Ah, when Christmastime was beer

My tastes in beer are constantly evolving, and over the last few years I've come increasingly to prefer crisp pilsners and IPAs. As I returned to past Christmastide favorites this year, I found I am no longer as enamored of the seasonal offerings as I once was. I am put off by the accent on malts, but continue to appreciate those which balance them with plentiful hops. Notable for satisfyingly hoppy finishes, I still enjoy Full Sail's Wassail and Breckinridge's Christmas Ale. Sadly, my increasing finickiness means no new Christmas favorites this year.

But do not despair, dear reader and fellow drinker. As we all know, Christmas is just the beginning of what can be a cold, cold winter (plenty of ice and snow), and the winter warmers have a certain charm. I recently sampled a bottle of Pyramid's Snow Cap Ale which made favorable impression. However, my favorite since the recent solstice has been New Belgium's Accumulation, a white IPA. As every curmudgeon can attest, sometimes bitterness, by way of copious IBUs, is all that can warm a cold, cold heart.

A surprisingly merry Christmas album

I don't ask for much from popular culture: just one marvelous Christmas album every year to add to my personal canon of seasonal cheer for the ages. Sadly, this season was looking about as dry as the last few, which led me to take a chance on Erasure.

Yes, Erasure.

If you, like me, came of age in the 80s, you will be familiar with at least a few of their earlier songs. (If I'm not mistaken, a copy of Upstairs at Eric's, the second album by Vince Clark's previous project, Yaz, was issued to every suburban teenager of my generation, along with a pair of Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops.) As with nearly all Christmas albums, Snow Globe is a mix of originals and classics, but all are delivered here with an admirable lack of cynicism. (If only the same could have been said for She & Him's disappointing venture into the genre.) This late into their career, I'm cheered to see Erasure are still as sincere as ever. For me, the stand-outs on the album are "Midnight Clear" and "Bleak Midwinter," although the latter choice may simply reflect the fact that "In the Bleak Midwinter" is one of my all-time favorite Advent hymns. Electro-pop might not be everyone's idea of Christmas music, but those so inclined will find a great deal to enjoy here.

For the rest of you, I recommend saving your shekels and getting over to the Noisetrade site (although you will be asked to leave "tips"). In my opinion, its standout offerings this year are Beta Radio's The Songs the Season Brings (especially "The Carol of the Banjos") and the Rosebuds' Christmas Tree Island.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good Christmas album!

Cake & the First Amendment

The great state of Colorado has become the latest battleground in the culture wars, as a court has ordered a Christian baker to prepare wedding cakes for homosexual couples despite his religiously-formed conscientious objection to so doing. On the one hand, this ruling is a fairly clear violation of said baker's First Amendment rights to freedom of expression and free exercise of religion. On the other, this ruling is in line with a legal tradition going back to the federal 1964 civil rights act. If the state can require a segregationist to serve Negroes at his lunch counter, it would follow the state can also require a Christian to bake wedding cakes for homosexuals. 

I greatly admire the efforts of the Freedom Riders in the 1950s and 60s, but in the interest of constitutional order, I can't affirm forcing people to serve people they don't want to serve, no matter how objectionable I find the choice. I don't have the Malcolm X quote at hand, but I recall him asking something like "Why would you want to eat food prepared by someone who hates you?" I believe the moral power of the lunch counter sit-ins was in shaming segregation before the nation's eyes, and that was powerful enough. Perhaps homosexuals should see whether the same tactic would work for their cause.

As a nation, we have to make a choice (actually, the choice has already been made) between individual rights and desired social outcomes. That fact was made abundantly clear by a recent Denver Post editorial which tried to deny the reality of such a choice. To quote,

...the gay couple's order never got to the stage of discussing what would be on the cake. At that point a baker's "free speech right to refuse" might kick in, depending on the nature of the request.

Instead, Phillips announced preemptively that "I just don't make cakes for same-sex weddings." He refused to bake a wedding cake for the couple "regardless of what was written on it or what it looked like," the judge said.

In a strained and vain attempt to retain freedom of speech (but with a notable lack of interest in religious liberty), the Post argues one might lawfully object to the words or decorations on the cake, but not the cake itself, even though the cake itself is symbolic action and the courts have always recognized that symbolic action is the equivalent of speech. In other words, the Post makes a distinction between forms of speech without establishing a real difference; said distinction will prove of cold comfort to those not in line with the new order.

Regarding the clergy housing allowance tax exemption

I took Thanksgiving week off this year, and since Mrs. Curmudgeon and I spent the weekend preceding one of our best, if most-neglected, national holidays by going off the grid, I missed the news that a federal judge in Wisconsin had ruled the clergy housing allowance tax exemption unconstitutional. I learned of this upon our return to the webernet-saturated world when my plains-dwelling, stout beer-drinking, Star Trek-obsessed pastor friend asked my opinion. (Yes, it takes at least a few weeks after a week away to clear out my virtual in-box.)

The Religion News Service article I linked to above is better than most I've read on the subject as it gives the historical context of the tax exemption and, via a quote from Russell Moore, explains the implications of the ruling should it stand through the appeals process. The amount of income clergy spend on housing is exempt from taxation in order to put said clergy on an equal footing with their brethren who receive housing in the form of a parsonage (or manse). If that income becomes taxable, then Churches will have to pay their pastors more in order for their pastors to take on the added tax burden. Despite popular media fixation with wealthy clergy in suburban mega-churches, most congregations in this country are quite small, and many might struggle to swing even an extra thousand dollars in salary. (The presbytery in which I serve includes several rural congregations in the Dakotas, so I speak from experience and do not exaggerate when I write this.) 

Should the ruling stand, it seems to me, as a simple matter of logical and legal reasoning, inevitable that pastors who live in parsonages would also be taxed on the rental value of their residences as the functional equivalent of paid income. In other words, this ruling could affect every pastor and every congregation in these United States.

