Sesquipedalianism                 

 

If you are symptomatic of hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia, this may not be the dissertation for you.  Such indications may lead to the postulation of incomprehensibilities, contingent on whether or not you accurately twig the eventualities of such linguistic meanderings.

The pondering of the query, “Why is abbreviation such a lengthy written expression given its connotation?” has flummoxed morphological intellectuals since chisels initially penetrated the fasciae of stone tablets.

Why articulate a conception with outsized manifestations when more diminutive ones suffice?

Perchance it is portentousness or verbal grandiosity.  Analagously, etymological histrionics conceivably divulge the practitioner’s diffidence. Such is to be pitied.

Conversely, an archipeligo of bewildering stipulations lend themselves to facilitating the interests of one contingent over another in contractual negotiations.  Habitually, the imploration is, “Unadorned English, please!”

Nevertheless, vernacular can be exploited as a contrivance of duplicity, coercion, and in a constructive signification, elucidation.

The verity of the subject at hand, nonetheless, is that the antecedent treatise purely is a paradigm of language manipulated in a modus implying floccinaucinihilipilification.                                                                                                       

No More Nukes!

     Recently, the day’s mail brought an invitation from the grandson of Harry S. Truman to contribute financially to the restoration of the Truman presidential museum and library.  The letter indicated that I was among a “carefully selected” group of potential donors.  Yes, I visited Kansas City once, about 20 years ago, and my name and address are on some list that generates letters from both President Biden and Dr. Jill Biden.   I would not, however, under any circumstances send money to honor a man who ordered the destruction of hundreds of thousands of innocent people, even if he, as the letter stated, was perhaps “America’s greatest president.”

    It seems the donor-selection process has its flaws.  

    Years ago I said in a sermon something to the effect of, “Until we say NO to nuclear weapons we are as guilty of idolatry as President Reagan and the other old men running our country who think war and the threat of war provide national security.”  There was an audible gasp in the congregation, and it being an election year, someone muttered, “I guess we know who he’s voting for.” 

     Yeah, and I voted for George McGovern in 1972, as well.

     When Reagan, who even admitted there would be no winners in a nuclear war, pushed for a continuing – and obscenely expensive – buildup of the military and nuclear arsenal to defend against the then-Soviet Union, I always wondered what we were defending.  Every dollar that went down the nuclear weapon drain was a dollar that could otherwise have been spent on addressing the educational needs of our children, or combatting the AIDS crisis, or creating employment opportunities for the growing ranks of the unemployed, or looking for solutions to homelessness, or other crises that affected the lives of countless Americans who were not among the upper crust privileged tax-break-beneficiaries.

       In some ways all that seems as if it occurred long ago.  Well, guess what?  Here we go again.

       There now are plans to update and modernize our nuclear arsenal at a cost of $1.6 trillion.  In the eyes of those who support this effort, it’s not enough that we already have hundreds, even thousands of nuclear weapons standing by to destroy the earth and its inhabitants, especially Russia, which, by the way, has similar arsenals pointed our way.   Most, if not all, of these weapons surpass the Truman bombs in destructive capability many times over.

         Yes, Biden wants to re-enter the Iran nuclear deal and is extending the START agreement with Russia, but new weapons are on the horizon.  Contracts were signed with only one bidder, Northrup Grumman, to develop and produce the Ground Based Strategic Deterrent.  The GBSD will replace ICBM’s, which sit in silos on a hair trigger, with new nuclear ballistic submarines and state-of-the-art bomber aircraft.

           Meanwhile, many Americans are evicted from their homes as a result of the pandemic. Some of them, and many others, are faced with food insecurity, including members of the U.S. armed forces. Racial and cultural tensions tear apart communities. The right and ability to vote is shrinking for those seen as “less than.” Healthcare remains a very expensive privilege rather than a right. Immigration is a constant political football. Gun violence claims lives randomly as well as targeted.  Billionaires compare the size of their rockets. 

            The “security” to be found in nuclear weapons remains illusive and elusive.  Despite the spending of more than a trillion dollars, some things never change.            

Another Memorable Person

 

Vic Kaufman was the Clerk of the Board of Directors of William Penn House in 1987 when I was hired to be the Interim Executive Director (a nine-month appointment).  At the time, neither he, the rest of the Board, nor I knew what was ahead of us.

A few weeks before my hiring there was a blow-up among the staff at William Penn House, with the prior Executive Director firing the House Manager.  Several interns, recently hired for a one-year term, quit over the dispute, and ultimately, the Board decided to relieve the Executive Director of his duties.  In short, it was a big mess.

