Breathing Holes

Remember when you were a kid and you found a turtle or baby bird and put it in a box?  "Make sure it has breathing holes," somebody would say. "You don't want it to suffocate."

Harbor Lights Radio

I started reading, I mean really reading interesting books when I was around fifteen years old. And it was because my dad, an Assemblies of God missionary turned pastor turned radio evangelist turned Christian college recruiter turned traveling evangelist and back to radio host, had in all his travels accumulated so much religion enhanced self reproach that he ultimately turned himself into a piously glazed vessel of bubbling guilt and shame.

By all accounts, the God who Reverend Les chose to follow had either repeatedly and purposefully misled him, possibly for sport, or the connection he so desperately sought was nothing more than a black hole of cascading nothingness. The former, though cruel, at least holds an element of playfulness. Alas, only the omniscient knows for sure. (contact me)

Reverend Les died quietly of a stroke at age 93 while living in Maranatha Manor, an A/G property located near the fairgrounds in north Springfield next to the now defunct Central Bible Institute. After living his entire adult life ministering in one form or another, he left behind three grown children, a few photo albums and two briefcases full of cassette recordings of his self-produced radio show, Harbor Lights, which was broadcast every Sunday night at 10:00 p.m. on KGBX AM and later on KWFC (Keep Watching For Christ). 

For a span of ten years following a final round of cross country evangelizing, Reverend Les would spend his Sunday mornings, and sometimes into the night up to a final frantic hour before broadcast, recording Harbor Lights on big 3M reels of shiny brown audio tape. He would mutter to himself while searching for songs through stacks of albums. He would write and edit devotionals, rehearse said devotionals, splice like a madman, fading distant surf and buoy bells in & out. The finished product was usually pretty good technically and could pass as syndicated by AM standards of the time.

Through the closed studio door, one could hear the melodious tones of Anita Bryant, George Beverly Shea, The Blackwood Brothers and others wafting down the hallway. He loved Negro Spirituals like "Steal Away" and "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child", songs we never sang at Central Assembly (A/G's flagship assemblage, pre megachurch era).  The music segued into calming sermonettes and homilies droned out in an overly kind and understanding radio voice that he only used for self-parody in regular life. For its many listeners residing in nursing homes, Harbor Lights was a soothing Christian ASMR. In this regard, Reverend Les was ahead of his time. He would have loved YouTube.

The Blackout Collection

As cool as the studio was, the library full of books on the surrounding walls is the real subject of this little foray into how a 14-15 boy accidentally, or perhaps by divine Guidance, discovered some amazing literature.

The bookshelves made up two full walls in Harbor Lights studio, containing works of all shapes and sizes, hardbound and paperback. Most were religious in nature, Pentecostal and evangelical theorizing on forgiveness, faith, salvation and the like. My attempts to understand the elaborate riddles contained in Christian thought didn't get far. But scattered throughout the collection, in no apparent order, were a dozen or so books with the covers painted black. Now, this was interesting.

The first "black book" I read, and what a doozy first attempt, was Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, which I found incredibly scary but also fascinating. No Christian theorizing here. All citizens of the World State taking varying levels of Soma to complete their days working for the State. Small doses made people feel good. Large doses created hallucinations and timelessness. My first thoughts about drugs started here, not to mention autocracy, now a timely topic.

One could assume that deliberately painting book covers black would imply some kind of pornographic content*. Sadly, this was not the case.  These were works from Steinbeck, Huxley, Salinger, Bellow, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, some of the western world's greatest writers. I struggled to understand a lot of it but tore into them anyway. The writing, the language was like an open door to somewhere else, where one could breathe freely and talk openly about anything. I mean anything, real things. Forbidden things.

(*The closest thing to porn was a thin book entitle Ancient Greek Eroticism, which contained a few graphic line drawings. Had it not been painted black, I would have missed this truly formative experience.)

Picture, if you will, the good reverend out in his garage spray painting book covers up against broken down cardboard.  This took some time and effort but was a rather clumsy form of censorship, since it had the opposite effect. 

After a child's lifetime filled with eavesdropping on adult dialogue awash in Christian theory and complaint, it was not hard at all to figure out why my true believer father would paint books black. The same intellect that had driven him to enjoy endless theories and interpretations on faith, love and forgiveness also piqued his interest in "worldly" literature. He had a pulse. His curiosity wasn't dead yet. But from his teenage son's point of view, the blackout collection might have just as well been painted day-glow orange.

Are You Washed In The Blood?

Any effort put into analyzing the specific behaviors of highly devout Christian men is  strictly a fool's game, though sometimes their relentless naked ambition gives them away. Take Josh Hawley, for instance. Please.

While the irrationality of religious beliefs can be absolutely endearing in the proper context (i.e. when a self-admitted lost soul finds salvation by allowing an imaginary person into their heart, and this simple ritual actually changes their life for the better for a little while), more often these strongly held religious beliefs create a short-cut to self-delusion, guilt and shame. Religion can become the gateway drug to guilt and self-loathing from there. 

Reverend Les painted those marvelous books black because he was ashamed that he enjoyed reading them.

Aberrant Behavior

Aberrant behavior among those who suffer from delusional levels of piety is not a rare thing across the great expanse of the American Bible Belt, of which Springfield is often described as the buckle.

(If Springfield isn't the buckle of the Bible Belt, is it not the buckle's frame or perhaps the prong? Further, if Springfield is, in fact, the buckle of the Bible Belt, whose pants are being held up? Next topic for Non-Believer Bible Study!)

Jerry Falwell, founder of Richard Nixon's Moral Majority was the original sinner regarding blending church and state back in the 1970s. Falwell studied at Baptist Bible College on Kearney Street. 

Shyster snake lubricant purveyor, Jim Bakker, creator of PTL Club, was an Assemblies of God preacher who was excommunicated by A/G presbyters to much national coverage right here on Boonville Avenue.

John Ashcroft, Hillcrest High School's most famous graduate, whose father was president of Evangel University, ordered breasts to be draped on statues at the Department of Justice when he became U.S. Attorney General.