The substantive legal issue, in my opinion, is the relationship of clergy to the state in their capacity as private citizens. As tax law evidences, this is not easy to disentangle. Pastors receive several tax exemptions, benefits, and burdens that secular persons do, but the housing allowance exemption is available only to religious persons. For simplicity's sake, it would seem more reasonable under the First Amendment to treat the income of clergy as entirely tax-exempt: this would be more conducive to state non-interference in religious matters. For myself, however, I don't see that as a necessary conclusion. In fact, under the present constitutional regime, I can see good arguments for taxing the entirety of a pastor's income, as this would be treating him merely in the same manner as other private citizens.

It seems to me this ruling is of note less for what it says legally than for what it indicates about our broader culture. Since the Republic's founding, only cranks and misanthropes have had a problem with granting special privileges to religious institutions and persons. Only recently has that cultural consensus shifted. The First Amendment hasn't been repealed, but the day has now come when fewer and fewer of our citizens understand why it is that the state should make no law which might in any way impair the free exercise of religion.

The friendship that dare not speak its name

As I've written elsewhere, Advent is, at least for me, the hap-happiest time of the year. The lights go up, the Christmas songs start playing, and I find myself weeping like a schoolgirl while listening to the Lake Woebegon monologue. However, there is a melancholy undercurrent for me because of another theme which becomes ubiquitous this time of year.

I speak, of course, of the polar bear and penguin, who are seen sledding, skating, sharing a caffeinated corn syrup-based beverage, and just generally frolicking together on everything from advertisements to throw pillows this time of year. Their friendship is so open, so mutually supportive, and so freely and graciously given it puts me in mind of Isaiah 11:1-10, the text I preached the second Sunday in Advent. As the lion lies down with the lamb, so the polar bear with the penguin. It's nearly eschatological in its beauty.

Except that it can't happen because polar bears and penguins live, literally, at the opposite ends of the earth (polar bears on the North Pole ice cap and penguins around the South Pole on Antarctica and South America). Leave it to Coca-Cola to come up with ad campaign even less likely than persons of every race and ethnicity joining hands and singing in harmony whilst buying one another a caffeinated corn syrup-based carbonated beverage.

I guess it really is eschatological.

Jackie & Me (42)

Jackie & Me (playing at the Denver Center Theatre Company's Space Theatre through December 22), is an adaptation of the second novel in author Dan Gutman's series for children in which young Joey Stoshack has the power to visit baseball greats during times past by holding a baseball card. In this installment, Joey goes back in time to Jackie Robinson's rookie year with the Brooklyn Dodgers. 

According to the production notes, the adaptation of the first novel in the series was produced by a children's theatre company, and this play clearly is intended for a similar audience. As one might expect from the genre, Joey meets a baseball great, learns an important moral lesson, and goes back to his life a person changed for the better. The trope is tired and trite, but relatively harmless when applied to Honus Wagner. In this case, it has the unfortunate effect of turning Jackie Robinson into the magical negro who is significant because of the character development he inspires in the play's white protagonist. Once again, the narrative of persons of color is mediated through a white perspective. (As part of his time-traveling gift, Joey magically becomes African-American. Yes, it was painful and slightly embarrassing to watch a white actor pretend he was black.) Set alongside the premiere of Just Like Us, Jackie & Me makes one wonder whether the DCTC wouldn't do well to attend one of those consciousness-raising seminars to which major corporations subject their executives.

Once again, I question the DCTC's production choices. While this play makes for fine children's theatre, that's not what the DCTC is. What family can afford to take their children to a show which charges $50 a seat? (I suppose I can picture such a family, which, given the close relationship of race to class in this country, probably would need a white mediator in order to appreciate a facet of the black experience.) With the fine company and excellent resources available to it, the DCTC would be better advised to choose more challenging adult fare, even if it's not from a new or minor playwright. Please don't tell me there are too many professional productions of Shakespeare or Mamet these days.

A far more thoughtful examination of the same historical period is the recent film 42 (now available on DVD). It has the decency to treat Jackie Robinson with dignity, tracing his story from his own point of view and not from that of a white interpreter. It's not a great movie, but nonetheless a worthy sports film which capably sets Jackie Robinson's rookie year in its historical and cultural context. Thereby, it demonstrates his significance for both baseball and race relations in these United States.

While we're on the subject of history, Jackie & Me features a galling moment of ahistorical nonsense. Unfortunately, in order to discuss it, I may offend some of my readers, so feel free to quit your browser now. In one scene, Jackie Robinson shows Joey a stack of hate mail, which includes several death threats towards Robinson and his young family. However, they clearly feel the worst of these letters is one which calls Robinson a "nigger," a word which young Joey is barely able to make pass his lips. (This is its sole pronunciation in the play.)

Now, I happen to have a black daughter, and that's not a word I want directed at her or any other person of color. However, "nigger" has taken on its greatest power to offend only in the last decade or so. In Jackie Robinson's time, it was an unwelcome epithet, but hardly taboo or unexpected. To import today's delicate sensibilities to an earlier era is not only silly, it destroys the ability of the past to speak clearly to the present.

Here's what I mean by that: when one reads The Adventures of Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn, one is shocked by many of the characters' racism precisely because it is commonplace, unremarkable, and, to the characters themselves, entirely invisible. A plain presentation of the past allows us to see just how alien its environment is to us. That, in turn, prompts us to reflect on the differences between our time and theirs, and perhaps even encourages us to question what atrocities are invisible to us in our day. (In all seriousness, what do you think future generations will think of the thousands of abortions perpetrated in this country each year?)

I took Thing 1, now aged 10, to this production, and he seemed unfazed by the dramatic unveiling of "the 'N' word." Believe it or not, there were warnings posted in the lobby, but he was able to accept the moment as just another element in the torrent of abuse which Jackie Robinson in particular, and all black people of his day in general, faced on a daily basis. I think my son would have been better served by an unvarnished and unsantized presentation of the full ugliness of the racism his sister's people faced in this great country not too long ago. It's a reality with which all my children will have to contend, as all our nation's people still do.

