Oddity

I have wondered about this driveway in my neighborhood for years.

What made them put a brick garden in front of the garage door? It's like they don't even understand the purpose of garages.

Beauty in small things

Photographer Christopher Jonassen takes pictures of old, distressed frying pans in such a way that they look like beautiful, mysterious planets.

You can see his Flickr stream here. Outstanding!

His book can be found here.

He is described as someone who "finds beauty in small things." Yes!!

When the artifacts of the past deserve a stern mocking, by God they will get them.

Today, just a quick recommendation of a site: James Lilek's site. As he points out, you can waste a lot of time here - very happily.

The dark undazzle

In the Kingdom of the Past, the Brown-Eyed Man is King

It's all so pitiful, really, the little photographs
Around the room of places I've been,
And me in them, the half-read books, the fetishes, this
Tiny arithmetic against the dark undazzle.
Who do we think we're kidding?

Certainly not our selves, those hardy perennials
We take such care of, and feed, who keep on keeping on
Each year, their knotty egos like bulbs
Safe in the damp and dreamy soil of their self-regard.
No way we bamboozle them with these

Shrines to the woebegone, ex votos and reliquary sites
One comes in on one's knees to,
The country of what was, the country of what we pretended to be,
Cruxes and intersections of all we'd thought was fixed.
There is no guilt like the love of guilt.

Charles Wright

This reminds so much not only of rooms, and the little shrines to our own egos that we set up in our rooms, but of blogs . . . . virtual rooms filled with photographs and fetishes and self-regard in their own way, and "tiny arithmetic against the dark undazzle."

We have to be an Acme, not a Wawa

Saint Thomas the Apostle Roman Catholic Church
Brigantine, New Jersey
October 21, 2007



Neil and I are spending a mini-vacation (5 days) on Brigantine, which is an island just off the New Jersey coast, a 10-minute drive across a bridge from Atlantic City. There are three churches on this little island, as well as lots of lovely shore homes and condos. The three churches are Saint Thomas Roman Catholic, Community Presbyterian, and Brigantine Bible Church. (There is also a synagogue, Temple Beth Shalom.) Brigantine is only a little over an hour from our home, and Neil needs to drive back to Collingswood on Sunday morning to pick up a priest who will be conducting the evening service at the Stockton College campus ministry that evening. Because I won’t have a car while he is gone, I need to attend a church that is within walking distance, which won’t be difficult. Both Community Presbyterian and Saint Thomas are within easy walking distance (I can see both from our hotel room window), and at first I planned to go to the Presbyterian church. But I slept later – hey, it’s a vacation – and so I needed to attend the Catholic church instead.

Saint Thomas meets in an attractive building constructed in a Spanish style, with yellow walls, red roof tiles, and two steeples at each side of the front entrance. A plaque near the front doors reads, “Please! No skateboarding! God is watching! (and He loves you).”

Churches have lots of trouble with skaters, because they tend to be good skating areas: parking lots, wide concrete steps, hard rails, walls, and interesting fences. Some churches seem to have been constructed with skaters in mind! This is a big irritation for lots of church folks, especially the ones who need to worry about liability. Another reason this bothers church folks is that skaters sometimes frighten and/or offend parishioners. They look dangerously nutty to people who aren’t comfortable with skating culture.

You might think it would be a simple matter to simply forbid skating, or just chase the kids away whenever you see them doing tricks on the church steps. However, another fear makes people hesitate to say something. Skaters have been known to come back later that night, after being chased off, and throw rocks at those extremely expensive church windows, or at the light fixtures. No one wants to encourage that. So it’s something of an intractable problem for now.

It would be nice if a church that attracts skaters could build a skate park somewhere on the property and hire a youth minister who enjoys skating, turning a problem into a ministry. But that wouldn’t be easy or cheap, and besides, the insurance would likely be astronomical. So at present lots of churches just have an uneasy relationship with local skaters, and pray for the best.

Inside, I find a seat about halfway up the sanctuary. It is a rectangular space, with seating for at least 500 people. The altar wall is red brick, and there is a large cross with a risen Christ affixed to the bricks, flanked by two large banners with wheat sheaves. To the left are statues of the Holy Family. (Mary is a blonde.) To the right is a mural featuring a dove flying over an ocean. On either side are brick alcoves with statues and candles.