Oh, and then there's the pathetically heartbreaking tale of former SMSU university president, Arthur Mallory, an all-around decent fellow who did much to promote public education in Missouri and eventually became the state's Commissioner of Education. While serving as commissioner in 1987, Mallory was caught taking wine bottles from store shelves and taking a swig or two before placing them back on the shelf. He resigned in self-disgrace immediately and sought treatment for a "drinking problem". But was it the drinking? Jesus turned water into wine, which strongly implies He sanctions its consumption. No, it wasn't the drinking.

And, of course, there's the amazing story of Tim Carpenter - Family Living Assistant Pastor from James River Assemblies of God, now known as James River Church. Tim staged his own violent self-abduction in 1998 that made front page of the News-Leader. Pastor Lindell, who still presides over the megachurch in Ozark, Missouri, led a community-wide search and rescue mission, complete with helicopters, highway signs, prayer groups and press conferences. In the end, it was nothing more than your garden variety evangelical husband covering up a covert affair and not having the guts to ask for a divorce.

Local police never bought Pastor Lindell's public relations campaign and eventually tracked Carpenter down in Memphis, Tennessee, where he had taken a job at a building supply store and had rented an apartment. You can read the whole story here: https://ozarksangel.blogspot.com/2005/07/self-abduction-of-tim-carpenter.html

Breathing Holes

One must recognize that there are, at any given time but especially now, an abundance of tortured souls struggling to find a secure place in a spectacularly over-stimulated world of joy and cruelty, heartbreak and exultation, death and destruction. For those that can afford it, employing a life coach or counselor is an option. For others, a well timed Xanax (Soma) does the trick. For many, religion is worth a shot, though history shows that religion causes as much widespread suffering as it alleviates.

Reverend Les certainly repressed the usual things Christian men tend to stifle, and we can only imagine how this struggle played out for his long-suffering wife. He did at least allow himself his personal blackout collection of "worldly" literature. Yes, it's kind of pathetic, but maybe those amazing books served as his breathing holes. They certainly were for his son.

Emergencies, Evangelicals & Saluting the Troops

(This piece was written in 2019 prior to pandemic.)

A child was kidnapped in St. Charles, Missouri last week. St. Charles is 200 miles away, but my phone went off like a damn fire alarm. So did yours. It happens a lot, but this time it made me jump. Authorities are alerting concerned citizens to be on the lookout for a silver SUV.

It's heartwarming to know Americans care so much about the safety of children. We revere the unborn fetus, of course. After that, well, it's every toddler for himself. All those cuts for education, nutrition, healthcare and the accompanying increase in child poverty are a form of tough love, right? But if one of them gets kidnapped, our phones blow up.

SUV, by the way, stands for Sports Utility Vehicle, a marketing concept thought up by an ad agency representing the auto industry. Everybody knows what an SUV is. 
Be on the lookout. We're all in this together. Looking for a silver SUV.

Wait, a Silver SUV just drove by. I'll be right back. Could never forgive myself if . . . 

No worries, just neighbors returning from the grocery store. They wonder why I'm checking them out. I wave.
"Sorry, Amber Alert," I say. "Silver SUV. Just checking."
"This is a Crossover," they say. A Crossover?
"A smaller version of an SUV. We love it."

"Great! Thanks!"

Egregious General Anxiety Disorder

I used to tease an office colleague that they suffered from Egregious General Anxiety Disorder (EGAD), which caused them to experience some form of stress and agitation during almost every waking moment. Even their dreams were fraught with harrowing images. 
Luckily, EGAD can be treated with drug therapy. Ask your doctor about Egadizol.
*May increase chances of stroke. Side effects may include depression and thoughts of suicide.

So, why does it feel like we're in a constant state of emergency, even here in the American Midwest, arguably one of the safest places on Earth? You may disagree that emergencies are ever present, but just wait. There have been two mass shootings and a tornado since I started writing this a couple of days ago. Or, here's a simple test: Have you ever seen a flag at half mast but couldn't remember which tragedy was being commemorated? Or, how about this.


"Daddy, why is the flag way up high today?" 
"Oh, honey. That's how they're suppose to be." That's how we're suppose to live. Full mast.

All across America, people are randomly gunned down for having the audacity to attend schools or visit restaurants, concerts, movie theaters, stores and churches. Most often, the assailant is an angry white man armed with a lethal military assault rifle. Mainstream media hesitates to call them domestic terrorists, which sounds almost chummy, as though they wiped down counter tops and straightened the living room before heading out for a bloodletting. Let's just call them terrorists. Most of the killers seem like regular Americans. The guy down the street could be kidnapping children and shooting up synagogues next week. He does drive a van adorned with political stickers, which serves as an advertisement. "I'm a crazy motherfucker? Beware!" It's part of a new bad ass culture. Big trucks, big flags, big idiots. And then it happens.


"I can't believe it happened here," someone will say. 
"He was quiet. Kept to himself."
"No, he didn't. He had crazy right-wing stickers plastered all over his van!"
"Oh, you're right. I was thinking of that other guy."

"Yeah. The guy before last."

Emergencies bring us together, if you're a glass half full type, which may partially explain our perverse dependence on calamity as part of our national identity. Shared suffering and fear are effective agents of unity even in a politically divided country. For a little while. Of course, long term angst is generated by disaster media like Fox News, which has discovered how to parlay fear and loathing into untold billions in profits. If calamity actually did bring us closer, wouldn't we be pretty damn unified by now? Unity via disaster and/or mass murder seems to have an abbreviated shelf life.

Common responses.

"Yes, a lot of people died and it is a terrible tragedy, but the community really came together after the tornado/flood/hurricane/mass killing."
"The first responders were amazing, cordoning off the building and caring for the wounded."
"Our deepest thoughts and prayers go out to families of victims."
The implication here is that shallow thoughts and prayers would be offered for lesser traumas.
"Lord, thank you for sparing us from the tornado that killed our neighbors," could be considered a shallow prayer.

