The Grail

This past weekend I re-watched The Fisher King with Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams. It's one of my favorite movies. Williams plays a college professor turned into one of New York's homeless as the result of a tragedy in his life. He tells the following story, which may or may not be true to the Arthurian legend, but certainly defines the Christian ministry (and I am paraphrasing). I don't believe I can add to it:

"When the king was a boy, he went into the forest to seek his destiny. During his time there, he was given a vision of the Holy Grail, and accepted as his life's mission the quest to find it. Over the years, after many disappointments, the king became discouraged and more reclusive. It seemed he would never find the Grail, and would end his life a failure.

"One day the court fool came in the king's quarters, and being a simple man, did not see a king, but a man in deep emotional pain. He asked, 'What may I do to help you with your pain, sire?' The king answered, 'You can pour me a drink of cool water.'

"The fool reached for a cup, and filling it with water, handed it the king. As he sipped, the king suddenly realized that it was the Grail he was holding, and that it had been in his chamber all that time.

"The king said, 'I've sent my brightest and bravest men to search for this. How did you find it?' The Fool laughed and said 'I don't know. I only knew that you were thirsty.'"

The Doors (or Dancing with Runes)

The humanoids of the dry and desert planet Mortopia formed a primitive culture based on a constant quest for food and water. However, after the discovery that a life-sustaining lichen that grew on the shady side of desert rocks could be cultivated and packaged in various forms, the Mortopians evolved into a medium-status culture with some economic complexity and a small but wealthy intelligentsia. They divided their history into pre-lichen and post-lichen eras. Mortopian society stayed pretty much at the same level, with very little excitement, until the coming of the age of the Doors.

The Doors were discovered by a lad herding a flock of g'malim, a camel-like mammal about the size of a terrestrial goat. Stumbling over an outcropping of rocks, he came into a flat sandy valley with barren hills on both sides. And there they stood: two doors upright in the sand, unweathered and reflecting the rays of the large orange sun of that world. They would become the object of puzzlement and intense study for coming generations, and also the subject of much debate, division, and argument, especially among Mortopian scholars, whose opinions attracted a following among the lower classes.

The Doors were double, like French doors, meeting in the middle, with golden handles on each door. No attempt to open them or pull them apart or uproot them succeeded. They stood approximately 20 feet high and 20 feet across, each door being 10 feet wide. Whether they had been placed there, or emerged from the sand, or had been there all along in an inhospitable lost valley, no one knew. What material they were made of was unknown. The handles were on the side of the Doors facing east. The backside of the Doors had no handles, suggesting that they could only be opened from the east side. There was a plain horizontal panel midway across both doors, front and back, forming four equal sections on each side, or a total of eight sections. And each section was covered with symbols and runes.

Over time, the Doors became the domain of scholars, who erected scaffolding and ladders in order to study the raised lettering on the eight sections. The west side (or back) was found to be covered with pre-lichen runes, while the east side (or front) contained a more recent script. Translation revealed a collection of myths relating to the desert gods, interwoven with stories of a land of bright sun and green grass. There were also basic rules about living and relationships, and stories about ancient heroes and commoners who had adventures in the bright-sun world.

Scholars began to find within the sub-units of the eight major sections certain discrepancies and nuances that made them different from other sections. Schools of thought began to form around the major sections and their sub-units. Certain scholars became experts within these schools, and gathered disciples or apprentices who worked with them at the site or helped them in translation and the defense of whatever world-view the master scholar espoused. Arguments would often arise at the site of the Doors, sometimes to the point of violence, and at times among the greater population which was divided over which master to follow. This difficulty subsided when the masters and apprentices of the schools stayed on their own scaffolding and pretty much ignored all the others. The population followed suite. This uneasy peace persisted until the morning of the fateful Grand Opening.

On that particular mid-summer morning, as the sun rose to throw orange rays across the huts and scaffolding of the resident scholars, there was a loud crack, and the Doors slowly began to open, stopping a few inches apart, and leaving a gap just big enough for a man to walk through. Early risers jumped from their perches about the Doors and fled to a safe distance to watch. Others emerged from their huts to see what all the excitement was about. Bright, silver sunlight flowed from the opening, and those who were brave enough to hazard a peek saw a rich green lawn sloping down to a tree-lined river, with hills in the distance, and beyond, the hint of mountains in the mist. Some scholars fled behind the Doors, and discovered that the gap from that side only revealed the desert of their homeland. The new world could only be seen from the east side.

