Choices in the Garden

Green light, red light

There is something about an apple.  More than most other fruits, it has significance beyond its simple self.  

Witness the famous computer company, whose logo identifies the fruit but emphasizes the bite that has been taken.  Ah, the forbidden fruit – right here in your hands.  All the time, demanding your attention.  Directing your day.  Tracking your location.  Listening to your conversation.  Predicting your decisions.  Selling your attention.   Well, maybe there was more truth than intended in their advertising back in the day when they chose that logo.  

Unlike many other fruits, apples are durable.  They do not bruise as easily nor rot as readily, they travel well, and can be kept for longer periods of times and under less controlled circumstances.  Like potatoes and root vegetables, they can be stored in the cellar to provide sustenance through the winter.  

Annually it is part of my autumn routine to visit orchards and buy large quantities of apples.   Right about now, I should be heading west to get a half bushel of eating apples and a half bushel of pie apples from among the earlier varieties to be harvested.  Then, after Veteran’s Day, I drive a bit further and buy a full bushel of my favorite eating apples, plus some more pie apples, that are among the latest varieties to be harvested.  Last year this bushel lasted into March, despite how much Fr. Swink enjoys devouring one on frequent occasion.  

But this year I am not sure what I will do, because there is no apple harvest. None. It was destroyed in late April by a hard frost.  All along the eastern edge of the Appalachian range, some of the finest apple orchards in the country are coming up empty.  

As some people welcome the end of summer and the cooler temperatures of autumn that arrived this week as if commanded by the calendar, it is easy to forget what a long, cold winter and late, cold spring we had this year.  I feared at the time that the stone fruits would suffer, as they often and easily do, and sure enough, peaches plums and cherries were obliterated while we waited in vain for the weather to warm.  But that is more common, unfortunately, as stone fruit trees blossom early and are vulnerable.  

But apples!  MY apples!  What has happened here?  I have already resorted to buying apples from the grocery store, shipped in from God knows where.  I guess they are fine – see the durability of apples, referenced above – but they are not local and they are brutally expensive, especially compared to the price per bushel at the orchard.  What sadness.

Still I connive to find a better option, some other supplier of apple varietals in the bulk and at the price I prefer.  Whether such connivance bear fruit, I do not know.   But the sad fact is that this entire catastrophe was thrust upon us months ago while we were paying attention to other things, pursuing other goals, and yearning for other rewards.  Only now is inflicted the privation that was prepared then.  Cherries were missing in June and peaches in August, but the sting of apples’ absence hits in October and November.  

There is nothing that we can do to change it.   Some friend of mine with whom I shared my lament suggested that there must be something that can be done in the orchard during the freeze to protect the apples, like they do in Florida with the orange crop, spraying them with water that encases the fruit in protective ice.  But we cannot go back to late April and change things, nor does such a method exist anyway.  The organic reality is irreversible and irretrievable.

Like the bite out of that fruit on the logo in everyone’s pocket, there is no going back, no un-doing what long since has been done.  The genie stands surly outside the bottle, preparing new destruction.  Only after time has passed are consequences revealed, most shockingly when the decisions and the actions were our own.  Regrettable results make us rue the day, crying for a do-over that remains out of reach.  

There is something about an apple.  More than most other fruits, it has significance beyond its simple self.  Before and after the bite, it reminds us of sin. 

Monsignor Smith

Deflect artifice

It was the lead story on the paper’s web page today, again.  A ranking bishop in the conference formulated policy imperatives regarding it, again.  And our Archbishop finally told us last week who the keynote speaker at our fall priest’s convocation this November would be: the United States priest expert in it.  

Try as I might, I simply cannot get excited about it.  It was the subject of our new Holy Father’s first encyclical letter.  I confess I made one good try at reading that and did not get very far.   In all the infotainment outlets, the new buzz about it involves words like annihilation – of the human race, that is.  As the meme goes, that escalated quickly.

I would not presume to speak for anybody other than myself, but I think about it as technology, and not even as “a” technology, but rather as a technological development, possibly even an incremental one: the next step along the developmental path.  Yes, even incremental developments have personal and social impact.   

