Last night I watched the Louisville Cardinals defeat Michigan, 82-76, in Atlanta to win the university's third national championship in men's basketball. There were many great storylines for both teams going into, through, and out of that game. The Cardinals' Kevin Ware cheered his teammates on from the sideline, a casualty of his horrific broken leg from the previous weekend. As a former resident of Louisville, I was thrilled to see the Cardinals win another title and listen to Luther Vandross' voice as the song "One Shining Moment" was played to end the telecast.
And then I woke up this morning, went running, showered, dressed, ate breakfast, and cruised the Internet and landed on a story that is a true shining moment in the most unlikely March Madness situation.
Long story short (and you should read the article linked above, but I'd adjure you to have a box of Kleenex in close proximity): Kirsten Moore is the women's basketball coach at Westmont College, a Christian college located in Santa Barbara, California. She married her husband Alex, a kinesiology professor at Westmont, in the spring of 2008. Then in May of 2012, Alex went in to Cedar-Sinai Hospital for colon surgery, as he struggled with Crohn's disease. The operation was a success and he told Kirsten to go to a friend's house and get some rest. She did.
Twelve hours after that surgery, a pulmonary embolism struck Alex Moore in the middle of the night, snuffing the life from this 31-year old husband.
Kirsten was awakened from her sleep by the hospital's phone call and screamed and wept her eyes out.
Did I mention? She was eight months pregnant.
Obviously the pain Kirsten carried was immeasurable. One can hardly fathom going through childbirth, delivering a baby girl who would never know her daddy. Kirsten Moore nonetheless went back to work, preparing for the next season. But she couldn't do it alone.
One woman, Deanna Odell, said, "The tragedy occurred and we're all like 'Okay, how are we going to help her?' It's just how our community works."
The care of Alexis, Kirsten's baby girl, was a coordinated network of friends utilizing a series of tender handoffs from Kirsten's daily office duties, her late-afternoon practices, and during games. Sometimes Alexis hung out with the team during practices. She managed to interrupt a film session as players and Kirsten both gawked in amazement that she was finally crawling. There were times that were a bit dicey, such as when Alexis needed nursing on a bus trip to an away game. Because the men's and women's teams traveled together, Kirsten ordered the men to turn their heads.
One assistant coach remarked that Kirsten "could have ran, we all could have ran...Instead, we gave these young women a chance to see, firsthand, how to handle real adversity."
The adventure through pain and perseverance took the Westmont women's team all the way through the NAIA (National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics...the NCAA of smaller colleges) Women's National Championship Tournament. Win followed win, and on March 19th--just last month!--the team huddled at courtside before the national championship game against Lee University.
Kirsten Moore thanked the coaches and players for reviving her soul, for being there at her husband's funeral, for bearing burdens and bringing joy and pursuing patience with her.
In short, she said, "Thank you for loving me."
And then they went out and beat Lee, 71-65, for the national title and a picture-perfect moment.
Two days after Alex's death, Kirsten had gone through his office and noticed some Post-it notes on the wall. One gave Scriptural moxie: "Be strong and courageous and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged for the Lord, my God, is with you."
And a community circled around this young widow, this tender mother, this grieving coach, and locked arms and made it so.
That is the "one shining moment" I'll remember from this spring.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
Resignation Station: A Teacher's Parting Shot
I'm old enough to remember when Michael Jordan retired. Yes, all three times (1993, 1998, and 2003). I can see in my mind's eye the shock that rippled across America when he did so the first time, at the height of his career, after three consecutive National Basketball Association (NBA) championships. His father had been murdered during the summer of 1993, and in October, Jordan announced he wouldn't be returning for a tenth season (sending the telecast of a Blue Jays-White Sox baseball playoff game into upheaval). He came back, of course, for more fame and championships, but I still remember the stunning nature of his first retirement.
Fast forward to 2013 and to another retirement, and one that probably won't make the pop culture splash like Michael Jordan. But it's one that should. Granted, the name Gerald Conti of Syracuse, New York, is not a household item bursting with instant recognition. But his message is loud. His declaration is clear. And it carries a lot of pain.
Mr. Conti has been teaching for forty years and has spent the last twenty-seven years at an excellent high school in the Syracuse area. I've been to that section of the country before and can tell you education is taken seriously. But Mr. Conti's letter of resignation is not delivered with wistful joy. Rather, it is a clarion call to the American educational establishment to wake itself up. In short, Mr. Conti is saying that his profession "no longer exists."
When someone like Mr. Conti takes pen and paper to bare his thoughts, I listen. I don't automatically agree or disagree, but I want to learn why he feels the way he does. There is a great deal of sadness and frustration throughout his letter. He is resigning as a teacher because, as he says, "I am not leaving my profession; in truth it has left me. It no longer exists."
Strong words from a man who says "history has been so very much more than a mere job, it has truly been my life." Mr. Conti strikes me as a man whose thirst for wisdom and knowledge is insatiable, who is humble enough to say he knows enough on any one topic. Moreover, Mr. Conti wants to touch the lives of others so that they might engage the world and change it for the better.
