For an upcoming piece in Comment (hopefully). For the record, this is the first time I’ve actually worked in a cubicle. And we’ve started to use Picasa to hold some of our photos since we’ve maxed out our Flickr account.

Just when we thought we may have Robinson pegged, the cards are suddenly on the table in her last essay, “The Tyranny of Petty Coercion,” obstensibly a lament over the lack of intellectual courage (specifically in the area of politics) in our time. Robinson writes:

I am myself a liberal. By that I mean I believe society exists to nuture and liberate the human spirit, and that largemindedness and openhandedness are the means by which these things are to be accomplished. I am not ideological (which I read as a pre-emptive defense to the critique of being ideological. -bmj). By that I mean I believe opportunities of every kind should be seized upon to advance the well-being of people, especially in assuring them decent wages, free time, privacy, education, and health care, concerns essential to their full enfranchisement.

And a bit later:

I am Christian. This ought not to startle anyone. […] I have a strong attachment to the Scriptures, and to the theology, music and art Christianity has insipired. My most inward thoughts and ponderings are formed by the narratives and traditions of Christianity. I expect them to engage me on my deathbed.

Well, then. That answers that. I am, of course, not shocked by the second statement, as it is quite obvious that despite never quite saying so, Robinson is more than simply a student of the Bible and theology. They mean something to her. The first quote, however, caused me to read and re-read the chapter several times. Until that point, I had Robinson pegged as a bit of a illiberal, a traditionalist. Perhaps not a conservative, poiitically, but at least someone who held the individualism (and attendent liberalism) of the Enlightment at arm’s length. I was, it seems, wrong.

It is worth pausing here to note that nearly every writer will define liberalism and conservatism differently. If we talk about the current political divisions in the United States, then I stand with those who say that when is said and done, liberals and conservatives are really all just liberals. Despite approaching the solution differently, both ultimately see freedom of the individual as tantamount. Yes, the devil is in the details, but conservatives these days seek to conserve very little. And many liberals, of course, bear little resemblance to the Classical Liberals that defined the movement–these days they seek an ever-growing State that at once cares for us and maximizes our personal freedoms.

Enough of the soapbox.

I suppose that, at least in the first half of her political confession, Robinson is a liberal. She wishes her freedoms maximized, though I reckon she defines these freedoms differently than other liberals by nature of her religious beliefs. But then, in the second half, she wishes for the proverbial Nanny State, carrying for our every need. I suppose that Robinson could be in line with Ivan Illich, or even Jacques Ellul–both argued for the importance of equity and freedom. Though often labeled an anarchist, Illich understood that the State could play an important role in providing equity for a population (though he preferred to rely upon tradition as the source for social order rather than the rule of law). Robinson, it seems, is wary of tradition (the “petty coercion”), as it often stifles free thought (Illich, again, understood the dangers of what he called the “institutionalization of tradition,” where the tradition itself becomes more important than its aims). The is, however, a tight line to walk. On one hand, tradition orders society (often properly), but often does become institutionalized to the point of ideology. On the other hand, unfettered individualism has done its share of destruction of the very culture, the very civilization, that Robinson laments losing. Now, perhaps Robinson would argue that she is against the application of tradtion to the governing of a populance, but that the traditions that gird the Chruch, for example, are vitally important. But, still, even Christianity can become ideological (was not the Reformation a strike against such a thing?). Yet without its tradition (the theology of the Church Fathers, for instance), Christianity is nothing more than a “cheap cure for existential anxiety” (Robinson’s words).

It seems that Robinson wants the best of both worlds–the autonomy of Enlightment liberalism, but the stability of religious tradition. Who am I to say that she cannot have her cake and eat it, too? I suppose, however, that this is the case for all but the most deluded traditionalists. Some may decry the loss of tradition and the triumph of the individual, yet more often than not they do so thanks to the products of the very beast they fight. Perhaps Robinson isn’t an ideologue–she simply calls them as she sees them, and we are wrong to pin her down.

I shall write a follow-up to this after our discussion of the chapter at the beginning of August.

