Author: frankisemptiness

March 15th, 2020

“Men are naturally barbarians, and that will remain forever. The passion, the love, and the lust is intensifying with time – Fawad Khan

“People sometimes tell me that they prefer barbarism to civilization. I doubt if they have given it a long enough trial. Like the people of Alexandria (in a poem by Cavafy) they are bored with civilization; but all the evidence suggest that the boredom of barbarism is infinitely greater.” – Kenneth Clark

 

Hans called me from down in Texas.

I barely had a chance to say “hi” before he started talking.

“Dad, it’s getting really stupid down here.”

That wasn’t a good start for the conversation, so I asked Hans,

“Uh, so, what do you mean?”

Hans drawled, “I was just at Walmart, and I saw five fights over toilet paper.”

“That’s no good.”

“Hell no, and I couldn’t find any ammo. Nobody has any.”

“That’s no good either.”

Hans went on, “I got a full magazine for the .357. That won’t last long. I got a magazine for the .40. That won’t last long either.”

“No, it won’t.”

I could hear Hans’ lighter click. He was firing up another Pall Mall. He took a drag and said,

“Now I got fifty rounds for my .45, but that won’t last long either. Mostly what I got for ammo is shotgun shells. Tomorrow, after work, I’m buying a home defense shotgun.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

He took another drag on his cigarette, and told me,

“I’ll get one of those shotguns with the short barrel. They are only about $700. They’re easy to maneuver. They hold up to fifteen rounds. After that you have to reload, but if you’re reloading at that point, you’re screwed anyway. I just want Gabby to have the shotgun at home in case something happens. I’d rather she shot with that than fire a pistol and miss.”

“Yeah, It’s hard to miss with a shotgun up close. Accurate aim isn’t that important.”

Hans replied, “Yep.”

Hans continued, “The .357 is going into my truck. I can pull that out if somebody tries to jack the truck. A well-placed .357 round can do a lot. If somebody gets hit, well, they don’t get up again. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Hans said, “I don’t want to go anywhere without a gun any more. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe they were fighting in Walmart over TOILET PAPER. I mean I could understand if they were fighting over the last loaf of bread. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Hans sighed. “Well, I just called to let you know what was going on.”

“I’m glad that you did.”

“Bye Dad. Love you.”

“Bye Hans. Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 14th, 2020

“Panic is highly contagious, especially in situations when nothing is known and everything is in flux.” – Stephen King

“Fear is the mind-killer.”
― Frank Herbert , from the novel “Dune”

Woodman’s is a massive grocery store in Oak Creek. It’s size can be overwhelming. A person can find nearly anything in there, assuming that person doesn’t get lost while doing so.

When I go to Woodman’s, it is generally during a slow time of day. I go there when all the other retirees go. We usually have the place all to ourselves.

But not yesterday.

Yesterday the parking lot was packed with cars. The store itself was jammed full of people pushing carts that were stuffed with everything imaginable. It was a chaotic scene.

I had gone in there innocently seeking toilet paper. I had not heard about any kind of shortage. I just figured that I would buy some. That was a mistake.

Woodman’s has an aisle devoted to toilet paper, paper towels, facial tissue, and the like. It also has a tower of toilet tissue near that aisle. This mountain of paper products is twice my height on a normal day. Yesterday it had completely disappeared. There were only empty wooden pallets left on the floor. Every roll of toilet paper was gone. It was the same in the aisle. The shelves were completely empty.

Two Woodman’s employees were feverishly ripping open boxes of toilet paper, as anxious customers hovered near them. I asked one of the workers if I could grab a package of four rolls from the cardboard box. He glanced nervously at me and said, “Yeah, sure.”

I should have taken more.

I don’t get it. I assume that this shopping frenzy had to do with the Coronavirus scare. However, I can’t quite understand how toilet paper plays into this scenario. Is one of the symptoms of the disease diarrhea? Will infected persons need to wipe their asses constantly? What the hell is going on?

I left the store in a hurry. Mobs make me edgy. Some of the folks in Woodman’s were not quite right. Many of them had that look in their eyes. You know, the look that says they are expecting the End Times to come at any moment. Apparently, the Apocalypse involves some heavy shit. Therefore, they need to stock up on toilet paper.