The sanctuary is filling up rapidly. It’s not packed, but there must be at least 400 people. I’m always impressed with attendance at Catholic churches. This is one of five weekend masses. So I figure they might have 1,000 people or more in attendance each weekend. That would be a mega church by Protestant standards, but it seems typical for a Catholic church in New Jersey.

Most people are dressed quite casually, as you would expect on an island. It’s quite warm for October (mid-eighties today), and some adults are wearing shorts and flip-flops. Still, there is the occasional older woman wearing suit, nylons, heels, and hat – the stereotypical church lady costume, which is actually quite attractive on many women. They just have to avoid the sour Dana Carvey face.

For some reason there are stacks of church financial statements in the pews.

A middle-aged woman steps into the pulpit and says, “Good morning. My name is Karen and I will be your lector.” She runs through the announcements, then picks up a book, holds it up, and walks down the aisle toward the back of the church. Then, as the congregation sings the first hymn, the priest, in a green robe, processes up the aisle, along with three young boys wearing white roves and the lector, bringing the book back to the pulpit.

Hey – I think the priest might be another one of the New Jersey Ugandans! As soon as we finish the hymn he speaks, and then I’m pretty sure he is Ugandan. He sounds a lot like Father Grace. He asks the children to come forward for children’s church. A few kids go forward, but not very many. That’s odd, as I usually see lots of kids at a Catholic church. Maybe most of them have already left for children’s church. The priest tells us that in Uganda many children are missionaries to other children, and suffer danger for Christ’s sake, and that we should pray that our children will do likewise. I don’t think many Americans are comfortable with this idea, frankly.

There is a prayer, and a reading from Exodus – the story about Moses lifting his hands in supplication to the Lord while Joshua battled Amilech; Aaron and Levi held up his arms when they grew weary. Next we do a responsive chant. There is the usual half-hearted congregational singing. There is another reading, another chant, and a Gospel reading. The priest announces that there will be no homily today because someone from the parish financial council will be addressing the congregation – ah ha, that explains the financial statements in the pews.

A man steps into the pulpit. He gets right to the point – the church is looking at a projected deficit of about $100,000 next year. Offertory collections must increase by 20%.

He points out good things about the parish, that it has been very vibrant, especially in the last three years. But expenses have increased as well. He notes that they have added a full-time paid youth minister, and that the cost of maintaining their aging building has gone up, including the cost of insurance. Apparently this church has been “regionalized” with four other parishes within the last year, which for some reason means that their subsidy to the parish school has doubled (if I understand him correctly). The diocese is also looking into closing or merging some churches to save money.

Then he makes an interesting comparison. He says that some churches are like Wawas and some are like Acmes. (Wawas are convenience stores in the Northeast, and Acmes are supermarkets.) He explains that this means that some parishes offer just a few services and some offer full service. He says that Saint Thomas needs to offer everything possible to avoid being one of the churches that will be closed or merged within the next few years. They should strive to be an Acme.

(Actually, Wawas are doing great right now. It’s the big supermarket chains that are in trouble, but still I see what he means.)

It’s a little hard to hear the speaker at times, both because he is rather softspoken, and because the man sitting in the pew directly behind me is providing continuous disgruntled commentary – he is firmly convinced that the people in charge of parish finances are morons.

Next we stand for responsive prayer. Among other items, the priest urges us to remember when we go to the polls that the bishops are opposed to the New Jersey Stem Cell Research Bond Act. There is an offertory hymn, and the collection is taken.

When the congregation recites the Lord’s Prayer, what a difference! Everyone knows this one, and suddenly you hear all four or five hundred voices speaking loudly and confidently. It highlights the difference between this and all the other prayers and songs.

The priest celebrates the Eucharist, and as I watch the people going forward, I suddenly realize that everyone in church is white except for the priest. Also, almost no one takes the wine.

Then there is a final hymn, and everyone leaves quickly. It’s a beautiful day to go to the beach!

Epilogue

I did not know this at the time, but the financial situation of the Diocese of South Jersey would come to be very significant for me personally, as Neil was laid off in 2009 when the Diocese offered severance packages to lots of employees, warning them that if they didn’t take the offer now they would likely get much less later. Things seemed to turn out okay for St. Thomas, which was not closed or merged, but lots of churches were affected. Catholic churches throughout the United States have been closing or merging in recent years, especially in the Northeast, and the Diocese of South Jersey tried a rather novel approach – make all the changes at once, rather than closing a few churches every year or so. The approach was controversial, but anything they did would have been controversial. You can read more about the the plan here.

