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In a twist both ironic and unexpected considering its source, the New York Times has carried two stories, one on Friday and the other today, which reflects the continued eroticization of our culture. This is a trend which has been noted for some years, yet inexplicably continues to worsen, even as we individually think that it cannot continue to do so.
The first article, an opinion piece titled Middle School Girls Gone Wild, is the more expected of the two. The tendency to sexualize children of ever younger ages is not new, and is certainly accelerating. What is somewhat unexpected is that the Times would pay much attention. Author Lawrence Downes, however, had the unfortunate experience of attending his daughter’s middle school talent show. He had not been forewarned at what the sixth, seventh and eighth graders were talented at:
They writhe and strut, shake their bottoms, splay their legs, thrust their chests out and in and out again. Some straddle empty chairs, like lap dancers without laps. They don’t smile much. Their faces are locked from grim exertion, from all that leaping up and lying down without poles to hold onto. “Don’t stop don’t stop,” sings Janet Jackson, all whispery. “…Ohh. I’m so stimulated. Feel so X-rated.” The girls spend a lot of time lying on the floor. They are in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades.
As each routine ends, parents and siblings cheer, whistle and applaud. I just sit there, not fully comprehending. It’s my first suburban Long Island middle school talent show. I’m with my daughter, who is 10 and hadn’t warned me. I’m not sure what I had expected, but it wasn’t this. It was something different. Something younger. Something that didn’t make the girls look so … one-dimensional.
What particularly stunned Downes, however, was the enthusiastic acceptance of all of this by the parents. He relates a conversation with a school official, who says they have simply given up:
A teacher at the middle school later told me she had stopped chaperoning dances because she was put off by the boy-girl pelvic thrusting and had no way to stop it — the children wouldn’t listen to her and she had no authority to send anyone home. She guessed that if the school had tried to ban the sexy talent-show routines, parents would have been the first to complain, having shelled out for costumes and private dance lessons for their Little Miss Sunshines.
In the end, the obvious moral issues aside, even the Times correctly identifies the overarching impact on the way that these girls develop, when parents “they allow the culture of boy-toy sexuality to bore unchecked into their little ones’ ears and eyeballs, displacing their nimble and growing brains and impoverishing the sense of wider possibilities in life.” And indeed they are right. What are the wider possibilities of life, be it spiritual or intellectual, when self-esteem is found in the skimpiest of costumes?
The answer may well be found in the bookend article, titled The Graying of Naughty, which appeared this morning in the fashion section, of all places. In it, the Times reported on a new breed of porn star, involving men and women over the age of fifty. The article focuses on a fifty year old woman who began a career in pornographic films using the stage name De’Bella. The article reports approvingly that since last May she has shot some thirty scenes, most involving men who are 19 or 20 years old. Her husband approves, telling the paper “She’s doing it for the right reasons” — whatever those may be.
Nor is she alone. Films involving older women are apparently a growing market segment. And, from the other direction, the article includes a reference to 66 year old Dave Cummings, who is filmed with women as young as the men seen with Ms. De’Bella.
In a sense, we see the closing of the circle, the sexualization of both the very young and those who should know better. The very young should not be sexualized at all. For those as old as I am, sexuality should be less about exhibitionism and more about intimacy and communication. Yet we now find all ages held to the same standard of misbehavior. At one time, the immoral were clearly identified as a minority. Now, if only by our silent consent, the moral are themselves increasingly marginalized.
Long time readers may remember that a couple of years ago I discussed the scandal surrounding the Annual Possum Drop held in the village where we live. Briefly — for those who do not wish to read that entry again, or are simply distressed by even thinking of such a thing — the man who owns the gas station downtown (so to speak – in the aerial photo, it is the wide place in the road) holds a big New Year’s Eve bash every year, which features gospel singing, a womanless beauty pageant (don’t ask) and assorted types of merriment, and is capped by the lowering of a caged possum to the ground at the stroke of midnight. Riotous celebrating ensues. In any event, while we were in Greece several years ago, PETA threatened to sue over the event. The organizer didn’t help his cause, since he reported that “…once the crowd leaves, we turn him (the possum) loose. He runs across the road, and we run over him and eat him for New Year’s dinner.” Still, they were so chastened by the threat that they released that year’s candidate and found a dead possum on the road, which they washed, blow dried and propped into a life like position, and carried on.
It occurred to me this morning that there may be readers who have fretted ever since, wondering what has happened to the Possum Drop. I am here to tell you that it is better than ever. Our local paper, The Cherokee Scout, carried a large front page article on developments. The good news is that the organizers have discovered that the key to success is to follow all the applicable laws. In this case, that means that before they go to catch the possum, they have obtained three state permits and one federal permit. This is rather puzzling, since I doubt that any of the possums one sees dead in the middle of the road were run over by persons holding all of the necessary permits, but there you have it. In any event, it means that even as I write this a live possum is enjoying the best catfood available, and waiting for New Year’s Eve.
