list of artists and entertainers whose lifestyle destroyed them. The list is a long one and includes people like Kurt Cobain, Elvis Presley, Chris Farley, River Phoenix, Michael Jackson, and Marilyn Monroe.
Already people are asking who is to blame for Ms. Houston’s death. Investigators are searching her medical records to determine what medications her doctors prescribed for her. Yet a former body guard reported the other day that her behavior was so self-destructive that he had to check on her every seven minutes to make certain that she was safe. She admitted that her own worst enemy was herself.
I do not judge Whitney Houston. But the only truth is that she is to blame for her death. Hers alone was the responsibility to seek the treatment she needed and make the choices that guaranteed her health. She chose to do otherwise and paid for it with her life. She also brought incredible grief to her daughter and others who loved her.
Over the years I have become convinced that the values of a consumer democracy actually erode the very character that establishes democracy in the first place. We have moved away from the agrarian principles of hard work, the reality of struggling with nature to feed human beings, and understanding that such a struggle does not make everyone a “WINNER!” We have lost our sense of personal responsibility and the reality that life is often fragile no matter how hard we have worked. I think of crops that have grown through the early spring and destroyed by a late killing frost, or blown over by high winds and hail just before harvest.
The glamour of Hollywood does not instill such character in people. We have known this for a very long time. The vanity, excess money, and pseudo-adulation of the entertainment business gives people the mistaken idea that life can be bought, charmed, and seduced by the right combination of talent and public relations.
None of it is real.
The death of Whitney Houston is a sad thing. But the loss is greater than the voice of such lyrics as “I will always love you.” The greater sorrow is a nation that lacquers over its own self-destructive behaviors and rushes out to buy the greatest hits of the dearly departed.

A Quiet January

We are deep into January and there is not yet much winter weather to comment about. We have had less than an inch of snow. Drought conditions have not slackened. When I hear the weather reporter on television remark that this is going to be a “great week with a clear weekend forecast,” I know that he or she knows nothing about farming and gardening. It would be a great week and weekend if we could have gentle rains thoroughly drench the soil. Temperatures have been down into the twenties but only for a very brief time. The Kansas wind blows, of course, and can make the wind chill really bite.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the Great Horned owls begin hooting across the winter wheat fields to one another. I love to hear their deep throated questions, “Who, who-who?” Later in the evening the Screech Owl begins its twirring, a subtle song of constant note. Coyotes yelp in the bedlam of their crazy packs. Barnyard dogs bark at the frenzy of night.
And then there are times, both day and night, when there is absolute silence. I do not even hear the grumbling of the Santa Fe trains in the distance.
Orion’s belt has been moving slowly in the southerly sky from east to west. The Milky Way is smeared over our house and I always marvel that our planet is a voting member of that bright system.
So far it has been a quiet winter and seemingly unremarkable. But recall the words of the 18th century English cleric, William Law: “All that is sweet, delightful, and amiable in this world, in the serenity of the air, the fineness of seasons, the joy of light, the melody of sounds, the beauty of colors, the fragrancy of smells, the splendor of precious stones, is nothing else but Heaven breaking through the veil of this world.”

The Wild Goose

Christopher and I were out in the pasture the other day when a flock of Canadian geese flew overhead. They were low enough to the ground that I could hear the rush of wind they generated by the flapping of their wings. They were flying in their usual V shaped pattern, which increases their efficiency. Honking back and forth I knew that another one further back in the formation would replace the goose at the head of the flock. The lead goose takes the greatest impact of resistance and will tire. It is also a fact that if a goose is wounded or sickens and must return to terra firma a companion will see it safely back to land.
There is much to learn from geese and their corporate model is often used in organizational training, especially in the life of congregations. There are other characteristics of geese that must also be appreciated. The fact is that they are wild, and though we know that they generally fly south for the winter, their flight plans often seem random. I have watched flocks flying south and then seem to jag east and sometimes back north. They undoubtedly know what they are doing but it is far beyond the rational thought of most people. Goose guano makes great fertilizer but too much of a good thing can burn a field. Like chicken manure it is high in nitrogen and is too “hot” to put directly on plants and vegetables. (Composted chicken manure, on the other hand, is called “black gold,” and is great for vegetables.) Geese can also eat up the tops of winter wheat faster than it can grow.
Is it not interesting that the wild goose is a symbol/metaphor in Celtic Christianity for the Holy Spirit? We are used to seeing the metaphors of fire, wind, and dove to orient ourselves to the Spirit of Life in whom we live and move and have our being. Columba, founder of the Iona community in Scotland, adapted the wild goose as the metaphor for the Holy Spirit. (An Geadh Glas is how it is understood in many Celtic communities but the ancient Irish is An Gle Flain) Interesting that Columba’s own name in the old Irish tongue is Colun Cille, meaning “dove of the church.”
Why do you suppose Columba chose the wild goose? The symbol of the dove is much more popular, reminding us of the dove who brought a fresh branch to Noah and the dove who descended upon Jesus at his baptism. The dove adorns peace banners, bumper stickers, and Christmas cards. I think Columba chose the wild goose to remind us that the Holy Spirit is not always safe, demure, and peaceful. Like the wild goose the Holy Spirit is often unpredictable, messing thing up, and making havoc with our well-patterned schedules and electronic calendars. In fact the goose does not read the Farmer’s Almanac as to when the seasons are supposed to change according to solstice charts. The wild goose pays close attention to the movement of wind, fronts, and temperatures, moving with the reality of change. I dare say the wild goose leads the way.

