Standing Up to Religious Hate Speech

There are two mosques in Appleton, and I have had a long-term relationship with one of them. On the evening of 9/11, leaders from the Christian and Muslim communities came together at a local Lutheran church to grieve this act of unspeakable evil and to affirm that we would not allow this horrific event to drive a wedge between our communities. Locally we have been able to honor that pledge, but I am deeply disturbed and frightened by the growing fear and hatred in our society directed at the Muslim faith and all who follow it. Many in New York City oppose plans to build a mosque two blocks from “ground zero” (in a former Burlington Coat Factory, no less), and there is similar opposition to proposed mosques in many other cities, including Sheboygan here in Wisconsin. Some opponents are suggesting that all mosques function as secret terrorist training centers, an absurd accusation.

It gets worse. Some conservative Christian groups are claiming not only that Islam is a false religion, but that it is an inherently violent movement bent on world conquest. Ron Ramsey, the lieutenant governor of Tennessee who is currently running for governor, said in a recent campaign speech: "You could even argue whether being a Muslim is actually a religion, or is it a nationality, way of life, cult or whatever you want to call it." This is not just ignorance, it is dangerous hate speech.

But most disturbing of all is the call of Terry Jones, leader of the Dove World Outreach Center, for the ritual burning of copies of the Quran on September 11 this year. No doubt this will actually happen in many so-called Christian churches. Book-burning in general makes my blood run cold. Calling frightened, angry people to burn a book that millions of people hold sacred should be a wake-up call to all persons with a shred of moral decency and respect for diversity to rise up and denounce him.

Jones is the author of a book titled “Islam is of the Devil,” which pretty much tells us all we need to know about him (yes, t-shirts are available). Unless you would also like to know his perspective on homosexuality: “Detestable, indecent, wicked, offensive, perverted, shameful, unnatural, degrading, impure, futile, foolish, godless, dishonorable, a lie.” If you want to lose a night’s sleep to anger and worry, you can visit Dove World’s web site. Among other things, it offers ten reasons why we should burn the Quran, and yet they dare to call themselves “dove world.”

There have been previous efforts to breed hatred directed at a religious group in our society, most famously targeting the Roman Catholic Church in the 19th century. They too were accused of seeking “world domination.” Fear leads to hatred, hatred leads to lies and false accusations, lies lead to intolerance and acts of violence. It is a grief almost too deep to bear; surely Al Qaeda must be rejoicing at how well this hate speech serves their agenda.

Question the teachings of Islam if you will; as a devout Christian I disagree with many Muslim beliefs. But as a Christian I believe I am required to love my neighbor as myself, including my Muslim neighbor. And loving my Muslim neighbors requires me to speak out when they become the targets of dangerous hate speech. It requires it of all of us.

Pondering the Divine Mystery of the Mosquito

I am due to make a blood donation to the Community Blood Center, but have been reluctant to call because I am currently donating about a pint a week to the mosquitoes. Worse, when I am finished making my donation to the mosquitoes they never offer me a cookie and a cup of juice.

In what is possibly the worst summer for mosquitoes (well, actually for me – the mosquitoes themselves appear to be having a very good summer) I have ever experienced, it is only natural to question the judgment of the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth. God made all living things, the Good Book tells us, and pronounced each one “good.” This means that responsibility for mosquito bites can be laid squarely at the feet of the Almighty. Were I in charge of creation, I would have taken a pass on biting insects in general.

If I had designed the created order, each day would have a high of 76 degrees and each night the low would dip to 63. Wisconsin, in other words, would be San Diego. Babies would never develop ear infections, children would never step into traffic and be injured or killed, good people would not develop cancer, tornados would not strike trailer parks and there would be no such thing as light beer. My version of created order would likely not work very well in the long haul, but it would certainly be more pleasant. For me.

In theology we call this the problem of theodicy: in this good and beautiful world there will always be natural disasters and human evil. In order to have the rain that grows our crops, we must accept the risk of hurricanes, tornados, hailstorms and all the rest. In giving us the freedom to choose to love God and one another, God accepted the risk that some people would reject that gift and embrace the path of greed, violence and hatred. Without freedom there can be no creation, and with freedom comes risk. And mosquitoes. The wise person slaps his or her leg and still rejoices in the overall goodness of life and beauty of the world.

Jonathan Richman has a song called “Nature’s Mosquito” which goes in part:

Now little mosquito is there not
some reason for you that I just can’t spot?
“Well, there is; well you’re right sir!
God loved me when he made me, that same as he loves you, so
I’m nature’s little mosquito!”

