Buddy Biancalana, Karl Marx, and Patrick Kelley : A Question of Fairness

I took a long walk this morning, about eight miles worth. One of the things I noticed as I walked was that Emporia is as it was about a year ago. Terry Bassler's still recovering from his war wounds incurred in Iraq well over a year ago now. Scott Rochat, ace reporter from the Gazette is still snooping around, looking for the hidden dirt at city hall. He hasn't found it yet, but I keep reassuring him that it's there. His cohort, Patrick Kelley, is where he most always is, butt glued to some naugahyde chair in the Gazette's catacombs. Me? I've still got a case of writer's block.

With that in mind, I'm re-running a piece I did about a year ago on Labor Day. It's all about fairness and I also think it's about the fact that here in small town America few things change over time. The original piece now follows:

It’s Labor Day weekend. Here in Emporia, Kansas, things are quiet as they always seem to be. The weather is cool for this time of the year, by Kansas standards. I took my morning walk, passed by Terry Bassler’s house, looked at the yellow ribbon on the tree in front of his house, and said a little prayer as I passed. I got home and mowed the lawn while my wife, Nancy, weeded her gardens. At about one thirty we took a jaunt up to Jay’s, Emporia’s best hamburger “joint” to celebrate. This evening the smell of barbeque is in the air.

In short, the Labor Day holiday here in Emporia is small town America as it should be at this time of the year.

It’s not that we Emporians don’t care about what’s going on in the world. The yellow ribbon on the tree in front of Terry’s house reminds me that he is going to be deployed to the Persian Gulf in a few weeks. And just about everyone in Emporia will be going to church tomorrow to pray for the safety of men like Terry, for blessings on working men in women all around this country, and for God’s healing hand to be with Bill Clinton next week.

Over all, people here in this part of the country seem to be pretty happy. At least I haven’t seen any gangs of revolutionaries roaming around. I take that to be a very encouraging sign.

But we do have a gadfly or two here. Emporia’s “lord of the flies” is a fella’ named Patrick Kelley, editorial page editor at our local rag, the Emporia Gazette. In the five years I’ve been here I think I’ve only agreed with him two or three times. While I’m sure he’d claim that I’m the problem, I know, my wife knows, and our six cats know that I’m not.

Today was no exception. It all started innocently enough. In his salute to labor he began by saying:

“Of course, not everybody gets Labor Day off, because there is some important work that must be done every day. Give a thought to the police officers, firefighters, nurses, doctors and others who are working to keep their neighbors healthy and safe. And don’t forget the soldiers in Iraq, Afghanistan and Bosnia, who never get much of a holiday at all.”

Who wouldn’t agree with that sentiment? I found myself in complete agreement with him. I’m deeply appreciative for what all these, and other workers, do for me. I’m retired now and I know what it’s like to work. In my working life I’ve done some of the hard things. I shoveled snow door to door as a kid for a buck a sidewalk. When I was in high school I delivered groceries from the back of “Sahady’s” vegetable truck. I’ve worked as an usher in a downtown Boston theatre for forty five cents an hour. . I’ve been in the military. When I signed up I agreed to a seventy eight dollar a month salary. I’ve assembled dishwashers and refrigerators for Westinghouse for two ninety two an hour. I’ve dispatched the big rigs and have been a regional line haul manager in the trucking industry. I’ve loaded freight on freight docks. I’ve cleaned bathrooms. I started at FedEx as a customer service agent and moved on to the corporation’s logistics division and then finished my career in engineering.

Now I’m not outlining my resume to boast. I don’t think my work history is more unusual than most people’s. And, while I didn’t set the world on fire, I certainly didn’t fail. What my resume says is that I know what it’s like to work and appreciate those who do.

Well, Patrick Kelley couldn’t leave well enough alone. From his tribute to labor he launched into a diatribe against the evils of capitalism:
“A recent study by the Institute for Policy Studies and United for a Fair Economy found that the pay gap between chief executive officers and the people who work for them is widening once again. Last year, CEO’s made 282 times the salary of their average workers. This year, the ratio is up to 301.”

“At the same time, the Economic Policy Institute reports that, adjusted for inflation, American blue-collar workers wages have actually gone down since the end of the recession.
Somewhere along the way, America has lost sight of the fact that behind every success story, there are workers who make the business thrive. For every Henry Ford or Bill Gates, there are thousands more who do the work, building the cars and writing the computer code.

America’s wealth is not in its factories or its corporate cash reserves. It’s wealth is in its workers – the people with the skills and talent to make the grand ideas a reality.

Without them, the factories are just rusting metal and the entrepreneur’s grand ideas are nothing more than passing dreams.”

I read the piece and thought I’d better take a peek out my window to see if the revolution had begun. Thankfully, it hadn’t. But it’s not because our community gadfly wasn’t trying. Do his words sound familiar? If you’re not sure a couple of snippets from Karl Marx might help:

“The laborer becomes poorer the more wealth he produces, indeed, the more powerful and wide-ranging his production becomes. The laborer becomes a cheaper commodity the more commodities he creates. With the increase in value of the world of things arises in direct proportion the decrease of value of human beings. Labor does not only produce commodities, it produces itself and the laborer as a commodity, and in relation to the level at which it produces commodities.”

“Still, even today, socialism is particularly forthright in advocating direct pursuit of working class interests, even at the expense of what other ideologies consider the legitimate property rights of the wealthy classes.”

“The average price of wage labor is the minimum wage, i.e., that quantum of the means of subsistence which is absolutely requisite to keep the laborer in bare existence as a laborer. What, therefore, the wage laborer appropriates by means of his labor merely suffices to prolong and reproduce a bare existence. We by no means intend to abolish this personal appropriation of the products of labor, an appropriation that is made for the maintenance and reproduction of human life, and that leaves no surplus wherewith to command the labor of others. All that we want to do away with is the miserable character of this appropriation, under which the laborer lives merely to increase capital, and is allowed to live only in so far as the interest of the ruling class requires it.”

