Gardener

And then there was one! At one point during my 20 year career at Dordt, I had 11 colleagues on the faculty who were Canadians. Now, with Hubert Krygsman moving to the presidency of Redeemer College, there is one. All of the departed Canadians were my friends and that includes not only those at Redeemer—John Van Rys, Jim Vander Woord, and Syd Hielema—but the others: John Vander Stelt, John Van Dyke, Fred Van Geest, Case Boot, John Struyk, and Simon DuToit. But my loss is nothing compared to Dordt’s loss. I know, of course, that generalizations about ethnicity or nationality are dangerous, but I will hazard some generalizations nevertheless: · The Canadians lived and breathed a Kuyperian worldview. It was in their blood and bones. When they were in the classroom, it was in the classroom. · The Canadians spoke with refreshing, Old World Dutch directness. They had no tolerance for bullshit. In an academic world characterized by evasion and euphemism and half truth, t

Letter from Florida (7): Long-legged Waders Florida is a paradise for bird lovers. And of all the birds we see around here, the most startling—even though many of them are common as robins up north—are the long-legged waders. What pleasure we take in identifying by name these creatures that we had no knowledge of a few weeks ago. Some, of course, we knew. An old favorite is the Great Blue Heron. We see lots of them here, though they look different than they do in the North: They have beards and white streaks in their plumage and they sit for hours on end with their long necks stuck down in their shoulder blades, like petulant old men. In the north—as I recall them—they are a solid blue gray and when you spot them they are either fishing or flying. We also enjoy the sleek, grey-blue Little Blue Heron. Another favorite down here is the roseate spoonbill, a gorgeous pink bird about 30 inches tall with a bill that looks like a couple of nearly flat spoons clasped together. I have some grea

Some time ago a friend told me that he was singing more, listening to more music and was, because of this, much happier. I believed him. Music is one of the most powerful and mysterious forces on earth. And just as mysterious is the question, Why do we listen to what we listen to? Why do we like some music and hate another kind? Is this a learned thing or instinctive? Example: I grew up in a home where classical music was on the radio most of the time. My mother had no use for the gospel music of her time and wouldn’t have walked across the street for a gospel concert. I remember a time when The King’s Choraliers, a Grand Rapids based male chorus that sang gospel music, came to Edgerton, my home town. It was a big deal in town because the director was a man who had grown up in Edgerton. But my mother was not the least bit interested in attending. As I grew up, I absorbed some of her attitudes and these were augmented by participation in Choral programs when I attended college.

Jennifer quotes Barbara Brown Taylor saying worship is not something that “people cook up by themselves.” And Luke suggests among other things that worship is a dialogue. Both suggest that God, the Spirit, makes worship happen. Of course as Ron notes, when one actually takes on Christ with the Eucharist, that’s everything. That seems to be the Catholic position, but does that mean fellowship with other believers is not a part of worship? Or exegesis of the word? My little screed of several days ago came out of a frustrating worship service that had way too much of the preacher’s personal opinion and not nearly enough of the word of God. That happened again this Sunday. It disturbs me. But suppose it was the word of God that was upsetting me? What if I heard strong Biblical preaching that was so radical it upset my comfortable life. That would be a good thing, right? I have been reading a collection of essays by Smith (The Devil Reads Derrida) and in a short piece on worship h

We noticed Mr. and Mrs. Crane walking by our house a couple of times a day and so one day we just went out and introduced ourselves. That’s the way you do it in a retirement village. They’re a rather odd couple, really, but gentle and sweet. They both walk in this slow, loping walk, sort of dipping down as they go and planting each foot so delicately on the grass or street that you’d think the ground was hot. Both of them walk this way—I guess it’s true that couples who live together long enough start to imitate each other unconsciously. Also, they both have red hair though that must be a genetic thing, not something that happened by imitation. In the morning when we take our walk around Lake Fox Village, they are usually out as well, standing by the lake--they have an unusual double-wide down by the lake, sort of round in shape, unlike most of the homes which are rectangular. They don’t talk much, but when they do, we sit up and listen. It comes out sort of like a honk. And if t

Speaking of worship—as I did yesterday—I am always struck by the worship practices of Flannery O’Connor. I was reminded of them as I read the new biography of O’Connor by Brad Gooch. While she was at the University of Iowa Writers Workshop, she attended a small Catholic church around the corner from her apartment. Almost every morning! “I went there three years and never knew a soul in that congregation or any of the priests, but it was not necessary. As soon as I went in the door I was at home.” She is famous for a remark some years later at a literary gathering at the apartment of Mary McCarthy in New York City. Painfully shy, she has said virtually nothing the whole evening but when a woman remarked that she considered the host (in Holy Communion) to be just a symbol, O’Connor remarked: “Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.” For O’Connor the host was absolutely life-giving and was at the very center of her worship. My concern here is worship and it is clear to me that wha

While we are in Florida, we gather at a chapel with a number of Reformed brothers and sisters for Sunday worship and are led by a variety of retired CRC and RCA pastors--so one never knows what to expect. Yesterday morning, the sermon was from Genesis 1 and the central thesis was that the creation was the marvelous act of our all powerful God. Now this is a fundamental truth of Christianity and a worthly subject for a sermon; however, most of the time and energy of the sermon was devoted to a debunking of evolution--and in a rather sarcastic tone. This raised a couple of problems for me. First of all, the word evolution, like communism or socialism, is a word that makes a certain number of religious people automatically see red. To use it indiscriminantly as a synonym for atheism, that is, to suggest it represents a belief that denies the existence of a creator God, is to do a huge injustice to those who believe in some form of theistic evolution. And further, it denies the fact o

On our way to Florida, we made a side jaunt to Milledgeville, Georgia. It was a pilgrimage of sorts to the shrine of St Flannery. That’s Flannery O’Connor, author of two collections of short stories, two novels and a couple of other books, one a collection of essays on the craft of fiction and one a collection of her letters, both assembled posthumously. O’Connor died of lupus at the age of 39. Both Jeri and I have taught the short fiction of O’Connor for years and have come to admire it more and more the longer we taught it. Her stories are often violent and shocking, yet funny and unflinching in their portrayal of evil and breathtaking in their depiction of grace. Although most evangelical Christians would probably find her fiction disturbing—and even disgusting in some cases—it has been a force to be reckoned with in the largely secular world of modern American literature. “To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the blind you draw large and startling figures” is O’Connor’s epigra