Veteran's Day [Bryan]

It sounds odd to say "happy Veteran's Day." For me, it is a day of mourning. Not only for those who had to die in war or for those who were physically or mentally scarred. It is also a day to mourn the fact that our world is a place where people have to become "veterans" of human conflict. It is a day to mourn the existence of the (more or less) organized mass bloodshed we call war. It is a day of questions: "We were a family. How'd it break up and come apart, so that now we're turned against each other? Each standing in the other's light. How'd we lose that good that was given us? Let it slip away. Scattered it, careless. What's keepin' us from reaching out, touching the glory?"

In that vein, here is a Veteran's Day clip from The Thin Red Line:



My favorite quote is at the end:

Where is it that we were together? Who were you that I lived with? The brother. The friend. Darkness, light. Strife and love. Are they the workings of one mind? The features of the same face? Oh, my soul. Let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes. Look out at the things you made. All things shining.

Bryan Stories, Part 3 [Bryan]

Here is the third installment of my personal quest to better know myself by telling myself stories about myself.

It was something of a family tradition in my family to work at a place called Christensen Heating and Air Conditioning. The boss of the company, Walt, was a good man and a longtime family friend. Both of my older brothers had worked for Walt. He paid well and was generous with time off. I would hear stories from my brothers, though, about a man named Lee who was a foreman there. Apparently he had a foul disposition and a hot temper. I didn't pay much heed to these warnings, however, and the summer after I graduated from high school it was my turn to work at Walt's. It was then that I first met Lee in person. He was a small man, with a high-pitched voice and streaks of gray running through his hair. He always wore overalls.

I was assigned to be Lee's "grunt," meaning that he and I would go out to the job site and work all day together. After working with Lee for a few days, I came to understand what it meant to be degraded. The man was brutal. If the work was not performed up to his expectations -- if it was imperfect, or done too slowly, or simply not done his way -- he would make a public spectacle of you. He would criticize you in front of whomever happened to be around, be they plumbers, electricians, or homeowners. He took to calling me "Bry-guy" -- and that was the most respectful of the long list of nicknames he developed for me. "Moron" was actually much more common. Sometimes, he would combine the nicknames. For example, he would combine "moron" with "Bry-guy" and turn it into a little chant. "Moron! Moron! Bry-guy is a moron!" he would sing over and over again. When I made I mistake, he would yell "OOOOPS!" at the top of his lungs for the rest of the day. He was never pleased. At the slightest provocation, he would turn into a raging, overall-clad ball of sarcastic, dehumanizing furry. The worst part was that I had to ride in the truck with him for hours each day. Each moment featured a long list of insults and criticisms. Silence was even worse, because that's when I knew he was really seething.

Needless to say, I hated the man. At several points, I was nearly reduced to tears of rage and frustration. I was continually tempted to shake my hammer at him and scream the most vile curses upon him and his posterity.

In truth, I was just the sort of person Lee despised. He would see me reading Freud at lunch and laugh hysterically. I would tell him about my research at the University of Utah and he instantly declared it an "enormous waste of time." He mocked "self-proclaimed intellectuals" who, for all their theories and flowery rhetoric, had nothing important to say. What he valued was action over reflection, practice over theory.

But there are other things you should also know about Lee. First, the man was a true craftsman. He had the soul of an artist whose medium was ductwork and refrigerant lines. What marble was to Michelangelo, sheet metal was to Lee. Merely getting things to work right was not enough, it had to look right. The lines had to be straight, the curves pleasing, the design geometrically precise. The large houses we worked on were his canvas; his tools were the means of gaining human validation. It was his way of asserting himself in a world that was otherwise indifferent to a small, working man's existence.

The other thing to know about Lee was that, in fact, he would drop everything to help somebody who really needed it. Walt would tell me stories of Lee's generosity and I was floored. You really can't judge a book by its cover.

I decided that I wanted to be an artist in the same way that Lee was an artist. I doubled my efforts at learning the work I was supposed to do. I tried to discover the secrets that transformed something from a "good enough" job into a "work of art" job. I turned the seams of my roundpipe upward so as to be hidden out of sight. I tried to drill my holes neatly. I tried to line up my paneling so it would look like one long piece of sheet metal. I would ask him questions about how stuff would work. And I would work hard. The amount you could get done in a day was also a source of pride for Lee, and I tried to respect that.

Granted, I never did get to be an artist. My work was always a little rough around the edges. One day, though, Walt assigned me my own truck and, with this new independence, I tried to take pride in how the job looked after a long day of work. Over time, I believe this all gradually began to earn Lee's respect. He would still lash out occasionally with a vicious dehumanizing tirade. The nicknames would continue. But he began to talk with me, even sometimes to philosophize with me. I still remember him saying, "so here's a thought..." which meant he wanted to bounce and idea off me. We became friends, although I'm fairly sure he would deny that today if asked. I guess I know he thought of me as a friend because, when I got married, he gave me a wedding present. The present was this: a pencil sharpener and a toilet plunger.

Best song (and most intersting video) of the 90s [Bryan]

A song about life and death, falling and then rising again. Forces pulling from the center of the earth again -- I can feel it! And the only song to ever use the word "placenta" in its lyrics. Here is Live's Lighting Crashes.

My First Buckeye Game [Bryan]

I went to my first Ohio State football game on Saturday. Going to an OSU game is a religious experience for most people in the Buckeye state. I can see why: the pageantry, tradition, and passion are all to be found in plentiful quantities. I must say, though, that I felt like a bit of an outsider. After all, the Buckeyes were playing the Fighting Illini of Illinois -- my beloved alma mater. Don't get me wrong. I want OSU to do well this season, and they have. But I found myself inwardly rooting for Illinois. It is always good to see a team defy expectations, overcome criticism, and come out on top. That is what Ron Zook and Illinois have done.

Anyway, some scenes from the game:


Note that this was twenty minutes before the game started. That gives you some sense of the atmosphere.



Here the band is finishing is famous "script Ohio" when its writes out the name "Ohio." Notice the sousaphone player "dotting the i" at the end. Young tube players grow up in Ohio dreaming of the day they can do that. It's cute.



After an OSU touchdown.

ratemyprofessors.com [Bryan]

You may know about the websites that allow students to rate their professors online. Well, I decided to check to see if anyone had rated me yet. Sure enough, they had (scroll down to Warnick). Take special note: the chili pepper is given to instructors who are "hot." And no, I did not put that up myself. Must be the bowtie.

Bryan Stories, Part 2 [Bryan]

Here is my second installment of my personal quest to better know myself by telling stories about myself. (The first can be found here.) This story has to do with a guy named Pete who I met in the Salt Lake County Jail...but it's not what you think.

I was a senior at the University of Utah and I was taking a class called "The University Experience," taught by Jack Newell. This turned out to be a life-changing class for me, and it is actually the class and the professor that sent me along the career path that I am now on. Jack was a guy who believed that teaching consists mostly of telling stories. And boy, could that guy tell a story.