Of course, what Mr. Kelley failed to mention was the same study noted that workers’ wages had gone up forty eight percent over the time period while inflation had gone up forty one. He failed to mention that the 2004 study was nothing more than a rehashing of a 2001 study by the same institute that had concluded that the 1990’s was the “decade of greed.” That study also had the same buried statistics that revealed that workers’ wages had gone up thirty seven percent in the nineties compared to a thirty one percent increase in inflation. He failed to mention that the 2004 study concluded that “corporations should have to provide answers.” While they didn’t say who they should answer to you can be sure it will either be to some Congressional committee or an expert from the Institute for policy Studies and United for a Fair Economy. He fails to mention that the “Institute” has other projects. For example, one 2001 project, aimed at youth, advocated dismantling the Electoral College. The language they used was clever, designed to appeal to a young audience:

"Is the Electoral College a Fair System?
A LOT of people do not think so. The 2000 Presidential election proved the injustice of the Electoral College. How is it possible that after winning the majority of the votes from American citizens, Al Gore was still declared the loser in the presidential election?”
The institute’s “publication” list also includes interesting titles like “Power Trip – U.S. Unilateralism” and “The Pre-emptive Empire – A Guide to Bush’s Kingdom.”
Put it all together and you’ll get a good picture of what Mr. Kelley’s “Institute” is all about:

“While other think tanks celebrate the virtues of unrestrained markets and individualism, IPS is building partnerships to create a more responsible society — one built around the values of justice, nonviolence, sustainability, and decency.”
The information Mr. Kelley cited from the Economic Policy Institute is just as conflicted. A sample about their views on the success of welfare follows:

"It depends on who you ask. There is widespread agreement that the economic boom of the late 1990s decreased unemployment among low-income workers (including those moving from welfare to work) and consequently increased wages. However, many still had trouble making ends meet with hourly wages that averaged only around $7. Families still faced significant hardships in the areas of food security, inadequate child care, and insufficient access to housing (Boushey and Gundersen 2001). In sum, while many of these workers experienced wage increases that helped to pull them above the poverty line, they were not enough to allow families to make ends meet."

It’s now about 10:15 PM here in Emporia. After reading all this stuff from the "Institutes"I think it might be a good idea to look out the window once more. The barbarians may be at the gate. Someone may have resurrected Marx. I can almost hear him as I peer out my window:

"In one word, you reproach us with intending to do away with your property. Precisely so; that is just what we intend
Communism deprives no man of the power to appropriate the products of society; all that it does is to deprive him of the power to subjugate the labor of others by means of such appropriations.
The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Proletarians of all countries, unite!"

I’m sure that Patrick Kelley would deny that he’s a socialist at heart. He would claim that he just wants a system that’s fair for all of us.

Well, what’s the problem then?

First, there are a lot of things in life that seem unfair. Buddy Biancalana played shortstop for the Kansas City Royals in the eighties. He hit .205 over that period. Two oh five! Do you know how much he made? About two million big ones a year! He had 113 hits and made about ten million dollars during his Kansas City playing days. That’s an average of $88,500 per hit. Now, the man couldn’t hit a baseball if he used a banjo, much less a baseball bat. I ask you, “How fair is that?”
Why isn’t this obsession with fairness fair? Because the obsession makes things worse. Economist F.A. Hayek put it this way:

“The demand for the new freedom (the freedom from want) was thus only another name for an equal distribution of wealth.”

The end of that pursuit, Hayek concluded, “Was, in fact, the High Road to Servitude.”

Why doesn’t it work? Peruvian economist Hernando DeSoto, a capitalist and advocate of free market reform in the third world, noted in his book “The Mystery of Capital” that it “is because knowledge about the poor has been monopolized by academics, journalists, and activists moved by compassion or intellectual curiosity rather than by the nuts and bolts of legal reform.”
And what are the nuts and bolts? The 2001 edition of “Geographica, the complete illustrated Atlas of the world” has some interesting statistics concerning per capital Gross National Product. The United States average was $26,980. The GNP per capita of Costa Rica, in U.S. dollars, was “$2,610. The average for Belize was $2,630. And the average for Cuba, the “workers’ paradise” was $766!

Capitalism works!

My youngest son owns a small insurance agency. He wasn’t always doing so well. I remember the bi-monthly calls I got when he was in college. “Hi, dad. You don’t suppose you could send me a bit of money, do you?” After several calls and several checks FedEx’d to Springfield, Missouri I decided the next call would produce a two (Nancy and me) on one (Michael) face to face visit. Well the call came and Nancy and I took the back roads from Memphis to Springfield. We found out that the man wasn’t working. “Why?” I asked. His answer almost floored me. “There aren’t any jobs.”“No jobs?”
“Well I guess you can get a job flippin’ burgers if you want, but who wants to flip burgers.”
“Why not? Look at this short and long term, my man. You can either do it for a couple of years while you’re going to school so that you don’t have to do it for the rest of your life or you can flip burgers for the rest of your life. Those are the options.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Get a job. My putting you on the family version of the dole isn’t fair either.”
Later that evening we stopped by a restaurant for a bite to eat. I noticed one of the busboys as I ate. He was a man about my age (about fifty six at the time). I knew nothing about him except that he had to work bussing tables. I seized the opportunity. “Do you see that guy, Michael. He’s probably a real nice guy. He probably has a family to support. He’s probably doing his best and his family’s probably doing alright too. This is just what he does. Do you know, Michael, you can do that too and I won’t love you any less than I love you now. But you listen to old Dad for a minute. If you want a better life and you want to finish college you need to start seeing the big picture.”
Well he did. He got a job and finished school. And now he’s out there working every day, just like millions of other Americans. He’s just started and I don’t think he’s making a lot of money yet, but he’s seized the opportunity and he’s going to be okay. he may hit better in his profession than Buddy Biancalana did in his, but he may not make as much money. That'll be okay too. I did better than Buddy in mine and I didn't make as much money as him either. But you know what? I'm not jealous of him; I'm happy for him. That's the way things are supposed to work.Could things be better? Of course. But I know one thing for sure. If Patrick Kelley and the “Institutes” he so adores get a hold on the system to make it fair we’ll all wind up in the tank. Our per capita GNP will sink like an anchor. Then the revolution will really begin.

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An Open Field and a Fair Chance

“Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,

Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Emma Lazarus, New York City (1883)

I’m not sure how the country’s issue with illegal immigration is going to be resolved. I do, however, know where I stand. I support the recommendations hammered out by the Senate Judiciary Committee.

I do so, first, because I don’t believe the provisions of H.R. 4437 are practical, nor are they in keeping with American ideals. The provisions aren’t practical logistically. Yesterday, George Will noted that “It would take more than 200,000 buses, extending in a line 1,700 miles from San Diego to Alaska to deport 11 million people…Seventy percent of the illegal immigrants here have been here at least five years. They have roots in the community. Many of them have children born in America who are therefore American citizens. Not ripe for deportation, it seems to me.”

Mort Kondracke, commenting on the split between conservative and moderate Republicans on the issue, made the following observation:

“Now the GOP is split between fellow moderates, led by Senator John McCain, and “reconstructionists” led by Colorado Representative Tom Tancredo. If the reconstructionists “prevail, the nation will be treated to the spectacle of mass roundups of illegal immigrants.” And these “deportations will split families and produce tales of arbitrary interrogations of Hispanics.”

Today, Senator Ted Kennedy, a man I rarely agree with, told his colleagues that the cost of building the sixty miles or so of walls/fences already completed along our southern border cost U.S. taxpayers twenty billion dollars. With another 1,800 miles or so yet to be done, the cost of walling ourselves off against Mexico would be too astronomical to be taken seriously.

While I believe strongly that we need to fix the problem, I don’t believe that the House provision for fixing it is practical. It doesn’t make good economic sense.