The scene in the grocery store reminded me of how things work here just prior to a major blizzard. (I live in Wisconsin. We have major blizzards on occasion). Before a big snowfall, people raid the stores, just in case the power goes out, or the snowplows can’t dig out the streets, or the shops are closed, or whatever. They do the paleolithic hunter-gatherer thing for legitimate reasons. They know that they might be shut in for a while. It mostly makes sense. Well, except for the fact that most of the hunting and gathering happens in the liquor department. Emergency supplies always include cases of beer.

Yesterday’s chaos had nothing to do with anything that was real. It was all just a subtle form of hysteria. I mean it could have been much worse. I mean nobody was shooting somebody else over a roll of shit paper. I could imagine it getting to that point. The thin veneer of civilization was close to being torn away.

Perhaps I exaggerate. I often do that. Maybe not this time.

Let’s look at the stock market.

Holy fuck. What a disaster. It dropped 20% (or more) within a week. I care about this. I have a 401K, and it depends on the market. My currently comfortable existence is in jeopardy.

Okay, I know that sounds really selfish. It is. However, if I go down, lots of others go down too. I am taking care of other people. If I am broke, then nobody cares for them. Honestly, I don’t think it will get to the point where we are all penniless, but it will get bad.

I have often thought that things were crazy, and they couldn’t get any crazier.

I have always been wrong about that.

 

 

 

 

March 14th, 2020

This afternoon, I was driving a young woman to the gym, so that she could work out for a while. Earlier in the day, Karin and I had been hanging out at the Hillside Coffee House. The young woman has started working there part time as a barista. The café also functions as a small bakery that specializes in cakes and other sweet things. The young woman is fond of confections, so while Karin and I were at the café, we bought her a thick slice of cake and a large cupcake. We brought it back to the girl after we ran a few errands.

As the young woman and I were driving to the gym, she asked me,

“What kind of cake was that?”

I couldn’t remember for sure. I told her,

“It was some kind of cheesecake sort of thing. Was it okay?”

She told me, “Yeah. The baked goods there are awesome. I mean the coffee is good, but compared to the bakery, it’s crap.”

“So, you liked the cake?”

She deflected the question and asked me, “How long was the slice of cake in the box?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe two hours.”

She just said, “Oh.”

After an uncomfortable pause, I asked her, “Why do you ask?”

She replied, “Well, the oils from the cake had already started to soak into the cardboard. I was anticipating this amazing bakery moment. I was expecting this glorious cake experience, but it wasn’t all that…glorious.”

It was my turn to say, “Oh.”

She went on, “I’ve tried the bakery at the coffee shop. It’s always been amazing. But then it was fresh.”

“And the slice of cake wasn’t fresh?”

She shook her head.

“So, did you just throw it away?”

She frowned. “No, I ate it, but it wasn’t as amazing as it could have been.”

I told her, “Well, if we aren’t competent to get you cake from the shop quick enough, then maybe we shouldn’t try to do that any more.”

The young woman replied, “You can still buy me cake, just bring it right home.”

I changed the subject slightly. I asked her, “So, how was the cupcake?”

“Oh, that was good. It tasted just like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. It would have been better fresh.”

“Yeah, fresh.”

She nodded. “Yeah, fresh.”

Then she asked me, “Was anybody been looking at my artwork in the shop?”

“I didn’t see anybody looking at it in an obvious way.”

She sighed from the depths of her soul. “Well, I guess I need to paint some new stuff.”

I told her, “That’s a good idea. People might want to to look at artwork that’s fresh.”

She gave me the death stare.

Then she said, “I guess we could talk to all those dead artists who never became famous until they were dead.”

“No, let’s not do that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 13th, 2020

Jeanne is dead.

She’s been dead since July, but I just learned that fact a couple days ago. The news saddened me, but it didn’t surprise me. I knew that she was on her out, but I didn’t know exactly when that would happen.

I had known Jeanne for several years, but I can’t say that I knew her very well. I have only a few memories of her, but those scenes are etched deeply in my mind. At this point, it is difficult for me to remember all of the circumstances involved. Time has a way of blurring thoughts and focusing emotions. The technical details of my memories are fuzzy, but the feelings in my heart are more intense now than they were at the time that the events occurred.