If calamitous events revive our sense of community, am I wrong to think the world could really benefit from a fucking asteroid about now? A small one? One that allows most of us to survive and perhaps get our priorities straightened out?

In case you've been too distracted by everything, you should be aware that tornadoes, fires, hurricanes and floods have become more severe than in any living person's memory. No, it's not god punishing us for the existence of Pat Robertson. It's global warming, stupid!
An invasive species has pushed earth's environment to the tipping point for life in general, except for maybe viruses & such. 
We would do more, but the invasive specie is us. Smart as we think we are, it's becoming clear that we're fatally flawed.

Maybe we should do Mother Earth a big favor and go run off a cliff en masse like a colony of lemmings. Maybe that's what we're doing in slow motion and haven't realized it yet.

A Confession About the Troops

This is as good a time as any for me to make a confession. I'm pretty sure that I'm not thankful enough for the troops, not by community standards anyway. I mostly feel sorry for them. We go overboard saluting the troops because we feel guilty for not really caring more about what they do. We have no idea what they do most of the time. Neither do they.
In keeping with a healthy conscience, I will heretofore resist standing at Hammons Field to salute the kid who enlisted as his last best option after being fired from his job at the Dollar General in Ava, Missouri. The honored veteran, wearing a ball cap and an oddly menacing heavy metal t-shirt with camo cargo shorts, reluctantly waves to the crowd and sits down in the Hero's Chair (Courtesy of Factory Outlet). No, when everyone rises during the singing of "God Bless America", I will seek out a corn dog.
I mean, since when is the National Anthem not enough?

Now, much to my dismay, I look around and realize it's Christian Night. Dear God, help me. Of course it is. If it were Muslim Night, the crowd would be sparse with only a few international students from the university. I'm also imagining a Buddhist Night where no score is kept. But in Springfield, Missouri, it's Christian Night at the old ballpark, and the faithful are all about saluting young Travis from Ava, Jesus, and Furniture Outlet, of course.

Many in the crowd are wearing red promotional t-shirts.  Instead of "Cardinals" in cursive across the front, it says "Christian". It does, I swear. Here's a picture. I have chosen to carefully crop out their faces to protect them and myself from persecution.

In Springfield, being surrounded by evangelicals is part of life, and I learned long ago to just let it go. My parents brought me into the world as an evangelical. I was saved at age eight at Calvary Temple Assembly of God church on East Grand, which was torn down a few years ago and replaced with a Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market. We know what the real religion is here, don't we?

Evangelical Christians in Southwest Missouri are among the most judgmental and politically conservative in the country. Evangelical Christians are also the most ardent Trump supporters on the planet. They would send their kids to his university in a heartbeat. They'd buy his steaks. They eagerly swallow all the lies and fear-mongering spewing forth from the Orange Foolius because they believe, somehow, that he is God's chosen leader. To them, Trump is kind of like a secular and profane American Ayatollah, who could only rise to power in the dim sunset of 21st century America.

Tonight, the Christians at the ballpark are not fearful at all, which is strangely heartwarming. This is how it should be. Of course, for them, there's really no reason to fear anything, especially while surrounded by people who look just like you. There isn't a Muslim or MS13 member in sight, though there are several silver SUVs in the parking lot (some may be crossovers). Still, if the Rapture were to occur at this moment, a few of the true believers would experience a twinge of sadness to miss the post game fireworks. But for the most part, they're having a great time, secure in their delusions, rooting for the home team.

As one, they rise to salute Travis from Ava in the Hero's Chair, and I quickly break for my corn dog. Behind me, a church soprano backed by a ukele choir performs God Bless America.

Oh, how I've come to loath the proliferation of patriotism checks at every community gathering. I long for the days when troops and police officers stoically performed their duties without forced public recognition. Can we not just have a general understanding that we support them? No, we can't, not even at the annual chili cook-off.

"Let's all recognize that we wouldn't be able to celebrate this occasion if it weren't for the brave men and women who so, uh, bravely protect our freedom," says the master of ceremonies.
Really? I think we could. I think we could hold a fucking chili cook-off!

President Trump, who is himself a frequent declarer of emergencies real and imagined, now wants to send direct text messages to the entire US population when disasters strike. AT&T and Verizon are fine with this, by the way, and I read somewhere that the system was set up like Amber Alerts, so we won't be able to block him.

A test of the Presidential Text system was suppose to have happened a few months ago but was somehow sidelined, probably by somebody who has since been fired. If it ever starts, you know our phones will be buzzing at least once a month about some goddam thing: Fake News, Saturday Night Live, Hillary, god knows what. 

So, if you've had this strange sense of foreboding that something really awful is about to happen, there's good reason. It's pervasive. It's happening. American life, as we know it, is in emergency mode. Level Orange. Be vigilant.

Also, a kid was kidnapped in St. Charles and may be in a silver SUV. 
Never heard what happened with that kid, can only imagine.

A Quick History of Teacher Unions in Missouri

A lot of people have been asking about Missouri teacher unions and why they seem invisible during these times when schools are under siege by our completely disconnected ruling political party. 

There are three teacher associations in Missouri. Two of them are unions, and one is an association. They all sell cheap liability insurance. Unions represent employee groups with the aim of creating a written Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA), which determines compensation and working conditions for employees.

Last time I checked, teachers in metro districts of St. Louis and Kansas City belong to the American Federation of Teachers (AFT). AFT has a national presence and an active, outspoken leader in Randi Weingarten. When you hear about teachers striking in Chicago and elsewhere, it's usually AFT.

To the overall detriment of teacher representation in the state, Missouri State Teachers Association (MSTA) and Missouri National Education Association (MNEA) actively compete for memberships outside of the two major metro districts. 

What's the difference between MSTA and MNEA?

This is where it's hard to be objective as a former MNEA member. A lot of people don't realize MSTA was a charter member of NEA way back in the 1850's, when teacher groups from all over came together in Philadelphia to form what became the NEA, to promote public education nationwide.