Nor do I believe it’s in keeping with our ideals. When Nancy and I lived in New Jersey we took several day trips to see the Statue of Liberty. Seeing that Grand Lady watching over New York Harbor was always a vivid reminder to me that America is indeed a land of opportunity. Nancy’s family came here from Switzerland and Germany and carved out a good life. My mother came from Newfoundland, and while she struggled to realize the great ideals, she taught us to love and embrace them. I believe that one of this nation’s manifest destinies is to embrace its principles by embracing the “tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse.”

I suppose it can be argued that the 11 million immigrants now here are here illegally and shouldn’t be included among the “tired, poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse.” True enough. But I don’t believe the solution to the situation is to criminalize them, deport them, and then build an eighteen hundred mile wall from Texas to California.

One of the things I believe many are missing in this debate is grace. I cannot in good conscience bring myself to the place where I deem someone a criminal for trying put bread on his or her family’s table. I suppose our legislators, with enough public support, may do so. They may be able to establish the legal parameters, but they cannot, in my mind, establish the moral parameters for doing so.

I’m a bit astonished and a bit angry. Some of those crying most loudly for deportations and walls seem to have forgotten some of the acts of grace that have been bestowed upon them in their American journeys. Do they believe they got where they are without help? Do they believe that Providence had no role in the blessings they’ve received in life? Why, if so much grace has been extended to them, can’t they find grace in their hearts for those who really want to be contributing members of our society?

This morning I was reminded of one of the noblest characters in classic literature. Myriel, a Bishop, has had some of his material blessing stolen from him by Jan Valjean, a man who has just been released from nineteen years in prison for having once stolen a loaf of bread. Valjean is caught by the police and then brought before the man whose silverware he’s stolen. Valjean pleads that the silverware he’s stolen was actually given to him by the Bishop. Now, Valjean is not only guilty of theft, but of lying to the police. Yet, in a stunning act of grace, Myriel confirms what Valjean has said, then gets two candlesticks and brings them to the lawbreaker:

“My friend,” resumed the Bishop, “before you go, here are your candlesticks. Take them.” He stepped to the chimney-piece, took the two silver candlesticks, and brought them to Jean Valjean. The two women looked on without uttering a word, without a gesture, without a look which could disconcert the Bishop. Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two candlesticks mechanically, and with a bewildered air. “Now,” said the Bishop, “go in peace. By the way, when you return, my friend, it is not necessary to pass through the garden. You can always enter and depart through the street door. It is never fastened with anything but a latch, either by day or by night.” Then, turning to the gendarmes: “You may retire, gentlemen.” The gendarmes retired. Jean Valjean was like a man on the point of fainting. The Bishop drew near to him, and said in a low voice: “Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money in becoming an honest man.” Jean Valjean, who had no recollection of ever having promised anything, remained speechless. The Bishop had emphasized the words when he uttered them. He resumed with solemnity: “Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God.”

“Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money in becoming an honest man.” Jean Valjean, who had no recollection of ever having promised anything, remained speechless. The Bishop had emphasized the words when he uttered them. He resumed with solemnity: “Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God.”

Am I being a bit melodramatic? I suppose. But I believe, in principle, that I’m right. America has a problem that must be fixed, but it must not be fixed by criminalizing the millions of people whose only “crime” in coming here was to attempt to escape the abject poverty of the land they came from. While there is no doubt that there are real criminals among those millions, punishing those who really want to embrace the opportunity and freedom America offers along with them is an un-American, un-Christian solution.

In August, 1864, Abraham Lincoln thanked the 166th Ohio Regiment for their service to preserve the nation. In closing his remarks, Lincoln said, profoundly:

“It is in order that each of you may have through this free government which we have enjoyed, an open field and a fair chance for your industry, enterprise and intelligence; that you may all have equal privileges in the race of life, with all its desirable human aspirations. It is for this the struggle should be maintained, that we may not lose our birthright--not only for one, but for two or three years. The nation is worth fighting for, to secure such an inestimable jewel.”

While the struggle over immigration today is not of the same order as the struggle of Lincoln’s day, the ideals he outlined are every bit as relevant today as they were then. A fair chance, an open field are all that the overwhelming majority of those who’ve come here to harvest the crops or cut the cows want. I believe we must find a way to make that happen!

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No Decency, No Shame

1 Corinthians 14:40 (New King James Version)

“Let all things be done decently and in order.”

Yesterday morning I sent a note to the office of Senator Edward Kennedy, expressing my displeasure with what he had attempted to do to Samuel Alito in the nomination hearings.

“Thank you for your message. Hearing your views is important to me, because it allows me to better understand the constituents that I serve in the United States Senate. It makes me proud to know that my constituents take an active role in our government by corresponding with me, and I look forward to responding to your concerns in greater detail.”

“As you can imagine, my office receives a great number of messages every day regarding a variety of issues. This is particularly true of e-mails. In the meantime, I just wanted to let you know that your e-mail has been received, and to ask for your patience until I send you a more detailed response.”
”Again, thank you for writing. Please feel free to visit my website http://kennedy.senate.gov to follow my work in the Senate and to learn more about the services my office can provide to you.”

Warmest regards

Ted Kennedy

I doubt that I will get any further correspondence from Senator Kennedy. If I do, I will publish it on this site.

What got me, a citizen outside his constituency, worked up enough to send correspondence the senator from Massachusetts? I can sum it up in two words – fairness and decency.

I have no problem with any senator asking difficult questions a prospective Supreme Court justice. I believe they have an obligation to do so. The issues that find their way to the High Court have, in a temporal sense, supreme importance to the citizens of this country. For example, beyond abortion, which seems to be the paramount concern of liberal Democrats, there are issues of property rights I believe were decided wrongly in favor of ordinary American citizens, particularly the poor, in Kelo v. New London. In that five to four decision, the four liberal justices (Souter, Ginsberg, Stevens, Breyer) and one conservative (Kennedy), decided against Suzette Kelo, a citizen of New London, Connecticut in her attempt to save her property from an eminent domain claim by the city. She lost her case to both municipal and corporate interests. The Supreme Court decided that private economic development trumped her right to own the home she and her family had lived in for generations. I’m well aware of how eminent domain works. Twice in my life I’ve been impacted by it. When I was young, in high school, I lived in a very poor neighborhood near Cambridge, Massachusetts’ Central Square. Our family accommodations were far from regal. We rented an apartment that was adjacent to an alley outside a small Italian restaurant. Often, as patrons were leaving to go the parking lot on the other side of our building, they would bang playfully on our windows as they did. While things like this happened with some frequency, I always felt that having a roof over my head outweighed the irritation. I had a place to live. As all of this was going on I managed to win a school and commerce day essay contest sponsored by a civic group. One of the rewards for me was getting to attend a luncheon, sponsored by Rotary or Kiwanis, as a guest of honor. After lunch I was introduced to the gathering. Some of the attendees, upon finding out I lived on Brookline Street, in a depressed part of town, asked me what I thought about the new road that was being proposed by the City of Cambridge that would necessitate some private dwellings, including the apartment building I lived in, being claimed by the city under eminent domain provisions. I didn’t know then what eminent domain meant, so all I could do was profess ignorance. “What does eminent domain mean?” I asked. When I found out I was upset. “I don’t like it,” I said. “Why do they need to build the road through my house? Why not yours or someone else’s?”