Sometimes it helps me to sing this song when I am swatting and pondering the mystery of creation. And sometimes it does not.

Squirrel Wars, Part Two

Although I sometimes write here about themes of great depth and meaning, I am most frequently asked how things are going in my war with the squirrels. Glad you asked. As you may recall, the squirrels had taken to chewing apart the cords of the lights that once adorned the tree on our patio. When I recently returned from a trip I discovered that they had finished the job and chewed up the extension cord running to the tree for good measure. I also discovered that rabbits had dug under the fence around my vegetable garden and eaten my entire crop of peas and beans, but that is another story. The common lesson is Never Go Away.

Being a man of the 21st century, I went on-line to seek a solution to my squirrel problem. I read tales of woe from persons who had squirrels do thousands of dollars in damage to the electrical system of their cars. I read of unfortunate people who had squirrels break into the attic and chew apart the house wiring. I pondered a creative solution offered by one gentleman, who suggested that I surround my entire property with bricks, and then sprinkle the bricks with cayenne pepper. The bricks would arouse the squirrels’ curiosity, and he would come to investigate. He would accidently sniff the pepper, sneeze, and knock himself unconscious on the brick, after which I would grab the squirrel and place it in the yard of someone I did not like. Reluctantly, I concluded that while the plan was intriguing, it was not entirely practical. The more I read, the more discouraged I became.

So I climbed up into the tree and removed all the lights. I was able to splice the eight former strings of lights into three that worked, and placed them back into the tree. Meanwhile, I ordered ten strings of “commercial grade” lights, which are sitting in a box in the basement. Commercial grade lights are no more resistant to squirrels than any other kind, of course: these are rodents who are happy to chew apart high-voltage power lines. My hope was that the squirrels would lose interest in chewing my wires, then I could place the new lights in the tree.

After two weeks, the squirrels have not touched my spliced, duct-taped lights. I know why. They are well-aware that I have new lights in the basement (the Squirrel Intelligence Network makes the Russians look like amateurs) and are attempting to lure me into serving them a tasty feast of new lights. I may risk one string, but I am pretty sure what the result will be.

Meanwhile I am contending with a plague of robins. Yes, robins; we are overrun with them, and they have taken possession of the small fountain under the tree with the spliced, duct-taped lights. They do not allow the smaller birds to drink from it, and splash all of the water out of it several times a day. They tell me that it is my responsibility to refill it, over and over again. Clearly I need to retire soon: chasing squirrels and rabbits and preparing the bath for the robins is a full-time job.

Sacred Smoke and Devil's Tower

We have just returned from a two-week road trip through the west, seeing some of America’s scenic wonders, living a bit of family history (my grandmother grew up in Cody, Wyoming, and we were able to retrace a trip through Yellowstone that she made as a girl in 1904), and visiting with cherished friends (including performing a wedding in Colorado Springs). Susan read sections of “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” aloud as we drove through the places where grim massacres occurred. The trail of broken treaties is a sad and shameful chapter in our nation’s history, and I found myself grieving even as I reveled in the remarkable beauty. (Those who wish can read a full record of our trip).

One of the many stops we made was at Devil’s Tower (of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” fame), where I learned that the tension between Whites and Native Americans is still very much alive. For the Plains Indians, it is a profoundly sacred place, and the month of June is a particular sacred time of year. All about the base of the Tower we saw small flags and bags hanging from trees, left as offerings by those who came to worship.

The Tower also draws many rock climbers eager to test their skills on its sheer walls. And therein lays the tension. Plains Indians regard such climbing as a form of sacrilege, even as the Pope would likely object if the Vatican were used for paint-ball practice. In an effort to strike a compromise, the Parks Service established a voluntary moratorium on climbing Devil’s Tower during June. A reasonable proposal, right? But immediately the “nobody can tell me what to do or when to do it!” crowd launched a lawsuit, claiming that their rights were being infringed upon. The case was tossed out of court when the judge failed to see how a polite request could be interpreted as infringing on anyone’s rights. Many – I would like to think most – climbers are honoring the moratorium, but two parties were climbing the Tower the day we visited. I found myself thinking unpleasant thoughts about those climbers; some degree of cultural and religious sensitivity to others is essential to a civilized society.