Sometime in the early 1970s, a large faction of MSTA objected to sending dues to their national association, the NEA, and divorce proceedings between MSTA and a newly formed MNEA ensued. The split was settled in 1973. MSTA kept the name, the nice home in Columbia, the getaway resort on Jack's Fork river, while the MNEA retained the affiliation to NEA. (I don't know who negotiated this deal, but MNEA should get its money back.)

From 1973, MNEA began to rapidly grow with charter locals popping up in St. Louis and Kansas City suburban districts, as well as Springfield and Columbia. From the beginning, The new MNEA tended to be the more activist organization than the old MSTA.

Politically, the two associations differ a great deal, though they do come together when the state legislature or Rex Sinquefield or some half-ass GOP functionary comes up with an ingenious plan to end teacher tenure, privatize schools or maybe even endanger the health of students and teachers during a pandemic. Too much to hope for? Probably.

MSTA is the more "conservative" organization and is dominant in rural Missouri. For example, when NEA members voted to support Roe vs Wade, MSTA used that as a membership campaign. One example of how they differ is that regional universities like Evangel, Southwest Baptist or College of the Ozarks promote MSTA membership to their education majors. NEA is not allowed on these campuses, as far as I know. Here's another example of how they differ:

In the early 2000s, a new superintendent in the Independence school district threw out the teachers' written employment agreement, which functioned as a CBA. The district argued that teachers had no right to bargain collectively, so the agreement was meaningless. MNEA attorneys filed a lawsuit against the school district of Independence, claiming that the state constitution provided collective bargaining rights to all employees. MSTA disagreed and filed an amicus brief, siding with the Independence district. 

In 2007, the Missouri Supreme Court ruled that Missouri teachers did indeed have a constitutional right to bargain collectively through a representative of their own choosing. MNEA won. MSTA lost. MSTA later issued statements that they had somehow endorsed bargaining rights for teachers all along. To this date, MSTA has never bargained a teacher contract in any Missouri district.

Even with the Supreme Court win, the state still had no law providing guidance for teachers to select a bargaining representative. The Missouri State Board of Mediation covered such elections for all other employee groups but didn't cover teachers. Besides, the Republican governor (Roy Blunt's son) had gutted the board of mediation, so it couldn't do much anyway. So, Springfield NEA (SNEA) presented a petition to the school board in 2008, signed by 1,100 teachers, to hold a representation election anyway.

The school board and administration were none too keen with this situation and advised that the teachers should wait until the GOP-led legislature provided a new law regarding teacher representation and collective bargaining. Fourteen years later there still is no such law.

The Missouri School Board Association, with obvious input from MSTA attorneys, came up with a couple of new school board policies that would "sort of" follow National Labor Relations Board and Missouri Board of Mediation practices but with a twist that would allow for joint representation between MSTA and SNEA via a confusing two-part election process. Springfield teachers shot this notion down in election #1 in late 2008, and elected SNEA as their representative in election #2. SNEA has been bargaining contracts for teachers since 2009.

To this day MSTA is more anti-NEA than they are pro-teacher, as far as I can tell. MNEA has its own problems trying to be an advocate for teacher rights while tiptoeing around certain issues for fear of pushing "conservative" members toward MSTA, which is all too eager to raid their membership. So, when people ask why teacher unions in Missouri seem so meek and invisible, it's because there is a lack of unity, and a resulting lack of power. It's a microcosm of the political malaise that surrounds us, and it's a damn shame for public school teachers.

Growing Up in 1960's SGF (Ep. 1) - Baseball, God, Evangel

I am 70 years old, having just recently achieved this status.  Yes, I'm aging. So are you, by the way. But my skin has turned to crepe paper, and I find myself saying "when I was a kid" a lot. My parents used to tell me about how hard life was during the depression. By contrast, my kids hear how good is was during the 50s and 60s. Such is life in the here and now. 

So, I looked up Springfield, Missouri 1961 just for fun, and Google shows me a random picture of Katz Department Store on Glenstone. I used to buy albums there. Maybe it was a Cranks or Osco by then, but I recall purchasing the very first Grateful Dead album there. Hippies were kind of scary to me at the time, but I later learned to love them. In any case, the old Katz store is now vacant, which is pretty much how it was during its most recent incarnation as a CVS.

Growing Up In Springfield.

For some reason, the prevailing image of my boyhood during the early 60s in Springfield is playing little league baseball games at Harry Carr Park, near the corner of Fort & Grand. The Children's Home, as it was called, once occupied that spot. The Children's Home was a much smaller building than the current Great Circle campus, which currently occupies that space and beyond. Great Circle is a non-profit Behavior Health Provider, which now serves 40,000 kids on campuses across Missouri. In 1961, there was no need to accommodate such numbers of discarded children. 

Harry Carr Park, named after a former mayor, was a wide open space that took up most of a city block. There were no fences. Hit a ball past the outfielder and take off, which I remember doing several times. A pair of small wooden bleachers were behind home plate facing southeast. Games were played in early evening, and I distinctly remember a backdrop of beautiful sunsets from my shortstop's view.

I also retain the delicious olfactory memory of newly mowed grass blending with wafts of cigarette and cigar smoke. In 1961, the local Kiwanis Club sponsored little league baseball all across the city in every park. I played multiple games at Silver Springs, Grant Beach, Fassnight, Doling and Smith Park, all of which were nicely manicured with neatly striped baselines and equipped with real umpires in full gear.

To me, it was like the big leagues, traveling around town playing at different parks. The Kiwanis Club provided t-shirts. And if you weren't lucky enough to be on a fully sponsored team with cool uniforms, you could sign up to be placed on a team at the Park Board.

Pre-Springfield

For a minute, let's go back to 1947. My age at the time was -4. My Canadian parents, having been called of God to the mission field, moved their young family of five from Toronto, Canada to mainland China, near Canton. Along with the rest of their Pentecostal friends, they were earnestly unaware of the political situation in China. Within two years, fearing for their lives, they would summarily be kicked out, as the new Communist regime of Mao Zedong swept to power.

