Ocular Fusion

We recently marked the 42nd anniversary of C.S. Lewis' death, but today is the 107th anniversary of his birth. Dr. Bruce Edwards, Professor of English at Bowling Green State University and a renowned Lewis expert, has an excellent birthday tribute to Lewis at his site, Further Up and Further In.

I'm excited that the upcoming screen adaptation of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is bringing renewed interest in Lewis and his works. I recall fondly teaching a Sunday school class a few years back on The Screwtape Letters. My particular denomination is not exactly well known for its intellectual rigor and interest in British authors, so I was a little concerned that no one would show up. Not only did they come, but there were so many that there wasn't a classroom big enough to contain everyone and we had to move it to the church foyer and set up chairs.

As I looked around, I noticed several older members who had copies of the book, probably dating from the late 50s or early 60s, with creased covers and yellowing, dog-eared pages. I suddenly realized that there were at least some in the Church of Christ who were reading Lewis long before they were able to discuss his work openly in a Sunday school class. They had "come out of the closet" (or maybe I should say wardrobe!) and were eagerly satisfying at long last their hunger for richly layered discussion and an exploration of the role of the arts and the imagination in discipleship.

I'm hoping (and expecting) that the upcoming movie will kindle this desire in a new generation and maybe even fan the flames in a few other "closet" Lewisphiles. In any case, "Happy Birthday Jack!" We are all better for having known you.

Let me just say this up front: I love the Church of Christ. Prior to the good-natured and gentle rebuke, I state for the record that the Church of Christ does considerably more good than harm, and that I for one have suffered no irreparable damage from my experiences in that denomination. Despite her flaws and freckles, and even with her red-faced, arm-crossed "I'll just have a piece of dry toast, no butter or jam for me, thank you very much" approach to the Christian faith, I love her still.

She was was my nursemaid in the faith, the place where I learned scripture and where loving and caring hands laid the foundation of my Christian formation. The Church of Christ is the community where I remain to this day and where my children are also learning to walk in faith. I confess no small amount of loyalty to my tradition. But I also believe that family ought to be able to talk openly and honestly to one another. And with all that said, I offer up my childhood memories of the sometimes comical, a little bit pagan, always bare-boned "Church of Christ Christmas," along with the case for Advent and tradition in the life of the Christian.

I guess when you get down to it, I have always been a devotee of pomp and circumstance. I remember as a child being fascinated with and attracted to the many colorful sights, smells and traditions of the "other churches" around town during this time of year: the hanging of the greens, Advent wreaths, aromatic incense, nativity scenes and the warm and colorful glow of candles behind stained glass on a snowy, December night.

I longed to venture inside the other churches and to peek behind the story-filled stained glass and perhaps catch a glimpse of the mysteries unfolding away from my own reductionistic and rationalistic tradition. I desired to add my voice to the rhythmic chant of scripture and creed, to speak in unison with saints past and present and to fall into step with the ancient cadence of Christian pilgrims who for centuries had traveled the road of faith before me.

At my own church, mention of the Baby Jesus during the Christmas season was taboo, just like the subject of the Resurrection during Easter. We carefully excised all mention of Christ's birth, but with few exceptions eagerly joined in the more general spirit of Christmas cheer. In doing so, we unwittingly participated in the pagan feast of Saturnalia. Just like the ancient Romans, we exchanged gifts and did good deeds of charity and celebrated in feast and song. Along with the Druids, we hung our circular wreaths and decorated our trees, all the while oblivious to their ancient pagan symbolism. Like the secular Brits of the Victorian era, we embraced the good cheer and revelry (minus the alcohol, of course) of the bacchanalian "Father Christmas."

But when if came to Christian overtones, we dared not mimic "those Catholics and Episcopalians." Instead, we stood in the corner like self-righteous wallflowers while the rest of Christendom feasted and danced in celebration. "We celebrate Christmas and Easter every Sunday," some would say. Others would chime in, "There is no scriptural command!" I remember wondering what would happen if a husband failed to mention his wedding to his wife on their anniversary, citing the excuse, "I celebrate our wedding every day, dear. There is no scriptural command, ergo, no need for all the pomp and circumstance." Somehow, I remember thinking, that probably wouldn't go over very well.

Such presumptive precision would of course fall flat because humans are by nature, and for good reason, commemorative creatures. Early Christians did not look to scripture for express commands on every jot and tittle of faith and practice. Instead, they retained the spirit of festival, and like their Jewish forebears, celebrated and encouraged "sacred time" as a means of nourishing and encouraging the faithful.

To pause and remember, to feast on God's bounty, to create colorful commemorations and celebrations are urges as natural as breathing. To choke and suppress these noble instincts is to cut off a vital piece of our humanity and to invite drabness and the death of mystery. To disregard tradition is to turn a deaf ear to the voices of the past and to still the ancient song of "deep calling to deep."

Against this sweeping tide of dry reductionism stood my father, who had more than a little of a mischievous streak. He was an elder in our church and also the regular songleader, and on occasion he liked to stir the pot a little. Around this time of year, with a trace of a wry smile forming on the corners of his lips, he would lead traditional Christmas favorites like Silent Night or Away in a Manger, invoking a few hard glances and a snide comment or two from the folks who he felt took themselves and their hard and fast opinions a bit too seriously.

Looking back, I think he was teaching as much as he was tweaking, sending the message that God would be pleased with any effort, no matter how "unscriptural," if it was done to honor his Son and to turn our thoughts toward the mystery of Incarnation.

And so the seeds planted by the father took root in the son, and today I embrace the tradition of Advent with it's call for self-examination and "wakefulness" in light of the first coming of long ago and the second one yet to come. During the evening meal, our family gathers around our Advent wreath and lights the candles--purple for penitence, pink for joy, white for the purity of Christ. Together we trek "up the mountain" to All Saints' Chapel at Sewanee and join hundreds of other pilgrims in the Service of Lessons and Carols. At First United Methodist Church in Huntsville, we participate in the medieval Boar's Head Festival and learn the moving story of Good King Wenceslas who was determined to bring food, wine and warmth to a poor man and invited his young page and assistant to "mark his footsteps" and to "tread now in them boldly" as the night grew darker and the winter wind blew more strongly. On Christmas Eve, we seek out a liturgical church and join the queue near the altar around midnight, eagerly anticipating the coming of Jesus in the bread and the wine.