My interview was on a Friday evening, Vic called the next day to offer the position to me, and on Monday I showed up for work.  My staff consisted of two interns, one of whom was appointed Interim House Manager, and a janitor.

My second day on the job featured a visit from a city construction inspector.  Just as I was coming on board at William Penn House, the D.C. government was cracking down on unlicensed “bed and breakfast” establishments.  A neighbor, likely fearing an under-performing property value potential, squealed to the boys downtown.  So, we were netted in their big effort to clean up matters, enhancing safety and city revenues.

Of course, I explained to the inspector what we were all about, that we offered seminar programs and lodging to visiting groups, that the money paid to WPH for the programs and accommodations really was “donations,” etc., etc., etc.   While cordial, he was unmoved.  We would have to get a Certificate of Occupancy issued by the city.  “OK,” I said, “how do we do that?” thinking I would fill out a form, pay a fee and that would be that.

It turned out the inspector was thinking of something slightly more involved.  He would look over the building, cite “corrections” that were necessary to meet safety codes, and send out the electrical, plumbing and fire inspectors, as well.  I took a deep breath.  “OK. We can get through this.”

When I called Vic to tell him what was happening, he was stunned.  Vic was a Ph.D. who worked for the National Bureau of Standards as a spectroscopist (look THAT up in your Funk and Wagnalls!).  He was Jewish by birth, and came to the Friends during the Vietnam era.  He was very active in Friends organizations for many years, including as treasurer of the Friends Committee on National Legislation (the oldest religious lobby on Capitol Hill), various volunteer roles with the American Friends Service Committee, and a variety of activities within his local Friends Meeting, in particular, a prison ministry.  In later years he looked after the personal finances of a few folks who needed that type of assistance. 

Vic was around 60 years old at the time I met him.  Not a tall or big person, he had a dark complexion, steel gray hair, long sideburns and a receding hairline.  His voice was gravelly and sometimes loud.  He was very direct, very intelligent, had a nice sense of humor, and despite an occasionally gruff manner, he was very caring.   I had the impression some felt he was difficult to deal with, but I came to see him as persistent, dedicated, confident, and capable of doing just about anything.  It wasn’t too long after I got to know him that I found a place for Vic on my list of All-Time Favorite People.

            The pursuit of a Certificate of Occupancy was challenging, to say the least, since William Penn House did not fit any of the zoning classifications identified by the D.C. government.  I spent a lot of time with lawyers, engineers, architects, construction contractors, and officials from a variety of D.C. government offices. 

            At one point, the whole process ground to a halt because the different government offices could not agree on how we were to proceed.  Of course, our program was dead in the water, which dried up our revenue stream.

            Finally, I contacted Mayor Marion Barry, explained who we were, what we stood for, what was happening with the crowd from various offices within his administration, and asked him to intervene.  Within a couple of days, the wheels on the ponderous, rusty machine began to turn once again.  I was amazed by how bureaucrats who didn’t seem to have a clue suddenly snapped to.  But then, I already knew the secret of Marion Barry’s political longevity.  Despite his personal difficulties and demons, he took care of the people.  And in this case, we were part of “the people.”

            Vic and the Board offered tremendous support, and finally, after two-and-a-half years we completed the renovations necessary for the Certificate of Occupancy.  Of course, we had to raise and borrow money from Friends across the continent along the way.  Vic chipped in with a couple of loans, and he actually converted one of the loans to a donation because he knew we were up against it, in terms of paying it back.

            Meanwhile, my nine-month interim period came and went, just sort of dissolving somewhere along the way, and I ended up staying at William Penn House for nine years.

            After my departure I kept in touch with Vic, who left the William Penn House Board a few years earlier.  At one point, his wife, Vena, was diagnosed with cancer and valiantly suffered for a while before her passing.  A couple of times I went to their house to offer personal encouragement and support.

            Following Vena’s death, I got together with Vic every few months for lunch and to catch up.  More than once I introduced Vic to people I knew, and when I explained our connection he always said something to the effect of, “I fired Greg’s predecessor.”

             At one of our lunches, Vic, a longtime smoker, broke the news that he had lung cancer.  I shouldn’t have been surprised, given his history of smoking and his age, but it still was stunning to hear.  He picked up on my distress, and assured me he was handling it well, that he had lived a long life filled with many blessings, accomplishments and happiness.  “I have no regrets.”  Typical Vic:  direct, analytical, strong, and realistic.  He wanted no sympathy, and while I was concerned, I gave him space.