Happy holidays!

I occasionally use Mrs. Curmudgeon's Facebook account to spy on congregants and others, and was not too surprised at the beginning of December to see several posts announcing a stand against the greeting "Happy holidays!" in order to wage a counter-offensive in the alleged war on Christmas. However, I was also pleased to see this decision tree also making its rounds on The Facebook:

That really says it all, but since I'm a pastor and saying more than is absolutely necessary is an occupational hazard, I will venture a few more observations on the issue.

First, let us observe that, since "X" has always been an abbreviation for the Greek word "Xristos," translated as "Christ" in English, those who use "Xmas" are not taking Christ out of Christmas, but are doing the best they can under space constraints. Relax.

Second, "Happy holidays" is a relatively polite greeting in a pluralistic society in which various faith communities celebrate different holy days during this time of year. Last time I checked, Jesus allows Christians to behave relatively politely.

Furthermore, even if ours was not a relatively pluralistic society but were instead monolithically and universally Christian, the Church calendar is just packed with holidays. Not only do we have the entire season of Advent, but there's Christmas Day, the twelve days of Christmastide, and Epiphany, on top of which many also mark the New Year with worship services. Of all people, Christians have the most reason to wish each other "Happy holidays!"

My middle sister, whose taste in popular music is almost as impeccable as mine, a few years ago gifted the family with a Christmas playlist which concluded with Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters singing a song called "Happy Holidays." Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. If that's not the apogee of American Christian civil religion, I don't know what is.

Now that we've got that settled, let's get down to putting the X back in X-Mas!

Thanksgiving Day: The long-expected turkey

I checked the turkey's internal temperature for the first time at 1 p.m., at just under 5 hours from the beginning of the grilling process. My meat thermometer recorded 176 degrees (fahrenheit, of course;  it's not October and this isn't Canada), which confirms my belief that the weather is the controlling factor in grilling time. Since a turkey is considered cooked at 160 degrees, I guesstimate this 21-pound bird was done in about four and a half hours. Remarkable: that competes with a standard oven.

As Thanksgiving dinner was scheduled for 3 p.m., I lowered the heat in my Weber grill by reducing air flow to almost nothing. After a shower, I wrapped the roasting pan and bird in heavy-duty aluminum foil and towels for transportation to the off-site meal location. This kept the turkey sufficiently warm for serving when the dinner itself commenced.

As per usual, I was pleased by the striking visual effect of the turkey skin's mahogany hue, the result of sitting in smoke. (As I don't eat the skin, I can't say how the brine and smoke affects the taste.) The turkey retained moisture very well: juices ran off the serving/carving platter and stained the tablecloth. I did not notice any particular sweetness in the meat, despite the extra sugar and wine in the brine. I increasingly suspect the best way to add flavors to a turkey is through post-brine, pre-grilling preparations such as onions or fruits in the cavity or herbs inserted below the skin. The smoke notes this year were very subtle; this may be due to using branches which were still relatively green.

All done with the mildly obsessive chronicle. I promise.

Thanksgiving Day: the waiting is the hardest part

A few years ago, I was briefly enamored with a grilling device which promised perfectly smoked meats. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was basically a convection oven which used charcoal as its heat source, and its "grilling" process involved little more than inserting the food and then leaving said food alone until done. I immediately lost interest, as the entire purpose of grilling is to fiddle with the foods, constantly adjusting heat, position of foodstuffs on the grate, finding the magic point when perfect char has been obtained but just before burning occurs, so on and so forth.

Accordingly, the most trying time for me on Thanksgiving Day comes after wrapping the turkey in foil and adding hardwood. Lifting the lid will only cause heat and smoke to escape, and perhaps lead to an underdone bird. I must wait patiently for three hours, keeping my hands and barbecue tools to myself.

I've learned to occupy myself with hanging Christmas lights from the roof and a bottle or two of Sam Adams Octoberfest (I carefully reserve a six-pack or so for Thanksgiving; this tradition dates back to when I was buying beer past its sell-by dates at a local distributor's dock sale, said business now sadly closed). Not much of a sop to my obsessive tendencies, but it's the best I can do.

Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.

In the first hour of grilling, the outer flesh of the bird is seared, turning the skin a pleasing light gold. Given their relative fragility and close proximity to the hot coals, the risk now is burning the wings and drumsticks. Accordingly, I wrap the sides in heavy-duty aluminum foil. The resulting tent also convects the steam rising from the roasting pan up over the skin, and hence bastes the turkey for me.

I love smoked meats, but Mrs. Curmudgeon is not so enthusiastic. After my first turkey came out closer to bacon than not, I began adding hardwood to the coals only after the first hour of cooking. The smoke doesn't penetrate already-cooked meat as deeply, and the result is a very lightly smoked flavor, almost barely noticeable.

In recent years I've been using branches from an old cedar tree we took down from our front yard a while back, but, as previously mentioned, I have some crabapple branches with which to work this Thanksgiving. I place one on either side of the roasting pan, add some fresh coals, replace the lid, adjust the vents to a medium heat, and begin hanging Christmas lights on the house.

(Technically speaking, you don't need to hang Christmas lights in order to properly grill a turkey, but it works for me.)

Thanksgiving Day, 8 a.m.

In The Barbecue Bible, Steve Raichlen suggests from 15 to 20 minutes for a grilled turkey. In my experience, the actual range is anywhere from 12 to 25 minutes. The key factor appears to be cloud cover, with prevailing winds and temperature also strong contributors. This year's turkey weighs in at 21 pounds, and as it will have to be transported to an off-site dining location, I've decided to work with a conservative cooking time of five hours.