That resonates strongly within me. Since graduating from seminary, I've worked for seventeen years. Fourteen of them have been in the teaching profession. If someone asked me what I love the most about teaching, I'm sure I'd have a Philadelphia moment. You might recall the scene when Andy Beckett (played by Tom Hanks) is on the witness stand and he's asked by Denzel Washington why he loves the law as an attorney. Beckett's response: "Because occasionally, not all the time, but once in awhile, you get to be a part of justice being done. And that's a big thrill."
For me, occasionally--in fact, much of the time--but once in awhile, I get to be part of fanning the love of practical wisdom within a teenager. I get to enthuse and motivate young people. And that's a big thrill. It's a creative spark, a blazing fire. It's something that, as Mr. Conti suggests, is under assault. And that is why he is resigning.
He says that "I now find [his] approach to my profession is not only devalued, but denigrated and perhaps, in some quarters despised." He speaks out against the tactics that aim for "only conformity, standardization, testing and a zombie-like adherence to the shallow and generic..." while "[c]reativity, academic freedom, teacher autonomy, experimentation, and innovation are being stifled in a misguided effort to fix what is not broken in our system."
Now, Mr. Conti is directing his remarks at public education in America, and yes--there is plenty to shore up in that sector. However, his words can apply to any private academy, any non-denominational Christian school, any Catholic/Lutheran/sectarian religious school. This is not a "public school" issue, but a "modern education" problem. Because trust me, what he speaks of can work its way into any academic bloodstream from any decision-making syringe.
Mr. Conti speaks against initiatives like STEM and Common Core, and you might say those criticism have merit, but I prefer to think those debates are better spent elsewhere. What I find most intriguing and disheartening is not merely the "what" that he bemoans, but the "how". He notes (and keep in mind this is his viewpoint; always make sure you verify other peoples' opinions...it's a good rule for life) that their academic leadership has been "uncommunicative and unresponsive to the concerns and needs by our staff and students by establishing testing and evaluation systems that are Byzantine at best and at worst, draconian." According to Mr. Conti, there has been an administrative refusal "to call open forum meetings to discuss these pressing issues", an inaction that "has only served to produce confusion, a loss of confidence and a dramatic and rapid decaying of morale."
Strong stuff indeed, and I am not here to judge whether or not the school district and administration of which he speaks have been acting in duplicitous shadows. But when a teaching veteran of forty years puts it that way, I at least take notice. And believe me, if an administration would do this, it establishes no trust and instead erodes the foundation of visionary teachers. Now, don't hear what I'm not saying: I fully realize administrators and "boards" have to be decision-makers. I've known many in public and private schools who do a great job. But if they establish some sort of precedent or perception that this is done behind closed doors and that the teachers who are the greatest assets and spend the most time one-on-one with the students are cut out of the discussion loop...well, can't you draw a map to what the reaction might be?
What saddens me greatly are Mr. Conti's words that follow: "My profession is being demeaned by a pervasive atmosphere of distrust, dictating that teachers cannot be permitted to develop and administer their own quizzes and tests (now titled as generic 'assessments') or grade their own students' examinations...This approach not only strangles creativity, it smothers the development of critical thinking in our students and assumes a one-size-fits-all mentality more suited to the assembly line than the classroom" (emphasis mine). Conti says the result is that schools become "increasingly evaluation- and not knowledge-driven. Process has become our most important product, to twist a phrase from corporate America, which seems doubly appropriate to this case."
What I find most tragic about this parting shot from Mr. Conti is that it seems like he has enjoyed the art of teaching. What has gone on in the classroom has, on balance, been his product, as it should be. His disillusionment seems to be driven by a passion for what education should be and can become. Maybe I didn't read between the lines enough, but I never got any sense that Mr. Conti is a disgruntled, ex-employee with a chip on his shoulder. I mean, he's leaving on his terms (somewhat). In fact, he sounds like the type of history teachers I would love to have had. My own American history teacher from high school, Mr. Shewell, was one of the inspirations that moved me to become a teacher, but this Gerald Conti seems to be in the same ballpark.
My point being, if what he's saying is true, then I weep with him over any situation in which teachers might "feel as though I've played some game halfway through its fourth quarter, a timeout has been called, my teammates' hands have all been tied, the goal posts moved, all previously scored points and honors expunged and all of the rules altered."
What we teachers do in the classroom matters. And that stamp of creativity and wisps of magic and determined inspiration should be coming from us. Heaven help us if its some other way.
But it can happen. And it can happen anywhere. Yeah, you heard me. I'm willing to admit it. Anywhere.
Comment if you like. Discuss if you desire. But take a judicious look at Mr. Conti's heart. It's time well spent, and even if you disagree with him, he will challenge you.
Fast forward to 2013 and to another retirement, and one that probably won't make the pop culture splash like Michael Jordan. But it's one that should. Granted, the name Gerald Conti of Syracuse, New York, is not a household item bursting with instant recognition. But his message is loud. His declaration is clear. And it carries a lot of pain.