Viewer discretion advised

Viewer discretion? I see your problem right there, code of conduct creators.

Winter garden

We have a garden in the courtyard at work. It looks good even in the snow.

And even at night.

Presidents' Day Treat

What would be an appropriate treat for celebrating this holiday? How about brie and cherry preserves in puff pastry? (I cannot tell a lie.)

Back on the farm

Still looking at old photos and thinking about my grandparents' farm in Michigan. This is a summer vacation photo taken on the steps leading up to the farmhouse, probably in 1957 or 1958. That is me wearing the weird capri pants, my grandfather Albert Voigt, my grandmother Bertha Voigt, my brother Norbert in front of her, my aunt Carol and Uncle Paul Voigt, kneeling on the steps with two of their three children (probably my cousins Mike and Sherry), and the farm dog, whose name I do not remember. I do remember being always impressed with how smart those dogs were, though. They were a huge help rounding up the cows every evening and getting them back into the barn. My mother (who looked remarkably like her mother) probably took this photo. (And Uncle Paul looks a lot like his dad, as you can see in this photo.)

Rivals of Catan

People complain about having adult children still living at home. But I love having my son at home. One of the benefits you never think about - when the power is out for several hours due to trees felling power lines, and you've read about all you can read, there is someone at home willing to play Rivals of Catan with you!

Workplace humor, part 3

I think there is a Dilbert cartoon like this.

When he was once more at home he needed it

From Swann's Way, the description of Swann hearing again a musical phrase he had been seeking unsuccessfully after hearing it once or twice before. What a different thing music was before recordings; imagine not being able to hear music unless it is live, and longing to hear particular pieces that you may very well never hear again in your life:

With a slow and rhythmical movement it led him here, there, everywhere, towards a state of happiness noble, unintelligible, yet clearly indicated. And then, suddenly having reached a certain point from which he was prepared to follow it, after pausing for a moment, abruptly it changed its direction, and in a fresh movement, more rapid, multiform, melancholy, incessant, sweet, it bore him off with it towards a vista of joys unknown. Then it vanished. He hoped, with a passionate longing, that he might find it again, a third time. And reappear it did, though without speaking to him more clearly, bringing him, indeed, a pleasure less profound.


But when he was once more at home he needed it, he was like a man into whose life a woman, whom he has seen for a moment passing by, has brought a new form of beauty, which strengthens and enlarges his own power of perception, without his knowing even whether he is ever to see her again whom he loves already, although he knows nothing of her, not even her name.

Frosty's ugly cousin

Most of the snow is gone, but what remains is really hideous.

If it becomes self-aware in those last few hours before it disappears, we are all in trouble.

A woman I wish I had known

Of course I knew my mother, but equally obviously, I didn't know her as a young woman. In this photo she is in her late teens or early twenties, with her fiancee Claude Louis, who died of tuberculosis before the wedding. At least that's the story as I remember it, and now I have no idea who I could ask to check on whether or not I have the story straight. As a child I was fascinated by the idea that my mother might have married someone else. At the time I thought that meant that if she had, I would still be in the world, still myself, but with a different father and different family. And how poignant to see this image of Claude's shadowed face, a young man who would soon be gone and is now forgotten by almost everyone - if that is Claude, and if I have the facts right!

I love her expression and pose, I love the hat, and I love the reflection of the water on the sides of the boat. 

A perpetually flickering uncertainty

Proust, in Swann’s Way, describing someone who is filled with social insecurity. This description reminds me exactly of the way Lisa Kudrow captures her character’s agonizing insecurity in her brilliant series, The Comeback.


"Dr. Cottard was never quite certain of the tone in which he ought to reply to any observation, or whether the speaker was jesting or in earnest. And so in any event he would embellish all his facial expressions with the offer of a conditional, a provisional smile whose expectant subtlety would exonerate him from the charge of being a simpleton, if the remark addressed to him should turn out to have been facetious.

But as he must also be prepared to face the alternative, he never dared to allow this smile a definite expression on his features, and you would see there a perpetually flickering uncertainty, in which you might decipher the question that he never dared to ask: "Do you really mean that?"

Dairy barn

My parents both grew up on dairy farms in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and our summer vacations were always visits to the farms of my grandparents and aunts and uncles. Even though the farms are a big, big part of my memories of childhood, I have very, very few photos of them. I've always liked this slightly fuzzy, soft view of Uncle Al and Aunt Dorothy's barn. I spent lots of time in that barn, working and playing.

