C'mon, Ring Those Bells!

                The Salvation Army bell ringers are being told they can’t collect in front of certain stores any more.  Apparently, some people find them irritating.  More likely, they find they feel uncomfortable having to walk by them without contributing.  I would like to see more of them.  I’ll tell you why.

                Every year I drop a little something in one of those red buckets attended by a person ringing a small bell and displaying the identity of the Salvation Army.  I don’t give anything the rest of the year.  There are other recipients of my funds who benefit on a regular basis.  But every December I see those bell ringers and am reminded of a good deed they once did for me and my family, and I pray as I drop my money into that bucket that some other family will benefit this year.

                It was 1961, and a cold front was moving into the Syracuse, New York region as my mother drove a Ford Fairlane crammed full of all her earthly possessions and her four rambunctious children out of that dark winter toward a new, sunny life in Southern California.  It was a brave move for her.  She had just enough money, carefully calculated for gas, food and lodging along the way.  She’d have to find another job as soon as she arrived in the Golden State.  Route 66, now a historic and romantic memory to so many, was a challenge and an obstacle to overcome for her.  Five days later, we were all in Southern California, filled with memories that would be recalled for decades whenever we got together.

                By the time we found an apartment in Signal Hill, Christmas was just around the corner, but Santa, it seemed, would not be able to find us kids that year.  This family that had been living on subsistence wages the only adult in the family had brought home to our little apartment in the government housing in Eastwood, Onondaga County, New York, had used up every dollar on our cross-country trek.  Determined her children would have something to open on Christmas morning, my mom sought out the local Salvation Army.  They supplied her with five gifts, already wrapped.  On the morning of December 25, 1961, each opened our little present and were truly happy to have those little toys.  We took our time, opening one present at a time, beginning with the youngest.  My brother, Jim, was the last to open his.  In those days, charities accepted donations of gifts already wrapped, so nobody knew what was in any gift box, only that it was for “teen boy,” or some other designation.  So, in great anticipation, Jim, the eldest of the Reed siblings, the one who felt more fully than the younger ones the reality of our poverty, tore the pretty wrapping off a flat gift about the size of a shirt box one would get from a department store.  His smile went flat as he held up the contents.  Someone had donated a medium size burlap sack with these words printed on it, “For the man who has everything…Here’s a bag to put it in.”  It took awhile, but that one event following our 3,000-mile journey, became the focal point of the family’s migration as everyone learned to laugh at the irony of it.  We still had nothing, but now we had nothing in California where it was 56 degrees.  Syracuse folks were bundled up for their 22-degree snowy day.

                I have never forgotten the provision of the Salvation Army that Christmas.  Sure, they messed up with that one gift, but like many other organizations they learned to accept only unwrapped presents, ensuring that sort of thing never happens again.  But that mix-up provided our family with a memory that lives in us to this day.  Whenever I recall that Christmas morning, I remember our poverty and become more sensitive to those all around me who are travelling through that same station in life, hopefully onto a more prosperous destination, who just need a little assistance, a little encouragement, a little hope.

                That’s what I think about when I hear and see those bell ringers.  That is why I take out my wallet and contribute something with a prayer for whoever will benefit from that gift.  May God bless them and those they serve.

Elysium or The American Dream?

                If the Obamacare website rollout wasn’t such a fiasco, it’s likely we would all be talking about immigration reform once again.  This topic has been on the agenda of democrats and republicans alike for years, and before the current circus surrounding healthcare.gov, it was slated to be the next issue of import in the House of Representatives.  I was already gearing up for all the name calling and deliberate misrepresentations.  But we have a slight reprieve while the dismal failure of government-run health care is mocked, scrutinized, investigated, and hopefully modified.

                As a result, one recently released movie has been all but ignored.  Let me preface this review with the explanation that when my wife is out of town I often run to the movie theater to see films that I am pretty sure she would not enjoy as much as I would.  Therefore, while she was off in Albania frolicking with grandchildren, I sat down in a seat reserved for those with wheelchair patrons in the back of the auditorium with a large popcorn in one hand and a medium diet soda in the other.  Before you gasp in indignation and unbelief, I can assure you I was ready to give up my seat to anyone who actually needed it, but in a small town theater at an afternoon showing, I was just one of six people vying for the best seats in the house (I also use the handicapped urinals if there is no wheelchair in sight).