Either God didn't see that coming, or it was just a bad connection, perhaps a test of faith. Who knows? People who are called of God spend a lot of time discussing such things among themselves because it happens all the time. Undaunted, the family returned to Toronto, where Dad cobbled something together as a singing radio evangelist. This was the context in which I took that dangerous passage into the world 70 years ago. 

When I was three years old, God once again interrupted our lives to call the paterfamilias to Springfield, Missouri in order to join up with the Assemblies of God movement. They called it a movement at the time, as they were literally setting up shop to save the world. My parents were both ordained ministers. My mom was typically the church pianist and never actually gave a sermon, though she did write Sunday School lesson plans and little daily devotion books for many years.

The reverence my father had for leaders of the A/G "movement" was puzzling to me. The General Superintendent. The Head of Home Missions. I still remember their names. Live radio shows were broadcast every Sunday night from inside Headquarters, which is what Dad always called the Assemblies of God building on Division & Boonville. He was super creative, loved a crowd and had visions of Godly fame dancing in his head. Alas, those visions never came to fruition on a scale he had envisioned. Looking back, I think he probably would have been happier in the entertainment industry.

The Lord's plans for my dad at A/G Headquarters didn't pan out as expected. A year later, he was called by God to Southern California to work for a radio evangelist, who, shockingly enough, turned out to be a complete shyster. Dad was appalled to be complicit in bilking money from old people. I have few memories of North Hollywood. I learned the word smog. But dad moved the whole family of six back to smogless Springfield a year later, slightly humbled but still pious enough to rejoin the movement, albeit with a lesser job. Lord's will? It seemed God kept sending Dad off on missions that didn't work out for him, but who's to question? Mysterious ways, right? At least He wasn't suggesting he could murder his son, for which I am grateful.

Back to baseball

To summarize, I grew up in an extremely religious Canadian family in the Queen City of the Ozarks. My dad, who was born in England, didn't understand baseball. He really didn't want to. Rounders was the game he understood, which, conversely, I had no interest in learning. Who plays rounders? As far as I could tell, baseball was the most perfect game. Unfortunately, I found my dad to be an annoying fan on the occasions he would stay for my games, and I found it baffling how many people seemed to enjoy his company. He was the kind of guy that needed an audience, and regular Ozarker men of his generation didn't quite know what to make of him. You couldn't always tell why they were laughing, and he didn't seem to care.

Up until I hit the bigtime little league at Harry Carr Park, most of my baseball was played on the playgrounds at Mark Twain Elementary school and at a big open field just west of South Haven Baptist Church. Kids would play pickup games back then, and even school recess always started with picking captains and choosing teams. Sometimes the teacher would be the "Steady Pitcher".  If we didn't have enough for a full game, we'd play Fly Knocker or 500 or Indian Ball, invented variations that usually involved chasing batted balls and arguing over rules.

I was always the teacher's pet in elementary school. It was probably the worst epithet I endured, which isn't too bad by today's standards. I was smallish, quiet, polite and spoke a more proper form of Canadian English than most of my classmates. Words like "house", "about", "sorry" always drew comments. But I never felt ostracized or bullied by my classmates. All my friends moms loved me, which is always a good thing.

When my playground friends asked me to try out for their baseball team, the Yellowjackets, I was pretty excited. This was a team with very cool black and yellow uniforms, black hats, yellow bills. They were really good and almost always won their age group. My friends' dads were the coaches and wore the same hats, very cool.

Tryouts at East Nichols Park on a Saturday, and I never really heard why I didn't make the team. Not to brag, but I could hit, pitch and outrun just about everybody. Maybe dad talked to the coaches too long. In the end, I didn't care that much. I signed up at the Park Board and got on a team that was coached by a couple of Evangel College students, probably as part of a college PE class, but they were into it. The Falcons. White hats, red bills, emblem of swooping Falcon with menacing talons. We bought our own baseball pants or wore jeans.

The Falcons were quite a ragtag bunch, very much a local version of Sandlot. Poor kids, kids like me who didn't have connections, one Hispanic kid, Jaimie, who everybody called Jamie. We only played one year because our coaches graduated and moved back to Michigan and Illinois. At that time, most Evangel students came from out of state. We practiced at Smith Park, and often hung around Evangel's campus, which was a bunch of old army barracks with faded asbestos siding.

Evangel College 1961

Evangel College, where two of my older siblings graduated, was a former US Army hospital that had been gifted to Assemblies of God by the Truman administration for the price of $1. In the 60s Evangel was still a series of incredibly long hallways connecting former hospital rooms and barracks. They had an intramural basketball gymnasium that was so small, the walls served as the out of bounds. It was quaint, and the students seemed to love it there. At the time, Evangel was a bunch of A/G kids, a lot of them pastor's kids, far away from their parents for the very first time. It was probably the wildest school in town, even though you could be expelled if you had the misfortune of being caught going to movies or dances.

Because of the absolute prohibition of all things deemed "worldly" by family and church, I didn't see my first movie until the age of 14. It was "The Great Race", at the Gillioz, with Tony Curtis, a campy movie with villains and heroes. But I was amazed by the sheer magnitude of images and sound and soon placed the value of movie theaters far above church. Oh, it wasn't even close. Alas, my ultra religious upbringing had trained me to be less than forthcoming with my parents. Lucky for me, they had already raised three children and were too tired to closely monitor my comings and goings. I often think of my poor older sisters and what they endured. Thankfully, my parents standards had slipped over the years, and I was the beneficiary.

Southwest Missouri Deep Thoughts

 If you feel compelled to disguise yourself

in order to do the right thing

Consider 

You may have been doing

the wrong thing

up to that point

Angry Lambs

A virus has somehow recruited humans

To aid conversion of more hosts

Now they all lined up

For an unhinged carnival ride

& final altar call

Without one plea

#SavetheSaved

Prophecy #3 - Jesus, Mary Magdalene & Lifelong Learning

On Prophecy & Lifelong Learning

Prophets are pretty common, though most don't realize their status or potential. An advanced prophet, my term, is highly skilled at paying attention and learning. I'd say prophets are "lifelong" learners, but the term has been ruined by well-meaning public school officials, bless their hearts, always seeking new language to say the same things over and over again. (Meanwhile, kids learn.)