Years later, in Memphis, the issue of eminent domain was to come up for me again. Nancy and I had just bought a home, a beautiful antebellum, near the University of Memphis. One of the things we weren’t aware of when we bought it was that the university had designs on the house we’d just purchased, along with several others on our block. They were considering asking the City to allow them to claim eminent domain so that they could replace the houses on our block with an arts center. I was a bit more sophisticated by this time. I understood that the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution meant there are times when public benefit (a road, a hospital, a school) might outweigh my personal interests. I also knew that my property couldn’t be taken without just compensation. In the end we sold our home to the University of Memphis.

The Kelo ruling, which was affirmed in large part because of the liberal bloc of the Court, has broadened the definition of public use and eminent domain. Now, municipalities can claim that a home, a block of homes, or an area of a municipality can be declared blighted, freeing the municipality to sell the homes and land to private developers. If, for example, the City of Emporia decided that our neighborhood is blighted (there are some rentals in bad shape), claim eminent domain over the neighborhood, then sell it to private interests to enhance the city’s tax revenues. While it may not happen in Emporia, it will happen somewhere. Corporate interests wanting to build a shopping mall or a regional headquarters for their company or a series of trendy shops now have a mechanism available to them they’ve never had before. Who will be hurt by this ruling? The justices of the Supreme Court? Ted Kennedy? Of course not. It will hurt the poor, particularly minorities. Here in a small city like Emporia it would hit Hispanics particularly hard. It wouldn’t be overtly discriminatory. No one would target “them.” What “they” had would just need to give way to “public use,” as redefined by the Supreme Court. The sad reality is that the poor simply don’t have any economic clout, while developers do.

So, the Supreme Court has ruled. In time the heavy hand will drop on us, particularly the poor, in favor of corporate interests, just like it did on Suzette Kelo in New London, Connecticut.

I found it fascinating that, when questioned about the Kelo case, Judge Alito seemed to express some sympathy for people who will eventually be caught in the ugly squeeze created by this unique interpretation of public use the High Court has made. Upon hearing what he had to say the senate committee about eminent domain and the Fifth Amendment, I found a new measure of respect for the man.

It doesn’t end for me with issues like eminent domain. Free speech is a paramount right guaranteed by our Constitution. This morning I read an essay by Brian Anderson published in City Journal. The piece, titled “The Plot to Shush Rush and O’Reilly,” outlines some of the things legislators have been doing in the name of campaign finance reform. One of the things that’s especially troubling is the approach legislators and the courts are now taking vis a vis political speech on airwaves and the internet. I highly recommend you read the entire essay. It’s very enlightening. It’s also very frightening. There are a couple of portions of the essay that I’d like to highlight. First, there’s this:

“But when the chief House architects of campaign-finance reform, joined by McCain and Feingold, sued—claiming that the Internet was one big “loophole” that allowed big money to keep on corrupting—a federal judge agreed, ordering the FEC to clamp down on Web politics. Then-commissioner Bradley Smith and the two other Republicans on the FEC couldn’t persuade their Democratic colleagues to vote to appeal.”

“The FEC thus has plunged into what Smith calls a “bizarre” rule-making process that could shackle the political blogosphere. This would be a particular disaster for the Right, which has maintained its early advantage over the Left in the blogosphere, despite the emergence of big liberal sites like Daily Kos. Some 157 of the top 250 political blogs express right-leaning views, a recent liberal survey found. Reaching a growing and influential audience—hundreds of thousands of readers weekly (including most journalists) for the top conservative sites—the blogosphere has enabled the Right to counter the biases of the liberal media mainstream. Without the blogosphere, Howell Raines would still be the New York Times’s editor, Dan Rather would only now be retiring, garlanded with praise—and John Kerry might be president of the U.S., assuming that CBS News had gotten away with its last-minute falsehood about President Bush’s military service that the diligent bloggers at PowerLine, LittleGreenFootballs, and other sites swiftly debunked.”

Then there’s this:

“Two popular conservative talk radio hosts, Kirby Wilbur and John Carlson, explained why the gas tax was bad news and urged listeners to sign the 225,000 petitions necessary to get the rollback initiative on the November ballot, though they played no official role in the campaign and regularly featured on their shows defenders as well as opponents of the tax hike. With the hosts’ help, the petition drive got almost twice the needed signatures, but the ballot initiative, strongly opposed by labor unions, the state’s liberal media, environmental groups, and other powerful interests, narrowly lost.”

“Meantime, however, a group of pro-tax politicians sued No New Gas Tax, arguing that Wilbur’s and Carlson’s on-air commentaries were “in-kind contributions” and that the anti-tax campaign had failed to report them to the proper state authorities. The suit sought to stop NNGT from accepting any more of these “contributions” until it disclosed their worth—though how the initiative’s organizers could control media discussions or calculate their monetary value remained unclear. The complaint also socked NNGT with civil penalties, attorneys’ fees and costs, and other damages. Even more offensively, to litigate the suit the politicians hired a private law firm, Foster Pepper & Shefelman, which serves as bond counsel to Washington State. The firm, which represents unions, hospitals, and retirement funds among its other clients, could thus clean up from the state’s plan to sell gas-tax-backed bonds. Appearance of corruption, anyone?”

The same reasoning used by the State of Washington used against Wilbur and Carlson can also be used against people expressing political views on the internet. McCain-Feingold has opened the door. So much for free speech.

I’m a blogger and I occasionally express my political views. Thousands of other bloggers, liberal, moderate, conservative, and radical, do the same. I don’t agree with everything I read. But I do believe that the Constitution affords me, a conservative, the right to freely express my political views. I also affords those I strongly disagree with that same right. McCain-Feingold can now be creatively used to stifle political speech. It’s mind boggling enough that it begs the question, as Mr. Anderson noted:

“All this massively begs the question: Why should any American need government permission to express himself? Instead of a media exemption, blogger Glenn Reynolds sarcastically commented at a recent conference, maybe we need a “free speech exception, in which you are allowed to say what you want about political candidates without fear of prosecution by the government.”

How did the Supreme Court feel about all of chilling effect that McCain-Feingold has already begun to have on free speech? In a five to four decision, with conservative justices Scalia, Thomas, and Kennedy dissenting, almost all provisions of the flawed law were upheld. What did the majority opinion have to say about free speech?

“…the First Amendment would render Congress powerless to address more subtle but equally dispiriting forms of corruption.”

“[no person or group may engage in] broadcast, cable, or satellite communication that refers to a clearly identified candidate for Federal office; [and] is made within 60 days before a general, special, or runoff election for the office sought by the candidate; or 30 days before a primary or preference election…”

So, thanks to the High Court’s decision in McConnell v the Federal Election Commission, free political expression can be regulated by lawmakers. How’s that for liberality?