Think of the step from the ability to produce practical, reliable flying machines to safe, regular, accessible passenger air travel.  Sure it makes a difference.  It has made a difference in my life and our world.  Some of its impact has been negative even if we except episodes like 9/11.  Most of its impact has been positive. As a technological project, it is still a work in progress.  Will it expand to space?  Will it be abandoned to reduce use of petroleum products?  Will become ever more affordable, or prohibitively expensive?  Will it ever be perfectly safe?  Will it ever be comfortable?

Our technology for processing data and simulating material reality is growing by leaps and bounds.  The human capacity for artifice and susceptibility to it seem to progress hand in hand.  We suspend disbelief to be entertained, whether by our own elementary school children presenting themselves as George and Martha Washington or Tom Holland swinging through urban canyons on webs that shoot from his cuffs.  Ha ha that was fun.  The entertainment ended, disbelief is once again taken up and is perhaps our best tool.  Virtual reality disappears when the goggles come off and your real work remains still undone.  And artificial intelligence is not and never will be.  Intelligence, that is.  

The best disposition to maintain in the face of the self-aggrandizing and self-exaggerating computation and simulation of information technology now claiming for itself the name of intelligence is, I think, to nurture authentic intelligence.  Read a book, write a letter, paint a picture, and memorize a poem – then compose one yourself.  Sing a lullaby – or the post-Communion hymn in church!  Teach a child to bake cookies or mow the lawn.  Grow a garden, every year.  Play a game or compete in a sport.  Build a bed or a shed.  Get better at something you are already good at.  Be a mom, or a dad, or a friend.  Pay attention to the person in front of you and try to figure out what he will do next.  There is technology in all of that, and real intelligence as well.  

There was a panic a few centuries back about the invention and proliferation of the crossbow.  Yes, it did have an impact and some of that was negative, but then there was Agincourt.  Human genius will always outperform mere technology.  

The more intelligence you nurture in your life, the less susceptible you will be to the siren song of the artificial kind, and the more able you will be to use it and prudently.  Prudence; ah, now there is something we priests could stand to build a convocation around.

Monsignor Smith

 

Safe not sound

Speaking of things that you don’t see coming, one of the worst is when something that you use every day without any problem suddenly functions not at all.  No symptoms of a coming breakdown, no catastrophic impact causing damage, just – bam.  A door daily walked through become a steel wall.

Precisely that is what happened Tuesday when the safe in our sacristy ceased to function.   More accurately, I suppose it was the lock that ceased to function, or rather, ceased to do anything BUT lock.  The dial spins, the combination can be entered, but the tumblers do not tumble into place and the gentle click of the latch opening is never achieved.  

This all happened Tuesday as we were preparing for the afternoon Mass.   Unexpectedly we were cut off from many of the things that we use for Mass: chalice and ciborium, server’s paten and, startlingly, the key to the tabernacle.   Fortunately we could retrieve substitutes of the first three items from the chapel sacristy, and Mass proceeded without incident.  But it was imperative to be careful about the host count because without access to the tabernacle, there is no way to retrieve additional hosts if needed for waiting communicants, nor to repose superfluous hosts after distributing.  Massgoers were a bit unsettled by my obvious “head count” at offertory.

In my experience here, there has never been a problem with the safe.  That reaches back fully twenty years, and possibly twenty-eight.  Only one half of the sticker remained from the locksmith who had last worked on the safe.  Fortunately, we were able to identify him from only the first word of his company name.  The locksmith who returned our call quickly clarified that his dad would have been the last one to visit us, as he had taken over the work ‘only’ twenty-three years ago.

Even as I write, he is in our sacristy tapping and rapping at the unyielding steel door.  Our walk-in safe is the envy of most priests who see it, with room inside for everything from chalices and ciboria to relics, big ol’ monstrances, the spare tabernacle, and cases of altar wine.  Keeping them locked away is vital for different reasons for different items, as some of them are ancient and irreplaceable, simply precious because of their materials, or in all cases except the wine, sacred.  These objects have been consecrated to the worship of God and have held Him Whom we adore.  

Practically speaking, it is a reminder of how thing-centric is our worship, as our God condescends to dwell among us.  From the first moment he needed swaddling clothes and a manger, then eventually dinner and a diaper, the Word become Flesh does not disdain our material encumbrance.  Since the Three Magi arrived and proffered their gifts, the things that point to His identity and are put to His purposes have been costly in their own right.  We give him our best, ideally, so we must take care of things to take care of Him.  For some of these things, we need a safe.