God says that once you stop being a lifelong learner, you're dead. Until then, you're at least learning about what dying feels like.

As if to prove me not dead yet, God recently revealed some amazing passages in the Gnostic Gospels. Fifty-two of these books, written on papyrus in Greek and bound in leather, were hidden in large clay pots found in remote caves somewhere in Upper Egypt. These books were written at about the same time that Mathew, Mark, Luke and John were circulating through a fragmented early church. The Gnostic Gospels of Nag Hammadi were discovered in 1945.

Of course, the ruling patriarchy accepted Christianity only after they figured out how to use it for control as they continued the eternal quest for wealth & power. It became dangerous for anyone to possess certain "heretical" gospels. One needn't be reminded what happens to heretics once a true religious hegemony comes to power. Thus, the books were stashed away in caves.

Prophetic Warning: Beware of religious hegemony. Starts with a minority and ends with minority rule.

Back to the Gnostic Gospels, which will forever be included in my own lifelong personal Bible.

Here's a poem from what sounds a lot like a female deity, unnamed - from Gnostic text, Thunder, Perfect Mind (0-200 AD)

For I am the first and the last.

I am the honored one and the scorned one.

I am the whore and the holy one.

I am the wife and the virgin . . .

I am the barren one,

  and many are her sons . . .

I am the silence that is incomprehensible . . .

I am the utterance of my name.

Mary Magdalene

Was the poem written by Magdalene? The Gospel of Philip tells us that Mary Magdalene, who is referred to as his companion, was clearly one of the disciples. The others become would become jealous when Jesus kissed her in front of them and would complain to Jesus that he loved her more. And lo, Jesus says, I'm paraphrasing, answered, "You want me to love you like I love her?" I hear an unspoken, "Really?", but that's open to interpretation.

Of course, this is my own interpretation. I'm no theologian. I can tell you that God has never condemned the Gnostic Gospels, nor has He questioned their relevance or authenticity. I find them strangely reassuring. A bunch of old church elders declared them heretical, not God.

I'll leave you with this gem from the Gospel of Thomas:

Jesus said, "Know what is before your face, and what is hidden from you will be revealed to you." 

Variation on Revelation, Female Deity

 

For I am the first and the last.

I am the honored one and the scorned one.

I am the whore and the holy one.

I am the wife and the virgin . . .

I am the barren one,

  and many are her sons . . .

I am the silence that is incomprehensible . . .

I am the utterance of my name.

from Gnostic text, Thunder, Perfect Mind (0-200 AD)

Story Cube Prophecies

Story Cube Prophecies

This evening's moon crosses the sky in a Waxing Gibbous phase, more than half but less than full. In 29.531 days, it will return to this phase again. If one were to seek a spiritual meaning for such a moon, one could learn that this is a phase for attention to detail, tweaking of one's life a bit.

Speaking of moon phases, specifically the waning phase . . .

I retired right before the pandemic. So, hey, Happy Days! It's okay, though, given our shared harsh realities, it's probably the best way to get through a plague. Provided there's enough scratch coming in to pay for a place. Which, praise be, there is at this moment in time. The whole concept of retirement is laughable to God, I'm sure. No, I'm sure. He told me.

James River, southeast Springfield

Prophesy: God says there are two ways humans think about their lives. There are those whose lives revolve around the idea that they are living on the Earth, and those living with the knowledge that they are of the Earth. Religion for "on the earth" people is all about consumption & seeking temporal gains. Religion for those "of the earth" is more about recognizing beauty in nature. One worships greed & wealth, the other art & nature. Any overlap is strictly superficial. Humans are the only species with this dual view of life, as far anybody knows.

That may be the only thing that makes us special, except . . . well, science. 

I've already deleted a complete paragraph about American politics. Poof! You're welcome. Wasn't worth describing something so pathetically obvious to so many. And there are people who can deliver it better . . . without the profanity. But there's this tidbit.

Prophesy: Josh Hawley, in his later years, will wear a cape but will struggle to find a walking cane to his liking. He will come to resemble a shriveled vampire. His associates will call him "Vlad" behind his back. He will never live in Missouri.

It's not much, but I had to get it out.

On that note, tonight's prophecy is complete. I'm going outside now to take a shot of the Waxing Gibbous and post it as a parting gift of love to all of my fellow humans who know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are of the earth.

Here's a prophecy from July 2019. God told me it was too long. Of course, She's right. https://ozarksangel.blogspot.com/2019/07/word-from-prophet-of-god.html

Pandemic Journal #2

I set up this title, Pandemic Journal #2, weeks and weeks ago. I thought these uniquely dystopian times should be documented in some personal way. Then, weeks passed. Six months passed. I made up some songs, a couple of poems, cooked a lot, planted a garden, researched stuff, harvested a garden, walked in the woods, talked with people I love, kept my distance. Outside of my little world, the situation worsened.

In April 2019, a year before Covid-19 descended upon us, I said this in a post called Emergencies, Evangelicals & Saluting the Troops:

Imagine an asteroid or small planet hitting the earth, causing widespread tidal waves stories high. Would people be brought together? Would they compete? Care for each other? Would government be a help to people, or would leaders take advantage of the chaos to achieve maximum wealth accumulation and control?

A worldwide plague wasn't on my list of disaster scenarios. I probably had too much faith in modern medicine, having grown up in the days when diseases like polio and smallpox were defeated. Plagues were for Dark Ages, or at least pre smart phone. But then, there is still no cure for cancer, and it's fair to say cancer is an epidemic. Everybody has been touched by cancer in some way. Now, it seems certain, due to lack of leadership and a bewildering absence of community cohesion, Covid-19 will affect virtually everyone before it's contained, whenever that may be. We all will know someone who contracted Covid-19, just like cancer.