In all of this, we are nourished and fed by the sense and sensibility of those who have come before us and the traditions of those "on whose shoulders we stand." Regarding tradition, G.K. Chesterton wrote:

"Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. Tradition refuses to submit to that arrogant oligarchy who merely happen to be walking around."

Such "chronological snobbery," as C.S. Lewis called it, lies at the root of the objections of my childhood naysayers. They were the ones who, after all these centuries, finally discerned the thoughts and minds of the early Christians, perhaps even better than the early Christians themselves.

To reject an invitation to the Christmas feasts out of conscience is not a sin, for "each one should be full convinced in his own mind (Romans 14:5-7)." Christianity is about more than feasts and special days to be sure. But to decline and at the same time condemn those who accept, is to be guilty of the sin of presumption, which, while having "the appearance of wisdom," in the end forces an unhealthy asceticism on others in an unloving and arbitrary manner that has no place in the Christian life (Colossians 2:16-23).

Pardon me, but I think I'll take a pass on such preening and opt for the pomp and pageantry of Advent and Christmas in all their fully-orbed Christian splendor. I don't mind you choosing the wallflower option, but please don't step on my dancing shoes. I'll take the Mother and Child, a dirty, smelly manger and God-in-the-flesh over Saturnalia any day.

The Lectionary Readings for the First Sunday of Advent:

Isaiah 64:1-9

Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19

I Corinthians 1:3-9

Mark 13:24-37

Hopefully by now your Thanksgiving bird is safely simmering away in a pan in preparation for the feast--and hopefully you have lived to tell the tale. As this disturbing image shows, turkeys are not the docile, lovable birds commonly depicted in popular literature and movies. No, they are fierce warrior fowl who would just as soon take an eye out with a razor-edged talon than to simply lie down in a pan and wait for everyone around the table to sing a paeon of praise about how juicy and tender this year's "special guest" looks.

Having grown up in Southwest Virginia near the campus of Virginia Tech, I have known about the existence of these "fighting gobblers" all my life. One Thanksgiving, my father and I even marched around the woods near our home ostensibily on a search and destroy mission to bag one of these dangerous birds. I think I was around 10-years-old at the time and my father must have suddenly realized that I had not been on the requisite rite-of-passage hunting trip with Dad, so we squeezed one in during the hours prior to the Cowboys-Redskins game. Dad carried his .410 shotgun (unloaded) and tried to look like a serious hunter, but we mostly walked around in circles, having a good time talking loudly about this and that as the golden, red fall leaves crunched beneath our boot-shodden feet. I suspect we made a little too much noise for turkey hunters, but it was just as well since I'm not sure what we would have done had we encountered one of the fierce creatures anyway.

Probably most of you have let others do the dangerous work for you (understandably so) and simply had the guy at the end of the register bag the bird in either paper or plastic. But keep an eye on that pot will ya? You know how those horror movies turn out--just when you think the monster is dead, you look up and...well, suffice it to say, be careful out there, ok? Oh, and be blessed and thankful for the good gifts of food, family and friends that God willing are yours this Thanksgiving Day, 2005.

I fulfilled one of my week-off vows yesterday and went to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. My favorite character in the movie--no real surprise here--was Mad-Eye Moody, the new professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Needless to say, Moody's large, bulging left eye captured my attention. Immediately I went into differential diagnosis mode: was it uncontrolled glaucoma, a case of unilateral thyroid ophthalmopathy, a retrobulbar tumor or maybe the rare and dreaded cavernous sinus fistula? I know these same questions must have been running through everyone else's mind too (I told you it was going to be hard to relax this week!).

It turns out the eye is an artificial one, the natural one apparently lost during his former life as an Auror from a curse obtained in a duel with a Death Eater. I was going to get to supernatural diagnoses, it's just that as a physician and a scientist I had to rule out natural ones first, you know, Occam's Razor and all. I liked Mad-Eye's rough-and-ready practicality and the way he watched Harry's back. Of course, we learn toward the end of the film that there is more to Moody's character than "meets the eye."

I also detected a theme in yesterday's movie that I think resonates well in today's world: We must tell our children the truth. Author J.K. Rowling seems to feel that children from about age 10 and up can handle the real story that, yes, the world is a beautiful place full of many wonders, but it is also full of danger and evil that must be opposed--often with courage and heroism that must be summoned up against the urge to follow the easier path of no resistance.

As Mad-Eye Moody would say, "constant vigilance" is the byword for the magical world of Harry Potter, and, it would seem, for our world as well.

I figured there would be some inspiring tales emanating from the Gulf Coast this holiday season. The citizens of Waveland, Mississippi lost nearly everything to Katrina, but as you can read from this USA Today article, their spirits were trampled but not broken.

Unlike many of us who have never experienced such upheaval, the good folks there have learned to do without many modern conveniences but are thankful nonetheless for the basics--food, shelter, hot water and the companionship and love of friends and family. Things are looking up as you can tell from the article, and the fact that Wal-Mart is back on the scene, adapting to the situation and meeting the needs of their customers in new and unique ways, is further indication that "normalcy" is making a slow, but sure comeback.

But they still have a long way to go and now is the time, after the rush to help is dying down, to keep our prayers and efforts focused on the people of the Gulf Coast for the duration of their recovery. I know there will be more inspirational stories like this one in the days ahead and I would appreciate it if any of you who run across one would chime in and point us that way.

Really, you don't even have to go to the movies or read an epic novel to encounter great examples of bravery, sacrificial love and overcoming. The good folks in Waveland and in countless other places along the Gulf Coast are serving up a heaping portion of all those things this Thanksgiving as they lift their eyes to heaven in the most difficult of circumstances.