Unfortunately, they are a little TOO safe just now, equally unreachable for purposes divine or dastardly.  Still the reminder is welcome of how vital is the operation of a valiant and venerable (78-year-old!) piece of equipment, and how routinely we become accustomed to flawless function, until one day it doesn’t.

Monsignor Smith

Clear and blue

Out of the clear blue sky.  It’s an expression that means without warning or preliminary indication, something happens that there is no way to anticipate or expect.   

It was a beautiful morning just past eight o’clock when I arrived at my post in the Archbishop’s office.  The volunteer drew my attention to a strange report from New York City and we looked to the television.  There was the shining city with its two towers, one of them inexplicably billowing black smoke from a gaping hole in its side.  Then while I watched a passenger jetliner crossed the screen and punctured the other tower.  Debris flew and more smoke rose against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. 

I crossed the hall to alert the Archbishop, a New Yorker by birth and constitution.  His attention fixed on the events now filling every screen, he was pained and paralyzed for the only time in our long acquaintance.   After the first tower fell, I suggested he take the noon Mass at the Basilica of the National Shrine, one of the very few of my suggestions he ever adopted.  

I do not remember when we learned of the attack on the Pentagon, or the plane downed in Pennsylvania.  By the time we all went together to the Basilica we knew that a single horrible attack had landed four devastating blows, and there was no reason to think there might not be more.  

You know how I am about anniversaries, so you will not be surprised that I have had my eye on the approach of this one.  Last week I had a long conversation with the priest friend who was with me and the Archbishop throughout that day, recalling as well our trip together two weeks before to that same city for a baptism and a wedding in the Archbishop’s family.  He introduced us to people and places important in his life, including some that would not survive the attack.   This week I had dinner with former parishioners, still friends, one of whom had been in the Pentagon when the plane hit.  Talking about what we recall of that day and what we did, our understanding at the time and what we know now, how we felt then and what feelings we nurture still, helped prepare me to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary fully and well. 

Two subjective experiences remain clear from that day of objective horrors.   The first is that as the Archbishop read us the homily he had prepared, every fiber of my being wanted to object, but I had already spent my single shot of usefulness in giving advice.  One word still sticks in my craw even these years later: he called what had happened a tragedy.  That is misleading, even wrong.  It was an attack.  It was a crime. It was in every sense literal and actual an atrocity.  Its consequences would indeed be tragic, and they are still playing out today.  It was however no tragedy, but rather a freely chosen evil act.

The other experience I recall with full clarity is that while we went about the rest of that upended day, I made calls to let family know I was okay, and to check on the parish and some friends.  While the Archbishop donated blood at Providence Hospital, I waited pacing outside the doors in front of television crews desperate for something to transmit.  I realized with clarity that somewhere else far away, in many places in fact, there was rejoicing at the same scenes that brought us horror.  Even before I saw the video confirmation, I mentally pictured the dancing in the streets that in fact was juxtaposed with our cities’ boulevards and ballparks, schoolyards and streets filled with demonstrations of grief.  

These are only a few of the concrete recollections that accompany me whenever something calls to my mind the murderous terror attacks of September 11, 2001.  As the quarter-century marker arrives, I bring all this to mind to discover what good God and man have brought from that day of evil, and what other changes for good or ill I can identify.

The cheerful optimism that dominated our vision and expectations of human behavior twenty-five years ago has been schooled by evidence and events sufficient to make us wary of certain types of promises and appreciative of genuine differences among people and cultures.  More has changed than simply airport protocols.  We share not only the skies but also our cities and our streets with people whose categories for good and evil, human and inhuman are not only different from but opposed to ours.  Whatever actions and events erupt from the friction that follows may well shock and dismay us, but it will not come from Out of the clear blue sky.  

Monsignor Smith

Did we know what we had

Appalachian beauty

Way back on Independence Day, in my homily I emphasized two aspects of our republic that were manifestations of the truth revealed in Christian doctrine; one of them was the immeasurable value and impact of a single human life.  The lofty example that day was none other than George Washington, the sine qua non of the American experiment, the unique and indispensable man. 