I have to start by mentioning Jeanne’s husband, Greg. Greg worked with me at the trucking company. He was a driver and I was a dock supervisor. People sometimes have an idea that truck drivers are rough and uneducated. This is generally untrue. Most of my co-workers were intelligent and talented in remarkable ways. Greg had a passion for music, and an encyclopedic knowledge of it. He even had his own pre-dawn radio program at a local college station. It was called “GB and the Neutral Drop”. Greg and I would talk about music and politics quite often. Sometimes we got on each others nerves, but we stayed friends.

Several years ago, Greg retired. I can’t remember how long ago that was. At first, we only heard good things from him. He was enjoying his retirement, and he and Jeanne did a lot of traveling. One of their sons was working in China, and Jeanne and Greg visited him there.

Then Greg got sick.

He had a seizure. He was subsequently diagnosed with cancer, both in his brain and in his lungs. Greg wasn’t a smoker, so I don’t know the cause of his cancer. I think he had to have both radiation therapy and chemo. His life changed radically, and so did Jeanne’s.

Karin and I were invited to a party at the home of Greg and Jeanne. It was a small get together. There were only eight of us there: Terry and Patti, Dave and Anne, Greg and Jeanne, and Karin and myself. I remember that we all spent most of the time in the basement, a place where Greg had his old school juke box. He spun 45’s, and some of us played pool. Jeanne wanted people to get up and dance. We did. It made Jeanne happy to have us all together, and to see Greg enjoying himself.

The radiation and the chemo hit Greg hard. He lost his hair, and it then it grew back differently. I went to visit him at his house one day. We talked. I think he was in his pajamas, but I’m not sure any more. Jeanne made us sub sandwiches. I ate all of mine, and Greg ate about half of his.

Jeanne was so excited about that. She smiled and said,

“Greg hasn’t eaten so much in a long time!”

Then she turned to him, smiled, and said,

“See, you’re getting better!”

He wasn’t.

In the summer of 2014, Karin and I had a party, a big party. We celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. We had tents in the backyard, and lots of food and drink. We had two bands that came to play music for us. Randy Van and his boys played the blues. Lee and Ian played horror punk. We invited all and sundry. It was a wonderful time.

Karin and I invited many people to the party. Most of them came. We also had people come uninvited. I was told that the true measure of a celebration is how many strangers show up. We had a few. God smiled on us that day.

When Karin and I decided on having a bash, I was determined to invite Greg and Jeanne. Actually, they were the very first people to be invited. It was important to me that they be there. They came.

Greg looked okay, but I could tell that he was tired. He wore a huge straw hat, and he generally sat in a chair while the bands did their thing. Greg sucked in the music like oxygen. I could tell that he enjoyed it.

Jeanne danced with me on the lawn (with Karin’s approval, and assumingly with Greg’s). As we whirled, we talked. I told her how much it meant to me that she and Greg were with us. She smiled.

Greg died.

There was no funeral. Both Greg and Jeanne were atheists. A funeral seemed both pointless and unnecessary.

Months later, Jeanne and the rest of Greg’s family had a party in a local park to remember Greg. Karin and I were there. So was Randy Van, Terry and Patti, Dave and Anne. It was a good memorial. I don’t recall any ritual, but that wasn’t the point.

Jeanne told me repeatedly, “Let’s just remember the good times”, and then she smiled.

I kept in touch with Jeanne after Greg’s death. She traveled extensively. She visited her kids in Chicago and DC. She lived. I know that Jeanne grieved for Greg, but that didn’t stop her from being in the world. I admired her for that.

Last year, sometime, Jeanne wrote to me. She told me that she had stage IV pancreatic cancer. She knew that she was dying. I can’t remember if she sent me an email (since deleted), or a snail mail letter (since misplaced).

I sent her a Christmas card. I wrote to her. No response.

I finally wrote an email to Terry. I asked him about her.

He replied, “Call me.”

We really didn’t need to talk. I knew.

Let’s just remember the good times.

