Borders

When they had first rolled up to the city it was past midnight. Everything was closed and they had set up their tent in a homeless camp outside the limits. It's not like they were the only ones. Refugees had been streaming in recent years, fleeing the Tyrant, a cynical man that had taken their religion and twisted it into something it was never meant to be. His storm troopers enforced a blind allegiance, and his network of informants had cast a pall of suspicion over everything, every neighborhood conversation, every holy gathering.

They had met Daoud and his wife that first night. Fellow refugees lost in a foreign land. He brought bread and shared it, even though his own were hungry, even though there was nothing left to offer in return. Whatever they had when they left home was long gone.

At daybreak they had gone together to look for work. Daoud knew men who would hire day laborers. They paid half what local workers got, but they didn't require papers or licenses, and they didn't ask questions. Which was good because they couldn't speak the language anyway. The hardest thing was leaving the women and children in camp all day to fend for themselves.

It was there he learned to dig ditches, to build fences, to lay bricks, to cut beams. The kind of work the undocumented always do. It turns out he was good with an adze and chisel, and came into a little demand. They traded their tent for a shanty with real walls, offering at least the illusion of security, of privacy.

When they didn't know the language, the women had gone together to the market. Together they negotiated by signs to buy a few overpriced vegetables. Together they endured the stares at their head coverings, their dress too warm for the climate, the color of their skin. Together they weathered the haughty looks of immodest women and the leers of the men. Together they hurried back to see to the children, left in the care of friends, strangers really.

Then came the day they had dreaded. Daoud had been squirreling away a little money.

"It is enough, finally enough," Daoud began.

"To go home? We will miss you like crazy. Do you think it's safe?"

"What does safe mean, anyway? Why don't you come, too? You could sell that house."

"No, not yet. In some ways it's safer to stay where you know everyone around you is an enemy. Still, I miss them."

"Family?" Daoud asked.

"There has been no word since we left. No one there knows where we are. They must think us dead."

"The world is crazy and everyone knows that. They haven't given you up. Where do they live? I'll try to get word to them."

"Nazareth. My people are in Nazareth."

The Wishbone Fallacy

Thanksgiving is over. The turkey soup is in the pot. The carcass bones are in the trash, having surrendered their healing goodness in yesterday's roasting.

In the process of dividing soup from bones I came across the clavicle, the wishbone. It occurs to me what a childish game this is.

When we were children we would remove the wishbone and set it on the window sill to dry. In a couple of days our mother, tired of looking at it and cleaning around it, would remind us of our duty to make a wish and break the bone, divining whose wish might prevail. The holder of the larger part would win the game. That wish was made good. The loser's wish was dashed, and the subject was changed.

Maybe because all the other children were much older than I, maybe because a stoic turn of mind made me suspicious of wishes in general, or that the natural gloom in my Michigan bred soul had me convinced that, even unopposed, my wish was doomed from the start. I never liked the game.

Now looking back I can see why. The wishbone game is based on a fallacy. In the game there can be only one winner. It is a zero sum proposition. Your win is necessarily my loss, and there are after all, only a finite number of wishes that might be granted in the world. Happily-ever-afters are in critically limited supply.

In larger families the situation is even worse. The wishbone has only two legs. Third, fourth, and fifth children are even deprived the wishing. They must, like so many second and third world nations stand by while titans battle for wish supremacy.

I make too much of a child's game.

But fables and nursery rhymes make their way into the psyche. Indeed that is their role, to plant values early and deep. The diligent ant, the wily fox, and the greedy dog all argue persuasively. And so we have a need to reflect. Do we believe in the zero sum game? Is one's victory necessarily another's loss? Are the good things in the world in scarcity or abundant supply?

Either this or that, tit for tat, quid pro quo, the dichotomy emerges again and again throughout life. Are there really only two political parties? Are there truly only right wing and left? Why does every dilemma have only two horns? In the news in recent days is talk of net neutrality, that every view must be balanced by its opposite. What if there is no opposite? 