I grill the turkey on a rack in a roasting pan which rests on the Weber's charcoal grate; a turkey is too big to sit on the regular grilling grate and still fit under the lid. I pile the hot coals along the side of the roasting pan, in which I maintain about an inch of water to keep the heat from bending the thin metal. Turkey drippings in that water, happily enough, create an excellent stock for gravy. (This year, I strengthened the stock by putting the neck and giblets in the pan as well.) After a half-dozen or so turkeys, though, my roasting pan has begun to rust. This year, the turkey rested in a disposable pan liner. With water in both pans, I suppose I achieved a double boiler effect, although I can't imagine what that might have accomplished.

The turkey goes on, and then I wait an hour for the next step.

Thanksgiving Day, 7 a.m.

I light my coals in a chimney an hour before the turkey is to begin grilling, as the set-up is rather time-consuming. I do this on the gas grill in order to minimize soot on my Weber 22", which I use for all my artisanal grilling.

(Yes, that is an authentic set of vintage Korean barbecue tongs [circa 1968]: a legacy from Pa Curmudgeon's legendary bachelor days which I use to handle hot coals.)

Then I haul the brining bucket from the garage refrigerator (yes, I have to pull out several shelves and let my beer sit overnight at the garage's ambient temperature; no sacrifice is too great for a masterpiece) and drain the turkey in the kitchen sink. Most recipes recommend rinsing the brine from the turkey. However, I rinse the turkey before brining, and my theory is that any residual brine will merely add flavor to the pan drippings, and hence to the inevitable gravy.

Men start the turkey on Wednesday

If memory serves (and let's be honest: it rarely does), it was seven years ago that Mrs. Curmudgeon told me I would be making the Thanksgiving turkey on the Weber grill. After I stopped hyperventilating, I began obsessing, and now I have raised the grilled turkey to a fine art. Strangely, it only occurred to me this year that I have been depriving the world of my vast, hard-earned expertise. This year, I have decided to blog my highly-developed process for the world's benefit.

You're welcome, world.

Turkeys, whether in the oven or on the grill, easily dry out because of the extended cooking time. The solution: brine. The webernet is full of brine recipes, but all you really need is a cup of salt and a tablespoon of pickling spice per gallon of water. (Many recipes also recommend kosher or sea salt. Pretentious much?) This year I was given some crabapple branches to use for smoking, so I thought I'd try to accent the sweetness by adding a little extra brown sugar, along with a bottle of white wine which Mrs. Curmudgeon and I found overly sugared.

I have a 5-gallon bucket in the garage reserved exclusively for turkey brining. I recommend brining for 12-24 hours before cooking; today, that meant about noon.

This year, we're doing our largest bird yet (21 pounds), and it has to be ready (more or less) by 1 p.m. Since that means I have to prep the grill around 7 a.m. on Thursday, I also loaded my charcoal chimney and set out my grilling tools.

Only amateurs think turkeys are prepared on Thanksgiving Day.

Calvin and the Mystery of Believing (Calvin's Institutes, Battles edition, p. 947 [vol. 2])

Every other Wednesday some of our congregation's members get together to discuss Calvin's Institutes of the Christian Religion, and lately we've been in Book III, chapters 21-24, in which he discusses the doctrines of election and predestination. As it happens, just last week the Beeson podcast featured John L. Thompson's lecture "Calvin and the Mystery of Believing," itself a defense of the historic doctrine of predestination.

Sometimes the line between predestination and irony is wafer-thin.

At any rate, Thompson's lecture is a remarkably succint and clear presentation of the historic reformed understanding of the relationship between predestination and free will. Calvin deals with free will much earlier in his Institutes under the heading of anthropology in Book II, chapters 1-5; election is reserved for Book III because that section is on how believers receive God's grace in Christ. Nonetheless, the two doctrines are inextricably intertwined, and Thompson introduces them marvelously well. He is a model of Westminster Confession of Faith 3.8: "The doctrine of this high mystery of predestination is to be handled with special prudence and care, that men, attending the will of God revealed in his Word, and yielding obedience thereunto, may, from the certainty of the effectual vocation, be assured of their eternal election."

Despite his Calvinistic emphasis on obtaining assurance, Thompson's lecture has an apologetic note, as he knows his audience will include some Christians hostile to the doctrine of election. To these, Calvin himself says, "Now when human understanding hears these things, its insolence is so irrepressible that it breaks forth into random and immoderate tumult as if at the blast of a battle trumpet."

[Updated on November 19, 2013]

Laying my reputation down

Don't worry: I am still a very, very cranky person. Nonetheless, the cockles of the stone which fills my chest cavity where a heart belongs were strangely warmed by this BBC story about the Batkid. Warning: those without curmudgeonly armor will certainly weep like little schoolgirls.

Oh, make sure to click on the link to the indictment against the Riddler and the Penguin. Awesome.

Man of Steel

I'm sure I've got the line wrong, but as I remember it, sometime after Diane Court dumped Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything, he said "If you start out the day with low expectations, everything after that is sort of a pleasant surprise." Thankfully, my expectations for Superman movies have become so low that I seem to be beyond disappointment. I'm able to take enough of a bemused distance to have something like a rational response to Man of Steel.

After the hysterical 300 and the tepid Watchmen (let us not mention Legends of the Guardians: Owls of Ga'Hoole), I feared what director Zack Snyder would do to Superman. He was delivered from his worst instincts, I think, by Christopher Nolan, who shares story and producing credits. Nolan was the visionary behind the latest Batman trilogy (starring Christian Bale in the title role), and his work there demonstrated deep knowledge of how that character had developed in comic books since the mid-80s, and particularly in the hands of Frank Miller. Miller's influence on Nolan is clearly evident in Man of Steel's third act: the vivid, nearly silent sequence of an enervated Superman flying haltingly into sunlight to be recharged and re-energized is taken directly from a scene in the third volume of Miller's landmark Dark Knight series. This is so much the case that I wonder whether those unfamiliar with the Dark Knight understood what was going on.