 

 

 

March 11th, 2020 (4:30 AM)

In an hour I have to wake up a young woman to start her first day working as a barista at the Hillside Coffee House in Oak Creek, Wisconsin. I am almost certain that this young woman will wake up in a raspy mood, and that it will be a struggle to get her out the door and into my car. So be it. This needs to happen.

Karma is a strange thing. Westerners (especially some Christians) often look at the idea of karma with suspicion, like it is this sort of dark, esoteric notion that will seduce the unwary into error. Karma is really pretty simple:

“What goes around, comes around.”

I heard that comment years ago from Mark Manning, who was not obviously religious, and who was not, perhaps, very spiritual. However, Mark could be ruthlessly honest, and he was incredibly hard on himself. That I know. He understood karma. He lived it. He died it.

I have said that karma is really pretty simple. Like most things, that is almost true. The things that I do affect me, but they also affect others. My actions affect people I don’t even know, and people who are not even born. I bear a huge responsibilty in my actions. What I do (and what you do) can literally change the world.

Hillside Coffee opened yesterday. Did this change the world? Fuck yeah.

It really did change the world. You might laugh at that. Go ahead. I would too.

However, the existence of the Hillside Coffee House changes everything for me.

Karin and I can roll with whatever happens.

In a way it’s all a dream.

The coffee shop has a beautiful feel to it. The walls are painted in a way that makes a person comfortable. The furniture is old and unconnected, but somehow it all matches. There are living plants everywhere in the cafe. It all feels right, in a soulful way.

The young woman’s paintings cover one of the walls in the cafe. That changes things for me.

The owner, Rose, bakes her own imaginings. She has canoli cupcakes, among other things. This is Rose’s dream, and she is taking it to the limit.

God bless her for this. Creativity gone crazy.

Cool.

 

 

 

 

 

March 8th, 2020

“But I wasn’t about to throw the bastard away, either.  A good .357 is a hard thing to get, these days. So, I figured, well, just get this bugger back to Malibu, and it’s mine. My risk– my gun: it made perfect sense. And if that Samoan pig* wanted to argue, if he wanted to come yelling around the house, give him a taste of the bugger about midway up the femur. Indeed. 158 grains of half-jacketed lead/alloy, traveling 1500 feet per second, equals about forty pounds of Samoan hamburger, mixed up with bone splinters. Why not?”

(*the writer’s lawyer and previous owner of the .357 mag)

Hunter S. Thompson – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

 

Hans called yesterday. That is not unusual.

Hans bought a new gun. That is also is not unusual.

It is relatively easy to wrap my head around things that are rational. However, with our eldest son, Hans, things are not always rational.

Hans called me and said,

“Hey Dad, I bought me one of those revolvers that people used back in the Wild West days.”

“Uh, yeah. Great. What did you buy?”

“I got a .357. The kind you see in the cowboy movies.”

I was tempted to ask him why he bought this weapon, but some questions are not worth asking.

So, instead I asked, “So what kind is it exactly?”

“It’s an Uberti 1873 Cattleman .357 mag. It’s a replica of the original Colt Cattleman.”

“So, what’s so special about it.”

“Well, you have to pull back on the hammer every time you want to get a new round in the chamber. You have to cock it after you shoot a round. It’s not double-action like most revolvers.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Hans replied, “Well, it makes it a lot more difficult for rapid fire. If somebody is coming at you, you might only get off a couple rounds. If you’re a good shot, it don’t matter that much.”

“Hans, with a .357 you only need one shot.”

“Yep.”

“And this gun is for self-defense?”

“Yep. I got a good deal on it. It was only $500.”

“Excellent.”

Hans went on, “I like it. The fittings are all brass, and grip is wood.”

Then Hans asked me, “Do you know why it’s called a ‘Cattleman’?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, back in the old days, most of the pistols were Army issue. They were like this one except that the barrels were longer. Now the ranchers mostly carried the Army pistols, but they weren’t good for drawing quick, when you needed to shoot a rattlesnake…or something. So, the cowboys sawed off the end of the barrel on the pistol. Eventually, Colt just started making short-barreled revolvers like the one I got.”

“It sounds like you got what you wanted.”

“I like my new gun.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Now, I’m thinking about buying a Glock.”