Since I do live in Springfield, Missouri, which I sometimes refer to as Pleasantville, the expected response from community leaders is . . . to dodge accountability. Follow the governor, CDC, County Health, all of which are, in turn, following their best instincts to avoid accountability? The only leader in the entire community, one who is at least attempting to fill the void, is a hospital CEO. The bodies are accumulating, folks. I'm sure he's being serreptitiously thanked by the aforementioned cowards, who eagerly sought leadership roles they weren't capable of filling. To them I can only offer a heartfelt Fuck You!, as they contort themselves to accommodate a non-existent balance between science and political/religious delusion. 

Thanks to the absolutely clueless moral & ethical black hole that is Donald Trump, the ornate facade covering American exceptionalism and the Republican Party has been unceremoniously ripped away like a bandage covering gangrenous flesh. Americans, still using a strange electoral system bent to favor former slave owners, somehow elected an international patsy, useful to international crime bosses for money laundering and fraud. He is now commander-in-chief of the greatest military power and largest economy on earth. This while being manipulated by these same crime bosses, who are much smarter and wealthier sociopaths than DT. They seek unchallenged world domination. It's very much like a bad James Bond movie, where we're all extras with no control over script edits.

I don't watch doomsday movies as a rule, but images from "Melancholia" (2011), where the Earth was threatened by a rogue planet, keep bubbling into my dreams and consciousness.

As Melancholia approaches Earth, no leaders rise to the occasion. Nobody rallies the people together. News reports casually deny any danger. Resume your normal life. It will disappear. Meanwhile, disaster capitalists plot their strategies, because that's what they do. Is it realistic how existentially vacant life had become for these characters? One still aggressively plans a clever ad campaign. Another, who knows the Earth is doomed, releases his stable of beautiful thoroughbreds to graze on a nearby golf course.

[Spoiler: Earth was blown to bits in a white hot moment of interplanetary impact. Everybody perishes. All life on Earth was erased within seconds, along with any human record that it had ever existed. The screen goes dark. After a pause, movie credits scroll.]

As a fractured society divided by greed, competing culture religions and almost comical misinformation campaigns, it seems we grapple with alternating currents of human frailty and resilience during the Great Coronavirus Pandemic of 2020. There is no script, no scrolling line of credits to assure us it's fiction. Because it's not. We witness, together and separately, the outrageous and relentless unraveling of the greatest civilization in human history. 

But there is hope. Right? Of course there is. There has to be.

It may sound absolutely heretical to say out loud, especially as a resident of Pleasantville, but Covid-19 may be this country's last best hope for systemic change. Covid-19 has exposed our collective wounds for all to see. An election may treat a few symptoms. At least it's a rallying point. At best, it may be the start of a new healing regimen. The rest is on us.

Ordinary Tale #1 24Sept2020

 Ordinary Tale

September 24, 2020

Aldi today, guy reaches by me for milk, no mask.

Me: Well, aren't you special!

What?

No mask

I don't wear one

Incredibly inconsiderate of you

If you look at the science . . .

No! Don't need that bullshit today

So tired

George Wallace Comes to Springfield - 13 Sept 1968

On Thursday, September 12, 1968, George Wallace and his third-party campaign for president arrived in Springfield to hold a rally on the public square in front of Heer's department store. Just a few months earlier, civil rights leader Martin Luther King and leading democratic presidential candidate, Bobby Kennedy, had been murdered. Until 2020, 1968 had been the most dangerous and turbulent year of my life. 

In September 1968, the most important election of my young life was less than two months away. Voting age was 21 at the time, and I was a 17 year-old senior in high school. But I was already a political junkie living in a totally apolitical family. (Maybe it was that 4th grade report on Thomas Jefferson, have no idea.)

The 1968 election would be the first presidential election after the Voting Rights Act (1965), so there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon through the despair of living through the killings of MLK & RFK. 

I was also very concerned for my own personal well-being. Older friends had already been drafted and sent to Vietnam for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to die for their country for no apparent reason, the first war in a pattern that has continued almost uninterrupted to this day. Like one of my living heroes, Mohammed Ali, had said a year earlier, I had "no quarrel with those Viet Cong."

The fact that George Wallace, avowed racist, hate monger, the man who literally blocked an entrance to black students attempting to enroll at his state university, would come to my town was both a source of dark curiosity and disgust. How would he be received here? Would there be protesters? My friend, Kevin, and I made sure there would be at least two. We found a piece of leftover white cardboard and fashioned a sign using red magic marker that simply read: "Racist!".

I'm pretty sure we skipped school that Thursday. That's a fair guess because, by senior year, I considered attendance optional. We were making our own civics lesson and arrived early to get a spot close to the flatbed trailer stage. We were relieved to see other protesters, but a few dozen protesters were eventually drowned out by a throng that police chief, Sam Robards, estimated to be between 12,000-15,000. It was the largest political crowd he had seen on the square in his 33 years on the force, according to the Springfield Daily News report. 

(At this time, Springfield had both morning and evening editions. Daily News was a.m. News-Leader was evening edition. At least three reporters and a photographer covered the event.)

Police, sheriff's deputies, state patrol and secret service were visible throughout the square and on top of buildings. Reporting of the event was somewhat carefully worded by 1968 Springfield standards. Here's one account beneath a large photo:

"The jaunty candidate from Alabama rapped out his message in fiery bursts, punctuated by cheers and yells. A country band had the crowd warmed into a foot stomping hand-clapping mood . . . Pretty Wallace Girls carrying plastic buckets moved among the people collecting money for the campaign."

Wallace began his speech with a tried and true demagogue/populist message that now, 52 years later, is all too familiar. Daily News:

"Wallace was wildly cheered by the crowd for his jabs against newsmen, professors, pseudo-intellectuals and bureaucrats." He also spoke of "ultra-liberals" seeking to desegregate schools and "kowtow to anarchists who roam the streets". He continued, "If it weren't for these firemen and policemen, we wouldn't be here today - you or I - we might well have been mugged or gunned down."