The whole experience was disconcerting. Some tried to push the Doors closed, to no avail. Some of the younger apprentices, who still had a sense of adventure, wandered into the bright land and did not return. Most of the resident scholars simply tried to ignore the opening and continue their work. Of course, news of this development spread, and in a few weeks pilgrims were making journeys to the Doors to see this phenomenon. Soon a small town grew up around the site, offering food and lodging to visitors, and selling souvenir replicas of the partly opened Doors and postcards showing the silver light shining across the desert floor. Occasionally a pilgrim would approach the gap and disappear into the light within—usually after being begged by family members to reconsider. The most alarming incidents occurred when one of the older scholars would lay down his notebook and stylus, climb down the scaffolding, and walk directly into the gap with a strange smile on his face.

After a few months, some of those who had gone through the doors began to reappear. But their answers to curious questions were enigmatic, and they were always in a hurry to return. Their only reason for reappearing, apparently, was to call those around the Doors to come back with them into the gap.

One was a ruddy youth with deep blue eyes, red hair, and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He had been apprenticed to a master scholar who was an expert in the fourth sub-quadrant of the third sub-unit of the second section on the front side. He was approached by his master, and the following conversation took place:

“Where have you been, my boy, and what have you been doing in there?”

“I have been enjoying the light, master, and dancing with the runes.”

“You mean there is knowledge of the runes in there? You mean that you have been learning the runes and obeying them?”

“No sir. I said I have been dancing with them.”

“Too much unnatural sunlight has touched your mind, my son. You know you can’t dance with an idea or a commandment.”

“O, they’re not ideas, sir. They’re people--people who are the creaturely expressions of what the runes teach. Without them the runes are merely floating concepts. The Doors only portray word pictures of them. They come out of the woods at night and dance with us. They are teaching us, I think, to become runes ourselves.”

“The light has caused your imagination to run wild, my boy. But tell me, if you dance with runes, what do they tell you of their differences? Which rune is the true one?”

“They are all true, master. I told you they dance—a great intricate dance—and I told you they are people. How can one person be truer than another?”

‘No, son. You’ve missed the point of my question. Which one of the interpretations of the runes is the right one?”

The boy hesitated, working this question in his mind. Finally he replied, “I’m having trouble answering, master. The category ‘right’ does not apply in the sun-bright land. No one is right, no one is wrong. There is only the dance.”

The master could not compute this response, so he tried a different approach. “So…what do you do there, I mean, with your time?”

“I told you, master, we dance. Every night. The dance is so complicated that we novices move about in the outer ring until we learn the steps that will take us closer to the center. The runes are in the middle, and their differences form a unity. But we do other things. We sing. And we tell stories—wonderful stories, personal stories, stories of defeat and victory. No one thinks anyone else’s story is unimportant. The runes also tell us their stories. And we laugh a lot.”

“You keep talking about people,” said the master. “But surely there are ideas in that world. Surely you must have scholars—great thinkers who are capable of abstraction—who interpret the runes.”

“Yes, master. But only the very old enter the abstract world. In the sun-bright land abstract thought is a privilege to be earned. Occasionally a gray-beard will disappear into the woods alone, and come back days later, exchange knowing glances with others of his age, and walk away shaking his head and laughing to himself. Once I got up the nerve to ask an elder about this practice. ‘Oh my wee one,’ he chuckled, ‘One must be deep in love and joy, and know his place in the dance, before he can think the Thoughts. Abstraction is the reward of a life lived, not the basis of it. That is why it is a forbidden fruit to those too young to have learned courage.’”

At this, there was the short burst of a child’s laughter from inside the Doors. The youth looked around uncomfortably, and said, “I must really be going, master. The dance begins at twilight. But look, come with me. There are greater than I that can answer your questions.”

A look of joy, quicker than the bat of an insect wing, passed over the master’s face, but then he said, “Perhaps later, my boy. You know how important it is that I finish the research on my next dissertation. It is important that my disciples understand the intricacies of the Quest for the True Rune.”