Anyway, we were reading an article that appeared in Harpers Magazine in the late 1990s by Earl Shorris. The article dealt with an educational experiment. Shorris went into the inner city and taught college level humanities courses to the urban poor. He and his co-conspirators taught classes in history, philosophy, logic, and poetry to struggling people who could barely read. The results, he found, were impressive. After taking the course, many of Shorris's students enrolled in college, engaged in political and economic activism, and so forth.

This article hit me like a lightning bolt. I had been searching for a way I could make a real contribution to the world. The article coincided with a growing unease about my easy lifestyle. This unease had started on my Mormon mission, where I worked closely with people living in slums and boxes. Returning to the United State was a jarring experience. Two years after returning, I was ready for closer contact with the world -- the real world of blood, sweat, poverty, and toil, where the drama of survival and redemption really plays out. At the same time, I was growing to love the humanities -- the world of the theater, art museums, dead languages, and Classical philosophers. Shorris's ideas, I thought, offered the chance to put my new passion to use in the service of my fellow man. I subsequently volunteered to teach inmates in the SL county jail. I was supposed to be preparing them for the GED, but I hoped to slip in a little philosophy and literature on the side.

Here is how it worked. The organizers of the program gave me a pass to enter the jail. They also gave me the name and the cell block information of an inmate who expressed interest in being tutored. In short, they expected me to navigate the jail by myself. To be honest, entering that place was always a scary experience. At various checkpoints, I had to wave my ID badge to the surveillance cameras so the guards would open the doors for me. I would pass cell after cell with inmates gazing (leering) at me. I would pass the cells, reeking of alcohol and vomit, where they would throw drunk people to "dry out." Distant shouting. Bars clanging. I was ever fearful of making a wrong turn and ending up somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. (To be honest, the scariest part was the guards, who thought my presence was simply an annoyance -- they had probably seen many do-gooders like me before.)

Usually, I would show up to the cell block, and I would ask the guard to go fetch the prisoner who had requested tutoring. Usually, the inmate refused to come out (often, they would sign up just to win favor with a judge). Sometimes, I would tutor for a session or two and the inmate would lose interest. But then I was asked to tutor I guy named Peter.

Pete had been in and out of jail 39 times, he said. He never told me what he got in trouble for, exactly, and I never asked. Based on some things he said, though, I think he may have been in there most recently for car-jacking. A violent offense, to be sure. But Pete was the first guy who seemed genuinely interested in learning. We worked on arithmetic, basic reading, and other GED stuff.

After a few sessions, I decided to put Shorris to the test. I gave Pete Book 7 of Plato's Republic to read after a brief introduction to text. This is a selection that deals with Plato's famous "Allegory of the Cave." This allegory talks about a man imprisoned in a cave. The man gradually works his way out of the cave, sees the sun, and returns to tell his fellow prisoners about it. The allegory deals with how we overcome "mere opinion" and come to know the truth. I only half expected Pete to read it.

The next week, I grabbed my ID badge and passed through the security checkpoints. Same story: Leering prisoners. Distant shouting. Annoyed guards. Pete emerged from his cell, clutching his copy of the Republic. He had read! Not only that, he seemed genuinely touched by what he had read. He told me about how his experience in jail had mirrored that of the man in the cave -- how he and his fellow prisoners were often blind to sun, which is Plato's symbol for "the good." We talked excitedly for about half an hour before turning to our regular tutoring activities.

I emerged from that dark jail with a feeling of euphoria. I felt like I was bringing something of real value to Pete, something nobody had ever offered him before. I felt like I was living up to the biblical injunction to visit the needy and those in prison. I had faced my fear and made a difference. Finally, I was living up to my ideals. I had found a connection between my passion and my contribution.

Other visits with Pete were equally exciting. I got him reading on the theme of "imprisonment." The next task we tackled was the narrative life of Frederick Douglass. Douglass, of course, escapes slavery through literacy. Pete really seemed to enjoy it. We were developing a good relationship. He was something of an artist, in a gangster sort of way, and often gave me his drawings. Pete seemed to be honored by this exposure to literature, history, and philosophy. It made him feel worthwhile to read such things, as if the treasures of civil society were finally his. It affirmed his humanity.

I wish I could tell you that this story had a happy ending. After a few months,though, Pete gradually began to lose interest. I would show up and the grumpy guard would go get Pete from his cell, only return and report that Pete said he was too tired to come out. After a few more weeks, I lost contact with Pete. Whatever spark had been lit during those few weeks had been extinguished. I still don't know what happened or why.

Did I find, then, the perfect reconciliation of personal passion and social contribution? I don't know. I guess you could say that I'm still looking.

Halloween [Bryan]

A good Halloween was had by the Warnicks. But. Is it just me or is there way more trick-or-treating than when I was a lad? This year, we went trick or treating three times. Once at our church activity (the misnamed "Trunk or Treat" activity), once at the so-called "Boo at the Zoo" (a Halloween activity at the Columbus Zoo), and then of course on Halloween night. This seems like a little much. Or am I just a Halloween Scrooge? (And what would a Halloween Scrooge say -- Boo-humbug?)

Anyway, I asked Nora what she remembered from Halloween, and she said, "Andrew tried to join all the Halloween families trick-or-treating and I didn't want to do anymore trick-or-treating." This about sums up our Halloween night. Nora got tired of trick-or-treating after about eight houses. I nearly begged her to continue, but she wanted to go home and eat her candy. Andrew, meanwhile, was really into trick-or-treating. Whenever he would see another family out trick-or-treating, he would try to sneak into their group. We would then have to go chase him down.

Oh, and I feel really guilty. This Halloween, I am ashamed to say, we ran out of candy. In Ohio, it is a tradition to trick-or-treat only during the official hours (6-8 PM) . And you have to either sit outside your house and pass out candy or at least leave your lights on and your door open so kids know that you are open for business. When we first ran out of candy, I dipped into our own children's candy so that we could feed the begging masses. With only 15 minutes to go until 8:00 I decided to turn out all our lights, blow out our jack-o-lanterns, and basically put up a "go away" sign. Five minutes later, though, the door bell rang, and out on our dark porch stood three adorable children. Bryan's dilemma: Does he further pillage his own children's candy, or does he tell the kids to go away? Bryan's solution: He slowly opens the door and meekly tells the children that he is out of candy. You should have seen their poor faces fall as they turned away. Since then, I have felt an unending stream of guilt. The lesson, dear reader, is this: find something, anything -- even multivitamins or a stick of butter -- to give to trick-or-treaters. Do not turn them away!

Lars and the Real Girl [Bryan]

There are few films that are nearly perfect. Ellie and I just saw one on Saturday night. It was called "Lars and the Real Girl." The premise is silly: A shy man buys a life size girl doll and treats it like a real girl friend. The film, while very funny, is anything but silly. It is a deep and heartfelt statement about family and community life, about growing up and becoming a man, and about the transformative power of love. I can't recommend it highly enough. Go see it. (And, for those of you that care, there is nothing "offensive" about the film).

Here is Roger Ebert's review. He gets it exactly right.