My friend Bill Gnade at Contratimes has written a moving tribute to C.S. Lewis on this the 42nd anniversary of his passing into "a better country." As Bill points out, Lewis, President John F. Kennedy and Aldous Huxley all died within a few hours of each other. Author Peter Kreeft took that fact and ran with it, producing the work Between Heaven and Hell in which he imagines the three meeting and debating in the afterlife.

Like Bill, Lewis opened my mind to the possiblity of retaining my Christian faith without giving up on intellect and reason. His works impacted my life in deep ways and also connected me with many other authors who influenced Lewis or were in some way connected to him.

Thank you, Bill, for reminding me what day it was and for remembering Lewis so well.

Like many of you, most of my days are defined by the rhythm of work. I rise, prepare, go forth, do the deed, retreat to my lair and collapse. If you had asked me twenty years ago what my typical day would look like, I think that I would have probably painted a picture with a little more glamour and adventure. Rather than merely do a few ordinary eye exams, maybe I would also slay a dragon or two who might wander into the clinic, make a life-saving diagnosis at least every other day, and perhaps stop an armed robbery in progress at the local convenience store when I stop by to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home. Instead, it's mostly the steady cadence, "which is better, onnne...or...twoooo." So much for an epic career.

This week I will be trying to catch the beat of a different kind of tune--taking a week off from work. I have approximately a gazillion days of leave stored up, so I decided to burn up a few this Thanksgiving week and recharge the old batteries. But the question remains, will I delight in the freedom, the luxury of reading a book, going to a movie, doing a little blogging, and spending time with my family (that is, when I can catch them--you see, they have their own "hard rock" rhythm which I sometimes have trouble keeping up with), or will I sit around pining for "which is better one or two."

I know from the past, that sometimes I just don't know what to do with myself when I'm not at work. Also, since my parents-in-law now live in Huntsville, this will be the first time in our married life that we will not travel some great distance over Thanksgiving. Indeed, the next few days stretch out as unexplored frontier for as far as my eyes can see.

Here is my current list of things to enjoy/do (aside from the default Thanksgiving feast):

1. Go see the Harry Potter movie with my family
   
2. Finish re-reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in preparation for December 9th
3. Go to the gym every day except Thanksgiving Day
   
4. Hang out at Barnes and Noble, drink coffee, check out the new titles and hopefully run into some friends and good conversation.
   
5. Travel a short distance up the road to Tennessee later in the week to visit with dear soulmates from times past (and times present, and hopefully future too).
   
6. ???

I may even just try to sit still and not do anything, and perhaps in that space of silence, connect with my Creator and thank him for the blessings and opportunities of this, my so called "mundane" life.

So, anyone out there have any suggestions on how a recalcitrant and unrepentant Type-A workaholic can find a little peace and contentment during a week off? Better yet, what are you going to do this week to slow down your own pace and perhaps catch the beat of a different tune?

Do you live in Alabama and desire a nice drive with congestion-free traffic, a good tee time or a short line at Wal-Mart? Then come the 3rd Saturday of each November--the day that Alabama stands still--venture out to recreate or run your errands during the annual Iron Bowl between Alabama and Auburn and you'll have free run of the "Yellowhammer State."

Iron Bowl weekend is now history, and Big Al is crying in his beer while Aubie is strutting tall and talking trash after Auburn's 28-18 thrashing (it wasn't as close as the score indicated) of the Crimson Tide on Saturday. As a native Virginian transplanted in Alabama, I have yet to develop a strong allegiance in our little intrastate civil war, although I will admit to being a little disappointed with Bama's poor showing. I had hoped for a better contest and a closer finish, but instead got a game that was for all intents and purposes decided in the first fifteen minutes. Alabama's sieve-like offensive line gave up 11 sacks, leaving Bama quarterback Brodie Croyle watching much of Saturday's action from the recumbent position, as the AP photo by Rob Carr above amply shows. Although Bama "won" the second half 11-0, it was too little too late and now they must endure the mocking t-shirts and Tiger taunts for a grueling 365 days until they get a chance to exact their revenge.

Last year I was pulling for Auburn to stay undefeated and in national title contention and this year I was rooting for Shula and his boys as they seemed to have finally extricated themselves from the pit of scandal and mediocracy and be headed for the glory days of the past. The way I figure it, the better both teams do, the better our image nationally, and the last time I checked, Alabama's reputation could still use a little repair work. With Judge Roy "The Rock" Moore running for governor next year, I was hoping that we could generate as much positive press as possible before it all hits the fan again.

Although the Bama's big win over the Florida Gators earlier this season resulted in a national media frenzy, it was a Pyrrhic victory as they lost offensive sparkplug Tyrone Prothro to a broken leg in a freak play eerily reminiscent of Joe Theismann's gruesome game injury in 1985. The Sports Illustrated cover which followed led to the inevitable jinx which in turn brought nothing but an anemic offense and the first loss of the season to the LSU Bengal Tigers. With Auburn's huge win over Georgia "Between the Hedges" at Athen's Sanford Stadium, this is one train wreck that many saw coming.

Although my college football tastes turn toward my birth state's Virginia Tech Hokies, the rest of our house, like many in Alabama, is a divided one. Numbers One and Three sons, both born in Alabama, are dedicated Tide fans. Number Two son, however, being our only one born in Tennessee, prefers bloodhounds and coonskin caps and marches to the tune of Rocky Top. With UT's precipitous fall from grace this year, Number 2 is, understandably, keeping a low profile--after Saturday's loss to Vandy, as low as a submarine taking on water. Although Bama's drubbing would have been the perfect time for a Vols fan like himself to talk a little smack to his brothers, what is there to say, really, after losing for the first time since 1982 to the perennial SEC laughingstock Commodores?

With both teams at 9-2 and with losses to LSU, it looks like the Tide and the Tigers will most likely be sitting out the SEC Championship game then looking on as Texas and USC battle it out for the national title. Meanwhile, the curses that have flown back and forth across the state line between Alabama and Tennessee in the wake of Vols Head Coach Phil Fulmer's alleged role in ratting out the Crimson Tide to NCAA investigators appear to have resulted in an unintended consequence--"A pox on both their houses."