“But the True Rune is a person!” Seeing his master already ascending his scaffold to his accustomed place, the boy walked slowly back to the gap and disappeared into the light. The conversation was over.

After that, things continued pretty much business as usual. People sporadically passed through the gap in the Doors in both directions. The scholars who worked on the front quadrants were often distracted by the light, and tried several means to cover it up. Boards hung from the scaffolding seldom worked. Finally, one of them hit upon a contraption made of wooden frames and a thick fabric curtain that could be rolled in front of the gap. It blocked the light, but allowed passage by folding the curtain aside. The only distraction after that was the unpredictable laughter from behind the curtain. Some scholars dealt with this by stuffing pieces of cloth in their ears while they worked. The ruddy youth did not reappear. The master finished his dissertation and began a new one entitled “The Quest for the Historical Rune.” It made quite a splash in scholarly circles until a rebuttal was written by a master on the west side of the doors who proved definitively that all runes were merely a projection of the Mortopian psyche.

Thoughts on Renewals--Again

I fear I am entering that phase of my life in which I merely repeat myself. This entry is another approach to a topic that I rehash and rethink every few months.

The only success I’ve had in ministry was in a charismatic fellowship. I am a charismatic. I would rather hang out with them than any other brand of Christians. I know the language and its nuances, and I remember the glory days of the 1960s and 70’s.

The miracles and excitement of those days appear to be resurfacing in our local church. But I have apparently been warped by other experiences and movements, because I have a certain reticence about it all. Some of that is native (I might as well say sinful)—the usual reluctance to answer the altar call when people are falling out under the power of the Spirit—I go forward just because I need to conquer my self-consciousness. I also have to confess a bit of envy. No one falls down when I pray for them—a mark of anointed leadership within the movement.

So there they are. Selfishness and envy. Having admitted those, let me confess an even deeper habit of standing outside the movement (both historic and current) and looking at it in a broader context—a habit that I have not yet decided is a gift, or mere judgmentalism, a worse sin that the others. I don’t know yet. Anyway, here is a rehash of thoughts about renewals that float through my head, usually on my way home from church.

First: God likes to do New Things. The charismatic movement is fifty-three years old. I remember reading about Smith Wigglesworth’s vision of the ocean: every new wave broke against the retreat of the previous one. Wigglesworth’s point was that movements often resist a new wave, and even create a reaction that brings the new forth. This is a difficult thing to bring up, because no one professes to long for a new movement more than charismatics. But the fact is that a charismatic vision for a new movement consists in a repetition of the old familiar phenomena. This is a blind spot. I remember visiting Pentecostal churches during the high days of the charismatic movement. The manifestations in both groups were similar, but there was a nuanced difference. The charismatic meetings were fresh and exciting; the Pentecostal meetings felt stale and old—“free” forms had become a learned ritual, and there was a sense of “we have arrived and sooner or later you’ll do it our way.” We need to remember that the charismatic movement is as old as Pentecostalism was when the charismatic movement broke out. It would be easy to fall into the same mindset.

I am not yet convinced that the New Thing is upon us. It may be the Emergent Church. It’s too early to tell. Right now I perceive Emergence as more of a reaction than a positive movement. It is still trying to find its voice. But whatever occurs next, it will probably contain something that offends charismatics. That is why we need to keep our eyes open and be aware of that fact. What can be newer that healing, deliverance, and salvation? Perhaps new forms, but definitely something wonderful, something outside the box. I don’t want to miss it.

Second: Renewalists describe church history in terms of renewals. That means that charismatics view the dry times between renewals as, well, evil. They are our fault. If we would pray more or be more zealous, or return to our first love, renewal would reoccur. The assumption is that perpetual renewal is normative for the church, and the lack of the normative is a human failure. I take issue with that at a personal level. My life in Christ (from my side) is more like a mountain road with high views, and low valleys without much vision past the next step (the classic kataphatic/apophatic tension). Neither the high nor the low has taught me to walk with Jesus; but their combination has. High times give vision; low time increase endurance and strength. I believe the same is true of the church. To repudiate low or “dry” times as a wasteland between the really important high points wipes out opportunities for the church to stretch her faith. It may be that the Lord is closer to her at those times than she realizes.