Mr. Conti has been teaching for forty years and has spent the last twenty-seven years at an excellent high school in the Syracuse area. I've been to that section of the country before and can tell you education is taken seriously. But Mr. Conti's letter of resignation is not delivered with wistful joy. Rather, it is a clarion call to the American educational establishment to wake itself up. In short, Mr. Conti is saying that his profession "no longer exists."
When someone like Mr. Conti takes pen and paper to bare his thoughts, I listen. I don't automatically agree or disagree, but I want to learn why he feels the way he does. There is a great deal of sadness and frustration throughout his letter. He is resigning as a teacher because, as he says, "I am not leaving my profession; in truth it has left me. It no longer exists."
Strong words from a man who says "history has been so very much more than a mere job, it has truly been my life." Mr. Conti strikes me as a man whose thirst for wisdom and knowledge is insatiable, who is humble enough to say he knows enough on any one topic. Moreover, Mr. Conti wants to touch the lives of others so that they might engage the world and change it for the better.
That resonates strongly within me. Since graduating from seminary, I've worked for seventeen years. Fourteen of them have been in the teaching profession. If someone asked me what I love the most about teaching, I'm sure I'd have a Philadelphia moment. You might recall the scene when Andy Beckett (played by Tom Hanks) is on the witness stand and he's asked by Denzel Washington why he loves the law as an attorney. Beckett's response: "Because occasionally, not all the time, but once in awhile, you get to be a part of justice being done. And that's a big thrill."
For me, occasionally--in fact, much of the time--but once in awhile, I get to be part of fanning the love of practical wisdom within a teenager. I get to enthuse and motivate young people. And that's a big thrill. It's a creative spark, a blazing fire. It's something that, as Mr. Conti suggests, is under assault. And that is why he is resigning.
He says that "I now find [his] approach to my profession is not only devalued, but denigrated and perhaps, in some quarters despised." He speaks out against the tactics that aim for "only conformity, standardization, testing and a zombie-like adherence to the shallow and generic..." while "[c]reativity, academic freedom, teacher autonomy, experimentation, and innovation are being stifled in a misguided effort to fix what is not broken in our system."
Now, Mr. Conti is directing his remarks at public education in America, and yes--there is plenty to shore up in that sector. However, his words can apply to any private academy, any non-denominational Christian school, any Catholic/Lutheran/sectarian religious school. This is not a "public school" issue, but a "modern education" problem. Because trust me, what he speaks of can work its way into any academic bloodstream from any decision-making syringe.
Mr. Conti speaks against initiatives like STEM and Common Core, and you might say those criticism have merit, but I prefer to think those debates are better spent elsewhere. What I find most intriguing and disheartening is not merely the "what" that he bemoans, but the "how". He notes (and keep in mind this is his viewpoint; always make sure you verify other peoples' opinions...it's a good rule for life) that their academic leadership has been "uncommunicative and unresponsive to the concerns and needs by our staff and students by establishing testing and evaluation systems that are Byzantine at best and at worst, draconian." According to Mr. Conti, there has been an administrative refusal "to call open forum meetings to discuss these pressing issues", an inaction that "has only served to produce confusion, a loss of confidence and a dramatic and rapid decaying of morale."
Strong stuff indeed, and I am not here to judge whether or not the school district and administration of which he speaks have been acting in duplicitous shadows. But when a teaching veteran of forty years puts it that way, I at least take notice. And believe me, if an administration would do this, it establishes no trust and instead erodes the foundation of visionary teachers. Now, don't hear what I'm not saying: I fully realize administrators and "boards" have to be decision-makers. I've known many in public and private schools who do a great job. But if they establish some sort of precedent or perception that this is done behind closed doors and that the teachers who are the greatest assets and spend the most time one-on-one with the students are cut out of the discussion loop...well, can't you draw a map to what the reaction might be?
What saddens me greatly are Mr. Conti's words that follow: "My profession is being demeaned by a pervasive atmosphere of distrust, dictating that teachers cannot be permitted to develop and administer their own quizzes and tests (now titled as generic 'assessments') or grade their own students' examinations...This approach not only strangles creativity, it smothers the development of critical thinking in our students and assumes a one-size-fits-all mentality more suited to the assembly line than the classroom" (emphasis mine). Conti says the result is that schools become "increasingly evaluation- and not knowledge-driven. Process has become our most important product, to twist a phrase from corporate America, which seems doubly appropriate to this case."
What I find most tragic about this parting shot from Mr. Conti is that it seems like he has enjoyed the art of teaching. What has gone on in the classroom has, on balance, been his product, as it should be. His disillusionment seems to be driven by a passion for what education should be and can become. Maybe I didn't read between the lines enough, but I never got any sense that Mr. Conti is a disgruntled, ex-employee with a chip on his shoulder. I mean, he's leaving on his terms (somewhat). In fact, he sounds like the type of history teachers I would love to have had. My own American history teacher from high school, Mr. Shewell, was one of the inspirations that moved me to become a teacher, but this Gerald Conti seems to be in the same ballpark.
My point being, if what he's saying is true, then I weep with him over any situation in which teachers might "feel as though I've played some game halfway through its fourth quarter, a timeout has been called, my teammates' hands have all been tied, the goal posts moved, all previously scored points and honors expunged and all of the rules altered."