And, again, here lies the problem with many of the anti-car crowd–assigning blame. Championing a single cause above all others causes us to become myopic (or, to use another cliché, we have a hammer, so all the world’s a nail). Yes, let’s drive less. Let’s live in neighborhoods where we can walk or bike to work, walk to the store, walk to playground with our kids. And let’s realize that simply not driving or owning a car isn’t the singular solution to our problems. There are deeper problems afoot.

Riding a bicycle, like playing a musical instrument or sailing a boat or driving a racing car, allows those who are otherwise unsure and awkward to exhibit moments of fluidity and grace in a way not readily possible with dance shoes, a basketball, or a pair of boxing gloves. From square one, the tool is a very effective catalyst for cinematic beauty, both in between the ears and outwardly as one pans across the landscape rolling quietly. An entity like one’s bicycle can’t help but inspire self-expression through its use, and the increasing ease, speed, and volume of communication today results in no shortage of two-wheeled material to peruse.

This ring on my finger is a symbol of my decison to live against the ways of the consumer world’s telling me that fidelity is no longer fashionable. Marriage is one part of my stubborn, angry, defiant “no” to those who offer the hollow promises of so-called freedom. My lifelong commitment to bind myself to my wife is a stand against the consumer culture and its dehumanizing ways.

No. I am married. For good.

Donald Heniz, in “The Material Culture of Christmas,” sees that the material trappings of the Christmas holy day (nativity scenes and bells, for example) as a critical part of a day that celebrates God in the material.

Of all the Christian holy days, Christmas most conspicuously celebrates and clothes itself in the material world. Christmas is a festival of material culture. Divinity bodies forth in the world. As certain medieval mystics said, God is in all things, and all things are in God. If you want to celebrate life on Earth religiously, Christmas is the ideal occasion.

As part of an austere reformed tradition, our church does not conspiciously celebrate Christmas–each day should be a celebration of the incarnation of Christ. Many families within the denomination will not even allow the trappings of the holiday into their home. While these families are not wrong, would we do better proclaiming “Joy to the World, the Lord is come!” every Christmas day? Yes, the holiday has become mired in consumerism and materialism, but is that a reason to deny the celebration?

Such a mindset, however, overlooks material culture as a way into the understanding of faith. Across the Christian traditions, many of us are determined to see, hear, and touch God, to set the faith into the landscape of our senses.

Our friend’s name was Willie Metcalf. Our friend also got lost on our journey to the out-of-way jazz club, increasing our fear that we may not make it out alive. And, lastly, when we managed to get back together at the end of the night, we gave Willie a ride home in our RV, sharing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (a staple on the journey) with him. Apparently, it didn’t agree with him.

Thanks, Dan.

We spent a long afternoon wandering about the fringes of the French Quarter, lounging in Jackson Square and hunting used books. I’m still shocked what I found that day (Wittgenstein and A.J. Ayer), in the time before the rise of e-commerce and Barnes and Noble, when I would routinely spend as much on the thin paperbacks for my philosophy courses as literature students spent on their anthologies. That day, however, both volumes were mine for less than $10.

As night fell, we went further into the Quarter, looking for what we came for — jazz. Unlike most of the other college students on Bourbon Street, we had no interest in cheap drinks and strip clubs. We started the evening as anyone should, standing in line to enter Preservation Hall. In one sense it is a tourist experience, but the band does preserve the roots of city, playing old fashioned, big band jazz. After the show, we wanted something a bit more authentic, so we walked up and down Bourbon Street (which was closed to car traffic every night of the year. The crowds on weekday night post-Mardi Gras were enormous. I couldn’t imagine Mardi Gras, truthfully). The seedy underbelly of the city (and the Quarter) is on full display at night, with strip club owners attempting to lure patrons into their establishments. It’s still early in the evening, but the alcohol has been flowing freely, and people around us are drunk, and loud.

We stop outside a club, the Open Door, to discuss our options. As we chat, on the other side of the window, the older African American man playing the piano smiles and waves for us to come in. We take this as a sign and file into the club, find a table, and enjoy the show. Afterwards, some of my friends, being better equipped socially than I will ever be, found the old man and began a conversation. He told us about a few more clubs we should visit, and said he’d be playing at a piano bar later that night, and we should meet up with him again. He promised after his set there, he would take us to a “real” jazz club. We shook hands and said our good byes, and I wondered if we would actually see the man again.