Another quote from Hunter S. Thompson concerning firearms:

“The sun was hot and I felt like killing something. Anything. Even a big lizard. Drill the fucker. I got out my attorney’s .357 Magnum out of the trunk and spun the cylinder. It was loaded all the way around: Long, nasty little slugs–158 grains with a fine flat trajectory and painted aztec gold on the tips.”

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

March 7, 2020

It had been almost three months since I was at the offices of Voces de la Frontera. Before Christmas, I had been going to Voces on most Wednesday evenings to help teach the citizenship class. After New Year’s, I suddenly got very busy with caring for somebody at home. I stopped going to Voces because my priorities shifted radically. I let the people there know that I would be MIA for a while. I just didn’t know how long I would be unavailable.

Mary Pat, one of the other instructors at Voces, called me this Wednesday. She sounded desperate. The teachers at Voces were overwhelmed with people who needed assistance to prepare for the citizenship test. Mary Pat asked me if I could come back to help. Honestly, I was okay with not going to Voces. I had a built-in excuse to stay at home. I could always claim that I was too busy with my personal shit, and I would have been right to say that.

I told Mary Pat that I would come to help. It was the right time.

It’s always hard to re-enter an environment after you have left it for a while. The people are a bit different, and the place is a bit different. Voces is always Voces. It always has this grungy, working class feel to it. That never changes, and I actually like it. Voces does not have a classroom for the citizenship course. It only has an open space filled with old tables and rickety chairs, and that space fills quickly when the citizenship class starts. The large room becomes indescribably noisy and chaotic. It is difficult, at best, to teach people in that place, especially if English is not their first language.

However, that is where we do it, and we do it well.

I sat down with four people who needed to work on their N-400. The N-400 is the application for U.S. citizenship. It is a twenty-page document of Byzantine complexity. Nobody sends in their application without consulting with a lawyer. Once a person mails in the N-400, along with a rather large check, they wait for the Department of Homeland Security to tell them when their test will be. We, at Voces, prepare the person for the interview with USCIS (United States Citizenship and Immigration Services). The four people needed a little help.

I was sitting with Adolfo, Tony, Myra, and Ma.

I know Ma. I have worked with her before. Her name was actually Maria, but on her paperwork from Mexico it says, “Ma”, because apparently in that country “Ma”, and “Maria” are interchangeable. This not so in the United States, and this issue has caused the woman no end of problems. Ma is a homemaker. She doesn’t get out much, which means that her understanding of English is not the best. It’s not her fault. However, any lack of English comprehension will cost her during her interview. She needs to learn English, first and foremost. Nothing else during the test really matters.

Adolfo is a truck driver. He is also from Mexico. His English is good. He will do well on the test. Realistically, the USCIS only cares about English comprehension. They will ask civics questions and they will expect to receive the right answers. But the interviewers are mostly concerned that the potential citizen understands English. That is what drives the process. Adolfo will be okay.

Tony is from the Dominican Republic. His English is sketchy. I tried to explain to him that he really needs to be able to express himself in this language. I know that is hard. I would never be able to take a citizenship test in another language, even though I can speak German. I understand that it is hard for him to explain things and to answer questions in English. I get that. He just needs to practice. He is a smart young man. If he keeps coming to classes at Voces, he will get there. He’ll make it.

Myra is Mexican. She also needs to work on English. She is intelligent and quick. She also just needs to take the time to learn a few things. I have no worries about her passing the test.

I look forward to each of these people going to the interview and passing it with flying colors. I look forward to each of them becoming citizens of the United States, and then becoming politically active in their communities.

We need people like these four.

I am glad to be with them.

It’s good to be back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 6th, 2020

Karin and I try to go to daily Mass at St. Rita’s. If we plan on attending the liturgy, we usually try to get to the church early in order to participate in morning prayer.

What is morning prayer? It’s a Catholic thing, obviously. Generally, it is a ten-minute-long spiritual exercise that is common to monastic communities, mandatory for priests, and virtually unknown to the laity. Karin and I are familiar with it, partly because we are in the habit of visiting monasteries, and partly because morning prayer was the usual practice at our church when it was run by members of the Augustinian order. The Augustinians have left us, but our new diocesan priest has kept up the practice.