PETA is still upset about the event. The Scout quoted their representative as saying “Obviously, PETA is amazed an event as ill conceived and cruel as the Possum Drop is still taking place in 2006. Capturing, confining and forcing an animal to take part is needless and inappropriate. I know everyone thinks it’s harmless fun, but the truth for the possum is its a terrifying event. I saw a videotape of last year’s event, and the animal was exposed to a scary situation. It was in a glass box with lights all around and suspended in mid air for the duration of the event. I cannot imagine how terrified the possum is awaiting his fate.”
Well. I guess so. In the meantime, don’t tell PETA about the cans sold there labeled “possum”. It is available both in regular and diet configurations. The Scout took a poll of neighborhood kids, and none of them showed any interest in eating any of it, although one adventurous boy volunteered “Sure I’d eat it, if you gave me money.” More startling, a tourist admitted that she actually spent a moment considering “whether to buy the lite or regular variety”, before coming to her senses.
Oddly, I report all this as a person who avoids the Possum Drop himself. Ever since the New York Times picked it up a couple of years ago it has become too big to be believed. Still, it is fairly consistent for our village. With only 240 souls, it possesses a sense of humor far out of proportion to its size. When the thousands of merrymakers return home, that makes this a very decent little place to live.
This is very bad, of course, and completely unauthorized, but imagine along with me.
I ran across this today while looking for something else. It is an old church in my county, for sale for just under $120,000. It has about an acre of land, and as the listing says “There is an old church structure that features elmwood interior and is useable.” Unfortunately, it has no water and no facilities, hence this remarkable architecture:
So clearly right off the bat you would need a well and some manner of facilities. But just imagine: here, in my county, with no Orthodox church closer than a two hour drive, what if someone was to clean the place up, erect a proper cross on top of the building, put a sign out front and a listing in the church directory in the local paper, and just started grinding out whatever services could be had. What would the Lord send? I imagine asking to name it after St. Cyril and/or St/ Methodius. If they could enlighten the Slavs, southern Appalachia ought to be a snap. Just imagine…
Last night, on Christmas Eve, I stayed in a hotel since the drive home and the drive back to Atlanta on Christmas morning didn’t make much sense. The Hampton Inn was surprisingly full, but thankfully, was very quiet last night. This morning, however, there were a lot of people having coffee and pastries in the lobby. I heard them as I got off the elevator, and could tell that they were having fun and carrying on. As I walked into the lobby, though, wearing the collar and carrying my vestments, absolute silence fell, and everyone watched me check out and walk out the door. Without uttering a word.
I have never had such a startling effect on people. I’m not sure what to make of it.
Other than that, this is what I learned in my thirty hours in Atlanta:
1. Do not think that you can go into a coffee shop and have a peaceful cup of coffee when a family is sitting two tables over arguing with Junior about whether or not they treat him differently after they learned he was gay.
2. The people in my parish are unbelievably kind. Despite rookie problems in my first two liturgies, they continue to tell me that they love me.
3. Nothing is as good as coming home to family on Christmas afternoon, after thirty hours in the big city, even if that did include two liturgies and the Christmas Eve service. At Christmas, there really is no place like home.
Today, I finally got it. After months of silent contemplation of what I was about to undertake, after the nerves and jitters, after the helter-skelter trip to Pittsburgh and thence to Johnstown, after the nonstop activity of the weekend, and the return home. After all of that, this afternoon, at about 3 o’clock, I finally got it. I was writing some notes of thanks to people who had helped me through the journey to ordination. I was not particularly pleased with any of them. Trying to say on paper the most basic things is not always easy. You prayed for me. You were kind to me. You trusted me. I am grateful beyond words. But none of what I wrote seemed right, and in the midst of worrying about what I had written, my heart finally opened.
It is almost — within a eyelash — of Christmas. And in the light of Christmas, the realization of the Nativity, all cares and all fear fades. Granted, throughout most of the Eastern Church , Theophany reigns as THE feast of the winter season. I think, though, that for those of us who grew up in the west, Christmas has an inescapable mystery that captivates us. When we were young it was the result of an unfortunate materialism, but despite that veneer on the season, even then we were convinced that this was something intangibly special. Something different. Something…that we could not quite understand, but was indisputably fraught with meaning. We could almost believe that at midnight on Christmas Eve the animals really do speak, and the skies are filled with glory, although we never looked to see, as we lay in our warm beds. I don’t regret those years of dim understanding, because even though they were spent without understanding, they did not lack the experience of what the Nativity truly is.