What we teachers do in the classroom matters. And that stamp of creativity and wisps of magic and determined inspiration should be coming from us. Heaven help us if its some other way.
But it can happen. And it can happen anywhere. Yeah, you heard me. I'm willing to admit it. Anywhere.
Comment if you like. Discuss if you desire. But take a judicious look at Mr. Conti's heart. It's time well spent, and even if you disagree with him, he will challenge you.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Out of Every Adversity
I had a blog post all prepared for Sunday morning. I was going to prep it Saturday night and hit the "publish" button first thing Sunday. It was going to be a lighthearted, enjoyable piece of reflection on our family excursion to Missouri Tartan Day, the Scottish festival that is going on this weekend in St. Charles. I had written the whole thing in my head and--to be fair--I might still manage to pull it together on cyber-paper one day. But in a flash, there came a gut-wrenching game change.
Many Americans (and perhaps people outside this country) will be familiar with Rick Warren, the pastor of Saddleback Church in Lake Forest, California. Even those who would not label themselves evangelical Christians have possibly heard, if not read, Warren's bestseller The Purpose-Driven Life, which has sold in excess of 30 million copies. Pastor Warren and his wife Kay have been at the forefront of efforts in fighting poverty, disease, AIDS, and undereducation among marginalized sectors of society. In addition, they do not take a salary from Saddleback, have given back previous years of salary to the church, and now practice "reverse tithing"; rather than giving only ten percent of their income, they give an astounding ninety percent of Rick's book royalties and other means away. Intertwining theological accuracy with personal charity and warmth, he is one of the pastors I admire greatly.
Now I don't want horrific stuff happening to anyone, but the Warrens have blessed so many people that it would have given me incredible pain if tragedy ever befell them.
And sadly, that happened Friday night.
As borne out in this letter from Rick Warren to his church, the sadness is beyond monumental.
I'm there with Rick Warren and yet it's a depth of sorrow I can't fathom. Yes, we lost a child four and a half years ago when Jordan died. But it's one thing to lose a toddler at 20 months to a neuromuscular disorder-driven illness. It's another when your child dies at his own hand under a crushing load of sadness and despair that in a flash grew too staggering to overcome.
I am not one of those people who say suicide disqualifies the deceased from eternal life with God. And thankfully, Matthew Warren's faith looked to be completely rooted in Jesus Christ. In a time of devastating sadness, that is one comfort the Warrens seem to be holding on to.
If you haven't realized it yet, this shows us that a redeemed life does not mean a trouble-free life. A saved soul can still battle tremendous pain and mental illness that is no fault of one's own. Sadly, many of us are willing to fritter away our leisure time on a pile of other distractions rather than befriend the despondent or come alongside the hurting. People who rely on antidepressants and/or anti-anxiety medications need our friendship and love, not gaping stares. They need care and medication--not because they are attention-grabbers, but because they desperately want to achieve a normal life and to combat the depression and abject sadness they wish they could control themselves.
Personally, I hear the notes of pride and love in Rick Warren's words. His son knew the pain was real but knew his God was even more real and true, and that's what counted. His son could have caved years ago, but he kept going for another decade. For all his hurt, Matthew loved and helped the hurting. For all their sadness, their tears are mixed with hope for a redeemed life. And there is a deep, abiding faith in the God of whom King David spoke as the one "who has redeemed my life out of every adversity." (II Samuel 4:9)
Yet there is that truth that we live on this side of glory. We ask why this had to happen. We ask "Where was God in the midst of sadness?" And of course Jesus knew more anguish during his death than any of us can possibly imagine, but this is not the time for theologically packaged answers. The Warrens face the greatest sadness one can tackle. Their tears are real. God has made Matthew Warren new and perfect. I hope that my son was one of the first people to welcome him into the Holy City. Yet despite this eternal life and glorified existence for Matthew, the truth is that Rick and Kay and their family are grieving now. And wherever you are on your spiritual journey--or even if you are nowhere on it--it is altogether appropriate that you grieve with them. May they know the comfort of God overwhelmingly and certainly. And may God redeem their life out of this, and every, adversity.
Many Americans (and perhaps people outside this country) will be familiar with Rick Warren, the pastor of Saddleback Church in Lake Forest, California. Even those who would not label themselves evangelical Christians have possibly heard, if not read, Warren's bestseller The Purpose-Driven Life, which has sold in excess of 30 million copies. Pastor Warren and his wife Kay have been at the forefront of efforts in fighting poverty, disease, AIDS, and undereducation among marginalized sectors of society. In addition, they do not take a salary from Saddleback, have given back previous years of salary to the church, and now practice "reverse tithing"; rather than giving only ten percent of their income, they give an astounding ninety percent of Rick's book royalties and other means away. Intertwining theological accuracy with personal charity and warmth, he is one of the pastors I admire greatly.
Now I don't want horrific stuff happening to anyone, but the Warrens have blessed so many people that it would have given me incredible pain if tragedy ever befell them.
And sadly, that happened Friday night.
As borne out in this letter from Rick Warren to his church, the sadness is beyond monumental.