              I checked up on him by telephone and heard about treatments or hospitalizations.  Finally, one day I called, and when his adult daughter answered the telephone, I asked to speak with Vic.  “Who is this?”  I told her and reminded her of my relationship to him.  There was a pause, and I instantly knew:  “Dad passed away yesterday.” 

Vic’s memorial service was held a month or so later at the Friends meeting house he attended, a large gathering of people expressing many tributes and giving support to his four children and their families.  It was difficult to imagine he was gone.  

Vic surely was someone I always will remember with great fondness and gratitude.

Just When You Think You've Heard It All

Forty years ago, just after I was ordained to Christian ministry, I stopped by my seminary one last time.  By coincidence I encountered a theology professor who happened to be my faculty advisor.

“Well,” I said in my facetious way, “I’ve been ordained, and now I’m ready to head out and convert the heathen!”

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Or be converted.”

Yikes!

True enough, over the years there was pressure at times to acknowledge and affirm ideas and convictions that were less than honorable or relevant to the faith.

There also were numerous incidents when people said things to me that I found to be utterly ridiculous.  For instance, one man, an elder (elected by the others as a “spiritual leader”) in one of my congregations remarked in an adult study group, “God invented war so man could resolve his conflicts.”

Someone else in that same church explained to me that she “and the Man Upstairs have an understanding.  Things will be alright between us as long as I have a roof over my head and two meals a day.”  How very understanding of her to require only two meals instead of three. I wondered what she would do to God if that contract was breached – stop attending worship??

Twice over the years there were offers, once by a man walking in off the street and once by a church member, to let the church sell their poems, either on wooden plaques or in brochures, as a way to raise money for the budget.  The stranger, who obviously expected a cut of the profits, said, “Who knows?  Maybe God wants me to be rich.”

At times folks made prayer requests that were so detailed and specific, covering multiple eventualities, that I hoped God was standing by to jot down the assigned “to-do” list.

One time, after a Christmas Eve worship service a man said to me, “You didn’t mention the mid-wife.”  The only response I could come up with was, “Huh?”

“You didn’t say anything about the mid-wife who assisted in the birth of Jesus.”

“Mid-wife? What mid-wife?  There isn’t anything in the Bible about a mid-wife when Jesus was born.”

As the man looked at me his wife tugged his arm and spoke up, “Dear, you’re thinking of that show we watched on TV.”  I wasn’t sure he was convinced it was a dramatization rather than Biblical.

I heard a lot during my career, some of it sincere wrestling with the faith, some of it just plain absurd.

There was a particular case when I really was caught off-guard. 

One Saturday the elders group of the church in Washington gathered for their regular meeting.  After it was adjourned, and I was having all the little post-meeting conversations with various people, one man lingered.

When all the others were gone, he seemed almost troubled.  I stood and looked at him trying to discern his level of concern.   He moved a little closer to me, and in low tones said, “I’m going to tell you something very few people know about me, including everyone who was here today.”

I braced myself for a gut-wrenching confession.

This man, probably in his late 50’s, whom I perceived to be a serious person of sincere Christian faith, and who was always dignified in his appearance and demeanor, took another step closer to me as I feared the worst.

In a quiet voice that sounded somewhere between conspiritorial and almost ashamed, this elder in the flagship church of our denomination said to me, “I’m a clown.”

As he looked deeply into my eyes for my reaction, I said, “A…clown?”

He told me his clown name and went on to explain that he took on the clown personna to visit children in hospitals, did face-painting at festivals and special events, and even wrote a regular column in a face-painting magazine.

As I released the tension over expecting to hear some terrible, dark truth about him, he asked me to promise not to reveal his secret.

I’m not sure why he felt the need to hide his alter ego, or to tell me about it, but I honored his request.  One day, though, we had a neighborhood gathering in the church parking lot, and there he was, all clowned up, painting the faces of giggling children.  I wondered if any of the other church folks in attendance realized it was him.  I certainly didn’t tell. 

Keep The Faith -- Remembering John Lewis

I wrote the following brief essay a few months back. The world is a lesser place following the passing of John Lewis. Although he was diminutive in stature, he was a giant of a man.

“Keep the Faith” 

Civil Rights was a popular subject requested by visiting groups during the years I headed up William Penn House, a Quaker-related seminar center on Capitol Hill. A visit to the office of Rep. John Lewis, among other appointments, sometimes was on the agenda.

His courage was unquestioned during those very tense days of the Civil Rights Movement. He was the leader of SNCC, the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee; he is the last person still living who spoke at the 1963 March on Washington, made famous by Martin Luther King’s “I Have A Dream” speech; he played a huge role in the Freedom Rides; and, he was front and center during the 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery that became known as “Bloody Sunday.”