By Roger Ebert
How do you make a film about a life-sized love doll, ordered through the Internet, into a life-affirming statement of hope? In "Lars and the Real Girl," you do it with faith in human nature, and with a performance by Ryan Gosling that says things that cannot be said. And you surround him with actors who express the instinctive kindness we show to those we love.

Gosling, who has played neo-Nazis and district attorneys, now plays Lars Lindstrom, a painfully shy young man who can barely stand the touch of another human being. He functions in the world and has an office job, but in the evening, he sits alone in a cabin in the back yard of his family home. His mother died years ago, his depressive father more recently. Now the big house is occupied by his brother Gus (Paul Schneider) and pregnant sister-in-law Karin (Emily Mortimer). She makes it her business to invite him to dinner, to share their lives, but he begs off with one lame excuse after another, and sits alone in the dark.

One day a co-worker at the office, surfing Internet porn, shows Lars a life-size vinyl love doll that can be order customized to specifications. A few weeks later, a packing crate is delivered to Lars, and soon his brother and sister-in-law are introduced to the doll. She is, they learn, named Bianca. She is a paraplegic missionary, of Brazilian and Danish blood, and Lars takes her everywhere in a wheelchair. He has an explanation for everything, including why she doesn't talk or eat....Lars does not use Bianca for sex. No, she is an ideal companion, not least because she can never touch him. With a serenity bordering on the surreal, Lars takes her everywhere, even to church. She is as real as anyone in his life can possibly be, at this point in the development of his social abilities.

The miracle in the plot is that the people of Lars' community arrive at an unspoken agreement to treat Bianca with the same courtesy that Lars does. This is partly because they have long and sadly watched Lars closing into himself and are moved by his attempt to break free. The film, directed by Craig Gillespie and written by Nancy Oliver ("Six Feet Under"), wisely never goes for even one moment that could be interpreted as smutty or mocking. There are, to be sure, some moments of humor; you can't take a love doll everywhere without inspiring double-takes. And Gus sometimes blurts out the real-world truths we are also thinking.

There are so many ways "Lars and the Real Girl" could have gone wrong that one of the film's fascinations is how adroitly it sidesteps them. Its weapon is absolute sincerity. It is about who Lars is, and how he relates to this substitute for human friendship, and that is all it's about. It has a kind of purity to it....

We all know a few people who walk into a socially dangerous situation, size it up, and instantly know what to say and how to set people at ease. My Aunt Martha could do that. She was a truth-teller, and all some situations need is for someone to tell the truth, instead of pussy-footing around embarrassments. Consider, in this film, the neighbor named Mrs. Gruner (Nancy Beatty). She rises to the occasion in a way both tactful and heroic. While Gus is worried about what people will think, Mrs. Gruner (and Karin and Dagmar) are more concerned with what Lars is thinking.

As we watch this process, we glimpse Lars' inner world, one of hurt but also hidden hope. Nine actors out of 10 would have (rightly) turned down this role, suspecting it to be a minefield of bad laughs. Gosling's work here is a study in control of tone. He isn't too morose, too strange, too opaque, too earnest. The word for his behavior, so strange to the world, is serene. He loves his new friend, treats her courteously and expects everyone else to give her the respect he does.

How this all finally works out is deeply satisfying. Only after the movie is over do you realize what a balancing act it was, what risks it took, what rewards it contains. A character says at one point that she has grown to like Bianca. So, heaven help us, have we.

On School Vouchers

I've been asked a few times about my general views of vouchers, which are a hot topic in my home state of Utah right now. Notice that I'm not all that familiar with the details of the Utah plan, so these are just general thoughts.

1. Do vouchers improve academic achievement?

Vouchers have been tried in various cities and states at this point (most famously in Florida, Milwaukee, and Cleveland) and many studies have been done to figure out whether they help improve participating student performance. For various reasons, these are difficult studies to perform and the results are often contradictory. Overall, I would say that parents who use vouchers tend to be more satisfied than those in regular public schools. The best studies, however, find only minimal (if any) difference between students who use vouchers to attend private schools and those who stay in public schools. A report from the highly respected nonpartisan General Accounting Office (GAO) is perhaps the most trustworthy summary of the data, although it is a bit old now (published in 2001).

2. Do vouchers improve public schools by making them compete with private schools?

Again the data are complicated, but a recent book argues that there is no evidence from Milwaukee of long-term, competition driven improvement in public schools: "Our results are therefore mixed. Overall, Milwaukee public schools made a one-time gain versus other Wisconsin schools with somewhat comparable ethnic/social class composition. Yet, students in Milwaukee schools facing more competition from private voucher schools made no greater gains." At the very least, the competition arguments are not obviously true and may very well be false in the long run.

3. But aren't private schools more effective than public schools?

Overall, the surprising answer seems to be that public schools are actually usually more effective when family background is accounted for. See here and here. For what its worth, I personally found my public school experience to be excellent, with great teachers and opportunities (of course, with a few exceptions).

4. Aren't public schools places that promote atheism and immorality?

This largely depends on what you mean by "promote atheism and immorality," so it is hard to answer this question. Remaining neutral on questions of religion is not promoting atheism. I think part of the problem is that people hear about some odd-sounding event or policy in a far-away school and immediately begin to think that such events hold for all public schools everywhere. In reality, though, such cases are rarely even representative of that particular school district, let alone with all the schools in that particular state or or in the entire nation. An odd-ball school here or there is not good evidence for a decline in school morality (in fact, they may be the exceptions that prove the rule). When judging this issue, it is wise to rely on your own experience with local schools, rather than relying on sensational reports from talk radio or dubious circulating emails.

For what its worth, I should also point out that public school violence has been decreasing for over a decade -- a point that also seems relevant here. (see Dinkes, R., Cataldi, E.F., Kena, G., and Baum, K. (2006). Indicators of School Crime and Safety: 2006 (NCES 2007–003/NCJ 214262). U.S. Departments of Education and Justice. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office.)

5. What are my reasons for being cautious of vouchers?

My biggest reason has to do with my belief that common public schools can be a unifying force in a diverse American society. If we support public education, we also support the idea that we can come together with people who are different from us to learn from them. What vouchers and private schools often lead to, according to the research, is a homogeneous learning environment. If given a choice, after all, people choose to be with other people who are like them. Common public schools, in contrast, can be a symbol of our belief that we can learn from each other and from people who are different. In my Utah school experience in Salt Lake City, I met people from different religious, racial, and ethnic backgrounds that really enriched my life. I realize this is a bit idealistic and that things do not always turn out so nicely in practice. But it is an idea I want to believe in.

Note that this is not a good reason to support the status quo in many crumbling, underfunded inner-city schools. The welfare of those children in such schools should take priority over my idealistic inclinations. This reason is more relevant to prevent vouchers from being used by students in good schools to escape people and ideas that are different.

6. Under what circumstances would I support vouchers?

First, if the voucher was big enough to actually give poor students a real choice. Second, if the vouchers only go to students whose schools that are truly bad places to be (rather than, say, to middle class parents who don't want their child taught evolution). Third, if guidelines were in place so that private schools had to accept the poor students who applied. If I were in Utah, I would see if the voucher plan fit these requirement, but I'm too lazy to do that right now. I just wanted to point out that I am not categorically opposed to vouchers.