All of that is to say that the nomination of Samuel Alito to the Supreme Court is critically important to all of us. What was Ted Kennedy fixating on over the past few days? A magazine subscription!

“KENNEDY: You called CAP a “conservative alumni group.”
It also published a publication called Prospect, which includes articles by CAP members about the policies that the organization promoted. You're familiar with that?
ALITO: I don't recall seeing the magazine. I might have seen...
KENNEDY: Did you know that they had a magazine?
ALITO: I've learned of that in recent weeks.
KENNEDY: So a 1983 Prospect essay titled “In Defense of Elitism,” stated, quote, “People nowadays just don't seem to know their place. Everywhere one turns, blacks and Hispanics are demanding jobs simply because they're black and Hispanic. The physically handicapped are trying to gain equal representation in professional sports. And homosexuals are demanding the government vouchsafe them the right to bear children.”
Did you read that article?
FEINSTEIN: Finish the last line.
KENNEDY: Finish the last line -- is, “and homosexuals are...
FEINSTEIN: No, “And now here come women.”
KENNEDY: If the senator will let me just...
FEINSTEIN: Yes, I will...
(LAUGHTER)
KENNEDY: Can I get two more minutes from my friend from...
(LAUGHTER)
Just to continue along.
I apologize, Judge.
Did you read this article?
ALITO: I feel confident that I didn't. I'm not familiar with the article, and I don't know the context in which those things were said. But they are antithetical...
KENNEDY: Well, could you think of any context that they could be...
ALITO: Hard to imagine.
If that's what anybody was endorsing, I disagree with all of that. I would never endorse it. I never have endorsed it.
Had I thought that that's what this organization stood for I would never associate myself with it in any way.
KENNEDY: The June '84 edition of Prospect magazine contains a short article on AIDS. I know that we've come a long way since then in our understanding of the disease, but even for that time the insensitivity of statements in this article are breathtaking.
It announces that a team of doctors has found the AIDS virus in the rhesus monkeys was similar to the virus occurring in human beings.
KENNEDY: And the article then goes on with this terrible statement: "Now that the scientists must find humans, or rather homosexuals, to submit themselves to experimental treatment. Perhaps Princeton's Gay Alliance may want to hold an election."
You didn't read that article?
ALITO: I feel confident that I didn't, Senator, because I would not have anything to do with statements of that nature.”

This has had my blood boiling for two reasons. First, the good senator from Massachusetts was giving little or no thought to issues of real importance, like eminent domain or free speech. Life experience has taught me that the right to property, as expressed in the Fifth Amendment, and free speech, which is guaranteed by the first amendment, is far more important than a magazine subscription.

It’s also angered me because I remember the Army-McCarthy hearings well. I was young, but I’ll never forget the character assassination the Democratic senator from Wisconsin engaged in. It was a shameful! Read some of the following transcript yourself and see if you don’t agree:

McCarthy: Jim, will you get the citation, one of the citations showing that this was the legal arm of the Communist Party, and the length of time that he belonged, and the fact that he was recommended by Mr. Welch. I think that should be in the record....
Welch: Senator, you won't need anything in the record when I finish telling you this. Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty, or your recklessness. Fred Fisher is a young man who went to the Harvard Law School and came into my firm and is starting what looks to be a brilliant career with us. When I decided to work for this Committee, I asked Jim St. Clair, who sits on my right, to be my first assistant. I said to Jim, “Pick somebody in the firm to work under you that you would like.” He chose Fred Fisher, and they came down on an afternoon plane. That night, when we had taken a little stab at trying to see what the case is about, Fred Fisher and Jim St. Clair and I went to dinner together. I then said to these two young men, “Boys, I don't know anything about you, except I've always liked you, but if there's anything funny in the life of either one of you that would hurt anybody in this case, you speak up quick.”
And Fred Fisher said, "Mr. Welch, when I was in the law school, and for a period of months after, I belonged to the Lawyers' Guild," as you have suggested, Senator. He went on to say, "I am Secretary of the Young Republican's League in Newton with the son of [the] Massachusetts governor, and I have the respect and admiration of my community, and I'm sure I have the respect and admiration of the twenty-five lawyers or so in Hale & Dorr." And I said, "Fred, I just don't think I'm going to ask you to work on the case. If I do, one of these days that will come out, and go over national television, and it will just hurt like the dickens." And so, Senator, I asked him to go back to Boston. Little did I dream you could be so reckless and so cruel as to do an injury to that lad. It is, I regret to say, equally true that I fear he shall always bear a scar needlessly inflicted by you. If it were in my power to forgive you for your reckless cruelty, I would do so. I like to think I'm a gentle man, but your forgiveness will have to come from someone other than me.
McCarthy: Mr. Chairman, may I say that Mr. Welch talks about this being cruel and reckless. He was just baiting. He has been baiting Mr. Cohn here for hours, requesting that Mr. Cohn before sundown get out of any department of the government anyone who is serving the Communist cause. Now, I just give this man's record and I want to say, Mr. Welch, that it had been labeled long before he became a member, as early as 1944 --
Welch: Senator, may we not drop this? We know he belonged to the Lawyers' Guild.
McCarthy: Let me finish....
Welch: And Mr. Cohn nods his head at me. I did you, I think, no personal injury, Mr. Cohn?
Cohn: No, sir.
Welch: I meant to do you no personal injury.
Cohn: No, sir.
Welch: And if I did, I beg your pardon. Let us not assassinate this lad further, Senator.
McCarthy: Let's, let's --
Welch: You've done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?

Ted Kennedy crossed over the line. He abused his privilege. What he did was in the worst tradition of American politics. I’m not one of his constituents, so there’s little I can do to express my outrage about the offensive behavior he’s engaged in other than by way of correspondence or this blog. If he, and some on the High Court have their way, my right to express those views could become subject to government oversight and control. That, it seems to me, is far more important than a magazine subscription!

Inspiration - A Lesson Learned on the Rubber Chicken Circuit

“Use what talents you possess. The woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang the best.”

- Henry Van Dyke

We’ve been back from Glorietta close to a week now. The afterglow of the creative fires we shared there travelled home with us. While the coals are no longer white hot, the embers still remain.

Over the past few days the question of how to keep those fires burning has crossed my mind. How does one stay inspired?

There are times I’m able to sit for hours, with words flowing like the milk and honey of the Promised Land. I can sense heaven above my head opened wide, revealing rooms filled with words, there for the taking. I find nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, prepositions, gerunds, clever catch phrases, sonnets, sermons, stump speeches, treatises on the nature and shape of illusion, grocery lists, or letters to the editor. Most often, though, I sit like Jeremiah, agonizing in the darkness of a well. I look up, casting prayers heavenward, only to have them ricochet back down to the subterranean depths. Each time this happens I try again, often with the same result. The heavens seem to be like brass, a dome above me preventing me from laying hold to the treasures I so desire. There are times in this painful process I wonder why I even try. “It’s too hard, too frustrating, there are too few immediate rewards,” I often murmur.