No big dill

Just added a new blog to my blog list. I was led to this site from my friend Debbe's blog, and I've enjoyed looking at it now and then, but the latest post just blew me away. That is the cutest Valentine's Day dress I have ever seen.

You have to read the entire post to appreciate the full cuteness of this, especially the hand-decorated chocolate buttons.

Smitty's bowling team, again

Another great shot of the women's Grayslake bowling team. That's Neil's grandmother in the middle, holding the ball. Perhaps she was the star bowler on the team.

The Seventies are Back

Well, the colors of the seventies are back. I noticed this when I stopped in at Bobby’s Burger Palace for lunch.

Gorgeous. Love those colors.

But the tastes are very contemporary. I had a Napa Valley Burger (goat cheese and watercress), and sweet potato fries with a dipping sauce made of Meyer lemon mustard and horseradish.

I haven’t had a burger in years, literally. We usually have veggie burgers or mushroom burgers (marinate a Portabella mushroom cap in balsamic vinegar, soy sauce, and garlic, then put a little blue cheese on it and broil). Both are very tasty, but once every few years a hamburger is just the thing.

Food at the office

One of the big hazards of the office environment is that people are ALWAYS sharing food. Delicious, tempting, calorific food.

The most recent instance was this week. Someone brought in lots and lots of doughnuts. It had something to do with losing a bet about the Superbowl - I never bothered to get the details.

But I did get the doughnut. A very attractive doughnut, looking sort of like a piece of abstract art. Luscious abstract art.

Come Alive! New Testament Church, epilogue

The church was prompt about follow-up. A few days after my visit I received a phone call from a member who encouraged me to come back, and asked if I had any questions.

I told her that I had become interested in the church because of all the stories about the Jackson family and the starving boys. Did she know anything about that?

The poor woman was obviously familiar with the story, and equally obviously did not know what to say. I don’t blame her for that. It’s a tough position to be in.

Thinking over what I know from the newspaper articles, I do not believe that anyone in the church had any reason to think that the Jacksons were mistreating the four boys. If a family in my church had four weirdly small, obviously ill sons and told me that their condition was due to something genetic, or congenital, or to early mistreatment, I would believe them. I might question why they didn’t take the boys to a dentist, but that would be about the extent of my doubt. I would probably just think that it is wonderful that such sick boys had found a family to care for them.

After the story broke, it is perhaps more surprising that the church defended Raymond and Vanessa Jackson so vigorously. As the facts began to emerge, you would think that church members would begin to have doubts. You would think that, unless you had some experience with cognitive dissonance.

It would be a good thing if every educated churchgoer took some time to think a little about cognitive dissonance. The introduction to the article on this topic in Wikipedia begins:

“Cognitive dissonance is an uncomfortable feeling caused by holding conflicting ideas simultaneously. The theory of cognitive dissonance proposes that people have a motivational drive to reduce dissonance. They do this by changing their attitudes, beliefs, and actions. Dissonance is also reduced by justifying, blaming, and denying. It is one of the most influential and extensively studied theories in social psychology.”

According to the theory of cognitive dissonance, when people discover facts that are in contradiction to their beliefs, they can reduce the dissonance by changing those beliefs – or by “justifying, blaming, and denying.” The latter course of action is extremely popular.

In the case of Come Alive! church, the prevailing beliefs were that the Jacksons were saintly people exhibiting Christlike compassion in caring for these extremely ill boys, that the church was demonstrating its own goodness and Christlikeness in supporting the Jacksons (on top of everything else, you have the interesting dynamic that the Jacksons were a black family attending a basically white church, which provided a subtext of additional godliness), and that the pastors and people were good at discerning “real faith” and “true saints.”

Those are powerful and attractive beliefs, and the facts were no match for them.

If Pastor Thomas were a hypocrite, he would not have stood up before the House Ways and Means Committee to defend the Jacksons – there was nothing in it for him but ridicule. I believe he honestly thought, “I am a good person and a good judge of character. I could not be so wrong about these people. Therefore the facts as presented must be wrong.”

Religious people think this way all the time. (As do non-religious people; it’s a human thing.)