There is my opinion, with that and $2.98 you can buy a gallon of gas today in Columbus.

Bryan Humiliation Stories, Part 1 [Bryan]

I've decided that I want to become a better storyteller. When I talk about myself, I seem so vapid and lame, as if nothing ever interesting has happened to me. Well, there might be some truth to the idea that nothing interesting has ever happened to me. The thing is, an interesting life is not always just lived, but made after the fact through the process of storytelling. As you tell the story of your life, you start to realize things about your life that suddenly make your story interesting. Little connections here and there, a fleeting realization, the development of a plot. Suddenly a person is changed into a Lincoln, a Churchill, an Einstein. A parade of trivia is turned into a great life quest! At least that is my hope.

Here is the story I want to practice today: my first academic humiliation.

So there I was. The year was 2003 and I had just finished my masters degree at UIUC. I was, on the outside, young, confident, and intellectually brash, but inside I was a quivering mass of academic uncertainty. I had written a paper that brought together my interest in Greek literature with my interest in education. It was a wild little essay entitled "Creon's Decree and the Ethics of Educational Policy." I still think it was a good paper. It dealt with King Creon in Sophocle's play the Antigone and his tragic attempt to educate his city about civic duty. I was very unsure of my ability at presenting my work before critical audiences. I feared humiliation. I mustered courage, though, swallowed hard and sent off my paper to be reviewed at a small, regional conference. After a few weeks, I found out the paper had been accepted and, not only that, I had won the graduate student award for best paper. My confidence grew.

The day of the conference, I got up early and drove to Chicago. I arrived a few hours before my presentation and, since I had time to kill, went to hear a few other presentations. I was not impressed. The other papers seemed derivative and boring, especially in comparison to my award-winning essay on Greek political philosophy. I was ready to make my splash.

When it was time for my presentation, I went to the assigned room and waited for the audience to trickle in. And boy did it ever. Once person came in. Then another. And another. Soon the room was filled to capacity, standing room only. I was nervous to be presenting to such a large group, but it was clear that this was my moment to shine. There they all sat, looking at me intently, ready to hear about my award-winning ideas. They had come to bask in to glow of this young graduate student's wisdom, and I was determined not to disappoint them.

Suddenly, one of the conference organizers appeared in the room. "Excuse me," he announced, "for those of you who haven't heard, Prof. Jones's talk on education reform has been moved to room 329. In this room, Bryan Warnick will be presenting on ethics and educational policy."

In unison, the entire audience stood up and left. At least forty people made as quick an exit as they could, eager to hear Prof. Jones pontificate about education reform. I was stunned. Before me sat three people. One of the people was breathing with the aid of an air tank and another person was his helper. They were not in the position to be move very easily, so they decided to stay at my presentation. So, in my first academic conference presentation, I unveiled my work to a grand total of one interested person. She alone saved me from the ultimate academic disgrace: a no-show, an empty room, row after row of completely deserted seats. Bless her soul, whoever see was. I meekly presented my paper, and hurried home.

Best music video of the 00s

Go Indians! [Bryan]

Cleveland sports teams have always held a special place in my heart (at least the Indians and Browns). The reason is simple: my Dad, for some reason, has always been a Cleveland sports fanatic. Thus, I grew up watching Bernie Kosar get beat year after year by John Elway and the Denver Broncos. I also grew up hearing about the Indians mounting one dreary campaign after another. Needless to say, my Dad has chosen poorly: Has there ever been a sports city as forlorn as Cleveland? Has there ever been a city as forlorn Cleveland in general? Now that I live in Ohio, I have an addition reason for wanting Cleveland to succeed. Cleveland success = happy Ohio taxpayers who pay my salary. Go Indians!

My candidate, kind of [Bryan]

Based on this website, my policy views are most in agreement with Chris Dodd, the senator from Connecticut. As many of you know, my inclinations in the presidential race lean heavily toward Barack Obama. The reasons I favor Obama have more to do with intangibles -- character, intelligence, temperament, judgment -- than actual policy prescriptions. Maybe I will blog about Obama shortly.

	Chris Dodd Score: 49	Agree Iraq Taxes Stem-Cell Research Health Care Abortion Social Security Energy Marriage Death Penalty	Disagree Immigration Line-Item Veto
-- Take the Quiz! --

My agreement with Obama actually wasn't too far behind at a score of 44. The candidate that I disagree with most according to this measure, apparently, is Fred Thompson. Finally, I also haven't really made up my mind about the "line item veto." I could be convinced either way on that issue.

Masterpiece of 1980s music videos [Bryan]

Whip Cream Ballet [Bryan]

So, a few weeks ago our ward had a "variety show." Ellie, together with her presidency, did a "whip cream ballet." Ellie was able to show the somewhat goofy side of herself that she often tries to hide under a facade of proper middle class respectability. Some friends of ours blogged about it (thanks Comins). Below is one of the pictures.

Grandma Warnick [Bryan]

Last week was a sad week for us. About a week and a half ago, my Grandma, Blanche Warnick, passed away. I was blessed with being able to get to know all of my grandparents very well -- better than many people, I suspect. My relationships with my grandparents have been some of the richest relationships of my life. Through them, I am connected to the Great Depression, to the War, and to years of perspective and experience. Through them, I was exposed to lives of toil, frugality, faith, and sacrifice. Through them, I know what it is like to milk a cow, to go fishing, to ride on a tractor, to water ski at Lake Powell, to wake up to the sound of farm animals, to work at a college, to drink real milk, to build an airplane. I will not demean them by pretending they are (or were) perfect. They are human. Their value to me does not reside in perfect fantasy, but in solid reality. It is because of them that I now lead a life of comfort and privilege. Their hard work and moral character served as a springboard, I think, for all of us in my family, launching us into lives of remarkable possibilities (from farmers, as it were, to philosophers).

I will always remember Grandma Warnick's welcoming personality. She was unfailingly interested in what I was doing and supportive at every step of the road. Her good humor was a perpetual part of her personality. It was always gentle, always with a bit of self-deprecation thrown in (she would always amuse the family with her continuous attempts to learn Spanish). She was an example of finding happiness in simplicity and treasures in humility.

Rest in peace grandma! A flight of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Wedon'tdothat [Bryan]

I recently read a story that I have been unable to get out of my mind. It has haunted my thoughts and dreams. It is both tragic and inspiring. The story is from the autobiographical account of one man's experience during World War II. The writer is the famous German novelist Gunter Grass. It recently surfaced, to nearly everyone's consternation, that the beloved author was actually a member of the infamous Waffen SS -- Hitler's elite stormtroopers. Although he struggles to remember the details, his account of his time during the war is fascinating reading. Here is the part that I just cannot forget:

Day after day in the morning drill, we went through a ceremony conducted by the corporal in charge of weapons, a man who looked serious on principle. He handed them out, we grabbed them. It goes without saying: every member of the Labor Service was to feel honored by the touch of the wood and metal, the butt and barrel of the carbine in his hands....We thought of ourselves as engaged, if not quite married, to the 98 carbine.