Saddened, we went to the picnic area to prepare our lunch. And there we saw something that lifted my heart a bit. A Japanese sculptor is designing a series of works to be placed in the world’s most sacred places. The first was placed at the Vatican. The second was installed at the birthplace of the Buddha. And the third was recently placed at Devil’s Tower. It represents the first puff of smoke from a peace pipe, and is set in such a way that it perfectly frames the Tower. Not everyone who visits the Tower will stumble across this remarkable work, but I would like to think that those who do will think less about the aliens whose spaceship landed on top of the Tower in the Hollywood version and more about its sacred meaning to the Native American tribes who suffered so grievously because of our greed for gold and buffalo hides.

Squirrel Wars

When we remodeled our kitchen twelve years ago I had only two requests. I wanted an outlet located in the corner where I make coffee so I could keep both the grinder and coffee maker plugged in all the time. And I wanted an indoor switch for a new outlet on the outside of the house near the patio so that I could pursue my Grand Dream.
Our patio wraps around a crabapple tree. Admittedly it is not a particularly nice crabapple tree. It is badly in need of trimming, which I have not been able to do for reasons that will soon become clear. It is also susceptible to apple scab disease, so if the spring is a wet one (like it was this year) many of the leaves turn brown and fall off in June. For years we paid to have the tree sprayed with fungicide, but the only notable impact was on my wallet. But it is the only shade we have for the patio, and it was also the focus of my Grand Dream.

Many houses have a porch light by the back door, but I did not want a porch light. I wanted the crabapple tree to function as my porch light. I ran a heavy cord from my new outlet to the base of the tree and buried it. Then I spent several awkward hours climbing around in the tree, running string after string of white Christmas lights. When I was done there were 1200 lights, give or take, and when I hit the switch in the kitchen the effect was all that I had hoped. My Grand Dream was now a reality.
But the one thing I did not factor into my Dream was the squirrels. Not all squirrels, just the occasional renegade squirrel who, for reasons known only to himself, thinks that chewing strings of lights to shreds is about the most fun a squirrel can have without going to Vegas. I never know when one of these renegades is going to show up. Three or four years may pass without damage, then Chewy the Renegade Squirrel comes to call. He is back this year, and I am ready to throw in the towel.

Three days ago he chewed up three entire strings of lights. My mother-in-law was due to arrive the next day, and she loves to see the tree lit up. It was raining lightly, but I fetched my one box of back-up lights and headed out to do battle. One of the strings he destroyed was, of course, the one at the very top of the tree. If you have never clung to a wet limb 14 feet off the ground while stretching your fingers to yank at a stuck string of lights, you have not yet lived a full life. I filled in as best I could with the new string and tossed the chewed strings into the basement to attempt a bit of splicing. (Note: these strings have three wires, and the squirrel specializes in chewing all three in such a way that you cannot tell how they connect, which means hours of trial-and-error before you toss the whole mess out in disgust.)

Last night I hit the switch to find three more strings out, one of them the new string I put in place just three days ago. As best I can tell, it is now in four parts.

I do not have a clue as to why the Renegade Squirrel does this. Does he like the taste of the insulation? Or is it just a form of amusement for a squirrel with too much time on his hands? Whichever, I am dead in the water until this squirrel finds something better to do or is called to the Great Rodent Farm in the Sky (a final journey I would be glad to help him embark upon).

So this fall I will remove all the strings of lights, give the tree the proper trimming it has needed for years, and start all over. I am confident that it will look wonderful when I am finished. It may continue to look wonderful for years, or perhaps only for days. Like Sisyphus pushing his rock up the hill, I will continue my heroic efforts, even knowing I am doomed to defeat. Such is the human spirit; such is human foolishness.

Contending with The Bad Mom

Yesterday Susan and I were on a flight from St. Louis to Milwaukee in a miserable little airplane, the kind with two (very hard) seats on one side of the aisle and one seat on the other. The row ahead of us was occupied by a mother and her two children. The younger one, a boy of perhaps three, sat with his mother, while her five-year-old daughter, Madison, occupied the solo seat across the aisle. I know that her name was Madison because her mother screamed it a lot.

Madison had one arm in a soft cast, the result of a mild fracture she had suffered earlier in the week. Madison wanted to chat with her mother, but mother had her hands full with the younger child. Madison kept dangling her legs over the side of the seat, prompting her mother to yell at her to put them where they belonged lest they be amputated by a passing cart. Madison wanted to watch a movie on the portable DVD player until the movie started, at which point she didn’t want to watch it anymore. Madison wanted a cup of ice cubes to suck on and then promptly spilled the ice all over the floor. Madison, in other words, was behaving precisely the way even the nicest five-year-olds behave. Mom was progressively losing it, and she was not using her “inside voice.” Her behavior was escalating towards verbal abuse.