Third: There is a relationship between the church and culture. The first Great Awakening transformed the areas in which it occurred. Taverns emptied. The morality of those areas coincided more readily to a biblical standard. There was also a connection between the abolition movement within the evangelical community and the preaching of later Awakenings. In light of that, I have wondered from time to time how much influence the charismatic movement has had on American culture. To be fair, the Great Awakenings were revivals in which numbers of people converted to Christ, while the charismatic movement would be more accurately called a renewal within the church. Nevertheless there has been little lasting effect by the movement on government, economics, social issues (other than abortion), or the arts.

While there have been positive changes in American culture during the last fifty years, especially in relation to civil and women’s rights, my observation as a Christian is that traditional morality has declined significantly and secular humanist ethics have increasingly dominated since the 1950’s (everybody say “duh!”). It is interesting that this decline has coincided with the life span of the charismatic movement. Nothing in the movement slowed the death of biblical morality. I have a suspicion, which may get me in hot water, that there is a latent Gnosticism among charismatics that separates between Christ as Lord of my inner experience and Christ as Lord of nations and cultures. Many thinking charismatics have struggled with this conflict, and may be helped along their way to cultural change by other Christians, particularly in the Reformed camp. I hope that in the next Move of God the life of the Spirit spills out into the surrounding culture, producing not a renewal, but a Reformation.

In Defense of my Job

When I was sixty years old, I found myself out of work and looking for a job. The folks at the local probation office had mercy on me, hired me, and eventually moved me into the role of intake officer (seeing probationers for their first visit after court) and Community Service Coordinator (working with local non-profits and hooking up probationers who have been ordered community service with the proper work site). Our office deals with misdemeanor offenders who are sentenced in General Sessions (County) Court. Common offenses are DUI, Possession of Drugs, Shoplifting, and Domestic Assault. I like what I do, and I like the people I work with. They are committed professionals who care about each other and about the people that make up their case loads. However, we are not always perceived that way. More often the profession is regarded with suspicion and even contempt. Here is my response as an “outsider” who wandered into the probation office from another vocation.

A probation office is sort of like a garbage truck. Everyone wants us to do our job, but they don’t want us parked next door. We are perceived as tainted. That may be true of all law enforcement agencies—guilt by association. The equivalent would be fear of a doctor because the diseases he treats may rub off on other patients. I tried several times to get our local newspaper to do a human interest story on some of our successes, or on the service provided to the community through the work of probationers at the local food bank and rescue ministry. Whenever I called, the reporter ignored my request and began immediately digging for dirt. Apparently, only an article that fed the negative perception of our office was newsworthy. I gave it up.

The negative perception of the probation office can be summed up in three statements, to which I want to respond.

1) “I don’t have time for this crap.” Translation: “Probation is a way for local government to harass and oppress me.” The assumption behind this statement is that probation is a right, not a privilege. It has been a common practice in most counties for so long, that it is perceived this way. But in reality, probation is an alternative to 30 days to twelve month’s jail time. It allows the convicted offender to stay with his family, maintain employment, and provide some form of pay-back service to the community which he has in some form endangered. Those who complain about having their lives interrupted seldom consider the alternative. Neither, apparently, does a segment of the community.

2) “It’s all about money.” Well, in some ways, it is. Our office uses electricity, buys equipment, rents a building, and pays employees. (Case workers of any kind, by the way, are on the low end of the American pay scale. No one goes into such a profession for the money. Most of them are idealists.) All probation offices in Tennessee, whether private or part of a county system, charge probationers a fee that is set by the state Board of Probation. Some folks see this as unjust. I have had clients tell me that “the government should pay for this.” My response is, “Friend, I am the government.” In other words, if a probation office does not collect fees, it will come out of the pockets of local taxpayers. How about a referendum in Sevier County to see how local citizens would feel about that? Let me add here that there is a process for truly indigent probationers to have this fee waived by the court.

3) “My probation officer is mean.” Law enforcement philosophy in our culture has two poles: retribution and therapy. Is justice a matter of punishment, or an opportunity to change lives for the better? Most court systems and their probation offices walk the middle ground between the two. Either way, the job of the probation officer is to see that the probationer completes his court ordered obligations, which may include retribution (such as trash pick-up) or therapy (such as addiction treatment). Failure to complete obligations will result in a violation of probation, which means the probationer will be back in court and face even more severe obligations, often jail time. That means that, if the officer presses the probationer to complete his obligations, that pressure is in the probationer’s best interest.