Though I make a point of using “we” here, there was an exception to that rank-and-file, somewhat facile plural. This exception was a lanky boy who was so blond and blue-eyed, and whose profile revealed a skull so elongated that the likes of him could be found only in propaganda promoting the Nordic race. Chin, mouth, nose, forehead—each was the epitome of “racial purity.” .... No one could beat him in long-distance running; no one could match his daring when leaping over musty ditches or his agility when clambering over a wall. He could do fifty knee bends without getting tired. There was nothing, no flaw, to sully the picture. But what made him an exception was that he—his name eludes my memory—was an insubordinate: he refused to take part in rifle drill; worse still, he refused to take butt or barrel in hand; and, worst of all, when our dead-earnest drill instructor pressed the carbine on him, he would drop it. Which made him or his fingers criminal.

With the spade, a basic utensil for everyone in the Labor Service, he did all that he was ordered to do. He would also have received top marks in camaraderie. He was the friendly, good-natured type, always ready to help, and he never complained. Upon request, he would give his comrades’ boots such a regulation shine that they would be a feast for sore eyes, even the eyes of the strictest N.C.O. during roll call. He had no trouble with brushes or dustcloths; it was only the firearm he refused to wield.

Every possible sort of punitive labor was imposed upon him, but nothing helped. He would work conscientiously for hours without a peep, emptying the latrine with a worm-infested bucket on a long stick—a punishment known as “honey-slinging” in soldiers’ slang—only to appear, freshly showered, at rifle drill shortly thereafter and refuse to wield the weapon once again. I can see it falling to the ground as if in slow motion.

At first we merely asked him questions and tried to talk him out of it. We actually liked the fellow, this oddball, this knucklehead: “Take it! Just hold it!” But when they took to punishing us on his account and tormented us in the hot sun until we collapsed, we all began to hate him. I, too, worked up my ire against him. We were expected to give him a hard time, and so we did. He had put us under pressure; we would return the favor. He was beaten in his barracks by the very boys whose boots he had polished mirror-bright. All against one. Through the boards that divided room from room, I could hear his whimper, the snap of the leather belt, the loud counting. These sounds are ingrained in my memory. But neither the hazing nor the beatings, nor anything else, could force him to carry arms.

Morning after morning, when we gathered for roll call and the drill instructor started passing out the weapons, the incorrigible insubordinate would let the one meant for him fall to the ground like the proverbial hot potato and immediately return to his ramrod position, hands pressed to trouser seams, eyes fixed on a distant point.

I cannot count the number of times he repeated his mantra, a catchphrase that has never left me: “We don’t do that.” He stuck to the plural. In a voice neither loud nor soft, he pronounced what he and his refused to do. Four words fusing into one: Wedontdothat.

When he was asked what he meant, he repeated the indefinite “that” and refused to call the object he would not take in his hands by its name.

His behavior transformed us. From day to day, what had seemed solid crumbled. Our hatred was mixed first with amazement, then with admiration expressed in questions like “How can that idiot keep it up?” “What makes him so hard-nosed?” “How come he doesn’t report sick? He’s been pale as a ghost lately.”

Then we let him be. No more beatings on the bare behind. The insubordinate stood above us, as if on a pedestal.

In the end, this morning ritual was cut off by his arrest. “Off to the cooler with him!” came the command.

From then on, discipline and order reigned. Every once in a while, the “convict” came up in our conversations. Someone—was it the drill instructor or one of us?—would say, “He must be a Jehovah’s Witness.” Or, “He’s a Bible nut. No doubt about it.” But the blond, blue-eyed boy with the racially pure profile had never referred to the Bible or Jehovah or any other Almighty; he had said simply, “Wedontdothat.”

One day his locker was cleared out: private things, including religious pamphlets. Then he was gone—“transferred,” it was called. We did not ask where to. I did not ask. But we all knew. He had not been discharged as unfit for service; no, we whispered, “he has long been ripe for the concentration camp.”

And since we knew of the camp, Stutthof, only by hearsay, we thought Wedontdothat—which was what we called him in secret—was in good hands. “They’ll bring old Wedontdothat down a peg or two.”

Was it all as simple as that?

Did no one shed a tear?

Did everything go on as it had before?

I must say that I was, if not glad, then at least relieved when the boy disappeared. The storm of doubts about everything in which I’d had rock-solid faith died down....

To the memory of that blond kid. A boy with courage I don't know I possess.

Ellie's Triathlon [Bryan]

Below are some pictures of Ellie's triathlon. It was a 250 meter swim, a 7 mile bike ride, and a 2 mile run. She has been getting up early all summer to train for it. I'll let her blog about it, if she wants, but I am very proud of her. Way to go Ellie!





Here is some poor quality video of the beginning of the race:

The Thin Red Line - Who are you?

I was walking through Walmart the other day and decided to scan the bargain bin DVD stack. It was, as usual, full of junk. But then I saw a copy of The Thin Red line, one of legendary filmmaker Terrence Malik's few projects. I had seen the movie a few years ago, and I was surprised to find such quality work in the bargain bin. I snatched it up for a mere $5! Those of you that haven't seen it really should. The film is, to put is mildly, unconventional. It is more poetry than narrative, more photographic artistry than film making, more philosophical essay than war movie. Its aspirations are high -- to be the Homer of the modern age. And it almost succeeds.

The film often uses the seldom used voice-over technique. The soldiers in the film reflect on what's going on in the battle (and in their own lives) mainly through a quiet voice-over. Their speech retains the ungrammatical cadences of rural America. But at the same time, their rough drawls are transformed into metaphysical poetry. At times, it is even difficult to know who is speaking -- the confusing mixing of the voices suggests, perhaps, our deeper connection to each other. The clip above is an example of the film's visual and literary artistry.

The film is about many things. It asks how conflict arises in the human heart. It ponders the many ways in which this conflict is manifest. Is seems to ask: How can a world that contains both love and beauty also contain such terrible cruelty and destruction. The film is even more amazed, it seems, at the mixtures of love and conflict, destruction and beauty, that reside in the same moment. Think of a predator taking down his prey.

Some key quotes:

What's this war in the heart of nature? Why does nature vie with itself? The land contend with the sea? Is there an avenging power in nature? Not one power, but two?
___________________________________

This great evil,where does it come from? How did it steal into the world? What root did it grow from? Who's doing this? Who killing us? Robbing us of life and light? Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known?
___________________________________

I remember my mother when she was dying. Looked all shrunk up and grey. I asked her if she was afraid. She just shook her head. I was afraid to touch the death I seen in her. I couldn't find nothing beautiful or up lifting about her going back to God. I heard people talk about immortality, but I ain't seen it. I wondered how it'd be when I died. What it'd be like to know that this breath now was the last one you was ever gonna draw. I just hope I can meet it the same way she did. With the same...calm.