I never read Superman comics very much, but was drawn in for a time by the John Byrne revival/renewal, also in the mid-80s. Before that kind of thing was in vogue, DC Comics handed Superman over to Byrne, who completely rewrote the character and his backstory. As part of that project, he developed a rather complex history for Superman's home planet of Krypton. The Krypton of Nolan and his co-writers was clearly influenced by Byrne's, especially in its visual elements. The notion of a genetically-engineered and -determined civilization was also first developed by Byrne.

 My Superman is heavily influenced by John Byrne, who I believe got the American heart of the character which makes him so enduring. As Frank Miller also understood, Superman operates from an absolute moral clarity. His charisma is not his god-like power, but his absolute determination to serve and protect his nation and world. That fact makes Man of Steel's plotline somewhat confusing. The first act has young Clark Kent walking the earth (like Cain or Kung Fu), seeking his purpose in life. This makes sense only because this has become a modern-day storytelling convention, particularly in big costume action movies. My Superman has never doubted his purpose, not for a moment.

[As best as I can tell, this walk-the-earth trope is rooted in an over-simplification of the quest motif  as articulated in Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces. Since Superman literally descends to earth, already equipped with all the powers he will ever have, sending him on a search for power and identity is particularly inappropriate.]

The confused-young-man bit is also at odds with what can be called a theme only if "theme" is defined as "a plot element with which you are hit between the eyes much after the manner of a 2x4." Superman-as-messiah has been an element in the character since at least the late 20th century, and was brought to the fore in his last film, Superman Returns. In Man of Steel, what had been implied and symbolized is made absolutely explicit by both of Superman's fathers, Jor-El and Jonathan Kent. Jor-El first tells his wife Lara, and then his adult son Kal-El (Superman's Kryptonian name) by way of Kryptonian interactive hologram, that the boy is being sent to Earth by design, and is to grow up to save the world. His adoptive father, the Kansas farmer, is equally convinced the boy has a salvific destiny.

If you ask me, better to keep messianism an implicit theme; cool as Superman is, Jesus makes him look silly by comparison. But I wasn't asked (again!), and I can live with it. However, I am nothing but aggravated by Jonathan Kent's insistence that young Clark keep his abilities secret, and even unused, lest he somehow get in trouble. This is just insane, and not just because IT WOULD BE VERY DIFFICULT TO CAUSE SUPERMAN TROUBLE. Superman is from Kansas as much as from Krypton, and as such is the embodiment of the middle-American virtue of reflexive patriotic service. Jonathan Kent would never hold his son back from helping others, and as good a performance as Kevin Costner turns in, what Man of Steel makes him do and say is entirely unfathomable and unbelievable.

For all that, the movie moves along nicely. It's anchored by excellent acting throughout, and all the outer space and special effects are credible and never become ridiculous. If you start out with low expectations, Man of Steel is entertaining; but that's all it is.

Voltaire's Bastards

On last week's Econtalk podcast, Russ Roberts spoke to John Ralston Saul on the occasion of the re-issue of his 1992 book Voltaire's Bastards. In it, and in the interview, Saul argues that rationality has displaced the old humanism, and a society which uses only the norm of rationality is a poor and deformed one. I would have enjoyed the interview without necessarily making a recommendation were it not for the close. Saul raises the example of Nazi architect Adolf Eichmann and Roberts replies with Saul's own point that technology has improved, but humans are still the same. Provocative.

Baking bread

It was Mrs. Curmudgeon who said, "You can't not buy that shirt."

The People vs. George Lucas

I saw Star Wars (no, not Episode IV: A New Hope; just plain Star Wars, you young wise-acre) for the first time when I was seven years old, and in Spanish. (Because my family was living in Madrid.) I didn't understand a word, and I don't think I breathed for the entire two hours. Like all boys my age, I was hooked and obsessed. But then Return of Jedi finally came out, it was okay, I was thirteen, and I moved on with my life. Then George Lucas re-released the original trilogy when I was in seminary in preparation for the prequel trilogy. With several classmates I went to see Star Wars (again, Star Wars, not Episode IV), and I was surprised to learn it was bad. I mean, bad as in not good, not bad as in "Han Solo shot first." This was my first inkling that maybe, just maybe, my seven year-old self was a tad lacking in aesthetic sophistication. Who knew?

Anyway. That's all to say that I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a Star Wars fan, but I was blown away by The People vs. George Lucas, which documents fandom's profound disappointment with what George Lucas did with the whole Star Wars franchise after 1983. It's a fascinating display of  love and obsession. Every moment is compelling, and most of it is very, very funny.

Watch and wonder at the human condition. Highly recommended.

A presbyterian asks about the BSA membership requirements change

Last Saturday I attended the Denver Area Council's University of Scouting, a day of coursework and training (some mandatory, some elective) for adult leaders in Boy Scouts of America programs. These annual events are, for me, a reminder of why I am a Scouter. Even as a hard-shell Calvinist, I am encouraged to be surrounded by the best of humanity, people who are sincerely interested in helping others and in enabling America's youth to grow into healthy and mature adults.

But then there's what is ungainly called the "BSA membership requirements change;" i.e., the decision to open up membership to boys of avowed homosexual orientation as of January 1, 2014. The DAC took the bull by the horns and scheduled a two-hour session during the University of Scouting to introduce the new policy and take questions. To my surprise, only a half-dozen or so Scouters attended, and, so far as I could tell from the questions and comments offered, I was the only one opposed to the change. I was listened to with courtesy and care, and my questions were taken seriously. (It may have helped that I was asking questions, not making speeches.) To his everlasting credit, the Scout Executive (i.e., the Council's CEO), John Cabeza, spent about a half-hour with me after the session broke up, as did the two presenters.

The new policy states that membership in the BSA cannot be denied to a young person on the basis of sexual orientation alone. My question was whether I, as an adult leader, would be constrained from clearly stating my Biblically-informed beliefs about sexual ethics (in appropriate contexts, of course), or whether a religiously-informed chartering organization could use its Scouting program to further its teachings on sexual morality. I knew both of these were fine on January 1, 2013, but I wasn't sure what would happen on January 1, 2014.