Lewis suffered incredible, life-threatening violence that day and others, was arrested more than 40 times, and is a true American hero. Probably no one imagined that this “dangerous person” one day would become one of the most-respected members of the House of Representatives, referred to by some as the “conscience of Congress.”

I frequently saw Congressman Lewis around Capitol Hill, our paths intersecting as we went about performing our respective duties. The first time was outside the Cannon House Office Building as we waited to cross the street from opposite directions. Before the traffic light changed I spotted him across the way, in a cluster of other pedestrians. We made eye contact during our turn in the crosswalk, and he greeted me as we passed one another.

A memorable visit to his office occurred when a dozen or so high-schoolers from across the U.S., attending the annual WPH-sponsored Quaker Youth Seminar, were treated to Lewis’ personal recollections from Bloody Sunday. He displayed enlarged photos showing the Alabama state troopers on horses running through the peaceful marchers. One picture showed Lewis himself being beaten senseless by a law enforcement officer. Lewis, of course, carried no weapon and made no threats against the officer. He was leading a march.

Congressman Lewis betrayed no bitterness or anger at the memory. Granted, it was nearly thirty years after the attack occurred, but he and others I met who experienced so much hatred directed against them during those nightmarish years didn’t have time for negativity. Their purpose was not to divide, but to unite, and unity doesn’t happen through anger, hatred or bitterness.

At some point I read John Lewis’ memoir, Walking With the Wind. His story truly was inspirational. Surely, it seemed, his sense of faith and the related connectedness to others who shared that faith fed and sustained him through the many challenges, difficulties, dangers and violent times he knew. It’s a message for the ages and applicable to anyone who hears it, even though most never face the severity of trouble and danger with which he contended.

A few years after leaving WPH, I decided to seek his personal inscription on my copy of his book. So, one day there I was, bounding up the Metro escalator on my way to Lewis’s office, having dropped off the book a couple of weeks earlier. The receptionist went through the door behind her and retrieved my book.

As I stood there and turned to the title page to read what John Lewis wrote, the door opened again and Lewis himself emerged. I waved the book as I said, “Thanks for signing it.” He came to me and shook my hand. Unlike so many politicians I have met and observed, Congressman Lewis looked directly into my eyes as he said a word of greeting, and once again I was in awe of this small man who continues to contribute in large ways to the greater good of our society and the world.

After that, I always kept John Lewis’s book on my desk at work, and sometimes when I felt discouraged or frustrated by the church, or when I questioned my calling and my commitment to it, I picked it up and read again what he wrote on the title page. Above his signature, along with his “Best Wishes,” John Lewis wrote, “Keep the faith.”

Fear and Loathing in the Land of the Free

It's absolutely ironic that the Current Occupant would threaten to call out the military to stop protesters from exercising their Constitutional rights. Members of the armed forces should be appalled. After all, they accept applause and "thanks for your service" because of the notion they defend our freedom from those who would threaten that freedom.

The Current Occupant didn't get it when NFL players "took a knee," and he doesn't get it now that people are fed up with police brutality and the other injustices of our society. Criticizing and threatening to punish those who object to being excluded from the freedoms we supposedly hold dear in our country is racism in its most transparent and blatant form.

His order to tear-gas peaceful protesters in the Nation's Capital so the streets would clear long enough for him and his lackeys to walk across Pennsylvania Avenue to stand in front of a church he doesn't attend, holding a Bible, and presenting himself with a photo op, reveals the depravity of his soul, his complete lack of compassion, and displays the dishonor he continually brings to our nation.

How's Your Hearing?

During a break in the conference I overheard some clergy colleagues talking and one said, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him."  He was, of course, quoting from the Gospel of John, chapter 20, verse 13, which is part of John's story of the resurrection of Jesus.

The conference took place at Bethany College in West Virginia, and my esteemed colleague was reacting to the lectures presented there by John Dominic Crossan.  Crossan and others spent a lot of time and worked very hard at trying to uncover as much authenticity as possible regarding Jesus, what he actually said (as opposed to everything attributed to him in the New Testament), what he actually did, and the true focus and meaning of his work, mission, and ministry.

Now, wouldn't one think all of that has merit?  Would it not be important to folks who say they want to follow Jesus?

Not so fast.

How many translations and paraphrases exist of the Bible itself?  I couldn't begin to count.  All I know is when I have heard some church people defend the King James Version a few actually have said of the archaic language, English, of course, "If Jesus spoke it, that's good enough for me."