That life is a historical reality I have long contemplated and admired, studied and discussed.  Washington’s broad shoulders bear such scrutiny and his profile fits well into that frame.  Suddenly this week I was caught off guard by a very different profile whose very familiarity disguised its significance, but nonetheless another demonstration of the marvel of incarnation.

After a few days of searching, I cannot find memory of a day or time when I did not know who Dolly Parton was.  Her public life coincided almost exactly with my entire life up to this week when her death startled me and many with me.  I am not quite sure how she crept into my consciousness; maybe radio playlists ranged more broadly in those days. 

We weren’t country music people, my family or my friends, but we were in the footprint, and Hee Haw was near-weekly viewing.  As a kid I knew Porter Wagoner, whose program first brought her national attention, but whose trajectory tended quickly downward as her star broke away and took off.  Variety shows were a television staple then, as well, and the variety of entertainers featured was broad.  Everything distinctive about her fixed her image in the minds of even people who didn’t pay much attention to her genre of music, often as a humorous character.  Even among schoolkids, she was famous, she was funny, she livened up the punchline for any joke.   Then she started doing movies, where she wasn’t only funny – she was good.  

Only much more recently, having known so long who she was, did I find out what she was.  A life-long faithful wife (sixty years) of a reticent man.  An entrepreneur of near boundless energy and skill, turning Dollywood from a regional joke into a destination and example.  Not only a conduit but an engine of development and enrichment for the people of her impoverished mountain home.  She didn’t just make them proud, as was her stated goal; she made their lives better, too.  And she did things for people; not only her people, but more people than we can identify or count.  In everything, in the least likely place imaginable, a life of celebrity, she was a person of extraordinary generosity and grace.

Maybe fifteen years ago I heard Jolene playing and was startled by what an awesome song it was, and how deeply printed it was on my memory from four decades previously.  Not merely a singer, but also an authentic and relentlessly productive songwriter, throughout her long career she gave us so much that was not merely admirable and enjoyable as music and entertainment, but also experiences that were recognizable and true.  All of them drew us in to what they expressed without one nasty, vengeful, threatening, or even harsh word or sentiment.  More extraordinary generosity and grace; this comes into focus only after the fact.  

Obituaries mention her impoverished childhood, her large family and their Pentecostal church providing the foundation for her musical development.   Not in anything I heard her say was she ever explicitly evangelical, and yet.  Her disposition and her every action were clearly rooted in a familiarity with Christ,  and a knowledge of His life, and from that an understanding of her own.  There along with the rhinestones and big hair and slightly bawdy humor in which she mainly made fun of herself, she revealed a deep and developed conviction of what her life was for, and how precious to her was likewise your life, mine, and ours.  

This reality, recognized or not, is the root of the sentiment now sweeping the nation: thank God for Dolly Parton.  Her life and its impact are yet another example of universal and incarnate truth, as it is to be found only in America.

Monsignor Smith

All the light you can see without

Awesome shot of last week's solar eclipse
from Mallorca, Spain, by my brother-in-law Urs Schoop.  
Used without permission.

Just because the lights are off does not mean it is dark. 

We have just traversed the stretch of weeks on either side of the solstice that offers the most marvelous skies and morning light already at half past five when I walk over to the church for early Mass.  Inside still it is dimmer, but the illumination is underway and the stained-glass glows, the colors of the windows entering the dance with the colors of the sky as the gentle and golden light fills the contours and corners of the holy place from every direction and none over the next spectacular half-hour.

The routine of the others who come to the church first thing is to find and flick the switch that ignites a bulb or three, the blaze of which paradoxically casts the church back into harsh shadows and darkness.  I groan.

Just as some people swear they cannot hear unless the voice be amplified through a loudspeaker, there will always be people who are convinced it is dark unless the electric lights, and all of them, are switched on.  In so doing, they often demand their own disadvantage.

When I was a Boy Scout, we once had a night-hiking exercise in which we found our way along unfamiliar paths by designated markers as we went.  It did not take long for my group to discover that our flashlights were not helpful; instead, they blinded us to everything except what was in the bright small disc of their beams.  Practicing ‘light discipline’ and keeping all the lights in the group switched off allowed us to see revealed the sky itself with moon and stars, and the gentle illumination they provided to the piney woods through which we picked our way.  Once eyes grew accustomed to the light present in the darkness, there were both greater awareness and fewer surprises as we made our way toward the goal.    