[Note: Scouting units are chartered by organizations such as schools, Churches, clubs, etc.; chartering organizations are free to use their Scouting programs to further their own agendas for educating young people so long as those are not in conflict with BSA policies.]

The takeaway: my conscience is not bound (an important issue for a presbyterian; see the Westminster Confession of Faith on Christian Liberty). I can continue to act with integrity when I put on my uniform. Moreover, Scouting units which would teach Biblical sexual ethics in the past can continue to do so. The only change is that they may not exclude youth on the basis of sexual orientation.

In fact, I was told that chartering organizations can put narrower constraints on their membership requirements for youth: for example, a Church could limit its Scouting program to its members. That was a surprise to me, and I have to do more research before I can say that's accurate information.

So, as a presbyterian clergyman, my membership in the BSA puts no constraints on my conscience. In that sense, I can continue to serve as an adult leader. Sadly, that narrow concern does nothing to allay my concerns over the BSA's future. One of the presenters at Saturday's session said, "It would be a shame if a 15 year-old boy had made Life rank and was well on his way to Eagle, but then had to leave the program because he decided he was homosexual." Replace "homosexual" with "atheist," and you can see where we're headed.

Salving my conscience may turn out to be cold comfort.

Ecclesiastical Exceptionalism

Shortly before I was awarded my Master of Divinity degree, a professor who was relatively popular with the students renounced the jurisdiction of the Presbyterian Church in America in order to avoid disciplinary charges being filed against him, a move which (sadly) I've seen repeated on a number of occasions. At the time, a graduated friend of mine said that while I might not like that action, it was to be expected when the Church is merely a voluntary association. I replied that in a presbyterian understanding of the Church, there's nothing voluntary about Church membership: every believer must be, by definition, a Church member.

James R. Rogers makes a similar point in "Ecclesiastical Exceptionalism," noting that baptism unites us as irrevocably to other Christians as it does to God. Thus, we should not view the Church as a voluntary association because "If the Church is no more than a spiritual version of the Rotary Club, then it is no more than another avenue for our self-expression and self-interest."

Men contemplating the Gospel ministry should ask what they would do should the brethren judge their teaching to be out of accord with the system of doctrine taught in the Scriptures. If their impulse would be to renounce their present communion's jurisdiction, they might well wonder whose interests they hold closest to their hearts.

He had a rock & roll heart

Since working my way through "R" during my project of converting audio cassettes to mp3s, I've been trying to figure out how to write about Lou Reed, and now he's dead.

I was captivated by New York when I was in college, a work of social commentary which nailed the cultural vacuity and hypocrisy of the late 80s with scathing clarity and humor. Lou Reed, very simply, was rock and roll: a viciously skillful guitarist, an astonishingly insightful lyricist, and unapologetically self-destructive. Frankly, I'm surprised he made it to 71.

What makes it hard to write about Lou Reed is the stunning variety of his output, some of which is deliberately offensive and off-putting, some boringly sentimental, some listenable only by masochists, and some mind-bogglingly brilliant. I've read a lot of Lou Reed criticism, and I've concluded much of it misses the mark because it confuses his anger for cynicism. That's not the case at all. Lou Reed was absolutely sincere at all times. Even Metal Machine Music, which I am not ashamed to say I hate, was no joke; one doesn't return to a joke thirty years later and form a touring trio to revisit and rework its themes.

The type of anger of which Lou Reed was capable is very specific: it's the outrage of disappointment in a world which consistently refuses to live up to one's romantic expectations. Lou Reed loved extravagantly: his most well-known song, Walk on the Wild Side, finds the human beauty in the lives of tragically self-destructive people. My favorite album is Magic and Loss, in which he explores cancer, grief, and loss and responds the only way he can: with the impotent and eloquent rage of Warrior King. In that album, and in that song particularly, he expressed what it is to live in a world which should have been all that God created it to be but instead is horrifically fallen and broken because of our sin.

Lou Reed was Rock and Roll Heart just as much as he was Metal Machine Music. He never got the Gospel, but he helped me remember why I do.

for Apple geeks

Some of us have been using Apple products since way back when they made computers exclusively. Mac OS fans know the iterations of OS X have, until now, been nicknamed after large cats (ex, "Lion,"  "Leopard," etc). Having run out of notable examples of these, Apple has now moved on to California locales, beginning with a beach called "Mavericks." Seriously.

The indispensable The Unofficial Apple Weblog has some helpful naming suggestions for upcoming releases here. Well worth checking out, even if you're still using Windows 95.

The Most Deserving

The Most Deserving, by Catherine Trieschmann, receives its world premiere by the Denver Center Theatre Company (at the Ricketson Theatre through November 17), but I'm not sure why. It's described thusly in DCTC promotional material:

A small town arts council has $20,000 to award to a local artist with an “under-represented American voice.” Should they choose the teacher/painter of modest talent or the self-taught artist who creates religious figures out of trash? This comedy explores how gossip, politics and opinions of art can decide who is the most deserving.

Comedy is a marvelous form for social commentary, which one hopes The Most Deserving might be. At least, that's what I and Theatre Companion hoped, but while that appeared to be what the first act was setting up, the second act descended into a farce, in which almost all the characters abandoned correspondence to real human motivation and emotion and instead just acted as silly as possible. Granted, it was funny, but not as funny as a truly dedicated farce can be. 

The playwright's choice to move into a farce also destroyed any possibility of social commentary. For example, the play builds to a vote on the recipient of the $20,000 award; however, by the time the vote comes, the characters' plausibility has been so degraded that their votes are incomprehensible. The actors all handed in competent performances and demonstrated good sense for comic timing; the evening passed quickly and was entertaining; but in the end, the play has no point.

Why? This is the United States of America, with more MFA programs and budding playwrights than I can count. Not very many new works get produced, relatively speaking. Is this the best the DCTC could find? Live theater is not only expensive to attend, it's expensive to produce. I wish the DCTC had found a play which aimed to do more than merely make a couple hours pass by.