Years ago I went on a revival tour of the Ozarks, tugging on the coattails of a revival preacher who considered what he was doing as much a job as it was a calling. As we wound our way south from Kansas City he talked proudly about it. “This is my job, Phil,” he said over and over, as if there was a message I needed to hear in all the repetition. “This is my job, Phil.” “This is my job.” Once we got to our first stop the day to day logistics of making things happen seemed to drown out the four words I’d heard over and over as wed come down the highway. We were on the rubber chicken circuit and now we were going to get down to business. There would be no more talk of this being nothing more than a job. We were called men, on a mission for God, and early indications said as much. We sat, eating fried chicken, corn on the cob, country gravy, a few “praise the Lords” and “amen brothers,” the stuff that makes the rubber chicken circuit what it is. It was, as I saw it, the essence of being called.

Breakfast the next morning re-confirmed the message. The early morning was jump-started with eggs, biscuits, sausage, white gravy, and a few leftover “praise the Lords” and “amen brothers” from the night before. At about quarter to eight, Earl, the revivalist, told me it was time for us to go over to the church. “It’s time to go to work, Phil,” he said. I secretly wanted to protest. “The meeting doesn’t even start till seven tonight. Why are we going this early? I mean, there’s a lot of rubber chickening left in me.” But I went along with Earl, thinking and hoping that we’d be back sitting around the table “amending” within an hour or so.

We got to the church at about eight. As soon as we entered, Earl told me to start praying at one end of the sanctuary and he’d start praying at the other. A confused look came over my face. It must have been very transparent. “Pray for revival here.” “Pray for the fire to come down.” “Read your Bible.” “Listen for what the Almighty has to say.” Earl’s instructions came, in rat-a-tat-tat fashion, much like his words repeated over and over again on the highway the night before. “This is my job, Phil.” “This is my job.”

And so we prayed, read, and listened. At about noon Earl decided that his belly was hungry. At one we returned from lunch and went right back to work. The hamburger and fries seemed to energize Earl. “Oh, Lord,” he prayed over and over again as he walked up and down the aisles of the sanctuary. “I can’t make any of this happen. I need you to bring down your fire. Bring revival tonight, Lord. Touch hearts. Touch souls. Touch spirits.”

While my manner wasn’t as animated as Earl’s, I also prayed, quietly, much in keeping with my Episcopal roots.

At five-thirty we left the sanctuary. I thought we were going back over to the preacher’s house for more chicken, but Earl had decided to have dinner out at a small cafeteria he’d seen on our way to the church. “How come we’re not going back over to the preacher’s place? I asked as we pulled into the parking lot. Earl smiled. “Don’t wanna’ get caught up in table talk right now,” he said. “I’ve got a job to do and I need to focus on that.” We sat, silently eating for about twenty minutes. My curiosity made those minutes seem like hours. I couldn’t stand it. I had to ask. “Earl, is it like this every time you go somewhere to preach a revival?” “Like what?” he asked in return.
“You know. Eight hours in the sanctuary praying and listening. That sort of thing.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s my job, Phil.”
“What about your calling?”
“What about it?”
“I guess it’s the connotation of a job that’s bothering me.”
“Why?”
“A calling seems a lot higher to me than a job, that’s all.”
“Really.” Earl paused, then leaned over the table and looked directly at me. “Would you have anything to do with a doctor who only worked an hour or so a day and didn’t practice his craft? Would you trust a surgeon who did nothing but sit around with friends all day to cut you wide open? “
He’d made his point. The only correct answer to both questions was “No!”
“Besides,” he went on. “I’m working out my calling, Phil. You see, I’m called to work. To me, that means that there’s more to what I do than sitting around eatin’ chicken and swillin’ down iced tea.”
Earl’s words sunk in. “It’s your job,” I said knowingly.

What does all of this have to do with writing, and craft? I think there are a lot of times I stumble over the same things I did in the Ozarks so long ago. I can’t treat what I’m doing now like the rubber chick circuit. Writing must be as much my job as it is my calling. I’ve heard it said that inspiration is at least two thirds perspiration. I need to remember that at those times when the heavens seem like brass, when the words won’t come or the prayers for inspiration seem to just keep ricocheting back at me.

A while ago I read a short passage from Luke, the gentile physician who recorded, in striking prose, two books of the Christian bible. The words that follow are a bit more polished than the words Earl spoke long ago, but the message they convey is the same:

Luke 11:9 (King James Version)
9 “And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Conversion - Part One

Nancy and I got back from Glorietta Sunday night. We had an absolutely wonderful time.

We each came away from the meetings with requests for Book proposals, including marketing plans. I'm planning on having one completed by the end of the day tomorrow.

We'll see where it all goes.

Until I get through this maze of manuscript preparations blogging is going to be light.

I thought it might be interesting, on the heels of Glorietta, to re-post the four part series on my conversion to Christianity. I'll post part one today and the others on successive days. Part one follows:

“Within the Christian community there has been a great divide between those who understand salvation in essentially private or essentially public terms. In the privatized version, salvation is essentially a matter of my getting my soul into heaven, while the rest of reality we call history can, quite literally, go to hell. This is the stereotype (my emphasis added) of a certain kind of fundamentalist and revivalistic Protestantism. In this version of the Christian message the world is condemned, and the most urgent question, indeed the only question is, “Are you saved?” Christians outside the fundamentalist camp have been generally critical of this understanding of salvation. They have insisted that the gospel is of public significance, that it provides a context of meaning that illuminates human experience within actual history. Thus it has been thought that fundamentalism, with its focus upon privatized salvation, is indifferent to history, while liberal Christianity takes history seriously but shortchanges the quest for private, or personal, salvation. This way of understanding our differences is, I believe, no longer adequate.”
Richard John Neuhaus – The Naked Public Square (page 15)

No one I’ve read in the last ten years has expressed better than John Neuhaus the tension between these two Christian camps and the political world we live in today.

On one hand you have a group (liberal Christianity) that until the 1980’s had dominated the American social landscape. On the other you have a group (Neuhaus calls them fundamental or revivalistic) who, after a long absence, have re-entered the public debate. That has meant, in turn, that one Christian camp, which was almost unchallenged in the public arena for decades since the 1925 Scopes trial, had to compete with a rival to get its message out to the public, particularly those with political power.

The debate began in earnest in the 1980’s with the ascent of the Moral Majority and other conservative Christian organizations.

Now it must be explained that the rise of the “religious right” was not only a response to the politics of the time, but also to the theology.