My first response was one of acute embarrassment for the mother, who was melting down in a manner that no-one around her could miss. It is a socially awkward situation. Do you pretend that it is not happening, or do you try to help in some way? Where is fine line between butting in and being helpful? I could see other passengers squirming as they wrestled with the same question.

Bit by bit, those of us seated nearby coalesced into a community. A grandmotherly African-American woman seated in front of Madison began chatting with the mother in a soft and soothing voice. I engaged Madison in conversation about how she got her owie. The flight attendant stopped by several times to ask if they needed anything. No one criticized her; everyone spoke in a kindly manner. Bit by bit, the situation was defused.

When we landed, I chatted a bit with the mom. They had been visiting one set of grandparents in St. Louis (where Madison fractured her arm at a theme park) and were on their way to Pittsburgh to see the other set. Given the huge diamond she was wearing on her finger, I assumed she had a husband, presumably too busy earning the money that paid for that rock to accompany them. She was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally.

Later, Susan and I reflected on whether we were seeing a good mom having a bad day or a woman who will always struggle with parenting. Our guess is that the role of mother does not come naturally or easily to her, and that if she was at the end of her rope that day it was because her rope was not all that long to begin with. I will hold her, and her children, in prayer.

But I am always grateful when I see strangers come together as a supportive community. Hillary Clinton famously commented that it takes a village to raise a child. A village, and sometimes an airplane.

Interfaith Shopping

Yesterday I was leaving the grocery store and spotted a “Christian Business Directory” on the free literature rack. Curiosity almost made me grab one, but I decided to pass. Such faith-based business directories have become more common in recent years, and I regard them with deep ambivalence. There is something positive to be said for doing business with fellow members of your faith family, and there are religious sects (Orthodox Judaism and Anabaptist Christians such as the Amish and Mennonites, for example) where this practice has been encouraged for many years. But now it is a much broader group of Evangelical Christians who are driving the movement towards Christian Business Directories. Behind it are two ideals – we should try to support our fellow Christians and we can trust our fellow Christians to deal with us ethically. Which both sound like good things, right?

But I have questions about both of these assertions. Let’s begin with the second one: fellow Christians will deal with us ethically. Some of the worst scandals of recent years have swirled around of self-proclaimed “Christian businesses.” For a year or so you could not turn on your television in Wisconsin without seeing ads for a homebuilder who paraded his rather spooky-looking children before the cameras while announcing that his was a “Christian-based” business. The ads are long gone, as is his business, leaving many trusting customers holding the bag for their deposits. I gather the guy had some “issues.” Then there was a large “Christian-based” financial services company that talked endlessly about Jesus while running an old-fashioned Ponzi scheme until the law caught up with them. Anyone can claim to be a Christian, then abuse the trust that naïve persons invest in them because of that claim. And Christians, as our own doctrines attest, are no less likely to sin than anyone else. As the saying has it, the only difference is that Christians know that their sins can be forgiven.

But back to assertion number one: we should try to support our fellow Christians. Well, yes we should, but Christians also need to answer Jesus’ question “who is my neighbor?” If Christians love and support only their fellow Christians, they have entirely missed the heart of what Jesus taught about love. Based upon my understanding of the requirement to love my neighbor as myself, I attempt to do as much business as possible with locally-owned, small businesses owned by folks who are working hard to establish a foothold in the American economy without regard to their race or religion. My insurance agent is Hmong, and I have no idea what his personal faith is. I am pretty sure that the guy who runs the Indian grocery store where I buy ten-pound bags of Basmati rice is Hindu, not Christian (Christians rarely wear turbans). It is when Christians move among persons of other faiths and cultures, treating them with honesty, respect, integrity and kindness, that they witness most effectively to their faith.

A few months ago I took a suitcase with a busted zipper to a shop in Ashwaubenon to get it fixed. The very pleasant man who ran the shop had a sign professing that his was a Christian business, so I told him I served as chaplain for Goodwill Industries, including the Goodwill store just down the street from him. He was pleased to meet me and asked if I had sought him out because he was a Christian. “No,” I replied truthfully. “I sought you out because you are the only one I could find who fixes suitcases, and I’m too cheap to buy a new one.” I am happy to do business with Christians, just as I am with folks of all faiths.