So vain a presumption

Because we live in an age in which theological liberalism has overtaken much of the academy, one frequently reads comments on Scripture in which the commenter disparages not only the authority, but even the education, of Biblical writers. For example, New Testament uses of Old Testament texts are often criticized for failing to properly understand said OT text. 

In John Owen's day, theological liberalism was unknown, but many of its arguments were deployed by those who challenged the place of the Letter to the Hebrews in the Biblical canon. Against them, he wrote,

[I]t may much more rationally be supposed, that though we all know enough of the mind and will of God in the whole Scripture to guide and regulate our faith and obedience, yet that we are rather ignorant of his utmost intention in any place than that we know it in all. There is a depth and breadth in every word of God, because his, which we are not able to fathom and compass to the utmost; it being enough for us that we may infallibly apprehend so much of his mind and will as is indispensably necessary for us to the obedience that he requires at our hands. …That objection, then, must needs be very weak whose fundamental strength consists in so vain a presumption.

(from An Exposition of the Epistle to the Hebrews (first published in 1668), vol. 17 of The Works of John Owen, Banner of Truth Trust 1991 reprint, p. 40; emphases original)

Before it's too late

Four months after its July 12 release, Pacific Rim is still playing at the Denver-area cheap theatres, which means there's not much time left to see it on the big screen. And let us be clear: you must see this movie on as big a screen as possible. Yes, the dynamism, charisma, and sheer bravura force of Idris Elba as the most intimidating commanding officer since Patton might carry over to your television set, but this is a movie about giant robots fighting giant monsters. That, my friends, requires a giant screen.

To paraphrase Ralph J. Gleason's comments from the Bitches Brew liner notes (you all have read the liner notes to Miles Davis' legendary double album Bitches Brew, yes?): there may be greater giant robots fighting giant monsters movies in the future, but from here on out, any giant robots fighting giant monsters movie has to go around Pacific Rim to get in front of Pacific Rim.

Guillermo Del Toro is some kind of genius. Seriously.

Just Like Us

Just Like Us is receiving its world premiere by the Denver Center Theatre Company (through November 3 at the Stage Theatre), but I have a hard time imagining it will be produced again (except perhaps by a company of very, very earnest high school students). Though competent as a play and as a production, it fails artistically because of its political orientation, and politically because of a deadly artistic choice.

Just Like Us is an adaptation of Helen Thorpe's book of the same name, and tells the true story of four young women in Denver from high school prom through college graduation. The parents of all four are Mexican immigrants of dubious legal status; two of the girls are legal residents and the other two do not "have papers" (a regular refrain in the show). We're told at the beginning (and in the publicity material) that their different statuses lead to divergent lives, but it's hard to see how that's the case: all four graduate from extremely respectable local universities. The divergence is not in outcome, but in experience, as the two "illegals" go through much more anxiety along their academic journey.

As a resident of metropolitan Denver throughout the period covered by the play, I was naturally struck by references to various events and locations. (One very strange note: three of the young women matriculate at the University of Denver, and the other at Regis University. With that, the fourth drops out entirely until the final scene, without any explanation whatsoever, as though she had moved to Boston. Seriously? The schools are 10 miles apart and maybe a 30 minute drive.) I could barely remember a number of local controversies which loomed large in the protagonists' lives, which very much illustrated the different worlds we respectively inhabit.

Just Like Us is an advocacy piece, arguing that the legal status of all migrant workers in this county should be regularized. It attempts to give opposing views a voice (Tom Tancredo actually appears as a character!). However, all these moments are bracketed, and not so subtly invalidated, by arguments from the show's dominant perspective. As an old-fashioned populist and humanist, I happen to agree with this point of view, at least in broad outline. However, political sympathy cannot excuse emotionally and intellectually manipulative moves in a work of art. Humanism demands that people be presented and treated with integrity as human beings, even if they happen to hold what one deems incorrect policy positions.

  In that regard, the play takes an ensemble approach which does not flesh out many of the characters; with annoying frequency, the actors are called on to make public policy statements (very) thinly disguised as dialogue. The exception is Marisela (in a standout performance by Yunuen Pardo), whose experience dominates and anchors the entire show. Less successful is Helen Thorpe, the journalist who documented this story in newspapers, radio, and ultimately a book. As a stage character, Helen Thorpe is the narrator who explains the Mexican immigrant community and experience to the audience. Mary Bacon does not quite bring Helen to life, but this failing lies more with the script than the actor. She is given very few moments of genuine human interaction, and instead has to deliver long chunks of journalistic exposition directly to the audience.

This brings us to Just Like Us's major artistic failing. It purports to give a voice to young illegal immigrants of color and notable accent, but its dominant voice is white and unaccented. Given that theatre tickets run from $50-60, playwright Karen Zacarías may have felt her audience would need a guide to an alien world of poverty and ranchero nightclubs. To Zacarías's credit, a closing scene has Marisela confront Helen over the latter's judgment of the former's choices and whether she had become properly "American." However, this scene does not exculpate all that comes before, as the audience was never given unmediated access to the lives of Marisela, her family and friends.

In the end, Just Like Us falls into the same soft paternalism of Mississippi Burning and The Help. Instead of inviting white, (often upper-) middle-class audiences to enter a truly different world, it reassures them that, so long as they vote in the correct way and give to appropriate causes, they (unlike less enlightened white people) are true friends to the oppressed and downtrodden. The character of Helen Thorpe may have been challenged, but the affluent audience was comforted.

Not to become overly theological, but this is the ultimate end of a humanism unmoored from its Christian roots. In the Incarnation, our Lord identified with those beneath him, with a people oppressed and downtrodden by sin and death. Liberalism unwilling to acknowledge, let alone submit to and imitate, the Incarnation cannot remain genuinely humanistic for long.