So, this afternoon, as I worried about my verbiage and fretted over how many mistakes I might make at liturgy on Sunday morning, I remembered that God Himself came for us, in the most humble, most helpless, most awkward way imaginable. Can we really grasp all of what that means? At times, like St. John of Damascus, we are struck by the magnificent humility of His Mother, whose “hands steadied the first steps of Him who steadied the earth to walk upon, and her lips helped the Word of God to form His first human words.” Sometimes, like the shepherds, we are overcome with awe, by the majestic hosts of angels who accompanied our Lord.
But all of that pales compared to the astonishing work of Christ, who became one of us. I know what one of us entails, because I am undeniably human. We struggle, we strive, we despair of our life and our soul. We compete with each other, often not so much out of need as by vanity or pride. We live in an arena of violence, sometimes physical, but more often emotional. Petty insults, gross indignities, careless hate. We inflict these things on ourselves and on each other, without a thought and without repentance. It was into this maelstrom of despair that the infant Jesus was born.
Many people have said deeply moving and meaningful things about the Incarnation. But at 3 o’clock this afternoon, I remembered a snippet of something from St. Isaac the Syrian, and I scrambled to locate the rest.
This Christmas night bestowed peace on the whole world;
So let no one threaten;
This is the night of the Most Gentle One — Let no one be cruel;
This is the night of the Humble One — Let no one be proud.
Now is the day of joy –
Let us not take revenge;
Now is the day of Good Will — Let us not be mean.
In this Day of Peace — Let us not be conquered by anger.
Today the Bountiful impoverished Himself for our sake;
So, Rich One, invite the poor to Thy table.
Today we receive a Gift for which we did not ask;
So let us give alms to those who implore and beg us.
This present Day cast open the heavenly doors to our prayers;
Let us open our door to those who ask our forgiveness.
Today the Divine Being took upon Himself the seal of our humanity
In order for humanity to be decorated with the Seal of Divinity.
There is the magic. The Babe calls us to an interior transformation, a self-humbling, the only rational response to the gift of Him who made such an astonishing gift of Himself.
That is what I remembered this afternoon. Suddenly, Christmas is here. What do I want for Christmas? Humility. A transformation of my heart and soul. The ability, or even the simple desire, to see in those around me the Seal of Divinity. Only those gifts are worthy of the Babe, and His wonderful, loving Mother.
Having returned from Johnstown, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to put the cassock in for cleaning. I don’t know exactly why I thought that, except that if you put it in the corner it stood up by itself. When that first happened, I toyed with the idea that perhaps we had a miracle in place here. Reality soon set in, however. None of this was helped by the sweltering heat in Pennsylvania this past weekend. Global warming is real, my friends, when Johnstown reaches sixty degrees on a December day.
Anyway, I was a little concerned about the garment. I had never taken it to the dry cleaners before, and I’m fond of my cassock. I mean, when you spend as much time in an article of clothing as I do in my cassock, you get attached. Plus, my wife had persuaded me to have grapevines embroidered on it by the people at Istok, and so I wanted to make sure that it was properly cared for.
So I walked purposefully into the shop Monday morning, dropped the cassock on the counter and told the girl I needed it back by Friday. She nodded in a distracted sort of way, but her eyes were fixed on the black heap on the counter.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A cassock,” I replied. “I wear it in church.” I was trying to make this a teachable moment.
She nodded again, and reached out and gingerly picked it up with two fingers. It began to make an effort to stand up. She dropped it hastily. I’m pretty sure she had never seen one at the Baptist church.
“How do you spell that?” she asked cautiously.
“C-a-s-s-o-c-k,” I answered, and watched her write it on the receipt.
She handed me the ticket. “It will be ready Wednesday afternoon,” she said, still eying the creation. I took the ticket, but she made no move to take the garment off the counter. I knew that as soon as I left, the other people working there would be over to examine the strange thing.
I’ll be glad to get it back, in time for Royal Hours on Friday. And if it persists in standing up even after cleaned, I’ll call the Bishop.
As an aside, thanks for all the kind comments on the last post. For those who want to see a little more, a few more pictures are found on the front page of our parish website.
But it must have happened.
Actually, I do remember some of it, but I think it will take a while to fully process it. I have a clearer memory of the very loving words I received from so many people, which mean the world. I remember my joy at looking out and seeing my wife and children, my friends and classmates. I remember the kindness and encouragement of His Eminence, Metropolitan Nicholas.
All of that was on Saturday morning. Sunday morning was a very festive hierarchal liturgy for St. Nicholas. There was much less pressure for that, since I was indisputably the most junior of the deacons serving. That meant I got ample opportunity to watch everyone else before it was my turn — a great way for a nervous person to avoid mistakes.
I’m back home now, and I’m ready to get to work. That might even include picking up the blog again. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.
Ancient Church 