As I type these words, my personal odometer is starting its annual rotation--"44 years"--and the words on my computer screen are crystal clear. No haloes, no fuzz, no fuss. Through the miracle of modern optics, I've fooled my brain into thinking that it's 1984 again, when my limbs were limber and my eyes as sharp as an eagle's. All is quiet on the Old Age Front. Quiet, that is, as long as I keep my head completely still and my eyes perfectly centered through the sweet spots of my birthday present--a brand spanking new pair of progressive addition, "no-line" bifocals.

For those of you who are still under the age of forty and therefore clueless, I'm referring to the malady that I've come to call, The Heartbreak of Presbyopia. Presbyopia comes from the Greek presbyter, meaning "old" or "elder" and the word for "eye," optos. Put it all together and you get "old eyes" or "elder eyes," if you prefer. Basically what happens is that the ciliary muscle which helps control the shape of the lens--which must grow more convex or "fatter" to see clearly at near--becomes, like all muscles, "stiff" with age. Add to that the fact that the lens itself becomes less flexible and what results is a perpetual browache, forehead furrows as deep as those produced by a John Deere tractor, the tendency to read books with arms outstretched and the constant lament, "Would someone please turn on the %#@*& lights?!"

You would think that a battle-hardened optometrist like myself would not be bothered much by these cold, hard facts of anatomy and physiology. But for me the Heartbreak of Presbyopia has been no less severe than the average John or Jane sitting behind the phoropter. Although I've been prescribing glasses for presbyopia for years, there is no way some know-it-all, wet-behind-the-ears optometrist in his late twenties can possibly relate to the emotional and physical anguish that is the Heartbreak of Presbyopia. I've often laughed at the lengths to which people will go to avoid reading glasses, including setting material on the ground when they run out of arm. But now I cringe when I think of how I've handled emotionally fragile emerging presbyopes in the past:

Patient: "Doc, (sniff, sniff), it's terrible! I just can't see the small print anymore, my arms are too short and if I get those horrible bifocals with the lines in them, everyone will know (gasp!) how old I am, waaaaaa!"
Me: "Ah, quit your belly-aching and grow up why don't ya?! All God's children got circumstances, so get up, get out and get over it! Next?!"

The fact is, I've also been in denial and resorting to extreme measures to avoid bifocals--even the dreaded pencil pushups. For the uninitiated, pencil pushups were first conceived in the torture chambers of medieval Europe. Many a coerced confession was extracted from some poor soul by forcing him to focus on the tip of a writing instrument while a hooded torturer would gradually bring the pen or pencil closer to the prisoner's nasal bridge. With an inquisitor screaming, "Keep it clear, keep it clear!," the victims' eyes were forced to converge to the point of extreme discomfort and would sometimes even break loose from their muscle insertions. This would produce the "spinning globe" effect which often freaked out the torturers at least as much as the victims themselves.

With the advent of modern optometry, pencil pushups were found to have some value in training young people to use their eyes together more efficiently and to focus more accurately. For emerging geezers such as myself, however, such desperate measures are an exercise in futility. Unlike the heart muscle which responds to stress by growing stronger, the ciliary muscle only grows fatigued and upset, eventually responding with a whimper and a sigh, "Please, enough already!" So, a couple of weeks ago, I took the plunge, got behind the phoropter and refracted myself (yes, most of us do our own) and ordered my first pair of progressive addition, or "no-line" bifocals.

Now it's true that if you get a lineless bifocal, your friends may not be able to guess that you're somewhere on the far side of 40. Of course, there may be other telltale signs such as receding hairlines, graying temples or middle age paunch (aka "Beer Belly") to give away your age. However, with various hair remedies available and the existence of beer belly now being seriously questioned by major news organizations, it seems like an opportune time to pony up the major bucks and carry out the Perfect Ruse.

Alas, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Along with the useful deception comes the fact that now you must become a walking bobble-head doll, constantly turning and nodding your head to keep the eyes centered in the "sweet spot" or channel of clear vision that runs through middle of the lens.

If you make the mistake of turning your eyes like God intended you to, then life suddenly becomes a little more precarious. The distortion that you get through the edge of your average no-line bifocal lens causes blurry peripheral vision. I discovered this immediately as I backed up in the parking lot after putting my new glasses on for the first time. As I looked over my shoulder and cut my eyes to the left, the cars parked behind me began to dance merrily around in a mirage-like shimmer, laughing and taunting me as I gingerly released my clutch into a nervous reverse.

It's also good to remember that normal peripheral vision has important survival value, such as the ability to detect and avoid the large, Mack truck which may be hurtling toward you at the local crosswalk. Wearing a no-line bifocal may lead to the following scenario:

Cop # 1: "Say, how old do you think that stiff is over there who just got pancaked by that semi?
Cop # 2: "I'm not sure, but he can't be over 40 because there's no bifocal line in his glasses."

Actually, I'm relieved to see that the same old line that I feed all my patients about "glasses are like new shoes--they feel weird at first but after a week or so you break them in," is for the most part true. The distortion isn't nearly as noticeable now and I no longer have to throw back a handful of ibuprofen in order to get rid of that pesky browache. Ah, sweet surrender!

But from now on, I think I'll be a little more sympathetic when my patients come in for their first bifocal. Having "felt their pain" and experienced the Heartbreak of Presbyopia firsthand, "the chickens have come home to roost," and I think I'll lend a more empathetic ear. Here sits one bespectacled, Foghorn Leghorn who's having to eat a little crow.

Haven't you heard? "Aslan is on the move!"

Unless you've been in a sensory deprivation chamber over the past few weeks, you've no doubt heard about the upcoming screen adaptation of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe the first book in the Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis. With the movie set to premiere on December 9th, the excitement and expectations accompanying this release are reminiscent of the pre-Passion days of early 2004 which were characterized by a flurry of media coverage, both postive and negative.