As it has long seemed obvious to me that with less amplification, there is more that I can hear, so it is that up to a certain point with less artificial light there is far more to see.  How could light-discipline be applied fruitfully to our days to enhance our sight in other ways as well, to help us see what would otherwise go unnoticed, and perceive what under normal circumstances is invisible?  If stilling the noise around us is the first step to hearing the voice of God, what artificial light sources must we switch off to see what He is showing us?    

The adage about lighting a single candle still applies when there is complete darkness.  Just this week as the approaching equinox began to exert its restrictions on our daylight, holding back the sun more and more each morning, I have reluctantly resorted to switching on the bare minimum of lights myself when I open the church, for the sky stays mute and unyielding in its inked solidity.  I regret this violence, but the church would otherwise be too dark, and while that is something I can othertimes enjoy, it is impractical for the folks with work to be done and prayers to be said before the morning sacrifice is offered.  Only just before go-time at 6:30, through the sacristy windows that give out to the field, the rising sun sets fire to the treeline along Saint Lawrence, no small spectacle itself.   That, too, comes noticeably later each morning.  The slope of day’s decline grows steeper as the season’s change comes nearer.  

As summer dwindles and its sweetness yields to autumn and its decay, night claims more and more from our days.  Remember, though, before you reach for the switch earlier and earlier each evening: just because the lights are off does not mean it is dark. 

Monsignor Smith

So much foam

 

Can you imagine what she would say?

They didn’t talk like that back then.

It is one of the aspects of any production that can turn me away most quickly: anachronistic dialogue.  That is, one of the characters says something that a person would not have said at the time and place being depicted.  Whether a movie or other video production, stage play, or book, if one of the characters speaks in a way that is not consistent with the setting of the drama, for me, the whole thing collapses.

Ironically, it is our own time that stands out in the arc of history as the anomaly.  There are many things that characterize speech both public and private in our time that would never have occurred at any other time in recorded history. 

Neither during the Civil War nor the Revolution, nor in medieval times nor in Roman times, would anybody have spoken about his own feelings at all, much less as much as our modern depictions would lead one to believe. The constant gushing about affections and disaffections, hopes and dreads, and disappointments real and imagined, not to mention the endless romantic soliloquys that pass for plot drivers and denouements, simply would never have been uttered in any but our own self-obsessed time.  They say such things make for good cinema, but even that I question heartily.

Almost every other society that has managed to survive for any time on the face of the earth has valued some degree of form and formality in its discourse.   We have projected our insistence on constant and unrelenting casual familiarity onto situations and civilizations that would have found such a thing repellant.

And when, I have to ask, did everybody become such a potty-mouth?   Soldiers in the trenches didn’t use language so vile as one customarily hears from four twenty-somethings sitting together at a baseball game.  To project such shameful behavior onto other people in other times only amplifies the manifest disrespect.

Almost thirty years ago, well into the era of films that depicted everyone at all times as if they were simply twentieth-century southern Californians in different period costumes, there was a movie that was different.  I saw it because it was about the Civil War era, not because it had Spider-man (Tobey Maguire) in it.  Ride with the Devil depicted life during that time of conflict and irreconcilable differences that were political as well as personal, but in western Missouri far from the battle fronts and capitols.  It was shocking that all the characters, even the ones depicted as young adults, spoke like denizens of the nineteenth century, which made their actions more intelligible because they clearly thought like denizens of the nineteenth century.  It was shocking and refreshing all at once.

Speech not only reflects and transmits thought, but also makes thought possible.  We consider our age enlightened and point to astonishing technology as proof, but the speech one hears most often suggests that our concepts and considerations and our ability to apply them have deteriorated, because our language certainly has.  

Dialogue that is post-modern in form and content renders all the characters engaged in it as puerile, selfish, and ignorant.  This may be intended as a judgment on our forebears’ shortcomings, but in effect it delivers a devastating assessment of our own.  They didn’t talk like we do back then.

Monsignor Smith