I'm there with Rick Warren and yet it's a depth of sorrow I can't fathom. Yes, we lost a child four and a half years ago when Jordan died. But it's one thing to lose a toddler at 20 months to a neuromuscular disorder-driven illness. It's another when your child dies at his own hand under a crushing load of sadness and despair that in a flash grew too staggering to overcome.
I am not one of those people who say suicide disqualifies the deceased from eternal life with God. And thankfully, Matthew Warren's faith looked to be completely rooted in Jesus Christ. In a time of devastating sadness, that is one comfort the Warrens seem to be holding on to.
If you haven't realized it yet, this shows us that a redeemed life does not mean a trouble-free life. A saved soul can still battle tremendous pain and mental illness that is no fault of one's own. Sadly, many of us are willing to fritter away our leisure time on a pile of other distractions rather than befriend the despondent or come alongside the hurting. People who rely on antidepressants and/or anti-anxiety medications need our friendship and love, not gaping stares. They need care and medication--not because they are attention-grabbers, but because they desperately want to achieve a normal life and to combat the depression and abject sadness they wish they could control themselves.
Personally, I hear the notes of pride and love in Rick Warren's words. His son knew the pain was real but knew his God was even more real and true, and that's what counted. His son could have caved years ago, but he kept going for another decade. For all his hurt, Matthew loved and helped the hurting. For all their sadness, their tears are mixed with hope for a redeemed life. And there is a deep, abiding faith in the God of whom King David spoke as the one "who has redeemed my life out of every adversity." (II Samuel 4:9)
Yet there is that truth that we live on this side of glory. We ask why this had to happen. We ask "Where was God in the midst of sadness?" And of course Jesus knew more anguish during his death than any of us can possibly imagine, but this is not the time for theologically packaged answers. The Warrens face the greatest sadness one can tackle. Their tears are real. God has made Matthew Warren new and perfect. I hope that my son was one of the first people to welcome him into the Holy City. Yet despite this eternal life and glorified existence for Matthew, the truth is that Rick and Kay and their family are grieving now. And wherever you are on your spiritual journey--or even if you are nowhere on it--it is altogether appropriate that you grieve with them. May they know the comfort of God overwhelmingly and certainly. And may God redeem their life out of this, and every, adversity.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Reading Reflections, April 6th
The mystery novel can take various forms: Mickey Spillane's hardboiled novels; the whodunits of P.D. James; the Golden Age material of Dorothy Sayers; and the cozies of M.C. Beaton. It is the blend of the quieter Golden Age and the cozy that has intrigued me, but few writers are able to seriously blend the two. Part of this has to do with the fact that the Golden Age truly belongs to another era, and to incorporate this classic aura, one must set a realistic story or stories within the context of a bygone age.
And thank God, we have such a treasure trove coming from the pen of James Runcie, who last year introduced the world to The Grantchester Mysteries: Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (Bloomsbury, 2012). Runcie, who lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and daughters, is well-known in the UK as the artistic director of the Bath Literature Festival and also serves as the Head of Literature and Spoken Word at the Southbank Centre in London. In addition to his writing, he also filmed J.K. Rowling: A Day in the Life, an ITV program that granted unparalleled access to the Harry Potter author. And if you still think, "Of course, I'm sure I've heard his name before"...yes, Runcie's father was Robert Runcie, the Archbishop of Canterbury from 1980 to 1991 who officiated at the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer.
Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death is the first of six volumes planned for this series, which allegedly will culminate at the aforementioned "Wedding of the Century". Yet the initial book takes place during 1953 and 1954, within striking distance of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. The year prior, Sidney Chambers--thirty-two year old bachelor--was appointed vicar of the Church of St. Andrew and St. Mary in the village of Grantchester. Sidney shows a remarkable affinity for cricket, jazz, and regular backgammon games with Inspector Geordie Keating over a couple pints of beer. Yet Sidney will soon discover that the pastoral duties of Word and sacrament can get crowded out when crime invades the spaces of life.
Instead of writing a traditional mystery novel, Runcie sets up his Grantchester Mysteries as volumes of short stories. Each book will contain six loosely connected but distinct mysteries in stories ranging anywhere from 45 to 80 pages. The crimes range in their variety: a solicitor's suicide which looks more and more shady; a jewelry theft in the middle of a dinner party; a suspicious death of a controlling mother-in-law; a disturbing killing of a jazz promoter's daughter; a painting forgery that compromises the safety of a good friend; and the horrific murder of an actor during a local performance of Julius Caesar. While the police are technically involved along the way, Sidney will find he can go to areas of space and areas of the heart where the police cannot tread. Through careful observation and a knack for connecting minutia that others overlook (or pray Sidney does overlook!), the dashing vicar manages to score an accurate assessment time and again.
Runcie has written four novels (including Canvey Island) prior to starting work on The Grantchester Mysteries, but his storytelling takes hold of the reader from the very first introduction to Sidney Chambers. The vicar is a remarkably well-drawn protagonist, a physically attractive specimen whose inner voice and psychological asides offer a solid relief alongside his pastoral exterior. There is enough stock content that fills out his character well: his passion for good beer and fine music, his conscientious desire to be a good minister, his gregarious friends, and a difficult choice of attraction between a devoted female friend and a German widow three years younger than himself.
