You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October 2006.
(Disclaimer: the last time I wrote something like this, asking why we couldn’t be as passionate as people in the middle east, people left comments expressing concern that I really was going out with the Lion’s Club and burning cars. In this one, I wonder what the U.S. would be like if Christians were divided into two virulently opposed camps over who was the legitimate successor to Jesus. I mean, if Muslims can still be exercised about a 1500 year old succession problem, why can’t we? This is satire. Really. It is.)
Washington, D.C., Oct. 23 – Government officials today expressed dismay at the prospects for bringing peace to the nation’s warring Christian factions. Always volatile, levels of violence have soared in recent weeks, as every day brings the discovery of dozens, or even hundreds, of decapitated and mutilated bodies scattered about the sectarian neighborhoods around the country. Frustrated security planners are now pinning their hopes in trying to secure the District of Columbia, arguing that they may then work outwards and bring peace to the remainder of the country.
The root of the problem lies in the age old Christian dispute over who was the proper successor to Jesus. Roman Catholics, known as Peterites, insist that the Apostle Peter was the legitimate successor. Opposing them are equally violent Episcopalians, combined with some Methodists and Unitarians, who insist that the legitimate successor was Jesus’ son-in-law, Sonny. The latter group are known as Sonnis. In the 2000 years since Jesus, the two groups have clashed repeatedly. In recent months, for a variety of reasons, the number of kidnappings and killings has soared.
For many years, the warring factions were relatively quiet, as the government kept in place stringent security measures, under which malefactors were severely punished. As the Christian Holy Season of Christmas approaches, however, restrictions have become less effective, and the government has largely lost control of the situation. The Peterites, primarily through the militia known as the Knights of Columbus, struck first. In a coordinated attack, gangs of intoxicated middle aged men poured out of Catholic neighborhoods. Setting up checkpoints at downtown intersections, they pulled hapless civilians from cars, beating and killing many. In response, Sonni militia forces blew up St. Patrick’s Cathedral during Sunday mass, and initiated widespread campaigns of kidnapping and terror. Since the initial attacks, the cycle of violence has spiraled out of control.
Ordinary citizens can only live in fear. One young Sonni woman, speaking anonymously, said that since she lives close to a Peterite neighborhood she has started to wear a Catholic school uniform whenever she goes out. Such camouflage, she says, is the only way to assure her safety. Other Sonnis in similar circumstances have started to put “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” bumper stickers on their cars. Conversely, Peterites who live in or near Sonni districts make modifications in dress or appearance in order to appear less conspicuous. Some go so far as to carry books by Dan Brown in an effort to blend in, and avoid unwanted attention from militia members.
After months of asserting that the situation was well in hand, the government has now conceded that it has lost control of substantial parts of the country. The new strategy, announced today by military leaders, is to try to pacify the nation’s capital. Planners hope that if the District of Columbia can be brought to heel, other towns and cities across the country will fall into place. They admit, however, that the task will be extremely difficult. General Abdul el-Akbar, chairman of the joint chiefs, acknowledged as much.
“This violence between Christians over who was the legitimate successor to Jesus,” he said at a press conference, “is deeply engrained. They have always been divided in this way. Still, we think Christianity really is a religion of peace, so we hope. Always, we hope.”
I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to prepare for an unusually stormy term of court, which will open on Monday. In my rural area, we have a term of civil court every four to six weeks. I will ordinarily have somewhere between six and ten cases on any given calendar. That is enough to keep me busy, and still have the judge happy to see me leave when I finish.
Next week, though, is different: twenty two cases on the calendar for a four day term. This astonishing and unprecedented number is the result of a confluence of events: some past continuances, a flood of new cases that are all maturing at about the same time, and an unusually high number of emergency orders signed over the last month or two, all of which are coming in for return hearing. As might be expected, there is no possible way for all twenty two cases to be heard but, on the other hand, there is no way of knowing which ones the judge will call for trial. The only alternative is to prepare for every case, knowing full well that by the end of the week I likely will have disposed of no more than five or six. Bummer. At least I know of two that will be tried: returns on emergency orders. One I obtained over a highly dysfunctional visitation situation. The other is the only one I am looking forward to trying. I represent a young mom who, on the one occasion that she had ever had a gun in the house, hidden under clothes in her dresser, was shot by her three year old son who thought it was a toy. The dad, of course, took the boy, but refused any contact between her and the child, not even after she got out of intensive care a month later. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the child was led to believe that Mom was dead, killed at his own hand. Only since I got into the case several weeks ago has the child been allowed to talk to the mom over the phone, although even then dad limited it to once a week for ten minutes. In a case like that there is absolutely nothing to lose, and I look forward to that trial. By this time next week, I guarantee you that mother and son will be in each others arms.
So, in any event, since returning from Johnstown I have worked like I did twenty years ago, before I figured out life. I used to work sixty and seventy hours a week because I thought I had to – I am a lawyer, after all – but then realized that I was missing the best parts of life. Believe me, once I get past this term of court, I am returning to my moderately slothful ways.