Are climate change and globalization true opposites? What about wealth? No one posits a pluralistic view where A and B and C and D are all true, all at once, and in dynamic relationship one to the others. How often do we let complex issues boil down to either this or that? Or if not this or that, they somewhere on the line between them. When will we learn that the best solution is often off the line altogether?

So we return once again to the wishbone fallacy. There it sits on the window sill. Desiccating. Inviting the wish. Taunting the dream. Holding forth both promise and betrayal, blessing and cursing. And in the very process blinding us to the truth. The truth that yesterday we were family. Yesterday there was food and music and conversation. Yesterday there was Thanksgiving, and thankfulness, and a turkey. Don't you wish it could stay?

U Kalicha

"Good afternoon."

I had walked right past him. He startled me in English.

"Good afternoon, lovely things you have here."

He was seated down behind the high counter of his cluttered antique store on a side street in Prague. It took a bit of effort at first to determine where the man left off and his collection of artifacts began.

We had been exploring a neighborhood originally devoted to the King's vineyard, now a pleasant meander through parks and residences. And churches, everywhere churches. The city of Prague is well over a thousand years old. Let that sink in. And the church has been a vital part of the culture for at least the last 1100 years.

So yeah, antiques. I was taken in by the collection of military badges on his front counter. Russian and German uniform insignia from WWII told the story of a conflict that had raged over the heads of the Bohemian residents. I toyed with the fantasy that this man's father might have collected all these one by one as the war dragged on. They were in wonderful condition. The next card beside these had the badges of Czech Partizans, freedom fighters. One unit had the Czech Lion rampant next to the Slovak double cross in a shield. Another had the initials C, S, and M for the Czech, Silesian, and Moravian fighters who joined forces to protect their homelands. I looked for but did not see a unit I was especially interested in. The badge of the Hussite Partizans  featured a gold star surmounted by a red chalice. I didn't find one there, and was a little disappointed.

In the early 1400s Jan Hus was rector at Charles University in Prague. He was also preaching in the congregation of Bethlehem Chapel. At that time commonly church was conducted in Latin, the priest was of course rightly revered, and Holy Communion was conducted in such a way that the lay parishioners only ever received the bread, the cup being reserved for the priest. Theology maintained that Christ was fully present in the host or bread, so there was no need to share in the cup. Whatever the reasons for this, it served to preserve a proper respect for the priest, who was of course closer to God.

Hus and the Praguers were teaching a different way. They were preaching the Bible in the Bohemian vernacular language so that people could understand it for themselves. They were emphasizing the priesthood of all believers, the unity of the brethren. And they were offering Holy Communion in both kinds, both host and cup, to all believers.

In 1415 Hus was invited to the ecumenical Council of Constance to explain his views. Emperor Sigismund even offered him safe passage to the Council. And in truth he came safely to Constance. But once there, he found the bishops had already gone over his writings. He had scant opportunity to present his views, was imprisoned, condemned as a heretic, and burned at the stake. A somewhat annoyed Sigismund was mollified by the bishops; promises made to a heretic could not be considered binding after all. 

Followers of Hus took his betrayal personally and the Hussite wars lasted for a hundred years. In the end the Roman Church relented and religious tolerance became briefly the rule of the day.

Through all of this the Kalicha, the chalice of Communion, became a symbol and rallying point.

"Do you have in your store a chalice, a cup, "kalicha?" I asked.

"No nothing like that, I am sorry."

"Because I think maybe the "Kalicha" is important to the Czech church."

"No. Church things I have only here." He pointed out a selection of crucifixes. There were also brilliantly painted icons. There were some old menorahs. Many things were left behind during waves of religious persecution, first under Berlin and then under Moscow. Since the Velvet Revolution in 1989 both churches and synagogues are coming back to life.

He proudly showed us pictures of his son in America. The son held advanced degrees in the law and was doing very well. The gentleman himself claimed to speak ten languages, and 

I don't doubt it was true. The Bohemian lands border on Germany, Poland, Hungary, and Slovakia. Russia and Ukraine are not far away. Especially since 1990 tourists arrive from the Far East and West.