                The movie I had chosen was Elysium.  I can’t remember when I have seen a movie that needed so little explanation concerning the message embedded in the storyline.  Let me just explain the basics of the plot without giving away the ending and see if you can figure out what the “hidden” meaning of the writers is.  Brad Pitt lives in a futuristic Los Angeles, California.  The entire planet is polluted, practically barren, and overpopulated by rough people trying to scrape together enough of life’s necessities to see one more dismal day on earth, but having difficulty because jobs are scarce.  The opening scenes need subtitles, as the protagonist and others are speaking Spanish.  The subtitles soon disappear as everyone begins speaking English.  We quickly discover everyone’s dream is to travel to Elysium (Greek: blissful place), a huge space station with gravity, real grass and trees, clean water, and most importantly, great medical care.  A former female friend of the Brad Pitt character comes on the scene with a little girl who is dying of a terrible disease, one that cannot be cured on earth where the only hospitals are filthy, primitive and quite limited in equipment and expertise.  If she is to survive, she will have to get to Elysium where there are machines that can quickly analyze and completely cure any and all diseases and injuries.  The problem is, the rich, privileged, uncaring, even mean occupants of Elysium don’t want to share.  They don’t want earth’s riff raff dirtying up their clean, ordered lives, except when they need some of those earthlings to perform menial tasks for them; cleaning their swimming pools, gardening, serving them cool drinks.  So, sadly, the little girl is doomed to an early death because she isn’t allowed to emigrate to Elysium.  But wait.  There is an illegal way to get to Elysium, if one knows who to contact, has the money to pay, and is willing to take the risk.

                Anyone want to guess what the author’s message is?  You only need to take half your brain with you if you decide to go see this movie.  You could complete a crossword puzzle or read a book without missing the point of the film.  You could read all 22,000 pages of the Affordable Care Act without missing a single important clue in the movie.

                Fortunately, this movie will pass into movie obsolescence without much fanfare.  There is hope for it, now that I think about it.  If the administration’s immigration reform begins with the same level of competence as the Obamacare website, perhaps the movie will get more attention.

What Did You Call Me?

              “Misnomer”:  Applying a wrong name to some person or thing (Webster’s New World 

College Dictionary).  The misnaming of a thing is often due to ignorance of the truth or a misunderstanding of the word(s) being used.  For instance, “sunrise” is a misnomer applied to a daily event as a result of a lack of scientific understanding regarding the rotation of the earth.  We know better today, but we continue to use the misnomer.  We also continue to refer to making a phone call as “dialing” a number, when in reality, there are no more dials on our phones.  I’m still debating about the term “old guy” when applied to me.  Is that a misnomer, the truth, or just an insult?

                I was thinking about this phenomenon the other night while I was watching the third game of the World Series.  As a side, I seldom watch baseball during the regular season, but enjoy watching the World Series for some reason.  Every four years I enjoy watching Olympic events that I never watch at any other time.  I’ll have to explore the reasons for that some other time.  Getting back to the World Series.  Shouldn’t they be called the Most of North America Series?  There is plenty of enthusiasm for baseball in the rest of the Americas, and in some other countries such as Japan, but the so-called World Series includes only U.S. teams and the Toronto Blue Jays from Canada.  It really isn’t the “World” Series.

                And how about American “football”?  Really, how often does the foot become an integral part of the game?  Certainly not nearly as often as the hands, arms, legs and shoulders.  Maybe a better name for the game would be Prolate Spheroid.  Or, if that’s too cerebral for Oakland fans, Funny Looking Ball That’s Carried or Thrown Much More Than It’s Kicked.  Football, in the U.S., is a misnomer.  “Soccer” is not so much a misnomer as a bad slang term invented, believe it or not, by the British.  Yes, the same British who are so adamant that the game is called football (or the Spanish equivalent futbol).  It seems an association was formed in the 1860s to standardize several different kinds of football games being played in the empire.  Being a people who loved to abbreviate words, the first five letters “assoc” were extracted from “association” and used to describe the official game of football.  For whatever reason, and I can immediately think of one possibility, this abbreviation was quickly shortened to “soc.”  At that same time in history there were people who enjoyed adding “er” to certain words.  Thus, rugby was often referred to as ruggers.  So, “soc” became “soccer” in no time at all.  This is now the name of the game in countries where there were already games called “football” when the word “soccer” was introduced (U.S., Canada, Australia, New Zealand, parts of Ireland).  “Football” is not a misnomer when referring to soccer.