Well, whine, whine, whine. The great thing about God’s providence is that time really does exist on earth. Difficult times come, but then, by golly, they go. As I get older, that has become an ever greater comfort to me. Otherwise, one may as well adopt the view of Lemony Snicket:
Perhaps if we saw what was ahead of us, and glimpsed the crimes, follies and misfortunes that would befall us later on, we would all stay in our mother’s wombs, and then there would be nobody in the world but a great number of very fat, very irritated women.
I don’t know if women find that funny, but I think it is hilarious.
As children, our perception of our environment is almost mythical. We live in castles, there is a monster in the back yard, our world is populated by larger than life figures. The reality, of course, is that the castle is but a modest dwelling, monsters are shadows and our parents are subject to the same weaknesses and anxieties that we ourselves fall prey to when we cycle into their roles.
I was thinking about that today when I saw a feature in the Atlanta paper about a renovated house in a neighborhood known as Kirkwood, an in-town community in Atlanta. It was not that the house is beautiful (it is) or that the owners are a lesbian couple. It was that until I was seven or eight years old, I lived in Kirkwood, and the circumstances of my family leaving it has always haunted me.
Here is what I remember about Kirkwood: It was a quiet neighborhood, with some very large homes and some very modest homes. Our own house, through the lens of memory, was huge, with ceilings that seemed to disappear into the sky. On one side of us lived an older couple who owned a bulldog, the dog being the big attraction for me. A couple of doors down was our Seventh Day Adventist church, although my parents soon fell away. They bravely decided to test the teaching of the church which proclaimed that God would strike you dead if you entered a movie theater. There was still a smidgen of doubt: when they went to test the theory at a showing of Snow White , they left us kids at home with a sitter. Two hours later they returned intact and without visible signs of lightening strike. From there, it was but a short trip to secretly tipping Irish whiskey into coffee, and it was not long before I found myself free to watch Mighty Mouse on Saturday mornings, as opposed to marching down the street. Regardless of where I happened to be on Saturday mornings, it was a very safe community. I remember my sister and I playing on the swings in the back yard on a Halloween afternoon, gazing up into an impossibly blue sky and wishing that dusk would come. It was the kind of community where every house welcomed young ghosts, and the streets were full of kids.
About a block away was Kirkwood Elementary. It was a huge edifice, but filled with light and air. After graduating from kindergarten cum laude, the next year I moved upstairs to first grade. There I, along with a classmate named Ray, distinguished ourselves by making dinosaurs of play-doh, which we then attacked with our pencils until the beast was dead. Having destroyed hundreds of dinosaurs in the first grade, I have never since felt the need to hunt a real animal. Where is the challenge in that?
I was at Kirkwood when President Kennedy was assasinated, but over the next year even I could tell that something was happening. A lot of people moved out of the neighborhood, and they were replaced by black families. I clearly remember a realtor showing up one evening, and my parents shutting the door on him, although they were somewhat agitated afterwards. As more time passed, more people left and there was occasional vandalism in the yard, and sometimes my mother would say that people were looking in the windows. One day, I was walked to school and escorted into the front door. On both sides of the walkway leading in were angry parents, protesting integration. To this day, I remember the looks on their faces.
My parents, fervent Kennedy democrats, resisted the seemingly inevitable tide, but even they finally succumbed. One day they painted the kitchen pink, because the realtor told them that black families liked pink kitchens, and it was not too much longer before we were living in an apartment on the north side of Atlanta. Once we left the home on Howard Street, there were no white families remaining. Within the space of two years or less, the neighborhood had completely changed.
As I grew older, I understood that part of what had happened was the tactic known as ‘blockbusting’, where realtors prey on fears of people and encourage panic selling. It is illegal now, but was widespread in the early ’60s, particularly in the south. I also understood vaguely that it was related to pressures on the City of Atlanta to desegregate its schools. But it wasn’t until today, my curiosity aroused by the story in the paper, that I conducted some research to determine what had really happened. In other words, outside of my child’s history, what was happening in my neighborhood?
There were a number of demographic pressures, but Kirkwood Elementary, home of the dinosaur hunters, occupied center stage. All of the kids at Kirkwood were white, and the facility was vastly underused. It had the capacity to handle another 750 children. In the general vicinity were two black elementary schools, both greatly overcrowded, so much so that classes were held in hallways and, in one case, in a nearby church. In the fall of 1964, black parents petitioned the Board of Education to be allowed to enroll their children at Kirkwood. At the time, there was vigorous activity in the courts regarding desegregation, and finally the Board of Education relented, but with a twist. The black kids could enroll at Kirkwood beginning in January, 1965, but before Christmas of 1964 the superintendent sent a letter to all of the parents of the white kids at Kirkwood. All of the parents were given the option of transferring their kids to other white schools, and even the teachers at Kirkwood were given the ability to transfer. When Kirkwood broke for Christmas in 1964, there were some 360 kids enrolled, all white. When school resumed, there were only seven white kids remaining, and the only member of the faculty still there was the principal.