The film ends without any strong answer to the perplexities of human conflict. There is a suggestion that love and conflict, beauty and destruction, are both part of one big whole (e.g., it suggests an "opposition in all things" that creates the multi-textured reality we know, love, and hate). There is also a suggestion that peace can be found in reflective pauses, and in such pauses, one can find courage to face such a difficult and beautiful oppositional world. When we stop to think, to be calm, to reflect, we recognize our ties to the world and to those around us. We realize our connection to those we fight with, those we love, and those we love whom we fight with.

Mormons Against Romney? [Bryan and Ellie]

As Mormons, people seem surprised that we are not supporters of Mitt Romney. Not that we have anything personal against him. He seems nice enough. We've heard many good things about his father, George Romney, and he did a good job with the Salt Lake Olympics. His health care plan in Massachusetts is widely admired. If a Republican must win, we suppose we would want Mitt to win. He would be infinitely better than someone like Rudy Giuliani (who combines, it seems to us, all of the bad characteristics of Bush and Clinton in one remarkably unattractive package).

Romney's being Mormon does not really affect our choice. We do not believe that Mormons have any special expertise in public policy, nor has it been our experience that Mormons are particularly more moral than other people -- especially when it comes to questions of large-scale social ethics. Plus, we would not usually vote AGAINST anybody because of his religion, so why should we vote FOR somebody because he shares our religion?

More specific reasons:

1. He has been vague about what his policies would actually be, as have most of the candidates. From what we've heard, though, he seems to want to continue most of Bush's policies (just executed more competently). Thus, he seems to want to carry on the Iraq War delusion (his ignorance about Iraq is actually remarkable). He wants to continue the national disgrace known as Guantanamo Bay (in fact, he even said he would "double it," whatever that is supposed to mean). He seems to want to continue Bush's torture regime. He also seems to favor Bush's tax cuts, which have increased income inequality. We disagree with all of this on moral grounds. He wants to get the "family values" vote, but he certainly does not share our values on these issues.

2. He seems like a consummate willing-to-say-anything-to-get-elected politician. All politicians have to do this dance, to some extent. His flip flops, though, seem particularly offensive. It is one thing to change your mind as situations change (i.e., Kerry changing his mind about Iraq). It is quite another to change your mind for purely political purposes. Did Romney really decide only recently that he was troubled by abortion after talking to a cold-hearted stem cell scientist, as he claims? If so, that means his previous thinking about abortion was remarkably shallow. Chait's description of Romney seems right to us: "I see him as a competent, moderate-minded manager who has decided his only chance of being elected is to masquerade as a whacko." Dude, if you have to change your views completely to win a primary election, you are in the wrong political party!

3. A minor note: He seems too concerned with image and style. At Bryan's graduation, he was the commencement speaker. He refused to put on his mortar board because, he said, it would "mess up his hair." And he wasn't joking. He strikes us as too sculpted and too scripted. He has confused his political persona with who he really is.

Big Apple [Ellie]

First, a silly comment about the title. I can think of nothing I would be less likely to compare New York City to than an apple. First of all, I don't really like apples. (I know this is unAmerican. Yada, yada, yada. I just don't like them, ok?) Second of all, apples have this fresh, clean, innocence about them. Fresh, clean, and innocent are just not terms I'd use to describe New York.

And now for my trip.

I had been looking forward to this trip for six months. Four days in The Big City doing big city things without my kids. Just the thought of the trip would send little thrills up and down my spine. Eating without preparing anyone else's food first. Sleeping without first putting anyone else to sleep. Walking through an art museum with my arms swinging free--no diaper bag, no stroller. Young mother heaven! Everyone warned me I would miss my kids. I did, I guess. In a, "Oh, look at those cute kids playing on the subway. My kids would love that," kind of way, though. Not in a "wish they were here" kind of way. I did miss Bryan. I spent a lot of the time I was in The City plotting a way to come again with him by my side.

I "heart" NYC. All the t-shirts said I would. (And it should be mentioned that EVERYONE was wearing those t-shirts in New York.) Just the memory of seeing Phantom of the Opera on Broadway and walking around Times Square at night still makes me giddily happy. It's hard to describe being surrounded by the huge gaudiness of it all--the excitement in the air, the dizzy, flashing colors splashing every building's surface. The music and the chattering masses of people. I loved everything we did--the Cloisters medieval art museum, a castle made from bits of medieval ruins; the Statue of Liberty (stouter than I expected); the "best of" burger and pizza joints we went to (fantastic!); seeing Manhattan Island lit up like a jeweled fairy land from across the East River; tasting my first caviar at the Russian Tea Room (not as bad as I though it would be); rushing through the Met at a breakneck pace (well, I wish we wouldn't have had to rush); riding in a crazy New York cab; traversing Central Park; and alternately swooning, puzzling, and giggling at MOMA's modern art. The City met all my expectations.

Unexpectedly, one of my favorite things about NYC was the subway. There's something about hurtling through a black abyss in a gently rocking cubicle that fascinates me. Add to the surrealness of that the people-watching possibilities. How many places in a suburban landscape can you find a mid-level executive and a drunken, singing homeless man sitting next to each other? Anyone can and does ride the subway. It's such an equalizer.

I loved being in New York City, and I was sad to leave it. I know I'll go again, and I hope it will be soon. But, for the record, I had a Dorothy moment flying back into Columbus, too. I almost clicked my heels together as I noticed, as if for the first time, Ohio's rain-washed greenness dotted with picturesque white farmhouses. Its beauty seemed to point up the City's flaws. It was clean, fresh, and innocent. Like a big apple.

August Photos [Bryan]

August was a big month for us. We went back to Utah to see my sister Ashlee get married and to see my new nephew Benjamin. Then, Ellie took off (without the kids) to NYC to see her sister Emily. Some highlights of the Utah trip were:

1. Nora got to ride the "Heber Creeper" with Grandma and cousin John.

2. We got to play lots of "Settlers of Catan" with the Warnick clan.

3. We went to the Hill Air Force Base Museum.

4. We spent some time in Provo with Ellie's sister Anna and her husband Spencer.

5. We got to see nephew Benjamin's baby blessing.

6. We went fly fishing in the Uintah Mountains (China Meadows). I caught a 12-inch rainbow, but not much else.

7. I was able to go to Park City and have dinner with my long lost friends, David and Jared. Great food, great company, and great conversations (bow before Barak Obama Chappo, bow!)

8. Ashlee's wedding was beautiful (welcome to the family, Kurt!). We had a terrible time getting there, though, since our car overheated at an extremely bad time (long story).

9. We went to an incredible Thai restaurant in Layton and had our first experience with Tom Ka soup! Yum!

10. We went to the new aquarium they opened in Salt Lake. It wasn't bad. Did you know in the next life I want to be an octopus?

11. My brother Derek and family invited us down for a swimming party at their place. I played Dance Dance Revolution and didn't do too bad.

Some pictures:

Andrew driving around SLC.


Amber and Ruston.


Benjamin Ryan Warnick -- Welcome to the world!


Playing Settlers.


Hill Air Force Base.


Aunt Anna at the SL Temple.


China Meadows. It was a bit cold!

And Nora...

Andrew -- Guess 20 month old boys look like girls

Ellie's look alikes

my look alikes

Not for the faint of heart [Bryan]

Check this out.