Now, what would account for the Raymond and Vanessa Jackson’s behavior? I have more trouble thinking about this, but it may be something like that Munchhausen by proxy syndrome that describes people who make their own children ill. I’ll admit it’s a very unusual case of whatever it is – both parents colluding, as well as discriminating so blatantly between the boys and the girls in their family. However, I’m pretty sure that in some way their actions were justified in their own minds, hard as that is to comprehend. They were obviously rather far removed from reality in more ways than one. For example, when the case broke it was discovered that the Jacksons were more than $9,000 behind on rent payments that were already heavily subsidized by the state, and electricity in the home had been turned off for months. Raymond Jackson’s job? He was a financial planner.
As time went by, especially as it became clearer every month that all the boys needed was an ordinary family and enough food, I imagine (and hope) church members began to come around to accepting the very unpleasant fact that they had been ignoring starving children in their midst for years. No one would like to admit to a thing like that, but there it is. Lots of people don’t want to admit lots of things about their churches – or their families, or themselves, or anything else in which they have some personal emotional investment, such as their country or their profession.

In the end, I’m glad, as I said, that the church did not abandon Vanessa Jackson. It would be best if they were to confront her and themselves about glaringly obvious sins and failings, of course, but even if she is never able to finally take proper responsibility for these terrible crimes, it’s better that she has some support somewhere. She is a person made in the image of God, too.

Churches are funny. Church people want to see themselves as the good guys, the ones who defend the orphans and fight for the powerless. And it’s so very hard to accept that more often than we would like to believe we are the bad guys, the ones who starve orphans, or get rich off the poor, or rape children, or feed the flames of hatred. The case of four starving boys in the midst of a loving church family should be a wake-up call not just to New Jersey child welfare services, or to Pastor Thomas, or his church, or the Jackson family, but to churchgoers everywhere. We are very, very good at justifying, blaming, and denying.

You might say it’s a special gift.

Come Alive! New Testament Church, part 2

I find the church easily; it is about 25 minutes from my home. It is a fairly new building set back less than a quarter of a mile from a main highway, among fields and woods. I found out later, from a brochure the assistant pastor gave me, that the church had purchased what was the former home of the Medford Farms Liquor and Deli, along with twenty acres of land that include farmland, a creek, and a pond. The cream-colored building looks slightly barnlike, although you don’t see many barns with a slim white steeple. I have arrived on a gorgeous autumn morning; signs in front of a cornfield to the side of the parking lot announce an upcoming free fall festival.

The road into the church parking lot also leads to a fairly large house set back a bit, and I drive there first. This building, it turns out, is the headquarters for Creation Festivals and Creation Concerts. There is also a picnic area sheltered by one of those big white tentlike structures you can rent for parties, and a very large children’s play area filled with multicolored apparatus. I head back to the church parking lot.

I see people leaving and entering the church, and I was right in thinking that it would have been okay to wear jeans to this church. But not everyone is dressed casually; there are also men in suits and women in dresses. When I enter the small lobby, a few minutes before the starting time of 10:30 AM,  someone hands me a bulletin and greets me. Inside the sanctuary, I find a seat about halfway to the front. A few people are milling around, visiting and talking. The seats are wooden padded chairs attached to each other, quite comfortable, arranged in a semicircle around the front platform.

The sanctuary could probably seat about 250. The wall behind the main platform has a decorative screen of wooden slats, in the center of which is a large circle with a cross and two doves. There is a traditional communion table in front of this, holding a golden cross and two candles, and the pulpit is front and center. There are flower arrangements. The American flag and the Christian flag are on stands off to the right, and the equipment for the praise band is to the left. Television screens hang from the ceiling throughout, and during the pre-service time they display a picture of two lit candles.

A couple sitting a few rows behind me catch my eye and wish me a hearty good morning. Soon after that, a young woman stops by and says hello and hands me a piece of folded paper. This is to let us know that Pastor Appreciation Day is coming up, and there will be a cake and coffee reception honoring the four pastors of this church after the second service. People are invited to donate cards, money, poems, and prayers to be placed in baskets to give to each pastor.

One of the pastors introduces himself, but I didn't catch the name. He says he’s glad I’m visiting, and then leaves momentarily, coming back carrying a large coffee mug filled with candy, herbal tea, and a packet of hot cocoa mix, gift-wrapped in cellophane and ribbon. The church’s slogan (A Place for You) and its URL are imprinted on the front of the mug. He also gives me a little brochure about the church, and asks me to fill out the visitor’s card inside and drop it into the offering basket.

The couple who had greeted me earlier come over and introduce themselves. It turns out that this is only their second Sunday at the church! They came last week and liked it so much that they came back again for the evening service, and now they are back for the second week, already urging newcomers to attend. They are quite friendly and happy. That’s rather impressive, for the church to have made such a big impression on these people so quickly.