                As all this was swirling around in my head Sunday morning, it occurred to me that we Christians cling to some misnomers that could be detrimental to our spiritual growth or understanding of who God is.  Take, for example, the word “sanctuary.”  In spite of decades of attempting to educate locals about the proper use of the word, I still hear people refer to the room where we gather on Sundays as the “sanctuary.”  In the Old Testament the sanctuary is the place where God lived.  There were altars for sacrifices, priests who acted as go-betweens, and strict rules protecting the holiness of the place.  In the New Testament the people of God are the sanctuaries.  No longer does God live in temples built by human hands (Acts 17:24).  Instead, he lives in us.  We are his temples as individuals (I Corinthians 3:16a) and we are his temples as gathered groups of believers (I Corinthians 3:16b and 6:19).  He lives in us, not in our buildings.  Therefore, “sanctuary,” when referring to a meeting place, is a misnomer.  His sanctuary meets in an auditorium, gymnasium or living room.  He is in us at all times, and we don’t need to be in a particular place to be in his presence.

                Now, I’m waiting to see how someone might abbreviate that.

Golfing, Hunting and Hoping.

                “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.  Man never is, but always to be blessed.  The soul, uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.”  Alexander Pope wrote these words in his An Essay on Man in the early 18^th century.  While it seems there are always exceptions to every rule, it appears this assertion is universally true.  No matter how dire a circumstance, we always seem to hold out at least a little bit of hope that life will get better.

                I find this true of two activities I enjoy, hunting and golf.  Those of us who lack a mastery of the game of golf, and probably always will, continue to pay our money for the privilege of being frustrated for a few hours, often embarrassing ourselves in the process.  I have been playing golf for about fifteen years.  The trouble is I only play about once or twice a year.  There is no wondering why my improvement in the game has been extremely slow.  I have moved past my first stage of concerning myself only with the count of the number of golf balls I lost.  I now actually keep score of the number of times I hit the ball.  I will never be good at this game.  So why do I continue to plunk down my credit card and spend four hours of my life to play the game?  Hope.  Every time I get discouraged, I hit one really great shot and immediately begin thinking I just might be getting the hang of it.  If I just stick with it, I tell myself, I will one day be blessed with a decent score.

                I have been hunting deer since October 2006.  I have made 48 attempts to get a deer.  Currently, the score stands at Deer: 48  Me: 0.  Why do I keep going out?  Hope.  I get a turkey every spring.  I have had some wonderful opportunities to shoot deer and have blown them.  Other people who hunt in the same places I hunt shoot bucks.  I have been told I am doing all the right things.  I am conscious of my human scent.  I scout out areas before the season opens.  I walk quietly.  I learn new techniques every year.  I have the right equipment.  I just haven’t been in the right places at the right times with the right skills.  But I keep going, and am thoroughly convinced I will bag a buck (and I don’t care how many points he will have) one of these days.  I was recently told, by a somewhat surprised hunter who knows me well, that I have a great attitude about it.  Apparently, lots of guys do a lot of grumbling when they aren’t successful in this area.  I just know that if I persist, I will one day be rewarded.  I have hope.

                The Apostle Paul wrote to the Roman Christians, “For in this hope we were saved.  Now hope that is seen is not hope.  For who hopes for what he sees?  But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”  This has always seemed like one of those “Duh!” passages to me.  That is, until I noticed the last part about waiting with patience.  That’s the hard part, isn’t it?  Holding out hope, but doing it with patience.  I am reminded of a little quip I heard many years ago about a prayer from an impatient person, “Lord, please grant me patience, and grant it now!”

                It seems to me that God has made us creatures who tend to hope for better things.  It appears to be a part of who we are as humans.  Like most things, however, we have managed to pervert the gift we have been given.  By that I mean we often spend way too much time and energy trying to make our hopes reality, while ignoring that divine hope for eternal things.  I don’t mean to suggest we should eliminate hoping for better circumstances in this life.  If I am right, and hope is a God-given gift to help us to continue to get up every morning, go to work, labor at making relationships right, and attempt to ascertain and to do the will of God, then I must not give up hope.  However, the hope we must cultivate more and more is our hope for eternal things.

                C.S. Lewis wrote, Most people, if they had really learned to look into their own hearts, would know that they do want, and want acutely, something that cannot be had in this world.  There are all sorts of things in this world that offer to give it to you, but they never quite keep their promise.  And it is this hope of things to come that must keep us going, keep us serving our Lord, keep us focused on what really matters. 

                Hunting and golf are small potatoes in this eternal life I am living.  So, why be impatient?  I’d rather save my impatience for desiring heavenly blessings.