My tornado story [Bryan]

This all reminds me of my own tornado story. The only tornado I have ever seen was not in the Midwest, but actually in Salt Lake City. I remember when I was growing up, I once asked my Dad once if a tornado would ever strike Salt Lake. He said that, no, tornadoes were impossible because the mountains prevented them from properly forming.

Well, there I was. The day was August 11, 1999 and I was just started working for the Division of Medical Ethics at the University of Utah. I was standing near a bus stop, waiting for a shuttle to take me up to the hospital. As I stood there, I noticed the sky was turning an odd, brilliant turquoise color. I have always loved storms, so I stood there and watched the turmoil going on in the sky above me. The clouds were moving rapidly and I noticed they were starting to move in a circle. I thought they might be forming a tornado, but I heard my Dad's voice saying, "Tornadoes can't happen in Utah." I dismissed the idea, but I continued watching the rotation and I grew excited as it started to descend. Here is a photo of what I saw at that point:

At that point, I remember turning to the guy standing next to me. He was also watching the sky and I exclaimed, rather stupidly, that "Hey, that looks like a tornado." He nodded is agreement. At that point, the shuttle bus came along. Did I stay to watch the only tornado I would probably ever see? No, I didn't. I got on the shuttle and left. But, there was some consolation to this stupid move. I think that during the shuttle ride I might have passed directly under the funnel cloud. I was watching the cloud out of the shuttle window and I noticed we were headed right for it. As we passed under it, I noticed a strong blast of wind. Needless to say, if the tornado had actually touched down, I might not be here to tell the tale.

Another disaster avoided!

Me and Tornadoes [Bryan]

Speaking of bad Midwest weather, we had a bunch a funnel clouds the other day. They think a tornado might have touched down about four miles from our house.

When I first moved to the Midwest, I thought tornadoes would be relatively rare events. Not so! We usually get 3 or 4 tornado warnings a summer. Tornadoes have touched down in or near both of the communities where we live.

I think I'm getting used to these lonely, windy wanderers. On the day of the storm, I thought I heard the warning sirens go off. The sirens are not close to us, and we can only hear them faintly. I then went to get something but then quickly forgot about the sirens. I was alone with the kids and we sat there quietly and watched the rain and wind as we ate our dinner. After we finished, I noticed the faint sirens again and turned on the TV. The meteorologists were excitedly talking about all the rotation and funnel clouds that had just passed over my area. Just think: a tornado could have destroyed my house as we sat there eating dinner!

Another disaster avoided!

Helping Hands [Bryan]

Yesterday, I was gone on a 10 hour service project to Northernish Ohio. If you hadn't heard, the Midwest has really been pummeled lately with a lot of severe weather. Perhaps hardest hit were some small towns in Ohio. News reports are here. It was, and remains, a messy situation up there. So I donned the yellow shirt of a "Mormon Helping Hand" and went with a few guys from my Church up to Findlay and Ottawa Ohio (about two hours away).

I was happy to go. I've lately tried to be of better use to humanity -- to serve others and thereby find greater depth and richness in life. This was an opportunity to do that and I was not disappointed. It was an amazing experience. The towns still smell of mildew and debris is everywhere. Many stores are still shut down, even though the water has receded almost completely.

I was worried it would be a waste of time, as many service projects are. We drove to Findlay and were assigned a house to visit. We arrived and an old woman smiled and said, "You're late, I could have used you two days ago." We went back to headquarters for further instructions and were told to drive to nearby Ottawa. "Just follow the highway and it will be obvious where to go," they said. Well, the destruction was obvious, but it took us an hour to find the volunteer headquarters. We had already wasted several hours and I thought we would leave without helping a soul.


Luckily, we got a humbling assignment. We went to a young couple (twenty-ish) whose house had been submerged in three feet of water. The husband was desperately trying to salvage the house but had not made much progress. The whole first floor was destroyed. We spent two hours ripping up floors, dry wall, and furniture. It was something that he could not have done by himself (it would have taken days, I imagine). I got to take out a wall with a sledge hammer! It was good to work and to actually feel like I was doing some good. The next house we were assigned to was equally yucky, at least in the basement. The basement floor was covered with inches of mud and with all manner of unknown guck. We cleaned out the basement, swept up the guck, and moved an enormous 300 lbs water heater up some rickety stairs. Again, a task that could not have been done without our help.

At that point, of course, I was covered in sweat and, well, guck. But it was exhilarating to be of such tangible use to others. I wish other people would flood so I could have more opportunities like this!

(My only concern with this whole endeavor is the yellow T-shirt thing. It seems like we Mormons like to use these opportunities to promote goodwill toward our community -- it is, to put it coarsely, "service projects as Public Relations Opportunities." I'm not sure how I feel about this; I think I might prefer being more anonymous.)

A Dinnertime Conversation

Scene: Bryan and Ellie discussing some random trivia. Nora asks a question out of the blue.

Nora: What do you think about the bridge incident?

Bryan: The "incident"? I've never heard you use that word before. Where did you learn it?

Nora: What does "incident" mean?

Bryan: It is like an accident...

Nora: An accident?

Ellie: It is like when something happens, usually something bad. You said it right, "bridge incident."

Nora: Incident.

Bryan: So where did you learn that word?

Nora: The News Hours with Jim Leher.

Bryan and Ellie blink is guilty disbelief, worried that a nerd is being born right before their eyes. They continue eating.

A blast from my past

I can't tell you how exciting this was to 10 year old Bryan.

July Events

We had a fun July. Ellie's parents and sister Emily came to visit us and we spend the month touring around Ohio.

Here are some pictures:

Andrew at our favorite "beach" on Deer Creek Reservoir.


We spent a weekend at Lake Erie. Here we are at the Peace Memorial (3rd tallest monument in the US) which celebrates a U.S. navel victory in the War of 1812. It is on an island called Put-In-Bay, which is a great little resort community. Actually, it is a mix of small town Ohio and resort community.


Here I am on Lake Erie.


On Put-in-Bay you can take a tour of the world's largest geode. It is big enough to fit 35 people inside. Really cool!


Sparklers on the 4th of July. We also went to the Hillard City parade. A fairly unimpressive deal with a bunch of little league baseball teams and local advertising. Fun though.


Nora on the Ferry ride to the island. Kids loved it.

Bryan

The Irresistible Revolution

I just finished reading The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical, by Shane Claiborne. It is on of those books that really shakes you up if you let it. I'm trying not to let it. Claiborne is a radical -- a Christian radical -- a Jesus-obsessed man. He has the strange idea that a Christan should take the teachings of the New Testament seriously. When the Jesus says, "Sell everything you have and give it to the poor," Claiborne has the nutty idea that he meant it. Likewise, when the NT says that we will be condemned unless we clothe the naked, feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, and visit those in prison, he thinks these are things we should actually do. I know, crazy. He also believes, get this, that Christians should be perceived as weird and unpopular, and that they should be allies with the strange and unpopular people of the earth (the lepers, as it were). Christians should befriend the homeless, the prostitutes, drug addicts, criminals, the mentally ill -- you know, the smelly, dirty people that we don't like to be seen with. No easy suburban Christianity for him! To top it all off, Clairborne thinks that the NT says something about "loving your enemies" and "doing good to those who hate you." He thinks Christians could end hatred and war through active and unexpected acts of love -- even if it leads to death. The NT surely can't be that naive...can it?