I look through the bulletin. Inserts advertise a children’s program called The Bigsby Show, a women’s retreat, and the Fall Festival. The first entry in the announcements section asks everyone to keep the leadership and congregation of Lord of Life Lutheran Church in their prayers. It’s not clear to me if this is an indication that the Lutheran church is having some kind of problem, or if it is just Come Alive’s custom to ask God to bless other congregations.

There are very detailed prayer requests in the bulletin, in most cases naming people by both first and last name, and asking for specific things. Hey – I found a mention of the Jacksons! I read a request that we pray “for strength and peace for Vanessa Jackson and her family, and for favor with the authorities leading to an early release.” I’m glad to see that the church is still concerned about her – more thoughts on that topic in the epilogue.

The praise band picks up their instruments. There are nine members in all – four guitarists, two keyboard players, one drummer, and two singers. A pastor welcomes everyone, and the band begins.

There are about 120 people in the sanctuary, and almost everyone stands throughout the music. This would be okay, except that the music goes on for the next 45 minutes. I can walk all day, but I hate standing for more than 20 minutes. A few of the older folks remain seated, and I feel like joining them, but I don’t want to throw my lot in with the geriatric crowd just yet. Still – 45 minutes of standing! Even the Greek Orthodox folks didn’t ask me to do that.

Lyrics are shown on the television screens. The singing seems a bit tepid to me, but it’s hard to tell, because the band is so loud that perhaps I just can’t hear anyone else singing; I can barely hear myself.

After the first half hour I am confirmed in my belief that praise music is awfully dated. I remember standing and singing these same songs in the seventies. We end the music session with that very nice arrangement of “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” and “O the Wonderful Cross” that is deservedly popular. Charles Wesley’s gorgeous 18th-century lyrics still win the day.

Next there is a break for saying hello and welcoming each other (although an awful lot of that seemed to go on before the singing, too). The pastor who gave me the mug stops by again, and asks how I learned about the church. I am hesitant to mention the Jacksons, which might be a touchy subject, so I tell him I found the church in the yellow pages. That is half true. He tells me I should come back for the evening service, which features more music than the morning service, and more intense music. He says this as though it is a good thing.

People are moving around now, chatting. This break seems to last for an awfully long time, although it is probably only about ten minutes. I can see that this is a close-knit group, with lots to say to each other.

The pastor calls us back to our seats for the offering. We read aloud together a statement about how we are giving because “God’s work is great and extensive and deserves my full-hearted support. I give expecting God to do might things in the midst of His people.” Then we read aloud two Old Testament texts, Exodus 35:21 and Nehemiah 4:19.

This last passage reminds me of our fledgling Jesus people church in Carbondale, Illinois. The founders of the group, trying to settle on a name, decided to choose by opening the Bible at random (“letting God choose for us”). The page they opened to contained Exodus 35:21; the heading of the page was “The people’s offering.” So that became our name, the one we used when we incorporated as a 501c3 organization.

Unfortunately, we were unaware not only of the embarrassing history of what happens when people try to get guidance by opening the Bible at random, but also shockingly ignorant of modern history – no one in the group noticed the similarity between a name like The People’s Offering and a name like The People’s Republic of China. (Readers of David Lodge’s comic novel Changing Places may recall that students at his fictional California university were engaged in a struggle to set up the People’s Garden and the People’s Fishpond, among other efforts to establish a Marxist utopia.) Naming our church The People’s Offering sounded might suspicious to plenty of outsiders; little did they know that the name was indicative only of our cheerful ignorance.

Ah, memories. At Come Alive! the offering is taken using purple velvet bags on sticks. After the offering, the pastor asks a couple to come up and speak. They are adopting an 11-year-old girl from China, who was in the US recently for medical treatment. She had been here for medical treatment earlier, when she was five years old, and this was a follow-up visit. The couple are part of a team that helps children come to the US for care, and they feel strongly that God wants them to adopt this girl. They show a video slideshow of the girl’s visit, and she is adorable! One of the pastors (I can’t tell who is who among the four pastors of this church) asks us to give to another offering to help defray the $20,000 adoption costs. He notes that he and his wife adopted a Korean girl many years ago, and they now couldn’t imagine their family without her. So the velvet offering bags come around again, and I am glad to contribute to this cause.