It had been an enjoyable few minutes making conversation, but we thanked our gentleman and turned to leave. Then as I reached for the door I saw it.

There on a shelf waist high was an earthenware chalice. Simple in form, unremarkable in glazing, it looked like it might have been in daily use for decades. It had no markings. It had no price tag. When I picked it up a ring of keys clattered inside. The man collected his keys from me and said, "Very low price." It was the place he dumped his house keys while working in the store. He sold it to me with pleasure, but I am sure he still wonders at the crazy American who bought his key jar. 

It is possible I am making too much of this chalice iconography. It is certainly true that most Czechs do not imbue this symbol with the combination of suffering and hope and courage I read in the Czech Soul. But I saw them everywhere in Prague. A chalice adorns a church banner, not a Communion banner with the round host suspended over the chalice, but a solitary chalice. A stylized chalice figures in the logo for the Czech Hussite Church brochure. A famous old restaurant near the Dvorak Museum bears the name U Kalicha. And during the Hussite wars the great Czech General Zizka, who never lost a battle, captured a remote fortress estate and christens the place "the Chalice."

There's a word for that

The Sami people of Scandinavia have 180 words for snow and near 1000 for different kinds of reindeer. Canada's Inuit also can describe a wider variety of snow conditions than simply powder or slush. Language is a tool for telling what we have a need to talk about.

So when the sermon discussion took up the topic of "righteousness" I was distressed to find so few synonyms in popular speech. If it is an important concept should there not be loads of equivalents?

There is "ethic" of course, "rectitude," "morality," but these don't quite cover the same territory. We know that the world should be better than it is, but where are the words for actually being better people?

"Goodness" is another close miss. But goodness is an inclination, righteousness more of a status. "Respectability," yes, in an outward socially compliant sort of way, but leaving behind the true rightness of inner being.

Personally I favor "innocence," although we start out life innocent, fall into error and then try to work our way back toward righteousness. "Blamelessness" is also a serviceable word, especially in a culture eager to escape blame. "I don't so much care what went down, I just don't want to be blamed for it." "Faultlessness" and "flawlessness" can be taken in the direction of physical perfection and so really lead away from choice. If you are flawless it is probably your parents' fault.

Then we come to the whole forensic discussion. Legal righteousness. To be pronounced righteous, declared innocent, acquitted of crimes regardless of my actual guilt, overruling my evident flaws, is another whole matter. This is the righteousness imparted on the account of another. Finding a righteous person is challenging enough. Finding one who has righteousness to spare enough to render you and me right is nothing short of miraculous.

Righteousness is also forced to drag along with it the negative concept of self-righteousness. That is considerable baggage for an already endangered word. If self-righteous is an epithet, and righteousness somewhat dated, if current usage provides us no equivalent, then can we really say that the culture is that concerned about the concept of righteousness? Certainly a pluralistic relativism finds "being right" to be suspect. "Doing right" finds a much warmer reception, but who can produce a list of things to do that are always inherently right?

If we turn it around there are any number of wrong turns that twist life out of shape. The field of error is littered with ways to go astray. More are being invented every day it seems. There are a mountain of words to describe missing the mark, and a dearth of ways to talk about being better. And maybe that tells us about the neighborhood where we live. And where so few actually go.

The Littlest Christmas Tree

The crowd at the tree lot was approaching the evening rush. Christmas was a week away and business was picking up. Jerry counted his remaining stock and indulged the thought of selling out early and getting back to Oregon before Christmas Eve for once, There were spruce and fir and pines and cedar of every shape and size.

Jerry's wife Marla was busily weaving tree clippings into wreaths and garlands to offer for sale as well. People who didn't have room for a tree still wanted the smell of fresh cuttings in the home. This was how they had spent every December since they'd married, camped out in their tiny trailer, watching everyone else carry Christmas home with them.

Down a back row of the lot came a father and son, looking for their perfect tree. "What about this one?" asked the boy. The little tree came only about to his ball cap, so lop sided it had to lean against bigger trees just to remain upright. "Oh, son, that one is way too small. Let's look over here." Before moving on the boy took a gum wrapper out of his jacket and, folding it into a fan, stuck it onto a branch. The little tree looked grateful. Then he was off the find Dad. 