Although Sidney technically one-ups the police through his efforts, there is no sense he does this out of antagonism, and the police are not made to look incompetent as they are in other novels depicting amateur sleuths. Although Grantchester is the home base, there is much action taking place in Oxford, Cambridge, and London, so the scenery is a fine balance between the traditional village and the more bustling cities. Yes, directions and locations are given with little or no explanation, so readers from outside the United Kingdom might be quizzical about where they are, but this reader never felt "lost." The pace of the stories is well-maintained; one never gets the sense he is on a thriller ride a la The Da Vinci Code or bogging through a Russian novel on Quaaludes. Most endearing is the character of Sidney Chambers himself, who grows on the reader as the book moves along.
Runcie strikes a wonderful balance between the hard reality of crime and the warmth of ecclesiastical and village life. The focus is in the application of order and restoration to life, not on the harshness of the crime itself; the reader is given the option to import that at his leisure. Critical reviews have generally hailed this volume with positive affirmation, and they are correct to do so. It is one of the better works I've read in some time, and thus I recommend it with no hesitation whatsoever. Of course, I would say happily that if you want to digest this volume well, get moving! Runcie's sequel, The Grantchester Mysteries: Sidney Chambers and the Peril of the Night, is set for release on May 21st, also from Bloomsbury. I can already sense another Runcie review coming up in June.
And thank God, we have such a treasure trove coming from the pen of James Runcie, who last year introduced the world to The Grantchester Mysteries: Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death (Bloomsbury, 2012). Runcie, who lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and daughters, is well-known in the UK as the artistic director of the Bath Literature Festival and also serves as the Head of Literature and Spoken Word at the Southbank Centre in London. In addition to his writing, he also filmed J.K. Rowling: A Day in the Life, an ITV program that granted unparalleled access to the Harry Potter author. And if you still think, "Of course, I'm sure I've heard his name before"...yes, Runcie's father was Robert Runcie, the Archbishop of Canterbury from 1980 to 1991 who officiated at the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer.
Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death is the first of six volumes planned for this series, which allegedly will culminate at the aforementioned "Wedding of the Century". Yet the initial book takes place during 1953 and 1954, within striking distance of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. The year prior, Sidney Chambers--thirty-two year old bachelor--was appointed vicar of the Church of St. Andrew and St. Mary in the village of Grantchester. Sidney shows a remarkable affinity for cricket, jazz, and regular backgammon games with Inspector Geordie Keating over a couple pints of beer. Yet Sidney will soon discover that the pastoral duties of Word and sacrament can get crowded out when crime invades the spaces of life.
Instead of writing a traditional mystery novel, Runcie sets up his Grantchester Mysteries as volumes of short stories. Each book will contain six loosely connected but distinct mysteries in stories ranging anywhere from 45 to 80 pages. The crimes range in their variety: a solicitor's suicide which looks more and more shady; a jewelry theft in the middle of a dinner party; a suspicious death of a controlling mother-in-law; a disturbing killing of a jazz promoter's daughter; a painting forgery that compromises the safety of a good friend; and the horrific murder of an actor during a local performance of Julius Caesar. While the police are technically involved along the way, Sidney will find he can go to areas of space and areas of the heart where the police cannot tread. Through careful observation and a knack for connecting minutia that others overlook (or pray Sidney does overlook!), the dashing vicar manages to score an accurate assessment time and again.
Runcie has written four novels (including Canvey Island) prior to starting work on The Grantchester Mysteries, but his storytelling takes hold of the reader from the very first introduction to Sidney Chambers. The vicar is a remarkably well-drawn protagonist, a physically attractive specimen whose inner voice and psychological asides offer a solid relief alongside his pastoral exterior. There is enough stock content that fills out his character well: his passion for good beer and fine music, his conscientious desire to be a good minister, his gregarious friends, and a difficult choice of attraction between a devoted female friend and a German widow three years younger than himself.
Although Sidney technically one-ups the police through his efforts, there is no sense he does this out of antagonism, and the police are not made to look incompetent as they are in other novels depicting amateur sleuths. Although Grantchester is the home base, there is much action taking place in Oxford, Cambridge, and London, so the scenery is a fine balance between the traditional village and the more bustling cities. Yes, directions and locations are given with little or no explanation, so readers from outside the United Kingdom might be quizzical about where they are, but this reader never felt "lost." The pace of the stories is well-maintained; one never gets the sense he is on a thriller ride a la The Da Vinci Code or bogging through a Russian novel on Quaaludes. Most endearing is the character of Sidney Chambers himself, who grows on the reader as the book moves along.