Then a young woman wearing jeans and a jean jacket sings a solo, with prerecorded instrumental accompaniment. By now it is 11:35, and we are just getting to the sermon!

One of the pastors (I think he is the one who gave me the mug, but I’m not positive) asks us to open our Bibles to the first chapter of Colossians. This is a church where everyone brings a Bible; there are none in the pews. He is preaching on “the hope that God has for the saints.” This is going to be a sermon on heaven, which is actually a fairly unusual topic for a sermon these days.

First, he points out how important it is that the Colossians showed love for all the saints, even though some of them were probably not very lovable. He asks us if we realize that there are saints in all denominations, and if we know that we are expected to love them all. He says that lack of love among Christians has probably done the most harm to the body of Christ throughout history, which I think may be true. (Anti-Semitism is in the running for the title of Most Harm, though – again, my opinion.)

This man has a clear, conversational style of speaking, and explicates the passage at length. He says that thinking about heaven is more practical than most people assume, because it affects our actions on earth. He mentions that common fear that people have that heaven sounds boring, and suggests that, whatever it is like, it will be filled with purpose, and will not be boring. The sermon is about twenty minutes long, so we end at 12:15 with a simple benediction.

I stand around for a while, and then head to the lobby again. I stop in the bathroom on the way out, and a young woman notices my visitor’s mug and tells me how much she loves the church – she has been attending for twenty years. So the place has been recommended enthusiastically by both old and new members, which is rather impressive. I can say right now that in my year of visiting churches, this is the only time this happened - spontaneous, unprompted recommendations of the church by current members.

I peek into the sanctuary again. It looks as though no one has left. They are still standing around visiting, and no doubt most of them will be back again tonight. This appears to be a rather small but tight-knit group of people who really, really like their church. And they are involved in medical ministry, prison ministry, nursing home ministry, which is a big plus for me. It’s not the style of service I prefer, but there seems to be something here that other people love.

So what’s with this church and the starving boys?

Come Alive! New Testament Church

Come Alive! New Testament Church

Medford, New Jersey
October 14, 2007

I chose this church for one reason: it had been in the news a few years ago, and I was very curious about the pastor and the congregation.

The story that had made national headlines in 2004 was horrifying. (A compilation of stories on this case that ran in The New York Times can be found here.) A homeowner in Collingswood, New Jersey investigated noises in his yard at 3 am, and found someone foraging for food in his garbage can. Not an animal – it was a small boy. The man brought the boy inside his house and called the police, who took the boy to the police station and gave him a stuffed animal for comfort. The boy said that his name was Bruce, but he didn’t know his last name or where he lived.

At 8 a.m. Raymond Jackson called the police station to report that his son was missing. Police were shocked to discover that Bruce was a 19-year-old man. By noon authorities had removed six other children – three boys and three girls, all adopted except for one girl who was a foster child, from the house the Jacksons were renting next to the neighbor whose garbage can had been disturbed in the middle of the night. The girls were healthy; but all four boys – Bruce and his three younger brothers – were horrifically emaciated and undersized. Bruce, age 19, weighed 45 pounds and stood 48 inches tall. Keith, age 14, was the same height as Bruce, but weighed only 40 pounds. Tyrone, age 10, was 28 pounds and 38 inches tall. Michael, age 9, weighed 22 pounds and was 37 inches tall. All the boys had blackened, rotting teeth.

Details began to emerge. Some neighbors said they had never seen the boys, and didn’t realize there were young boys in the house. One neighbor reported that he had seen the two older boys out in the yard, clipping the grass with hand shears “for days.” He assumed that they were about ten years old. The boys had the job of taking the trash cans to the street, and the neighbor noticed that they had to stop several times to catch their breath every time they performed this chore. He assumed that social workers were monitoring the situation. Like everyone else, he also assumed the boys were much, much younger than they actually were.

The children were home-schooled, but New Jersey does not require proof that home-schooled children are receiving an education, and in fact there was no evidence of any education. The boys had never seen a doctor or dentist during the years they lived with the Jacksons. There were locks on the kitchen doors to keep them away from food. The boys claimed that their diet consisted mostly of pancake batter, uncooked cereal, and raw potatoes. Sometimes they went so long without food that when they were given something to eat, they were unable to keep it down. They gnawed on wallboard and windowsills to quench their hunger. They said that they had been beaten with brooms and belts, and were not allowed to bathe.