For me the debate began back in the late seventies and early eighties when I was attending seminary. I was working toward a masters degree in theology, having decided to avoid the master of divinity program the seminary offered. I did it because, as I used to tell other students, I wanted to avoid becoming “smarter than God.” I’d read enough theology, particularly Thomas Altizer, to know that there are times and circumstances when one can profess to be wise and actually be a fool. We used to have raging debates about the theology of the times, particularly the “God is dead” theology that was in vogue. A sample of Altizer’s wisdom follows to give you a flavor of what I mean:

“Only when God is dead can Being begin in every Now. Eternal Recurrence is neither a cosmology nor a metaphysical idea: it is Nietzsche’s symbol of the deepest affirmation of existence, of Yes-saying. Accordingly, Eternal Recurrence is a symbolic portrait of the truly contemporary man, the man who dares to live in our time, in our history, in our existence.”

Seminarians used to love to run around quoting Altizer in those days. My question to them was always, “How would explain that to a cab driver or a stevedore or a baker or a butcher or a candlestick maker?” They couldn’t (or wouldn’t) of course, but it didn’t seem to matter to them. Did the “God is dead” theology, and other theologies of the time, build their faith. Read these words from Altizer, put yourself in seminary classroom, and imagine what they would do for you:

“Another and intimately related form of Christianity’s new estrangement was posed by the historical discovery of the eschatological "scandal" of New Testament faith. Modern scholarship unveiled a Jesus who is a "stranger and enigma to our time" (Schweitzer’s words) because his whole message and ministry were grounded in an expectation of the immediate coming of the end of the world. The Jesus whom we "know" is a deluded Jewish fanatic, his message is wholly eschatological, and hence Jesus and his message are totally irrelevant to our time and situation.”

If there are any cab drivers who happen to be Christians reading this post I’ll translate briefly for you. Your faith is useless and you’re on your own in this world. Comforting words, wouldn’t you say?

The divide between the Christian camps I mentioned earlier came into focus in these classes. The long and short of what I learned was that if I wanted to be engaged in the world I’d better act like God didn’t exist at all. So, if I’d come to seminary to learn and then go out into the world and contribute meaningfully to society I had to abandon the very faith that had brought me there. I could go and call it Christianity. I just couldn’t act like it really meant anything.

But I was, as Altizer had said, a man who would “dare to live in our time.” I was a fundamentalist who, I believe, had his feet on the ground.

I hadn’t always been that way. I won’t bore you with the details right now, especially after you’ve had to muddle your way through a couple of snippets of Altizer. Perhaps in some later post I’ll fill you in. I’ll give you just enough to let you know what experiences guided my decisions in life.

It’s safe, I believe, to say that my background truly did inform my pilgrimage. My father had died when I, my brother, and sister, were very young. He died of tuberculosis which had been helped along by alcoholism and the stereotypical Irish gift of melancholy. My mother went into a deep depression and was subsequently “hospitalized” for years. This left us as “wards of the state.” We were sent to a preventorium in Mattapan (a suburb close to Boston) to ensure we were taken care of and to also ensure that we didn’t contract the tuberculosis that had killed my father.

While I can’t say we were treated badly there, I can say that I came to see that kindness does not always translate into caring. The kind of caring I experienced in Mattapan was one that taught me to always be grateful to my benefactors. The kindness seemed to me to have no inner life at all. It had all the outward trappings of kindness, the food, the medicine, etc. But it didn’t have any of the inward signs of caring. I never remember once having anyone ask me how I felt about wanting to go home with my mother. I never heard anyone ask me what I wanted to do.

This, for me, was lesson number one. I was state property.

Lesson number two came later. My mother was released from the “hospital” after about eight years of therapy, shock treatment, and God knows what else. At that time my brother was sent to a trade school, my sister to some relatives in Maynard (another suburb of Boston), and I got to go home to live with my mother in Cambridge, just across the Charles River from Boston. One of my mother’s first tasks was to get me some “religion.” She started sending me to Christ Church, which still holds the distinction of being the oldest church in the city (it was established in 1759). I have very little in the way of significant memories of my first few years there. As I grew and became more thoughtful, though, things changed. In the two or three years after my mother and I moved to Cambridge my brother and sister also came back home. We were a family once again after years of separation. They were among the happiest years of my life. While my sister and I didn’t get along especially well, I still loved having her at home. But my greatest joy was being around my brother. We spent our non school time playing stickball. He was four years older than me and used the age advantage he had to the fullest. I don’t remember how many sixteen hit shutouts he pitched against me in those days, but there were a lot. He took great delight in allowing me to load the bases and then turn to his patented “pimple ball curve” and strike me out to end every threat. As the ball would pass my stick (bat) he’d howl with delight, “Yerrrrr ouuuuuttttt.”
I’d have a momentary fit of anger, but I really didn’t mind. Just being around him was enough for me.

It was around this time that I began to develop my own religious thinking. We became acolytes at Christ Church, read from the Book of Common Prayer, took instruction, and observed the mysterious liturgy of the Episcopal Church. I developed a real interest in matters of faith during those days. I attended classes “religiously.” I even started having dreams about mysterious things. One recurring dream was of me sitting at our apartment window and seeing “a man” being crucified on the privacy fence that surrounded our complex. After five or six episodes I asked the rector of the church what the dream meant. “I don’t know,” he responded.
“Could it have been God talking to me?”
“Maybe.”
“What would He be saying?”
“Well, I’m not sure He was talking to you so I can’t really answer the question.”
There was really a more burning question for me, a question that had haunted me since I was a little boy. “Does God know when you’re going to die?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I just do.”
“You really want to know.”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid that’s something He doesn’t know. It’s not like He’s got a clock and says, ‘well it’s 6:00 PM, I guess I’d better go and get Phil Dillon.” It just doesn’t work that way. You wouldn’t want it that way.”
“I would.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know He’s not just out there. I want to know that He’s here too.”
“I wish I could help you but I can’t.”
“Was that Jesus in my dreams?”
“Well Jesus went to sit at the right hand of God.”
“Do you mean He’s not here?”
“Well, He’s here because you’re here.”
“Why can’t He be here and there at the same time?”
I got no answer, only the silence that told me I had asked one too many questions.

The second lesson I learned in my youth was that I, as many theologians say, was on my own.

As I look back at it now I realize that I was having a dialogue with the rector about transcendence and immanence. I wanted both, but I got no answer then. It was to take years until I did.

While I felt on my own after my philosophical discussion with the rector of our church I didn’t feel totally abandoned. I still had my family; I still had my stickball in the summer and my beloved Boston Celtics in the winter. I still attended church, but something was missing. I recall often being caught up in a sense of wonder in mystery on those Sunday mornings. There were times when I just wanted to float away, hoping to find the the man who hung crucified on the privacy fence of my recurring dream. I wanted to find him and ask him who had done this done him. I wanted to find him and ask why they’d done it. But more than anything I wanted to ask why no one would help him. Praying the traditional “collects” and other “prayers and thanksgivings” seemed to heighten the sense of mystery in me. A few prayers, in particular, have stayed with me through the years. One was a prayer we often recited for our “national life:”

Prayers for National Life18. For our Country”Almighty God, who hast given us this good land for ourheritage: We humbly beseech thee that we may always proveourselves a people mindful of thy favor and glad to do thy will.Bless our land with honorable industry, sound learning, andpure manners. Save us from violence, discord, and confusion;from pride and arrogance, and from every evil way. Defendour liberties, and fashion into one united people the multitudesbrought hither out of many kindreds and tongues. Enduewith the spirit of wisdom those to whom in thy Name we entrustthe authority of government, that there may be justice andpeace at home, and that, through obedience to thy law, wemay show forth thy praise among the nations of the earth.In the time of prosperity, fill our hearts with thankfulness,and in the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in thee to fail;all which we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The other was a prayer we prayed on Palm Sunday:

Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday

The Proper Liturgy for this day is on page 270.