In the past week, media attention has focused on the life of C.S. "Jack" Lewis and whether or not his personal morals were in perfect alignment with the Gospel that infused his writings. While I believe he would be the first to say, "They most certainly were not," several reports, such as this one and this one, have dredged up a few old, half-baked accusations of Lewis' alleged indiscretions which could have the effect of disappointing many of his fans, as well as eliciting a cynical "aha!" or two among his critics.

Now such reports are fair game when considering the life of a famous author and are open to investigation for those who care to examine their truthfulness or lack thereof. As for me, I never thought of Lewis as "St. Jack" in the first place. I figured all along that he put his pants on one leg at a time and then proceeded to walk on "feet of clay" just like the rest of us.

In fact, when I first encountered him in college, it was precisely because he didn't fit the typical mold of the "perfect evangelical Christian" (he was an infancy-baptized Anglican who was converted from atheism, smoked a pipe, hung out at pubs and abhorred teetotalism) that I was so attracted to his writings in the first place (well, that and his lucid prose). I figured if he quaff a pint of ale now and then and still produce works that were so obviously true to Christ, then there must be hope for me as well.

But such reports are also missing the main point--why Narnia matters. To the rescue rides NPR (which has been recently doing a good job on other stories as well) and a Morning Edition report which aired Tuesday and can be heard here. Rather than digging up dirt on Lewis, reporter Kim Masters focused on more substantive issues and spent a good deal of time interviewing Lewis' stepson, Douglas Gresham, who has become Lewis' leading advocate in recent years. She concluded:

"Gresham says that his stepfather did not set out to write a Christian book for children. The real question he posed to readers, Gresham says, is how they would measure up if they found themselves fighting a battle in Narnia."

That question is precisely the reason that Narnia matters. The fact is, we are in Narnia, with eyes wide open and mouths agape, just like Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. Like them , we are traveling through our own strange land, fighting the good fight, celebrating in song, dance and poem, mourning when compatriots fall, weaving together our own Story which others will tell after we are gone.

While such epics as Beowulf, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter and The Chronicles of Narnia may not be true in precise detail, they do ring true and resonate, pointing to larger Truth--that we are all part of a Grand Story whose cosmic conflict between good and evil is easily recognized in the events of our own lives and in which we all have some role to play.

Lewis would not want us to simply stand around, waiting for heaven and the "by and by." He believed our present actions and deeds on this earth matter greatly and will produce consequences that will echo into eternity. For Lewis, Christianity was a "myth" or epic story which happened to be true, and Narnia a "good dream" designed to "prebaptize the imagination" making it easier to accept the larger Truth occuring around us every day.

So, again, bully for NPR! If they keep this up, they're likely to earn a preset on my dial for the morning drive to work. After years of yucking it up with Rick and Bubba on their morning show, I'm due for something a little more sophisticated, and, it would seem, spot on correct.

Mr. Smith was on his death bed and knocking at the Pearly Gates. He called his son to his bedside and made one final request.

In a raspy voice, he asked, "Son, I'll be gone soon, but before I go, there's one of the Great Questions of Life that I must have answered. Please go get Dr. Jones."

His son looked at his father in confusion; Dr. Jones was the town optometrist, the last person in the world, it seemed, who could do his father any good. But the son was eager to fulfill his father's dying wish, so off he went to fetch Dr. Jones who was in the middle of a refraction when the son burst into the exam room.

"Doctor Jones," he exclaimed, "my father is about to die and requests that you come to his bedside to answer one of the Great Questions of Life!"

Doctor Jones, although thinking that perhaps Mr. Smith needed a priest more than an optometrist, agreed to go nonetheless, figuring that somehow he could charge for a housecall and bill Medicare for a little extra.

Once there, Dr. Jones addressed the dying man, "I've come as you requested, Mr. Smith, what can I possibly do for you in this, the hour of your severest trial?"

With a look of relief, Mr. Smith replied, "Doc, before I go (cough, gasp), I just have to ask you one question: Which choice really was better, one or two?"

Last week's horrific al-Qaeda bombings in Jordan are the most recent in their ongoing strategy of terrifying those who only remotely support US interests, even if it means killing fellow Muslims. The latest attack was especially egregious in it's cowardice and inhumanity, as a wedding in full swing was rudely interrupted by two uninvited guests wearing explosive-laden vests. The two were, ironically, a husband and wife team. The wife's bomb failed to detonate, but the husband succeeded, killing 57 members of the wedding party, including the fathers of both the bride and the bridegroom, and injuring over 90 more.

There was a time in Islam's history when its warriors would not have entertained the notion of treading on the holy ground of matrimony. Saladin (1138-1193) was a Kurd and a native of Tikrit (also the birthplace of Saddam Hussein) who rose to fame as a Muslim general during the Second and Third Crusades. Interest in his life has increased recently with the movie Kingdom of Heaven (recently released on DVD) which portrays him as a fierce warrior who also possesses a keen sense of honor and chivalry.

There is one episode from Saladin's life which seems to support that portrayal. In 1183, Queen Isabella of Jerusalem had just been married to Humphrey IV of Torn in a castle at Kerak in modern-day Jordan. On the wedding night, Saladin and his army attacked. According to Ernoul, a squire and eyewitness of the events, Saladin had once been a slave at Kerak and knew the bridegroom's mother, Stephanie of Milley. Not wanting the nuptials to end on such a sour note, Stephanie contacted Saladin. Ernoul writes:

"She sent to Saladin bread and wine, sheep and cattle in celebration of her son's wedding, reminding him that he used to carry her in his arms when she was a child and he was a slave in the castle. And when Saladin received these gifts he was exceedingly delighted and gave thanks to those who brought them to him, asking where the bride and bridegroom were staying: their tower was pointed out to him. Thereupon Saladin gave orders throughout his army that no attack should be directed at this tower."

Times have apparently changed. It would appear that the spirit of Saladin is dead, replaced by the cowardice and hardheartedness that were at the center of last week's suicide-bomber attacks. Collateral damage and loss of civilian life are sad facts in the sad history of warfare. But to intentionally target a innocent young couple and their family and friends on their wedding night is the epitome of evil. Indeed, it appears that homicidal fools now rush in where honorable men once feared to tread.