Of course, the New Jersey Department of Human Services and the Division of Youth and Family Services, which had been supposedly monitoring the boys’ welfare, came under withering scrutiny for their handling of this case.

In their defense, the Jacksons claimed that all four boys suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome and eating disorders, including a disorder that makes a person regurgitate food into his mouth and chew it. Because of these problems, they had to lock up all food in the house and keep it from the boys.

Doctors conducted tests and found no evidence of any such ailments. In fact, as soon as the boys were removed from the Jacksons’ home and placed into other foster homes, they made remarkable recoveries, with nothing more than normal diet and vitamins. The cause of the boys’ shocking condition was found to be intentional starvation.

The next development in the case, though, was a big surprise to local churchgoers. The Jacksons were members of a church, the whole family attended services regularly, and the church rallied around them after the story broke. The pastor of Come Alive! New Testament Church, Rev. Harry Thomas, helped raise the $20,000 cash needed to make bail for Vanessa and Raymond Jackson, and the parents received a standing ovation from the congregation when they returned to church on Sunday after being freed from jail. The church donated more than $10,000 to pay the family’s overdue electricity bill and back rent. Come Alive! started a website, savethejacksons.org, with testimonials about the “saintly” Jacksons and how well they had cared for the four boys. In fact, the family fed the homeless on Camden streets and near the Ben Franklin Bridge in Philadelphia. They sat in the front row at church, and the boys sang gospel songs on stage.

The Jackson case was so extreme that it was brought before the Human Resources Subcommittee of the House Ways and Means Committee, so that committee members could examine whether there are enough checks to ensure the safety of children who receive federal money while in the care of child welfare agencies. (The Jacksons received about $28,000 annually from the state to cover the costs of raising the children.) At that hearing, Pastor Thomas accused Bruce Jackson, the boy found rummaging in the garbage, of lying about conditions in the house. He questioned the weight gains the boys had made after being removed from the house, asking “Did they have shoes on when they were weighed?” (Bruce gained 18 pounds in the month after he was taken from the Jackson home; Pastor Thomas must know of some rather enormous shoes.)

Members of the subcommittee publicly scolded Pastor Thomas for his comments.

Pastor Thomas did not back down. He later testified at the trial in which Vanessa Jackson was sentenced to seven years in prison for starving the boys (her husband died before the case came to trial), “I’ve known these people as very loving people, people who have a heart for children and they have a heart for God.”

Whaaaaaaat???

Workplace humor, part 2

Cubicle humor.

Workplace humor

Chariots of greyhounds

This post is for my dear daughter - we both got a kick out of seeing this custom truck/van thing with the glam lady apparently driving a team of greyhounds.

That is one sweet ride.

I hate my name

Not really. But there was a time during my childhood when this was true. No other kid my age was named Emilie (or Emily). It was an old lady name, a funny name, something like Hulda would be today.

Once I was introduced to someone who looked surprised, paused, and asked, "But what do they call you?"

The only Emilys I knew of were a Victorian novelist and the crazy old lady murderer in Arsenic and Old Lace. Every once in a while I would meet an ancient crone who shared my name.

Of course, today everything is different. Emily is the most popular kid's name, or nearly the most popular. I meet lots of little kids and teens named Emily, and even once in a while someone named Emilie (the European spelling).

Kids hate their names if they are popular, wanting a distinctive name, and hate their names if they are distinctive, wanting an unusual one. We are never satisfied. Eventually, of course, I wised up and came to like my name a lot.

On the other hand, I am very fortunate that I wasn't allowed to change my name when I was ten years old. At that time I was writing lots of short stories about a plucky orphan named Fern - she had the prettiest, most delicate, loveliest name in the world, don't you think? If I had been allowed to choose my own name at that age, today I would be Fern Kelpie.

Kelpie was my second choice. I had read a book about a little Scottish girl who was a kelpie - in that book kelpies were a sort of water fairy, although apparently the more traditional story is that kelpies are supernatural water horses that can disguise themselves as beautiful women who lure people to their deaths.

Yes, Fern Kelpie would have been a much better name.

And just think - some day in the future nursing homes will be full of Brittanies and Madisons and Ashleys instead of Ediths and Florences and Emilys. Those will be the new old lady names. I won't be around to see it, but it's fun to think about.

At the corner of Sleighride and Cowbell

we are looking at a cold, icy night. I worked from home today, which was probably not necessary (the weather wasn't as bad as predicted), and will likely work from home again tomorrow, when it will be necessary. Very, very nice to have that option.