“Almighty and everliving God, who, of thy tender love towards mankind, hast sent thy Son our Savior Jesus Christ to take upon him our flesh, and to suffer death upon the cross, that all mankind should follow the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant that we may both follow theexample of his patience, and also be make partakers of hisresurrection; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

These prayers, as beautiful and rhythmic as they were, only added to the growing sense of alienation I was experiencing. God was out there, somewhere, and I wanted to find Him. Was He just a part of some recurring dream? Was He so transcendent that I would probably never find him? Was He even there at all or was all that I was going through nothing more than ritual?

My weekdays were filled with school, stickball (in season), hanging around with my brother and other kids in the neighborhood. In time I became the stickball champion of Chatham Street. None of the kids in my age group could beat me. For that I had my brother to thank. Those frustrating episodes of swinging wildly at his “pimple ball curve” had prepared me for better things. I can’t say that my childhood was unhappy. When I’ve spoken to people over the years, particularly liberal friends, they have a tendency to feel sorry for me. I’ve never felt that way. In fact in 1995 I expressed my feelings about my background this way:

The Romantic’s Ghetto

Some say their roots are in the land

In the strength and dignity of furrowed country rows

Mine are in the blaze of neon

Giving light and breath to the tenements lining ghetto streets.

Some say their faith was honed on cathedral glass

And sharpened by regal priestly robes

Mine was cut on jagged ghetto glass

And purified by the clatter of subway steel.

Some say they have an eye for distant landscapes

Or the refined beauty of a mountain stream.

Mine is tuned to a ragged ghetto face

Or the cloistered ghetto masses forgotten by the rush of time.

Where's the dignity of life to be found?

In the land? In a stream?

For some it is for sure.....Where is it then for me?

It's the romance of the Ghetto that will always fill my soul.

© 1995 Phil Dillon


Our family was poor. My mother only had a third grade education followed by a nervous breakdown, and years of hospitalization to support us. In practical terms it meant we had to live as recipients of the welfare state. One of my mother’s failings was her inability to maintain any kind of economic balance. She would shop, see something she liked, and buy it, as she often said, “On the cuff.” That was her slang for credit. The credit would be extended and the bills would mount up. In time there were a long line of creditors coming by looking for their money. Our way of dealing with the problem was to stay on the move. In one three year period we must have moved nine or ten times. In the times I’ve revisited Cambridge over the years I’ve been a great amusement to my wife. We’ve strolled and passed apartment buildings or tenements and I’ve often said as we’ve passed, “I lived there for a couple of months” or “I remember that place too.”

My first sense of anger at my station in life came when my mother would send me to city hall to get our welfare check every month. One visit is still very vividly planted in my memory. It wasn’t the visit that hurt. I’d made enough trips to city hall to swallow my pride and accept the goodness of the state. On this occasion it was a whispered conversation that cut to the quick. While looking for our check he was asked by another counselor, “Who’s this?”
“That’s one of the Dillon kids. This poor kid doesn’t have a chance. His father died a drunk and his mother’s a dolt. He just doesn’t have chance in life.”
His conversation was meant to be out of earshot, but I heard it and it hurt. When he came back to me with the check he saw that I was crying. “What’s wrong?” he asked
I didn’t have the courage to say how I felt. “Nothing,” I responded meekly.
I left, vowing that some day I would be my own man and that I would never again have to be dependent on the goodness of the state for my welfare or dignity.

This incident, along with my growing sense of alienation from God, brought me to my first major adult decision in my life. I made it when I was fifteen. I was at a friend’s apartment watching television on a Sunday night. I don’t recall who was conducting the interview, but the interviewee was J Paul Getty, who was at that time the world’s richest man. The interview was being conducted at his English estate called Sutton Place. I didn’t hear much of what Getty was saying, but I did notice all the trappings of wealth that surrounded him. Something inside of me just snapped. “How can this be?” I thought. “This man has more than he’ll ever need and I have to beg the state of Massachusetts for the little our family gets.” The internal anger hit a crescendo. “There can’t possibly be a God! There is no God! There never was, there isn’t one now, there never will be!”

As I look back on it now, the decision didn’t make sense. But it didn’t have to. Anger and alienation were to be my “guiding principles” for the next ten years.

When I got old enough I decided to leave Massachusetts. I joined the Air Force in 1961, did my boot camp at Lackland AFB, an uneventful tour in California, and some time on temporary duty in Washington D.C., and then got an assignment to Ernest Harmon AFB, Newfoundland. The assignment was, actually, quite providential. My mother was born in Newfoundland, in a little fishing village called McIvers Cove. This gave me the opportunity to meet relatives I would never have been able to if it hadn’t been for the Air Force assignment. During my time in Newfoundland I spent three leaves in McIvers, all of them wonderful. My aunts, uncles, cousins and other assorted relatives were all very kind, gentle people. I grew to love them. One uncle, in particular, captured my heart. His name was Fiander Louis Park. Fi (pronounced fye), as he liked to be called, was a tall man, almost toothless. If you’ve ever read Richard Brautigan’s “Confederate General from Big Sur” you’ll get a small glimpse of what Fi was like. The one tooth in his head seemed to float from place to place. One morning at breakfast it would appear to be in the upper right part of his mouth. The next morning it seemed to be on the bottom left. And, no dear reader, it was not my imagination. When I visited McIvers Fi was my official tour guide. He would glide down McIver’s dirt road to my Aunt Mabel’s to get breakfast each morning and then take me from place to place. Some days we’d just go up to his cabin. On others we’d go out in a dory together. If would row (he insisted on it) and I would sit and view the breathtaking cliffs of McIver’s and the other inlets in the area. On one excursion we saw a couple of whales. Fi whispered to me, “Look my son. Look I think they might’s be a couple of blues. Oh my son, have you ever seen the likes?
“No Fi, I’ve never.”
They’s beautiful, ‘eh?”
“They are.”
“Oh my son, my son.”

It was on these journeys that I would occasionally recall the mysteries of Christ Church and the man being crucified on the fence from years before, but I would try to dismiss them as soon as the thoughts came. I had decided that I would enjoy these moments for what they were. Life, as I’d come to believe, had very few good moments. One had to enjoy them, endure the rest of life, then die, rot, and be forgotten. That was the sum total of life as I saw it back then.