The club was at the far end of the Quarter, so we spent the next hour or so walking about off Bourbon Street. When you leave the mayhem of Bourbon Street, you really are taken to another time and place. I peek through gates and fences to see beautiful gardens and squares. People sat at on their balconies, enjoying the cool spring air.

An hour or so later, we are sitting around a piano, listening to our new friend and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We were mostly musicians ourselves, so this moment was perfect — sitting in a quiet bar, listening to a wide array of jazz, listening to stories about the jazz scene and this man’s place in it. As his set wound done, the man asked if we were interested in going to a “real” jazz club with him. Of course, was the answer. We filed out of the club and headed away from the quarter.

At this point, the naivete of six college students was readily apparent. Promptly, we left the Quarter, crossed a rather road, and entered another neighborhood. We were clearly out of our element, but somehow, comforted by the fact that our friend seemed to know every person we passed by name. We walked further and futher away from the Quarter (and further and further away from our home away from home, the RV). Finally, the man paused outside what seemed to be an empty storefront and announced “here we are, boys.” For a moment I thought Here it is. I hope someone finds our bodies sooner rather than later. He swung open the door and with a flourish asked us to enter.

Immediately we heard the music from the band inside, and the small room was nearly filled with people of every stripe. It was loud, so conversation was difficult, but we found a section of empty wall and took in the scene. It was apparent this was the real deal, and most of the clubs in the Quarter were little more than tourist traps. I spotted the drummer from Harry Connick’s trio (this was prior to Connick becoming the next Frank Sinatra), and I’m sure if I were better versed in the New Orleans scene, I would have seen plenty of other top musicians. A few moments later, a fellow who was leaning against the wall a few feet from us stepped forward, produced a trumpet, and joined in. Amazing.

An hour or so later, three of us decided we should walk back across town and recover the RV (before someone else did), and head back to the club and pick the other half up. If we felt a bit out of place on the walk to the club, we were most certainly out of place now — three white college kids walking through a bad part of town well after midnight. We high-tailed it back to the Quarter, and soon enough we back near the art museum where our home away from home was parked. We managed to retrace our steps in the RV and find the club (did I think we looked out of place walking? Try being in an older RV).

* * *

I’m not sure what to say about the unfolding events on the Gulf Coast. Truthfully, this is sort of thing that we only hear about in other countries, or watch in the movie theater. For much of that area, vignettes like the one above are all that will remain.

This past week, we had twice had the opportunity to break bread with friends, and prepare the meals together. First, two friends (who are equally enamored with the cooking process) came over to spend one final night together before they moved away. The menu was simple: vegetable enchiladas, rice, fresh salsa. The plan was that we would prepare the filling, and our friends (who are serious bakers) would bring the tortilla dough, and we would assemble the enchiladas together. I’ve not cooked much with other folks (besides Jen and the boy), but working with Katie and Joel was fun, and likely an insight into how a well-oiled kitchen works.

Katie rolled out the buckwheat tortilla dough, Joel cooked the dough on several pans he had going on the stove, and I filled the fresh tortillas with vegetables and cheese, rolled them, and added them to the casserole. Roughly twenty minutes later, I had twelve enchiladas ready for the oven. Twenty more minutes, and we were supping on delicious Mexican food. The most inspiring part of cooking with Joel and Katie (this wasn’t our first time) is their utter disregard for the cleaniness of the kitchen as they cook. As they furious rolled and cooked tortillas, flour was everywhere. Later, when Joel made dessert (fruit empenadas), again, flour and fruit covered the countertops (and the baking stone in the oven). I tend to be a little uptight about making a mess (mostly, I think, since I’ll be cleaning it up later), but it’s clearly more fun to throw caution to wind.

A few days later, we were in Beaver Falls, and I found myself in a friend’s kitchen, making (oddly) vegetable burritos. While the production wasn’t as manic (in fact, it was quite leisurely), it was what Sunday afternoons should be about — cooking and eating and talking with friends. Say what you will about the Frugal Gourmet, Jeff Smith, but this book, The Frugal Gourmet Keeps the Feast, gets it right, outlining the Biblical importance of the shared meal. And it’s not simply the meal that’s important — it’s the process as well.