I have baked a lot of bread, and I know that this oven lies. I could check it with a thermometer, but no need. I trust my experience. I set the oven to 420°, but I believe it’s closer to 450° inside, and that belief is based on experience.
Still, the oven’s bright digital display of numbers in an authoritative font makes me question myself every time–and that is the threat of science (or at least, technology). Trusting the abstract over your senses.
Rosemary bread, just out of the oven a few minutes ago….
If you want to make a missile, well, you’re going to have to trust the tech. If you want to make a decent loaf of bread, trust your hands.
I love the Christmas Story, the lights, the glitter, the love. I love that the day coincides with the first glimmer of the rising sun. I love the madness that reminds us how tenuous our grip is.
Here’s a photo from the 2022 Vatican nativity scene. It’s a lovely crèche, and as tradition mandates, the Magi are there, bearing their gifts.
Only problem, the wise men didn’t show up until a year or two after the birth, at least according to the Holy Bible.
But here’s the rub–just asking a practicing Christian when the Wise Men finally got to Bethlehem often brings an incredulous stare with a hint of hostility.
I’m not looking for a fight on Christmas Day. I was raised Irish Catholic, grew up with various crèches as much a part of today as our tree and our Santa, and put faith in The Gospels (while recognizing humans told these stories long after the Crucifixion).
If the Vatican sanctions the bastardized story that the Magi were present the night of Jesus’ birth, a story the Holy See must know to be corrupt, what hope does a science teacher have of sharing stories that do not fit a child’s preconceptions of the universe?
None, actually, but my goals are far less grandiose. I just want a child to learn to see, and to question inconsistencies in our stories based on the natural world.
If a child happens to question the inconsistencies in other parts of her life–sustainable economic “growth,” Peacekeeper missiles, and a nuclear submarine named the USSCorpus Christi (“the body of Christ”)–she has a chance to change a human world that needs a bit of changing, a world that is worth saving.
When I die, I hope nobody mistakes my kindness for niceness. I am not a nice man. Dr. King’s life profoundly affected mine.
I
have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great
stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s
Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more
devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which
is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of
justice….Shallow understanding from people of good will is more
frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will.
“Love” is a complex word, and one not easily used in public settings. “Cooperation” is much safer, more sanitary.
And it’s the wrong message.
***
My
Dad joined the 1963 March on Washington, dressed in full uniform, a
proud US Marine officer. He flew A4 Phantom Skyhawks off carriers, in
love with a country that let poor first generation children fly.
My
dad was pulled to the front of the parade, or so the story goes. If you
see a full-dressed USMC officer in photos from the parade, it may well
be Bill Doyle. Dr. King later went on to oppose the Viet Nam War as
unjust, and my father, a die-hard leatherneck, resigned his commission
for the same reason.
I grew up in an Irish Catholic
home, but Dr. King held as much influence as the Pope, maybe more, years
before he was assassinated. My Dad loved the man, not the cartoon he
has become.
Take a walk outside and watch the grace and agony of life around us.
Yes, it’s complicated. Life is complex,
You
want to learn about Dr. King? Go read his words, listen to his
speeches, learn everything you can about him. But don’t “cooperate” with
those who would steal his image without his words, the Mike Pences, the
innumerable talking heads that will piously bow today.
Take a walk, a walk outside, away from noise. Carry a copy of King’s letter and read it under the January sunlight.
Share it. Live it.
Don’t let the dream die.
The photo of Dr. King (D.C., August, 1963) is from the National Archives and is the public domain.