Clairborn's challenge is to those of us who think that it is compatible with Christianity to live lives of comfort and popularity. He thinks that the NT rejects any such compatibility. A Christian cannot live a safe, ordinary life. Christianity involves taking massive risks, giving up personal comfort, and facing poverty and hatred directly. He writes in the beginning, "I wondered what it would be like if we decided to really follow Jesus." His book is an attempt to tell stories about his journey to take the teachings of the NT seriously. He tells of working with Mother Theresa in Calcutta, of living and working in the "slums" of Philadelphia, of traveling to Iraq to help the very people his country was bombing. His teachings are mixed with the authority of lived experience. I'm getting really nervous about all this, now that I think about it.

No problem, I guess I can just give more to charity, maybe increase my LDS "fast offering" a little bit. Well, here is a sample of Claiborne's writing:

Layers of insulation separate the rich and the poor from truly encountering one another. There are the obvious layers like picket fences and SUVs, and there are the more subtle ones like charity. Tithes, tax-exempt donations, and short-term mission trips, while they accomplish some good, can also function as outlets that allow us to appease our consciences and still remain a safe distance from the poor. ...

It is much more comfortable to depersonalize the poor so we don't feel responsible for the catastrophic human failure that results in someone sleeping on the street while people have spare bedrooms in their homes. We can volunteer in a social program or distribute excess food and clothing through organizations and never have to open up our homes, our beds, or our dinner tables. When we go to heaven, we will be separated into those sheep and goats Jesus talks about in Matthew 25 based on how we care for the least among us. I'm just not convinced that Jesus is going to say, "When I was hungry, you gave me a check to the United Way and they fed me," or, "When I was naked, you donated clothes to the Salvation Army and they clothed me." Jesus is not seeking distant acts of charity. He seeks concrete acts of love" "you fed me...you visited me in prison, you welcomed me into your home...you clothed me."...

Rich and poor are kept in separate worlds, and inequality is carefully managed but not dismantled. When the church becomes a place of brokerage rather than an organic community, she ceases to be alive. She ceases to be something we are, the living bride of Christ. The church becomes a distribution center, a place where the poor come to get stuff and the rich come to dump stuff. Both go away satisfied (the rich feel good, the poor get clothed and fed), but no one leaves transformed. ...

Often wealthy folks ask me what they can do for Simple Way. I could ask them for a few thousand dollars, but that would be too easy for both of us. Instead, I ask them to come visit. Writing a check makes us feel good and can fool us into thinking we have loved the poor. Be seeing the squat houses and tent cities and hungry children will transform our lives. Then we will be stirred to imagine an economics of rebirth. ...

Almost every time we talk with affluent folks about God's will to end poverty, someone says, "But didn't Jesus say, 'The poor will always be with you'?"....Far from saying in defeat that we should not worry about the poor, since they will always be among us, Jesus is pointing to the church in her true identity -- she is to live close to those who suffer. The poor will always be among us, because the empire will always produce poor people and they will find a home in the church, a citizenship in the kingdom of God, where the "hungry are filled with good things and the rich sent away empty." I heard that Gandhi, when people asked him if he was a Christian, would often reply "Ask the poor. They will tell you who the Christians are."

Ouch. That gives new meaning to the question "Are Mormons Christians?"

But is it really that hard to be Christian? Claiborne thinks so:

Jesus doesn't exclude rich people; he just lets them know that their rebirth will cost them everything they have. The story is not so much about whether rich folks are welcome as it is about the nature of the kingdom of God, which has an ethic and economy diametrically opposed to that of the world. Rather than accumulating stuff for oneself, followers of Jesus abandon everything, trusting in God alone for providence.

Reading this, you'd think that Claiborne would be a very serious, somber puritan. Not so: he writes about dancing, singing, and laughing. A God who doesn't dance, for him, is not a God he is able to worship. He writes with humor and wit. I can get on board with that sort of theology. But then he ruins it with all this "give everything to the poor" stuff.

Seriously, this is a very challenging book. I don't think Claiborne's book (or theology) is perfect. He seems to ignore moments in the Bible when God seems to glorify in blood, hatred, and division. I also ignore the uncomfortable stories, of course, but if we are really supposed to take scripture so seriously -- dead seriously -- it would be nice to have a reason why we can also ignore such ugly passages. Claiborne also seems to put a lot of stock in pranks, meant to garner attention for his movement. I don't think Jesus was much of a prankster; he was more of a quiet revolutionary. He wasn't about acting to garner attention. Finally, the book sometimes seems to violate the principle of "doing your alms in secret." The line between teaching through experience and self-glorification is a very thin one, and I'm not sure Claiborne walks it perfectly. But then again, I'm not sure I walk it perfectly when I teach either. Finally, Claiborne really emphasizes high-profile, easy to spot types of human suffering, like homelessness. Not all suffering is found in the ghetto, though. The rich lonely woman dying in a comfortable rest home seems also to be in need, and her need may have little to do with the economics of "empire."

Overall, though, this is a dangerous, life-changing book. It is book very similar to Hugh Nibley's Approaching Zion. Stay far away from both of them.

Bryan

New OSU President

So, OSU has picked a native Utahn, Mormon, bowtie wearing, education professor to be its next president.

Oh wait...

Review: Wicked

So, there we were. Ellie wanted to go see the Broadway sensation Wicked for her Mother's Day present. We are not usually Broadway types (unless it is something by Stephen Sondheim), but we were very excited to go. Although I tend to prefer off-broadway type of plays, I guess we like theatre in all its forms. Broadway shows are usually outside of our price range, so this was a special treat.

I didn't know anything about the show before I went. I knew that many other people liked it. In the end, I think Ellie and I both had a wonderful time, but I thought the show was only modestly successful. The music isn't as good as other broadway plays I like, but in some ways it was richer and darker. The "happy ending" at the end seemed forced, as if the normal theatre goer is unable to deal with anything remotely tragic.

However, the play does have something of an edge to it. It basically has a "the masses are asses" type of attitude, showing how average people think and feel what they are told to think and feel. The play, for all its popularity, is really making fun of we who are sitting there watching it. That is to say, the play is mocking you as you watch it. For example, we, the audience, had believed what we were told about the "real story" of the Wizard of Oz. This play seems to suggest that we were fools for thinking so: Understanding does not come so cheaply. There is no one narrative, it says, which so easily reduces to good versus evil, and yet we always like to think in those terms. This play, as in real life, shows that our perceptions of who is good and who is evil is often an illusion that has been consructed for us by others, and we go along happily believing what we are told. The play is in a long line of plays, my favorite of which is Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, which delight in counter narratives and show us how familiar tales can look very different from another perspective. I really like this genre.

Bryan