Barreling around the corner he nearly knocked over a girl in a wheelchair coming the other way. When she had set herself straight again she looked and saw the fan and the pitiful little tree. From a package in her pocket she pulled a couple tissues and formed the pretty flowers all young girls seem to know how to make, leaving them in the tree, too.

As the evening meandered along the little tree picked up three stray pine cones tied on with twine, a couple handfuls of flocking, and a bright red stocking cap perched on the top candle which made it lean lazily to one side.

On his closing rounds Jerry came down the back row and stopped to wonder at the little tree. Shaking his head he went off to the trailer, and dinner Marla was setting out.

***

The following night the lot was visited by a carolling group from St. John's Church next door. They sang "Hark, the Herald Angels" and "Joy to the World" and a spanish carol Jerry didn't recognize. After they had looked around the yard and drank some warm cider they went on to the nursing home down the street. 

That night Jerry found the little tree wearing a scarf he thought he had seen on one of the carollers.  Before retiring to the trailer, Jerry nailed a stand on the tree and brought it out to the middle of the lot, replacing the cocked hat, the scarf, and the other ornaments. Then he went to tell Marla.

"That's not all," she teased, "look at this." She pulled out her phone and played a video of a little crooked tree in a red hat and the choir that sang "Oh, Christmas Tree" while they tied it up in a bright scarf. "It's going viral," she explained over the mac and cheese.

***

Over the next few days people started bringing tinsel and garlands and ornaments such as threatened to topple the little tree. The burlap tree skirt was replaced with cranberry damask in a gold braid. Lights were strung. The choir came back and staged a flash mob. Several people offered to buy the little tree, but Jerry wisely upsold every one of them. By the time the 23rd rolled around Jerry and Marla had sold every stick and crumb and had left for Oregon and home.

The following night, Christmas Eve, a father and son were walking by St. John's church yard. They stopped to look at the living nativity, at the Holy Family, the cow, the donkey, and at a strange little Christmas tree in a jaunty red stocking hat. As they came close the father watched the boy reach out for a tiny foil fan made from what looked for all the world like a gum wrapper.

***

Beneath all the tinsel and flock, the wrapping and the cookie crumbs, may you find the Christ that made Christmas a reality.  Our year has been filled with glimpses of community sprouting up in unexpected places.

Wealth

Let's go over this again. Wealth is not money in a mattress. Wealth is a function of value and is created through exchange.

I have five dollars in my pocket. You have an extra hibachi grill in a yard sale. I value the grill more than the five dollars. You value the five dollars more than your spare grill. There is an exchange. Both of us walk away thinking we got the better deal. Net value has increased in the exchange. Wealth has been created. Granted not great wealth, but take it up a notch.

I have $200,000 in the bank (I wish). You have a steady job and weary of paying rent. A loan is made, a lot is bought, a house is built, a mortgage is paid. Net value takes a jump. Wealth is created out of thin air, the breath it takes to make an agreement. This sort of thing goes on every day.

You have a million dollars in mutual funds bearing meager interest because the companies in the fund are not equally brilliant, nor their products uniformly desirable. I have an idea for a product that makes the smart phone obsolete. I exchange an interest in my idea for your million dollars. (Thank you.) A plant is built, people are hired, the product is sold, customers are clamoring to buy. Value is increasing geometrically on a broad scale. Great wealth is created.

This is how it works. This is the only way it works.

But, when taxes are exacted to pay for safety net programs, admirable though their aims, wealth is not created. Transfer is not exchange. Transfer systems work to reduce net value, and destroy wealth. Workers with skills are drawn to the safety net and production is lost. Investors with resources find their returns plundered and decline to engage in the marketplace (or worse, migrate to more favorable markets overseas). Unemployment insurance works to ensure unemployment. How does this come to be called a benefit?

The American economy is getting tired of foundering. As it makes gains in the coming weeks and months recovery will depend on whether our leaders step on the brake or the gas.