We have very few people show up for morning prayer. When the Augustinians were at our church, there were a few more. Now it’s just a remnant. It is usually just Father Michael, Kathy, Barbara, Karin, and me.

Kathy is our age (older). She has a farm nearby, and she has horses. She shows up in her work clothes. She takes care of her animals prior to coming to pray. That is a very good thing. Kathy tends to get caught up in mystical things. She is big into Padre Pio and his miracles. Kathy has a button on her coat that says, “Pray to end abortions”.

I think about that. What is she actually praying for?

I haven’t asked Kathy, so I can’t really know. I’m not sure that I want to know.

Most people who wear a pin like that are obssessed with banning abortion in all of its aspects. That might be a worthy goal, but it can also a ruthless goal. I have spent some time with anti-abortionists, and they are often a very single-minded and zealous lot. I agree with them for the most part, but I dislike the feel of fanaticism.

Winston Churchill once said, “A fanatic is one who can’t change his mind and won’t change the subject.”

I have met a fanatic or two in my time.

I have met Catholics who want to be modern day versions of Martin Luther. They want radical reform in an organization that changes direction as easily as an aircraft carrier. The Church, for better or worse, defaults on the side of Tradition. The true zealots on the left eventually become Protestants.

A friend of mine once asked me mockingly if I was still infatuated with the Catholic Church. I’m not. There are many things I don’t like about the Church. However, it is my family. It is often a family like the Corleones, but it is still my family. I don’t plan on abandoning it. It’s where I belong, although I can’t really explain why.

Yesterday I took a young woman to her various appointments. She has no drivers license, and she needs me for transportation. I dropped her off at an AA meeting in West Allis. That gave me almost an hour to kill before I needed to pick her up. I briefly considered visiting my elderly bachelor uncles, but then I remembered how they threw me out of their house five years ago. So, I decided to wander around the business district on Greenfield Avenue.

Quite close to the Alcoholics Anonymous office is a Catholic bookstore. I went there. There was a sign in the window that said, “Stand up for religious freedom!” That statement suggests many things, but currently it means allowing Christians to be exempt from certain federal laws, especially with regard to abortions, birth control, and LGBTQ issues. Maybe we should be exempt. I don’t know. All I know is that people like to use codewords.

The bookstore itself was not unusual. Religious bookstores appeal to a certain clientele, just like any other kind of bookstore. A person can tell a lot about the customers at a particular Catholic bookstore just by wandering past the shelves. Almost all Catholic bookstores have the classics: works from St. Augustine, Francis of Assisi, G.K. Chesterton. A bookstore affiliated with a certain religious order will have plenty of volumes concerning the history of that community. For instance, in a Carmelite bookstore a person would finds rows of books about St. John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, St. Therese of Lisieux, and Edith Stein. Catholic stores that cater to a more “progressive” population will have books by or about Dorothy Day, Archbishop Oscar Romero, Thomas Merton, and Pope Francis. The place that I visited was pretty old school. There were many books from Scott Hahn, Fulton Sheen, Saint John Paul II, and especially Pope Benedict. Most everything in the shop was about the good old days, whenever that was.

There were only two other customers in the store; two older women who obviously knew each other well. They were talking together loudly. As I looked at the books, I could hear them in the background like they were on talk radio. I couldn’t tune them out. They discussed priests that they knew, prayer services (“we were singing in Latin“), local Lenten fish fries, Eucharistic adoration vigils, and some other esoteric aspects of traditional Catholicism (American version). Eventually, they got to the part of the conversation where they complained about their adult children who had fallen away from the Faith. Almost all Catholic parents in the U.S. have that kind of lament. It’s standard at this point in history.

“Catholic” means “universal”.  It amazes me at times to see just how diverse the Church is. From the outside, the Catholic Church appears monolithic. From the inside, it’s often utter chaos. It stands to reason that any organization that has existed for two millenia and allegedly has one billion members, is going to be a bit unwieldly. I find it interesting that, at times, I have very little in common with some of my coreligionists, and, at other times, I have everything in common with them.

 

 

 

 

 

March 4th, 2020

A couple weeks ago, I took a young woman to an AA meeting in downtown Racine. It was early on a Sunday morning. I spent an hour sitting in a local coffee shop while the woman attended her meeting.