When I first heard those words, "Dear Sarah," I was chasing my young first born son around our Nashville apartment trying to diaper the boy before he could do any further damage. The light from our TV cast an eerie glow in our small, darkened living room as a new PBS series on the American Civil War by a young filmmaker, Ken Burns, played in the backgound.

Suddenly, the scratch of a lone fiddle commenced, and soon the beautiful and haunting strains of Ashokan Farewell filled the room. Paul Roebling, with his resonant voice, began: "Dear Sarah," and what followed were some of the most beautiful and soaring words that I had ever heard spoken in the English language.

Enthralled, I sat on the couch, the diaper still dangling from my fingertips. I was captive to the piercing music and poignancy of the moment, but my first born squealed in delight at the prospect of a few extra minutes of glorious freedom...

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That was the fall of 1990. The words that Roebling read are reputed to be those of Sullivan Ballou, a 32 year-old major in the 2nd Rhode Island Volunteers. It is generally believed that he penned his now famous letter to his wife in July of 1861 on the eve of the First Battle of Bull Run, a conflict which subsequently claimed his life.

His words returned to my mind recently as I participated in a discussion which began with the post, "I'm Not a Patriot." Provocative stuff, and what ensued was a wild and wooly discussion which at times was civil but at other times veered toward personal attack.

The author of the original post is a Christian seminary student and by all appearances an honest seeker who is posing difficult questions worthy of consideration. Like legions before him (after all, there really is "nothing new under the sun"), he is struggling to strike the right balance as a citizen of two different kingdoms. At one point, he asked another commentator:

"I don't know how to make this not sound snide, but would you make a case for, or explain what the men and women of the armed forces believe they are fighting for, when they go to defend the "American Way of Life?"..."I am particularly interested in hearing the perspective of a Christian in the armed forces."

Never one to wait my turn, I jumped in. I was quick to point out that I had never been in the military, but I did point out to him the irony of his position. I did so hoping that he would see that his "time and space" to hold forth and critique his country without fear of censure, or worse, execution, was purchased for him by the sacrificial acts of military men and women on whose shoulders he stands but whose brave deeds apparently give him much pause.

He responded in a kind fashion, but it still left me wondering if he truly understands the irony. Furthermore, I know he is rightly concerned about matters of social justice, but I wonder if he has discerned the relationship between what he would likely call the "blind patriotism" of men such as Sullivan Ballou, and the eradication of a great social evil--slavery--from the United States of America.

I was captivated by Ballou's letter on that night in 1990, and I'm still moved by the reasons that soldiers, especially Christian ones, often cite as to the "why" of their service and sacrifice. Go ahead and read the letter in it's entirety. Ask yourself the question: do the campfire musings of a Civil War soldier have anything useful to say to a contemporary Christian struggling for balance in a postmodern world?

Color me an old fogey, but I think they just might. After you've read the letter, do me a favor: call, email, or better yet, shake the hand of the veteran or active duty member nearest you and thank them for their service to our country. Regardless of how one feels about the current war in Iraq, hopefully all of us can agree that the spirit of Sullivan Ballou is alive and well in our veterans and those who are currently serving across the globe, and that we are all the better for it.

In an earlier post, I wrote about how my high school friend Eric Ferguson was using a populist strategy and one of my favorite movies in his effort to defeat incumbent Republican Allen Dudley in the 9th District race for the Virginia House of Delegates. The returns are now in, and despite a hard fought, some would say "muddy," campaign, Eric came up just short, losing by a mere 1200 votes (53% to 47%).

With FDR and "Giv'em Hell" Harry as his patron saints and Dave "Mudcat" Saunders as his campaign strategist, Eric almost pulled it off. He went negative in a nuclear way in the closing weeks, drawing the attention of the Washington Post and predictions of an upset. Perhaps Eric's most controversial move, no doubt at the direction of "Mudcat," was to produce a parody website, "The Real Allen Dudley," which many felt crossed the line when it comes to good taste and fair play.

In the end, perhaps the most difficult folks to fool were the plain-spoken, salt-of-the-earth farmers in Frankin County. When I was growing up, these were the guys who somehow always found time in the midst of slaughtering pigs, raising cattle and harvesting corn to stop by Greer's Grocery, pop open a Dr. Pepper and a bag of peanuts, and hold forth on the various issues of the day. During a recent debate between Dudley and Ferguson which was broadcast on the local cable channel, one such fellow, my Mom's neighbor, called in and told both candidates that he thought they were "full of bulls---!" The next morning, this Virginia country farmer proceeded to illustrate his point by filling a wagon full of cow manure and parking it along the road along with a sign reading "Ferguson-Dudley Campaign Headquarters."

I once asked Eric over lunch several years ago if it would be possible to win an election without "going negative" and launching personal attacks on one's opponent. His reply: "Absolutely not!" Well, he's at least true to his words, and perhaps this morning he's consoling himself with the thought that the race wouldn't have been as close as it was without all the mud. Still, I can't help but wonder if it was really worth it.

Despite the loss, Eric has likely positioned himself well for another run come next election. For Dudley's part, having experienced his closest shave since gaining the office in 1993, perhaps he will receive his wake-up call and get up off his keister and at least try to appear busy working on behalf of his constituents. But Eric, if your eyes should per chance fall on these words, next time around ditch the "Mudcat" and bring out the midget with the broom. Mudcats are disgusting bottom-feeders who are only going to sully your good name. Midgets are cute, and if you pair one up with a broom and bring in the Soggy Bottom Boys, I think next time you just might win.

Number One son and I made a mad dash south on I-65 Friday afternoon. Destination: Pensacola, Florida. Reason: a season-ending soccer tournament whose name I don't care to mention for reasons soon-to-be-apparent.