It is also my observation that only @10% of our clients are deliberately malicious or dangerous. The remaining 90% are simply irresponsible. That means that the probation officer is a surrogate parent. The term “mean” should be more justly translated “stern.” It’s interesting that “mean” is often a child’s response to a parent who loves him enough to provide structure and discipline. Success in our office is defined by personal growth and the willingness of our clients to take responsibility. Those successes are too rare, but they provide the impetus to keep officers going. Caring probation offices provide another chance for people who missed loving parental or pastoral authority. I realize that that statement raises a host of questions about church-state-family issues, which can be discussed at a later time. My point here is that our office acts as a safety net, not only to protect the community, but to salvage lives. Thank God for some “mean” folks.

The Island

We have one of the most beautiful views in the world from our deck. We overlook a section of Douglas Lake, with English Mountain in the background. Just east of that are hills that roll up to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and we can see the range from Mt. Cammerer to Mt. LeConte. In the winter there is snow on the peaks. If I ever left here, I would miss the mountains.
But....

I love Hilton Head Island. So much, in fact, that Anne and I just bought slots in an outdoor columbarium at a church on the Island, so that our ashes can rest under live oaks, Spanish moss, and palmetto trees within the sound of the ocean.

We first started going there when Anne's folks retired and built a house in Sea Pines in the mid 70's. Our kids grew up going to the Island two or three times a year--swimming, riding bikes, hanging out in Harbor Town and listening to Greg Russell sing John Denver songs (and the all popular "Booger Snot") under the big oak tree across from the lighthouse. Greg is still performing for the second and third generations. Naturalist Todd Ballentine taught us about marsh life and its biological chain, and about the dolphins who buried their dead in the caves of Port Royal Sound.

On our first trip we crossed a two lane draw bridge across the Inland Waterway, got lost on the way to Sea Pines, had to loop all the way around Skull Creek to get to the Island's other end, and realized that we "weren't in Kansas" any more. It was absolutely beautiful.

Today the bridge is a sweeping four lane affair that hop-scotches over Pinckney Island Wildlife Refuge and joins a cross-island toll way that by-passes the business district along highway 278. Traffic can be a nightmare during major tourist seasons. There are more restaurants and night-spots, and the bike trails are more crowded. But the Island has not lost its ambience. This is due mainly to the foresight of the local leadership who planned ahead with strict zoning and building codes, not to mention that there are a number of gated communities that enforce their own rules and do their own landscaping. Anne's Dad died several years ago, and her Mom moved into a retirement community mid-island, so we no longer have free access to Sea Pines--we either scrounge or pay for a pass. But we still love the place.

So why not retire there? Aside from the obvious fact that we probably can't afford it, there are a couple of other reasons:

1) Hilton Head Island means vacation. I have a custom of rolling down the car window and smelling the sea and the marsh when we cross the bridge. My breathing eases. My mind relaxes. I am Home for a season. I know that Anne and I are going to walk on the beach and evaluate our lives and make plans. But Anne and I have a fear that if we lived there, we would lose all that. The place would no longer be special. And that is something we don't want to lose. Better for it to be a unique get-away and stay its special self.

2) Hilton Head is memories. We planned our lives and dealt with crises at home sitting on the beach or bobbing in the surf. We watched two children grow up. The sizes of the bikes we strapped to the roof of the van changed. The distance they rode them grew. There was the time they wanted to take friends and go places without Mom and Dad. I see them through all the subtle changes of their lives whenever I am there. I also see the persons that Anne and I were then, sitting on that beach thirty, twenty, ten years ago. The changes on the Island are hardly noticeable when compared to the memories that don‘t change. Somehow living there would be an attempt to hold to a past that can only be visited.

Of course, if we suddenly struck it rich, I might renege on my reasons for staying where we are. But for now, we'll settle for long weekends and a summer vacation.

Letters to Cynthia

I'm in a dry period, between fighting allergies and preparing for vacation. Here are some quotes from Rosenstock's "Letters to Cynthia" to chew on. Cynthia was a student at Ratcliffe in the 1940's with whom Rosenstock corresponded. Later she became his secretary.