The newspaper report also acknowledged protesters, who raised signs reading "Racist", "Wallace Hates", "One Hitler Was Enough".

And there was this: "Black students, calling themselves Afro-Americans, mostly from Southwest Missouri State College, felt otherwise about Wallace. About 33 Negroes showed up with signs and sentiment opposing the candidate," the Daily News reported. They marched in peaceful demonstration. A spokesman said, "We recognize Mr. Wallace's freedom of speech. We also recognize our right of assembly. We are here to . . voice our discontent and opposition at the presence of a man whose racist platform is detrimental to humanity and would jeopardize the safety and security of this community and nation."

Black protesters in attendance noted that they were not a part of the local NAACP, which had decided not to have a contingent at the rally. One young Black woman said, "As elder members of this community, they (NAACP) let us down. We are here to voice our protest and to try to get rid of some of the apathy in Springfield. Springfieldians think we are happy with the way things are. We are not."

One woman, most assuredly white because she required no descriptors, offered support for Wallace because he was "a good Christian man". Racism and white Christianity have been dating a long time it appears. 

On election day, Wallace received only 12% of Greene County votes, a number matched by Missouri. Richard Nixon won the county by 20%, the state by 1%.

Nixon eventually won the election, of course, a solid electoral college win but only 500,000 more votes than Hubert Humphrey, a representational disconnect that continues to undermine voters. Wallace received over 9 million votes and won Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Louisiana and Mississippi, as the south made a huge shift away from the democratic party following the Civil Rights Act (1964), Voting Rights Act (1965) and the Fair Housing Act, which had passed the day before Wallace arrived in Springfield.

Wallace ran again in 1972, this time as a democrat, but was shot during a primary election rally in Maryland. He was paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of his life. The day after being shot, he won primary victories in Maryland and Michigan. 

Difficult Times, Difficult Decisions

 

Okay, let's start by saying that every decision, even how to approach a visit to the grocery store, is more difficult during these days of community spread. And we've been reminded of this innumerable times by civic leaders, real leaders and those posing as such. These are hard decisions. So hard. Nobody can dispute that.

If we've learned anything, we know there is no easy out when dealing with a highly contagious virus. Political posturing is lost on Covid-19. But by magnifying the difficulty of a decision, we also construct a hedge for making the wrong decision. It becomes exponentially more important to make every effort to turn a difficult decision-making process into the right decision.

Some wrong decisions are minimal, i.e. installing a "learning initiative" that doesn't work and is nearly impossible to implement. Nobody dies. Good teachers can ignore it effectively enough to still teach well. Other wrong decisions, i.e., the Iraq War, leads to hundreds of thousands of deaths, millions of refugees, and ongoing wars that kill and maim young people for generations.

If nothing else, can we agree that difficult decisions regarding the health, safety and the potential for suffering and death should be a top priority to get right the first time? 

Leaders often emerge during trying times, and not always from expected sources. A CEO at one of Springfield's big hospitals, for example, has been an amazing source of information and encouragement for the community. City Council overcame a virtual congregation of weirdos and miscreants, all spouting strange ideas about personal freedoms and demonic influences, before finally making the difficult decision to enact a mask ordinance. 

Unfortunately, other civic leaders have equivocated, cited tilted surveys and attempted to find a non-existent sweet spot between medical science and political crackpottery, always a precursor to a terrible decision. In my opinion, this is what Springfield's school leaders have done.

We all know by now, public schools have become the magical balm for every societal affliction, be it poverty, nutritional deficiencies, lack of health care, or lack of affordable childcare. The existing political/economic system that exponentially multiplies all these deficiencies is seldom, if ever, held accountable. It's a wicked chain reaction that is dumped on administrators, teachers and staff to work through. 
(And let's not even talk about how schools are "scored" as educational institutions amid this malaise.)

Here's the deal. Nobody on Springfield's school board signed up for a leadership role during a once-in-a-lifetime global pandemic that has afflicted millions of American and caused over 170,000 deaths (and counting). This is far beyond their customary role as cheerleaders for their superintendent's amazing educational schematics: to make Springfield Schools the envy of Nixa or Ozark or Willard or some other district that is nothing at all like Springfield.

When faced with approving a plan to address how to reach/teach 24,000 students during a pandemic, a majority of the school board deferred to their superintendent to come up with a plan. He created a huge committee of 70+ (ever been a member of a huge committee?), ran a plan by them. Approved. No need for a vote from the school board, the superintendent said. We've got this.

A couple of members, the newest and oldest serving member, registered their surprise at not being involved in perhaps the most important decision the school board has had to make since forever. "I find it odd," said one member. "Me, too," said another. The superintendent, who also doubles as board president, explained dismissively that reopening plans are not considered policy and are therefore not within the school board's purview.

Last week, a group of courageous secondary teachers penned a letter to the superintendent citing guidelines from the Center for Disease Control (CDC) and the World Health Organization (WHO), which indicate that the rate of Covid infection in Springfield at this moment is too high for a safe opening of schools. The teachers cited a WHO report that says positive test results should be no higher than 5%. Springfield/Greene County infection rate of those tested is now at 15%. 

For educational leaders who constantly study and refer to data, best practices, etc., reviewing these particular metrics must have seemed like a buzzkill. The district response was nothing more than a meticulously worded kiss-off:

"Feedback from families, employees, and community members is especially important to SPS. We welcome engagement and are committed to reflecting upon it, incorporating feedback into our decision-making whenever possible, to benefit all those we serve."

I'll conclude by imploring the school board to somehow work around being marginalized by your superintendent and ask some questions during tomorrow's board meeting (8/18/2020, 5:30 p.m.). Maybe some questions about process, procedures, contingencies, staffing, transparency to staff and community would be in order. Is there a threshold regarding rate of infection and/or death related to school opening?

The community needs hard questions to be asked from their elected representatives on the school board precisely because these decisions are hard. This is not the time to outsource decision-making. Lives are at stake.