As I say, there were a lot of other pressures involved. Old, established Black communities had been destroyed when Atlanta stadium was constructed, and urban renewal elsewhere meant a lot of families were seeking homes. In the end, I do not think it was the ongoing desegregation that frightened my parents away, but a sense of being unsafe. Indeed, Kirkwood very shortly became a very dangerous neighborhood, where drug addiction, violence and prostitution became the hallmarks of daily life. I can only imagine that for the black families who moved in seeking homes and safety and stability, the subsequent history of Kirkwood was a great disappointment and struggle.
But there is great irony in this story. In the 1990s, Kirkwood joined the list of other in-town neighborhoods that became attractive to urban pioneers. The ramshackle homes were purchased for relatively little and renovated, and now if you want to live in Kirkwood, you had best have a healthy bank book. It is especially attractive to gay and lesbian couples. In fact, just down the street from my old home is a building renovated as a recording studio by the Indigo Girls. As a result, around 2000 or so, I started seeing stories in the paper of protests from the black community about the new residents. Again, there was tension in the quiet streets.
It seems quiet there now. There is an active community association, and some of the renovated houses look amazing. And – this is my favorite — Kirkwood Elementary, home to so much strife, has been converted to loft condominiums. I am fascinated by that. Could I really live in the same space where so many reptiles were slain? I am afraid if I saw it, I would want to move in.
I also think I have found a picture of my house. It is a different color, and the yard is more grown up, but I think I recognize it nonetheless. It was not that palatial. Three bedrooms and one bath. It just seemed huge. The picture is currently in a pdf file, and if I can figure out how to extract it, I’ll put it up.
Such a strange thing, time and memory. Kirkwood. One thing then, another later, now something entirely different. Sometimes life is like that.
We’ll return to our blog in a few minutes, but first we want to update you on our fall fund raising drive. As you can imagine, bringing you Ancient Church is an incredibly expensive undertaking. A lot goes into the production of Ancient Church: writers, producers, big name talent. None of that comes cheap. It’s not like its just some bozo pounding out a few loose thoughts, is it Sandra?
You bet, Terrance. Here at evlogeite.com, we bring you only the best in big name blogs, and that costs money. But we don’t mind spending that money, because we know the programming is important to you, our readers. We get letters and e-mails constantly, telling us how important Seraphim is to you, as you drive the kids to school, make dinner, relax around the pool, or even during those romantic evenings with that special some one. Ancient Church is a part of your life, and that is why we bring it to you.
Right you are, Sandra. I don’t think I’ll ever forget some of the great guest stars we’ve seen on Ancient Church: Geena Davis, William Hurt, Brad Pitt, even Brittany Spears. You just never know what amazing thing you’ll find, right here on this blog.
Exactly, Terrance. But like we said, it does cost money. In fact, it costs us two million dollars a year to bring you this fascinating blog. And it’s worth every penny. We have to have the help of you, the loyal blog reader, though. We can’t do it without you.
So that’s why we’re asking you, right now, to reflect on what Ancient Church means to you. A dollar a day? How about a dollar a minute? Your first born child? Whatever that is, we’re asking you to help us bring you this fine blog, by calling right now and pledging your support. Our goal is to raise two million dollars so Seraphim can quit practicing law, and devote all of his attention to entertaining you.
How much have we raised so far?
Good question, Sandra. Let’s turn to the board. So far, we’ve raised…well, nothing yet, but I’m sure the phones will start ringing momentarily. Operators are standing by.
I think we should be entirely honest here, Terrance. Our readers need to know that this is the second annual fundraising drive, and frankly, the results of the first one were extremely disappointing. I mean, what’s wrong with a society where the spring fund raising drive for such a fine blog raises only $10, which Seraphim’s daughters promptly took and went out for ice cream? I mean…geez!
You’re right, Sandra. It is a terrible commentary on western civilization, but I think we have the problem licked this year, because we have some incredible premiums. If you call right now and pledge $1,000 or more, Seraphim himself will come to your house and talk endlessly about things that don’t really interest you.
Seriously, Terrance?
Absolutely. And if you pledge $10,000 or more, we’ll go to your house and bring him home, and leave you this lovely coffee mug. Or try this — every $100 pledge receives an autographed picture of Seraphim. But if you then pledge an additional $100,000, we will retrieve and destroy the picture and pay for therapy for a year as you try to drive the terrible image from your mind.
Well, you can’t beat that. So folks, call right now. The sooner we raise two million dollars for Ancient Church, the sooner we can return to our regularly scheduled blog. Remember: without you, the loyal readers, we could not bring you Seraphim. How much poorer would your life be then?
Not really. I don’t have any, and if I did I know everyone hates it when the pictures come out. But I can’t resist linking to some photographs of very happy days for two people I care about a great deal. First, my friend Elijah Bremer on his ordination to the priesthood on old calendar Dormition of the Theotokos, August 28 on the civil calendar. Second, my classmate Gregory Justiniano, on his ordination to the priesthood on September 17 in Connecticut. Both of these are truly wonderful guys, and I think I must be almost as excited as they are by all of this. Axios! Axios! Axios!
Coming up next, another classmate, Fr. Deacon Dan Mahler, will be ordained on October 17. All these ordinations. It must be something in the air, hmmm?
Ancient Church 