I picked her up when the AA gathering was over. She was a bit troubled. She was frowning, and her brow was furrowed. Usually, this woman is calm and relaxed after one of her meetings. After a group session, she might not be happy, but she often seems more at ease. This time she appeared to be edgy and tense.

I asked her, “How did it go?”

She replied curtly, “Fine.” That was a non-answer answer.

I drove down a street near the Lake Michigan, and we both remained silent for a minute. Then she said,

“That was weird. They were all atheists.”

That is weird. Atheism and Alcoholics Anonymous are generally incompatible. Six of the twelve steps in AA mention God or a “Higher Power”. A “Higher Power” is basically just a non-sectarian version of God. AA, and the other Twelve Step groups (of which there are many), lean heavily on some sort of theism. A basic concept in Twelve Step groups is that every member is helpless (with regards to their particular addiction) without the assistance of a Higher Power that exists outside of and beyond themselves. That is the program.

So, how do atheists get sober?

From a Christian point of view (and despite all of its non-sectarian pretences, AA is still very Christian), God is paramount. Reliance on God is the only path to salvation (i.e. sobriety). If there is no God, then you’re screwed. That seems to be the message, and that is not a hopeful message for many people who have given up on any kind of deity.

I have spent fifteen years meditating with members of a Zen sangha. This experience has changed my perspective in many ways. I am not a Buddhist. I will never be one. However, for whatever reason, I have been accepted into the fold. I have learned a few things.

For many Buddhists, especially for Zen practitioners, “God is a concept”. John Lennon said those words in a song back in 1970. Does God exist? Maybe. Does it matter? Probably not. Buddhists are not necessarily atheists. They just don’t see the point of having a god, or at least a god outside of themselves. Buddhists (the ones that I know) believe that each person has an inherent Buddha nature. That means that every person has God within themselves. The idea is that we do not need to look for a “Higher Power” somewhere else. That “Higher Power” is inside of us all the time. We just don’t know it. We just aren’t awake to it.

An atheist can accept the idea that he or she already has the higher power to heal. The higher power is internal. We can heal ourselves. If that is the case, then God really is a concept.

Many years ago, back in 2001, I worked with a man named Greg. Greg was a enthusiastic atheist. He was also a wonderful man who loved music and the other arts. Sometimes, Greg and I would argue. However, I always admired him.

I remember quite clearly, right after 9/11, how Greg asked me how he could help our country, even though he wasn’t religious. After the terrorist attacks, Greg felt a longing to be an American, but he also felt that he was excluded due to the overtly religious response to the violence. Greg had the sense that, as an atheist, he couldn’t be accepted as a good citizen. I think that he was right. He was on the outside looking in.

Greg was a good man. I am still amazed that I ever met him. He loved music. He had a pre-dawn radio program on WMSE. I occasionally sat there with him in the studio as he played the songs. Greg’s tastes were eclectic. His music was his prayer. I know that he would bitch at me now for saying that, but I believe it to be true. Greg loved beauty, and in that sense, he loved God.

Our son, Stefan, is also an atheist. However, he embodies all of the Christian virtues. Stefan is loyal, honest, generous, and brave. He is an honorable man. He says that he does not believe in God. I am not sure that this is the case.

I think that Stefan is angry with God. He has good reason to be so. Stefan has been hurt, to the core of his being. If anybody identifies with Job, it is Stefan.

Does Stefan pray?

I don’t know.

I think that he does.

 

 

 

 

 

February 29th, 2020

On Monday, three of us (Joanna, Suzanne, and myself) gave a presentation at the Racine Library about our trip to the Mexican border last October. The talk was organized by Linda Boyle of the Racine Interfaith Coalition. A couple dozen people showed for the session, including a reporter from the Racine Journal Times.

The reporter, Adam Rogan, spoke with us after the presentation was finished. He had taken pictures, and he had made notes. He was a pleasant young man.

I thought that was the end of it…until this morning. My wife and I stopped at Mocha Lisa after daily Mass, and I saw the copy of the Racine Journal Times. A story about our talk on immigration was on the front page.

Wow.

 

The article is as follows:

Not Stopping