Once, a fellow at a church I was attending at the time (not as its pastor) approached me with this idea:  "Let's get together and write a new version of the Bible."  As I recall, he knew nothing of the original languages in which the Bible was written.  He just wanted something that was "easier to read."  That may be the second most inane thing said to me in a church.  (The winner of that contest was a member of my congregation who stated in an adult Sunday morning class, "God invented war so man (!) could settle his differences."  I actually was struck dumb by that one -- although not so much as the originator of the statement, it seemed to me.)

Crossan, Marcus Borg, Reza Aslan, and others are worth reading if one is not afraid to step outside of conventional "wisdom" and orthodoxy, and is interested in some thought-provoking discussion of how Jesus, his message, and actions fit into the historical/cultural context of his time, and how they might be germane to people of faith today.

(Just do it.)

This issue was aroused within me today as I learned from watching worship live-streamed on YouTube that this, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, is called something like "Jesus the Good Shepherd Sunday."  I'm a little rusty on my Liturgical Holy Days, so this was news to me.

In any case, the Gospel text for the day comes from chapter 10 of John, the first ten verses.  Within these verses are a few references to sheep knowing the voice of the shepherd.  Of course, the lesson hopped onto by preachers the world over is that Jesus is the shepherd of Christians.  We know his voice, and we do well to listen to it.

Methinks some of us are hearing voices, I'm just not so sure Jesus is the speaker.

When I worked on Capitol Hill I sometimes saw a woman holding forth in front of the east side of the U.S Capitol, at the base of the steps leading into the rotunda.  Standing beside her on the first or second step was a mannequin made up to look like Jesus as a shepherd holding a baby lamb.  Next to Jesus was a boom box blaring out Gospel music.  I believe the lady had pamphlets to hand out, but I always managed to side-step her as I went about my business.

Across the street, circling the Supreme Court building there usually was a guy carrying a sign with an anti-abortion message.  He wasn't just there on the day in January when the Roe v. Wade anniversary draws fanatics from both sides of the issue to engage in their annual screaming match proving the ignorance and evil intents of the others.  He was there practically every day.

Recently, pastors in various places defied stay-at-home orders and encouraged their "flocks" to show up in person for church services, disregarding social distancing protocols.  Some declared God to be stronger than Covid-19.  Some called the pandemic a hoax.  Some died from exposure to the virus.

Were any or all of these people listening to Jesus's voice?

On those same Capitol steps during Reagan's Iran-Contra fiasco, faith leaders and adherents gathered weekly to protest official policy.  It was all very peaceful - and legal - until one week the executive ministers of three or four denominations proceeded into the Capitol rotunda and began reciting the Lord's Prayer.  This, in the eyes of the beefy guys with the badges and the revolvers on their hips, constituted holding a worship service in the public spaces of the Capitol.  That, my friends, is agin' the Law.

After several warnings to cease and desist, the Lord's Prayer reached its climax, and the perps were hauled off to the slammer.  Among them was The Rev. Dr. John O. Humbert, General Minister and President of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), my denomination at the time. (I subsequently sent him a letter, having observed first-hand his criminal behavior, and thanked him for his witness for peace.  His response was grateful, but indicated that perhaps others within our church family were not amused.)

Were those of us who gathered on the steps, and those who ventured into the rotunda for a quick prayer, hearing the voice of Jesus?

As I have noted previously, when unprogrammed Friends, the Quakers, gather for worship it is a silent meeting.  Friends come together at the appointed hour, sit facing one another, usually on benches, and settle into silence. The idea is that they, as individuals and as a group, await the Spirit, open to receiving insight and wisdom from beyond themselves. It is permissible for worshipers to speak if they feel moved by the Spirit to share a message they sense they have received.  (From personal experience, I can report that not all the "messages" seem to have originated with the Spirit, but then, who am I to say?)

On it goes.  People express their faith in varieties of ways, and outside observers wonder how there can be such difference in emphasis, tone, and content, one from another.

Is the voice of Jesus heard by any or all of those who say they follow him?

Well, we're only human, and that would explain, it seems to me, why so much of Christian expression is self-centered, narrow, hateful, and just plain ignorant.

My sense is that if one truly listened to Jesus there would be much more concern for the other:  the poor, the immigrant, the racial/ethnic minority, the oppressed, and...(gulp)...the enemy.

The question arises, perhaps:  "Why would Jesus tell his followers to have such concern and to act upon that concern?"

Maybe Jesus was less interested in people "going to heaven (or hell)" and more interested in the unity of humanity under a loving Creator whose dream is abundant life for all.

One actually might be able to discern that from reading the Bible, even without the assistance of Dom Crossan, Marcus Borg, Reza Aslan, and the others trying to help us.