Runcie strikes a wonderful balance between the hard reality of crime and the warmth of ecclesiastical and village life. The focus is in the application of order and restoration to life, not on the harshness of the crime itself; the reader is given the option to import that at his leisure. Critical reviews have generally hailed this volume with positive affirmation, and they are correct to do so. It is one of the better works I've read in some time, and thus I recommend it with no hesitation whatsoever. Of course, I would say happily that if you want to digest this volume well, get moving! Runcie's sequel, The Grantchester Mysteries: Sidney Chambers and the Peril of the Night, is set for release on May 21st, also from Bloomsbury. I can already sense another Runcie review coming up in June.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Strife in the Balance
Those who know me recognize that--although I cannot follow her on her atheistic human-centric philosophy of Objectivism--I do believe there is a lot of wisdom in a number of Ayn Rand's principles. Not to mention I have learned much from reading her Atlas Shrugged.
Those who know me also recognize that I am a huge fan of C.S. Lewis. The grasp of theology and philosophy the Oxford Don possessed makes one feel like a precious pygmy. His Mere Christianity is--in my opinion--THE greatest nonfiction work of the 20th century. No one was better than Lewis at taking great ideas and making them comprehendible by the man on the street.
It's not that I expect people whose ideas I admire might conflict, if not contradict. What I recently discovered--much to my outright shock--was that Ayn Rand had read some of Lewis' material. And beyond that, she snubbed Lewis' beliefs and writings with an anger bordering on visceral.
I would say more, but Matthew Schmitz of First Things has already pointed it out in expert, erudite fashion. It makes for some interesting reading. Comment here if you have any thoughts.
Those who know me also recognize that I am a huge fan of C.S. Lewis. The grasp of theology and philosophy the Oxford Don possessed makes one feel like a precious pygmy. His Mere Christianity is--in my opinion--THE greatest nonfiction work of the 20th century. No one was better than Lewis at taking great ideas and making them comprehendible by the man on the street.
It's not that I expect people whose ideas I admire might conflict, if not contradict. What I recently discovered--much to my outright shock--was that Ayn Rand had read some of Lewis' material. And beyond that, she snubbed Lewis' beliefs and writings with an anger bordering on visceral.
I would say more, but Matthew Schmitz of First Things has already pointed it out in expert, erudite fashion. It makes for some interesting reading. Comment here if you have any thoughts.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Jordan's Little Blue Bowl
Little
blue bowl
In
a cupboard safekept
No
ordinary dish are you
For
you bore an angel’s touch
Well o'er a year
The
passage of cereal,
Baby
food, pasta, and
All
we shared with him
You
carried all the Cheerios
He gleefully
threw into orbit
Leaving
none within you
Little
blue bowl
When
we see you now
When
we wash you today
We see
his smile, the gleam
Of
joy, the firm conviction
He
knew he loved
And
was loved completely
And
you stood with him
Little
blue bowl
Within
you rested
One
more meal although
We
knew it not to
Be
the last before
He
lay down set to dream
And
in that slumber heard
His
Savior call his name
To
bring him home
This
day we recall his
Happy
birth to dwell among us
And
though he waits for us
We
remember him
Through
such as you
Little
blue bowl
In the Pantheon at the Idol Marked "Grades"
In the name of all that is good and holy, I nearly had a Ronald Reagan moment yesterday.
Who am I kidding, I had said moment.
Depending on your age, you may or may not recall the presidential debate a week before the 1980 election. Reagan was in a neck-and-neck race with incumbent Jimmy Carter, and at one point Carter attacked the Gipper's record on Medicare. In response, Reagan scoffed, "There you go again!"
That was my moment Wednesday.
I was handing back quizzes to some of my students in Ethics, quizzes of thirteen questions--nine multiple choice, four true-false--on a short reading assignment in our textbook. The material was somewhat out-of-the-box but manageable. As far as quizzes go, it was one of our more difficult ones. The average grade for all my classes was a 70. Predictably with that average, some students got D's and F's on the quiz. And because it was the first grade recorded of the fourth quarter, their overall quarter grade is--for now--the same as the quiz grade.
And oh my word, did the complaints roll in. Some because students were genuinely disappointed; I do have several self-motivated souls. But the majority who voiced frustration did so along a couple of lines: (1) Their parents have a habit of checking their grades on Veracross [our school's attendance and grade software] and would likely freak out seeing a failing grade next to their name, or (2) they themselves couldn't stand to have a C, D or F right now reflecting their grade.
Being the soft-hearted, calming soul that I am, I told them to stop freaking out about it and grow up already.
Well, maybe not that heartlessly, but those sentiments were rumbling below the surface like the lava and ash within Mount St. Helens before it blew back during that same year of 1980. I asked why they were so worried. It was just one grade out of many. I detailed the fact that this is one of many grades, that for the entire quarter we'll have seven quizzes, two tests, and one project. That plus a responsibility grade, which is a participation/do-the-right-thing grade worth about three quiz scores that means as long as you never interrupt me or cuss me out you should get a grade boost from it. In short, they have a number of opportunities to make up ground and get back on an even keel.
That message failed to penetrate. The angst and consternation was running as rampant as a forest fire and my message was as doomed as a naive blonde on a date with Rod Stewart. The majority of them had to have a grade to their satisfaction, and have it now.