This just got real, people

As reported throughout the interweb and other, less-traditional news sources today, the federal government partial shutdown has led to the complete shutdown of the process by which new beers are approved for sale across state lines. This means spring seasonals might not make it to stores in time to replace sold-out stocks of winter seasonals.

On second thought, perhaps this less a disaster than an excuse for me to remain firmly ensconced here at home, where I will still be able to visit and partake from the fresh stock of our great state's nearly-infinite number of craft breweries. 'Tis a privilege to live in Colorado!

Pumpkin beer

Today I used the expression "Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should do it." It's a favorite, one I picked up from two good friends, entirely unacquainted with one another but united in their distaste for pumpkin pie, aginst which they enjoyed deploying said aphorism. But I love pumpkin pie (preferrably topped with vast quantities of whipped cream), and I'm mighty fond of pumpkin beers.

I write as I finish off a bomber of Dry Dock's Imperial Pumpkin Ale, and as with most everything produced by the Pride of Aurora, Colorado, it's mighty tasty. It's got a much higher ABV and maple notes than my more ginger ale-style pumpkin favorite, Shipyard's Pumpkinhead, but at the moment I am more than slightly happy.

My question: does this make me some kind of lightweight beer dilettante sissy, or an adventurous sophisticate?

Death of a Salesman

Attention must be paid.

In the program notes for the Denver Center Theatre Company's production of Death of a Salesman (through October 20 in the Space Theatre), Dan Sullivan suggests that putting Arthur Miller's signature work on a pedestal is to disrespect it because he fears that when a play is a classic, callow youth will not take interest or pay attention. Perhaps Mr. Sullivan has been in the criticism game a little too long, as he seems to have forgotten that callow youth are not to be catered to by serious artists, or by critics who are judging a work's place in the canon. And in the canon of 20th century American theatre, Death of a Salesman stands astride the earth as a colossus (a metaphor I deploy with full knowledge of its irony). If callow youth choose not to pay attention, it's their loss.

Watching the DCTC production last week, I had a hard time judging the quality of the production. Dustin Hoffman is my generation's Willy Loman, and I never quite adjusted my expectations to Mike Hartman's lanky figure; which is not to say his performance was lacking. With the rest of the cast, he hit all the notes just right. I want to say the script is so perfect it couldn't be botched up, but anyone who's spent more than one evening at the theatre knows that anything can be ruined by a sufficiently dedicated incompetent. Linda Klein was a fine Linda, but John Hutton was notable for the gravity he brought to the mythic figure of Willy's older brother Ben. As Biff, John Patrick Hayden anchored the second act with a compelling distress which never descended into hysteria. Attention must also be paid to Michael Santo's pitch-perfect rendition of Charley.

Speaking of the second act, Theatre Companion and I could not help noticing murmuring among the audience as certain members realized Willy Loman's suicide was imminent. Seriously? What adult who can afford to buy a ticket to a professional production doesn't know how Death of a Salesman turns out? Because Dan Sullivan notwithstanding, it is a classic, one to which callow youth do well to pay attention. I was as callow as they come when I watched Dustin Hoffman's Willy struggle with John Malkovich's Biff back in 1985, but I was profoundly affected. It's probably been a couple decades since I last visited the script, so I was pleasantly surprised by the dialogue's naturalism and versimilitude. One of the benefits of live theatre is the ear catches things the eye misses when reading a script, and I was struck by how many characters call Willy Loman "kid" in the second act (always in a completely unaffected manner), one of Miller's more suble indicators of Willy's diminishment in the world around him. Of course, that easy facility with dialogue and subtext is part of the reason this is a classic: plenty of self-conscious serious works have failed to leave any impression because they failed to capture any sense of real human beings living real lives.

I love Death of a Salesman for many of the reasons which make it such a landmark in the canon. I love Arthur Miller for sticking it to Aristotle and all the other hide-bound traditionalists by making a man of common birth ("Loman" ["low man"] being a fairly obvious indicator) a tragic hero. Now that I am not such a youth (my callowness being a subject for discussion at a date to be indefinitely postponed), this reacquaintance caused me to reconsider the nature of Willy Loman's tragedy. I used to think Miller was telling us to pay attention to the common man, the low man who had led a life of productive work even if he had nothing to show for it at its end. I used to think Willy Loman was a tragic victim of the capitalist system and employers indifferent to a lifetime of service.

Now, deep in the throes of middle age, I realize Arthur Miller is a far better playwright than that. Willy Loman is a fool, a man who claims to be well-liked but knows he is not, a man who claims a noble character for himself and his sons which is radically at odds with the petty one he has created, a self-proclaimed family man who cheats on his wife and consequently crushes the spirit and all the youthful potential of his eldest son. Willy Loman does not fall victim to invincible and cruelly indifferent external forces: he boxes himself into his ignoble end by a lifetime of ignoble choices.

Arthur Miller recognizes this hubris for what it is, and tells us this, therefore, is a tragic hero, to whom attention must be paid. Miller reminds me, once again,  why I love the stage and the screen and books, and also of the necessity of the humanities. The humanities, especially the arts, are necessary because they recall to our attention the human, the human person before us. Willy Loman cannot be admired or held up for imitation, but he is a human being. As such, he has an inherent dignity: although he doesn't know it, he bears the image of his Creator and, for that reason alone, is worthy of a major play and is worthy of our attention.

Attention must be paid to such a man. To not pay attention is to deny our humanity and, perhaps, to deny our faith.

Thanks, public radio!

Not content to allow KUVO to be the only local public radio station wooing the Presbyterian Curmudgeon with grand prizes, Colorado Public Radio awarded me two tickets to all the shows in the Denver Center Theatre Company's 2013-14 season. That works out to ten, and other than A Christmas Carol (to which I will send the curmudgelings in my stead as I simply cannot bear another production of "this holiday favorite"), I hope to offer at least a cursory review of each in this space. Live theater is prohibitively expensive on a pastor's salary, and I don't want to let this marvelous providence go unappreciated or under-exploited.