Outside My Window

When I look outside my window I see God – or the Spirit of Life, or the Power of Life, or the Force, or the élan vital or whatever you need to call it. Ralph Waldo Emerson spoke of the universal currents that run through all of us. I resonate with that too.
Outside my window this morning the land was glistening with the sheen of thick frost. The grass and trees sparkled. The head of the Buddha on my lawn shimmered with the morning sun, refracted by crystallized dew. It caused me to look a little closer at this place where I live now through a renewed lens. Yes, I have seen frost on this same yard hundreds of times. But each time I am forced to pay attention and see the land in a new light. The same is true if it is a soaking rain that gives our micro-farm the name, “Soggy Bottom.” Snow redefines our habitat as well as the kind of heat that radiates off of rooftops in August. Kansas wind transforms all of these, exaggerating their character.
Honestly, if I had passed through Kansas in 1870, I doubt seriously that I would have stopped. There are plenty of stories about the people who lost their minds in sod houses. Their souls were afflicted by the constant wind, the push of blizzards, and withering drought.
Because I have lived in so many places I have learned to see the sacral nature of the earth. Sacral is an interesting word, meaning of or about religious rites, and also related to the nerves in the sacral region at the base of the human spine. Nerves are those fibers or bundle of fibers that conduct the impulses of sensation and motion between the brain and spinal cord, every limb and organ. They are the pathways of all that we see, touch, hear, taste, and smell. Without them we could not respond to the stimuli.
I believe there is something amazingly wonder-filled and profoundly religious in the sensation and motion of being human on the earth. I sometimes wonder if the Holy Spirit is the nerve of my soul and the creation. Sometimes it seems to flow out of me, coursing like a spider’s web toward fireflies. At other times it races out of morning dew or the evening sunset, enflaming my imagination.
The same would be true if you plopped me down in a city like Boston, a mountaintop in the Canadian Rockies, or a fishing village on the coast of Maine. I am at home in the universe, every time I look out my window.

I Know How to Do That!

Sunday last was a beautiful fall day in Kansas. The temperature was quite moderate. After church we went to Papa’s Pumpkin Patch, an annual pilgrimage that we make to buy our pumpkins for carving. We also enjoy the pork sandwiches or pulled pork and their wonderful chocolate chip pumpkin bread. Our friends Crystal, Julia, and Jadyn were with us.
After lunch I went home for my Sunday afternoon nap while the girls walked the maze, picked pumpkins, and shot small pumpkin with an oversized sling-shot. When they got home they traced designs on their pumpkins – dragons and monsters. Emily’s pumpkin head had another pumpkin headed monster in its mouth.
Jadyn, who is four, lost interest in the finer arts of fruit carving. As I was walking out to feed the horses she ran behind me and told me she wanted to open the gate. “I know how to do that!” she insisted. She unlatched the gate chain and as the gate opened she hopped on for the ride. “Don’t forget to latch the gate,” I reminded her. “I know how to do that,” she proclaimed once again.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye to make sure she knew how to do it well enough to keep the gate closed. I continued to walk toward the barn. In just a few seconds there was a little four-year-old hand in mine, slightly sticky with the essence of pumpkin.
I thought to myself, “This is a glorious day.”
Jadyn helped me feed Dusty, Bama, and Red, though she could hardly hold the three pounds of feed in the scoop. Nothing was going to deter her and I gave minimal support. She then raced ahead to open the gate where we fine-tuned the art of gate keeping.
We had a dinner of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Later in the evening Mimi, Crystal, and the girls roasted pumpkin seeds. One recipe was garlic-salt and butter the other was cinnamon, sugar, and butter.
Don’t you think this was a fine communion Sunday?

Fishing for Hope

Emily Dickinson wrote, “Hope is a feathered thing.” My own experience is that hope is more like fishing. I stand on a dock or shoreline, or sit in my canoe. I might be bottom fishing or using a bobber. Sitting patiently I wait for that little twitch on the end of my finger or the first slight dip of the bobber. A sunfish or bass is playing with the bait, nibbling with indecision. The temptation is to give the line a little jerk in the hope of hooking the fish. If I move too soon I will frighten the fish away. Sometimes they come back but I have to wait a little longer. Don’t you have hopes like that?
Of course, the fact that fish are biting keeps me at my post. I always think, “Next time.” The sun starts to go down and I say to myself, “Just a few more minutes.” I might change the bait thinking a fresh minnow will do the trick. There are times when hope strikes strong and I reel in a big one. I am so relieved that I don’t have to say, “Yeah, but you should have seen the one that got a way.”
Hope keeps me at the rod and reel. Looking for a feeding hole near a sunken log or slight inlet, I cast here and there. I watch for slight ripples on the water or shadows on the bottom of the lake or stream. I listen for the flop of a bass that has struck an insect on the surface.
I have seen so many people fishing for hope. A mother with two beautiful children hoping that she can recover her marriage. She is willing to do anything to salvage her family - and I mean anything. She does a lot of casting. A family paces in the waiting room for the doctor to return from surgery with a word of promise. Even if the prognosis is grim they keep casting for new chemistry or therapeutic remedies. A senior in high school keeps her eye on the mailbox waiting for an acceptance letter from the university. And if she does not get the big one she will pitch her line to second and third choices that she will later affirm was a better fit anyway.
Hope keeps me fishing. With patience and skill she is mine. There are many more that also get away. You cannot be a fisher if you do not hope. We cannot live without it either. Keep your fishing gear in the trunk of your car or truck. Keep casting.