I've always enjoyed our little confabs in the car during soccer trips, although I'm not sure that the feeling has always been mutual. Since I gave each of the boys "The Talk" on a soccer trip, it's a running joke in our family that time alone in the car with Dad invariably means some new words of wisdom regarding sex and/or girls. This is not quite fair, however, as we have also covered other important topics, such as how to politely address fellow drivers who cut us off in traffic and how to talk on the phone, read a road map and fiddle with the CD player while traveling at 70mph (ok, maybe an occasional 75mph when going down a hill).

This time, however, Number One turned out to be a very pleasant, and useful, travel companion. He acted as trip-DJ and served up an eclectic mix from his iPod which included Caedmon's Call, U2, John Mayer, Goo Goo Dolls, Dave Matthews Band, James Taylor, Coldplay and Alison Krauss. He also spelled me from the wheel and drove for a couple of hours. If memory serves me correctly, I actually fell asleep, something I don't do easily after giving up the wheel to another driver. So, not only do I find his musical tastes merging with my own, but it would seem that I'm beginning to trust him with my life as well. Practice for the future maybe?

The first thing that I noticed upon arriving in Pensacola was that she was apparently healing well from her tussle with Hurricane Ivan last year and Katrina's glancing blow a couple of months ago. There were still some visible scars--a twisted road sign now and then and the occasional tree bent in a southwesterly direction from the counterclockwise wind--but now there was only a rare blue roof tarp, as opposed to the thousands which I had seen during a previous trip in February.

Friday evening we slaked our thirst and filled our empty stomachs at McGuire's Irish Pub, where the Black Angus steak burgers are to die for and a bagpipe band brings out a wee bit of leprechaun in every patron. As someone with McGuire blood (my mother's maiden name), I was entitled to participate in the pub's tradition of signing a dollar bill and tacking it to the ceiling or walls which are now papered with tens of thousands of dollars which each year must be meticulously tallied for tax purposes. However, after looking in my wallet and finding my smallest bill to be $5, I decided that my Irish heritage could be better claimed in a less costly way at some later date.

With our first match scheduled for Saturday afternoon, we had time Saturday morning to visit the National Museum of Naval Aviation located at Naval Air Station Pensacola which is also home to the world-renown flying team, the Blue Angels. Number One and I are both hopeless military history buffs and naval aficionados, so we were, as we so eloquently say in the South, "happier than two pigs in a trough full of slop."

Number One enjoyed the moving exhibit to Vietnam era POWs and the vintage Curtiss P-40B "Flying Tiger." I liked the Home Front USA exhibit, a replica of a circa-1943 American main street and the way it so beautifully captured a simpler and unabashedly patriotic period in our nation. The cutaway replica of the PBY Catalina seaplane, the type that was featured in Huntsville resident Homer Hickam's latest novel The Ambassador's Son, was also way too cool for words.

On to the tournament whose name-we-dare-not-mention where we met a team composed of several college players and lost a closely contested match 2-0. However, we learned that our second opponent had failed to show for the tournament, so in the evening we kicked up our heels at Flounder's Chowder House at Pensacola Beach. There the lads played beach volleyball soccer-style and attracted, much to their chagrin, the attention of a gaggle of giggly 13-year-old girls, who proceeded to show them the finer points of digging and setting.

Also watching the shenanigans was a group of young Navy ensigns assigned to NAS Pensacola for flight training. They laughed at the spectacle of 13-year-old girls getting the better of our 17-year-old guys and no doubt were chomping at the bit to join the fray themselves. However, dressed in their freshly pressed, pristine service whites, they held back, lest a grain of sand ruin their look of cool, cultivated confidence.

We returned to the pitch early Sunday morning for our 3rd scheduled match only to discover that our final opponent, who had barely cobbled together enough players to compete the previous day, had decided to go to the beach instead. The team that had beaten us the previous day also decided to bug out for sun and fun, so as the only team left standing, we were awarded the first-place medal, becoming the first team in soccer history to win a tournament without winning a match or scoring a single goal.

We laughed about the meaningless medal on the trek back home Sunday afternoon, but at one point Number One got serious enough to turn down the stereo for a second and confide, "You know, it seems really weird that I'm going to be going to college in 2 years. It just doesn't seem like I'm old enough yet."

Alas, my son, you almost are, and that's why these trips are so important. As the disappointing tournament fiasco so clearly shows, these journeys together are about much more than soccer. They're about creating The Story of our lives, the tales that bind us together and serve as the grist for fond memories and laughter in the years to come before "the dust returns to the ground it came from and the spirit returns to God who gave it."

That's why it's important that what happens in Pensacola, doesn't stay in Pensacola, but is shouted to the world. True, it appears on the surface to be a small story, insignificant against the weighty headlines of the day. But it is truly, and ultimately, a clarion call to open our eyes and read The Story that is being written around us at every moment and in every way.

Bleeding Blue Devil Blue, Part 1

Bleeding Blue Devil Blue, Part 2

As I consider how I came to bleed Blue Devil Blue, it occurs to me that it was about much more than basketball, although that's where it started.

Growing up in Southwest Virginia in the 1970s, it was a rite of passage to develop a reliable jump shot because you never knew when a pick-up game would break out on some dusty, country court near you. In those days you didn't run down to Wal-Mart for a prefabricated, adjustable, pop-up goal. My Dad fashioned mine from wood the old-fashioned way--very slowly, by hand--and set it at the regulation 10 feet.

At first, I was so small that my only hope of making a basket was to stand directly beneath the goal and fling the ball upward in a desperate Rick Barry-style underhand heave. For the most part, the ball went straight up and came down directly on my head. I cried a few tears over that, but Dad reassured me that it was ok and that I would get better with time. Although he worked long hours at the post office, he would always take time out when he got home to shoot a few baskets with me, consistently ripping the net with his Bob Cousy-style set shot.

A few pounds and inches later I was able to move out to the perimeter, where I developed a reputation as someone who you didn't want to leave open, but whose shot could be easily blocked if guarded closely. I countered by developing a quick release and by rarely venturing inside the lane where the big boys loomed, eager to show me a face-full-of-ball.