Well of course, I didn't cave, but it only served to underscore the true issue. People (many of my students included) tend to carve out their identity based on their performance, on how they are graded for certain tasks. For athletes, it might be that last dash in the downhill race that was fourteen hundredths of a second slower than the previous skier. For sales representatives, it may be all about the numbers they create for this quarter. For conscientious parents, it can be the performances of their kids that they (in rather idolatrous fashion) believe reflect on them for weal or for woe.
And then there is the student in my classroom, failing or refusing to see the big picture and rather wallowing in the self-inflicted anguish, asking if this quiz grade (I mean, for the love of St. Peter...a quiz grade!) is going to affect their chances of finishing well and knock them off track from getting into a good college.
The point is we tend to be addicted to our "grades", how others evaluate us in whatever field of endeavor. And we spend much more time in the pantheon of idols marked "GRADES" than we do at the base of what should be one's ultimate identity, and that is the cross of Christ. And when you're on the performance treadmill, nothing is every good enough! It's all a big shell game of "what have you done for me lately"?
It's at times like these that we should hold to the following axiom: Do your best, but remember...10 years from now, no one will remember what you got on an Honors Chemistry test, or a Western Civilization project, or how spotless your Algebra 2 homework was, or what you got on that Ethics quiz. They won't remember that you got 14 points and 12 assists in the district semifinals, but also missed that critical free throw. They won't think about your tepid business performance despite your best efforts. But God remembers you. Then. Now. Always.
Trust me, the ground at the foot of the Cross is much more hospitable and welcoming than the performance pantheon. The question is, are you willing to take that step when the overwhelming majority of humanity sees it as a kooky leap in the dark?
Who am I kidding, I had said moment.
Depending on your age, you may or may not recall the presidential debate a week before the 1980 election. Reagan was in a neck-and-neck race with incumbent Jimmy Carter, and at one point Carter attacked the Gipper's record on Medicare. In response, Reagan scoffed, "There you go again!"
That was my moment Wednesday.
I was handing back quizzes to some of my students in Ethics, quizzes of thirteen questions--nine multiple choice, four true-false--on a short reading assignment in our textbook. The material was somewhat out-of-the-box but manageable. As far as quizzes go, it was one of our more difficult ones. The average grade for all my classes was a 70. Predictably with that average, some students got D's and F's on the quiz. And because it was the first grade recorded of the fourth quarter, their overall quarter grade is--for now--the same as the quiz grade.
And oh my word, did the complaints roll in. Some because students were genuinely disappointed; I do have several self-motivated souls. But the majority who voiced frustration did so along a couple of lines: (1) Their parents have a habit of checking their grades on Veracross [our school's attendance and grade software] and would likely freak out seeing a failing grade next to their name, or (2) they themselves couldn't stand to have a C, D or F right now reflecting their grade.
Being the soft-hearted, calming soul that I am, I told them to stop freaking out about it and grow up already.
Well, maybe not that heartlessly, but those sentiments were rumbling below the surface like the lava and ash within Mount St. Helens before it blew back during that same year of 1980. I asked why they were so worried. It was just one grade out of many. I detailed the fact that this is one of many grades, that for the entire quarter we'll have seven quizzes, two tests, and one project. That plus a responsibility grade, which is a participation/do-the-right-thing grade worth about three quiz scores that means as long as you never interrupt me or cuss me out you should get a grade boost from it. In short, they have a number of opportunities to make up ground and get back on an even keel.
That message failed to penetrate. The angst and consternation was running as rampant as a forest fire and my message was as doomed as a naive blonde on a date with Rod Stewart. The majority of them had to have a grade to their satisfaction, and have it now.
Well of course, I didn't cave, but it only served to underscore the true issue. People (many of my students included) tend to carve out their identity based on their performance, on how they are graded for certain tasks. For athletes, it might be that last dash in the downhill race that was fourteen hundredths of a second slower than the previous skier. For sales representatives, it may be all about the numbers they create for this quarter. For conscientious parents, it can be the performances of their kids that they (in rather idolatrous fashion) believe reflect on them for weal or for woe.
And then there is the student in my classroom, failing or refusing to see the big picture and rather wallowing in the self-inflicted anguish, asking if this quiz grade (I mean, for the love of St. Peter...a quiz grade!) is going to affect their chances of finishing well and knock them off track from getting into a good college.
The point is we tend to be addicted to our "grades", how others evaluate us in whatever field of endeavor. And we spend much more time in the pantheon of idols marked "GRADES" than we do at the base of what should be one's ultimate identity, and that is the cross of Christ. And when you're on the performance treadmill, nothing is every good enough! It's all a big shell game of "what have you done for me lately"?
It's at times like these that we should hold to the following axiom: Do your best, but remember...10 years from now, no one will remember what you got on an Honors Chemistry test, or a Western Civilization project, or how spotless your Algebra 2 homework was, or what you got on that Ethics quiz. They won't remember that you got 14 points and 12 assists in the district semifinals, but also missed that critical free throw. They won't think about your tepid business performance despite your best efforts. But God remembers you. Then. Now. Always.
Trust me, the ground at the foot of the Cross is much more hospitable and welcoming than the performance pantheon. The question is, are you willing to take that step when the overwhelming majority of humanity sees it as a kooky leap in the dark?
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