Back them, it was also a tradition to watch the weekly Jefferson-Pilot broadcast of ACC basketball. Of course I rooted for UVA who had their own fine players such as Barry Parkhill, Wally Walker and later on Jeff Lamp and Ralph Sampson. But I also developed a liking for the boys down Tobacco Road way (no, not those boys)...the earnest Dukies who tried awfully hard but never seemed to gain any respect.

That was soon to change. In the late seventies, a group of players arrived at Duke who were to set the stage for the future. Jimmy Spanarckle, Bob Bender, Mike Gminski and Gene Banks were part of some great teams from the late 70s, one of which narrowly lost to Kentucky (or maybe I should say lost to Jack "Goose" Givens) in the 1978 NCAA Championship game. Bill Foster was the Duke coach in those days, but up at West Point, another young coach was prepping and paying his dues, biding his time until he would be called to lead the Blue Devils to the Promised Land.

In the Fall of 1979, I was a senior in high school, clueless as to where I would go after graduation. I figured that I would most likely follow the herd to UVA or Virginia Tech and apply to some other schools close by. Through some friends, I also became aware of a small, Church of Christ-affiliated school in the hinterlands of Searcy, Arkansas--Harding University. I decided to apply there as well, although it was not high on my list.

During this time, my father became very ill from heart disease and was told that his only hope was to undergo a new, potentially life-saving operation--coronary bypass surgery. In the late 70s, you didn't stop by your local community hospital to get new arteries for your heart. That required a trip to a major medical center, so off we went to Duke. They had a reputation for world class state-of-the-art care and if anybody could help him, they could.

Upon arriving in Durham we were overwhelmed by the professionalism and care offered at Duke Medical Center. We were also ministered to by many members of the Cole Mill Road Church of Christ who adopted us into their family. People such as Wanda and Lyle Storch took us into their home and made sure we were lacking for nothing and are now legendary in our family lore.

Several members at Cole Mill Road were also involved in Dad's care. One cardiovascular surgeon, Dr. Bob Jones, was, ironically, a Harding graduate; he was ever-present, making sure things went as they should. Although he didn't operate on Dad personally, as I recall, he helped train the surgeon who did. I remember that Dad was a little scared and overwhelmed at times at the prospect of such major surgery. I also remember another Cole Mill Road member, psychiatrist Dr. Dan Blazer, who would often stop by and look in on Dad and take the time to pray and counsel with him.

During the long surgical procedure, I decided I wanted to be by myself, so I took a walking tour of the Duke campus. I walked down to Sarah P. Duke Gardens and sat for a while and prayed for my father among the fireburst roses and glowing chrysanthemum. The sun was shining brightly, and this was no Gethsemane, but the spiritual struggle seemed intense all the same.

I ventured up to the main quad, and as I stood among the ivy-covered, stone buildings and peered up at the soaring Gothic spires, I suddenly felt a little smarter than I actually was. All around me students laden with heavy backpacks scurried to various classes and lecture halls. I overheard morsels of animated conversations ranging from calculus to Shakespeare to what party was coming up next. Students played Frisbee, laughed, held hands, studied and meditated on the freshly-laid carpet of red and gold leaves covering the quad.

Amid the darkness of major surgery, this was light. I decided that Duke was a place where I could come and learn and discover my path. As I stood there taking in a lungful of Duke's rich academic air and considering the spiritual nourishment available at the Cole Mill Road church, I sealed my decision.

My father survived the surgery and for a while did well. But by late winter 1980, he was sick again and it was becoming more apparent that things were not going well.

In April of 1980, Dad sat in a lawn chair in front of our house, too weak to stand for any length of time. I was shooting baskets on the old, wooden goal that he had made many years earlier. At one point, I backed up about 40 feet and launched a one-handed heave which ripped cleanly through the nylon net, wrapping it tightly around the orange, metal rim (the shooter's coup de grace!). My Dad smiled and shook his head, no doubt remembering the undersized kid who cried when he first took a shot on his new goal and drew nothing but air and a face-full-of-ball.

A moment later, our rural mail carrier came down the hill and deposited a large, oversized envelope in our mailbox. It was the kind that every high school senior hopes for, far too big for a simple rejection letter. On the outside was the return address, "Duke University" and inside was a letter that said, "Congratulations...welcome to the Class of 1984." Honestly, if I presented my same academic credentials to Duke today, I probably wouldn't be accepted. But somehow in the spring of 1980, I managed to slip beneath the admissions radar.

My father fairly beamed and said, "I know this is expensive, but if Duke is where you really want to go, we'll try to make it happen."

Two weeks later, Dad entered the hospital for the last time. On April 22, 1980, he suffered his 3rd heart attack and died at the age of 47. I always worried a little that he might have spent too much energy and wasted a lot of precious breath in those final days telling every doctor, nurse and technician that walked into his room that his son had been accepted at Duke University.

Now please don't break out the small violins and start playing a dirge on my account. This story has a happy ending! Without Dad's financial support, I decided that a less expensive college option would be better for me and my family. As it turned out, that was Harding University.

Harding was the perfect place for a injured and doubtful young man to come and bind his wounds. I wandered through some dark alleys of disbelief and skepticism in those years, but I emerged with a faith of my own which has sustained me. I was surrounded by professors and companions who loved me and gave me the space I needed to work through my past. Many of them remain close and fast friends to this day. As I recall, no one ever told me what I had to believe--I was perfectly free to accept or reject what I was taught.

Along the way, I gained a vision for my future and found a woman who was willing to marry me and who stands with me to this day. I have three fine sons who are becoming honorable men before my very eyes. I have a Wonderful Life and "My boundary lines have fallen in pleasant places"--God is good!

I also have two alma maters--an almost one and an actual one--both of whom have blessed and nourished me. To top it off, they even have a pretty good little basketball team down in Searcy, and having witnessed them firsthand, I'm here to tell you that the Rhodes Rowdies can give the Cameron Crazies a good run for their money.

And that, my friends, is how to this day, if you prick me with a pin, I bleed Blue Devil Blue. But if you look closely enough, you'll also see shades of Bison Black, dark as moonless night, blended with rivulets of glittering Gold, bright as noonday sun.