March 11, 1943:

"Gerda is back in our house since Phillip has scarlet fever. This 3 year old girl is asking me the two types of questions: Why do you do that? What is that?

"In watching her I became convinced that both questions are not asked without real pressure by her. She fears to be left out when she does not know. She feels life as a process and she desires to be a partner, a 'dancer' in the cosmic dance. Her question is not neutral, not curious, but fearful. How can I participate? The why and what express her effort to acquire new keys for participation. If she can be informed 'why?' she can join in the process unerringly. The question, then, makes her out not as an onlooker, but as a person thrown out by changes in the cosmic order and trying to re-enter it; the order in so far conceived by her three years, is upset by something new. And the new must be assimilated. Or it contains the danger of excluding her, Gerda, from further participation.

"All young people are eager for novelty because by learning new things they secure their participation in a world which for the adult is quite old and from time immemorial. Newness is so often just the newcomer's own newness. And his eagerness is very vital to him since his qualities as member of the cosmic ballet depend on his questioning in time and getting the right answer.

"This... question is based on a new person's volunteering to enter society. Questions are not meaningful if they attack the existence of any truth, any order, any power to join....
You may deny God by no longer asking for truth, you may deny man by no longer trusting him, you may deny the earth by committing suicide. But you cannot do so by ASKING those same questions as you quote Spengler, by denying God, Truth, progress. The simple fact that you speak, although in mere question, interrogatively, has ushered you into a universe in which truth and trust and toil are accepted by you. Truth from God, trust in man, toil on earth, are the pre-requisites for asking any question...."

April 28, 1943:

"Peace: a daily creation and a daily practice of our overcoming death.
Life: usually treated today as deathless. This amounts to the abolition of the law of cause and effect, for society.
War: the struggle between more integrated life and less integrated life goes on incessantly. Nature is in a state of war.
Wars happen when men relapse into a state of nature by not creating peace daily. These are my 'peace terms.' Obviously, no one can hope, under these terms to eliminate the relapse into a state of war as long as man is man.

"The specific form of war between nation states can of course be superceded in our time. It seems to become antiquated. But the "war" against which you rebel, is a more universal phenomenon. Its eternity means that any order for which nobody is willing to give his life is doomed. If wars between states are abolished, civil wars within this One Superstate will take their place. Man will not respect any order which is not made sacred by the only test we have. When people give their lives for something, they ascribe to this something a superselfish rank. This something may be an idol. The fact that Nazis die for their cause, does not prove their righteousness. Nevertheless, where nobody volunteers for giving battle, we do not even have so much as a cause! History is the story of real causes. This much I had to put down, lest you conclude that you have not been dealt with honestly from the beginning."

Dreams

This blog is personal to the point of being maudlin. I may be writing for myself alone, or hoping for a Joseph who can interpret dreams.

Last night I had the third in a series of repetitive dreams with the same motif. These dreams have occurred roughly a year apart. In them I am with Anne and a small group of other unknown but friendly folks. We are looking at property. In the first dream it was a motel, in the second an old house, and last night a school building--one story with separate access to each classroom from outside. Our concern in the dream is that persons unknown, but that we care about, have their own space in a larger communal setting. "Would so-and-so like this?" "Would so-and-so fit here?"

In all three dreams the property needs to be cleaned up, but not renovated. It is structurally sound, but the flower beds need weeding, and a screw needs tightening, or a door needs painting. All the basic essentials are there--it only needs cosmetic work. We are excited.

The atmosphere of the dreams is not gloomy or fearful, rather the opposite. I am usually in a deep sleep when these occur, and everything is sunny and in technicolor. There is always a landscape: trees, sweeping green lawns, and flowers. We are hopeful, and talkative, and pointing at this or that. The place evidently perfectly meets some important need.

Waking up from these dreams is different. I weep as I come into consciousness. There is a deep sense of loss. I can't go back to sleep, and the atmosphere of the dream stays with me for days. Prophetic? Something from the sub-conscious? Something from the past? The fact that they are repetitive and very intense is significant.

Interpreting dreams is difficult because it is easy to introduce extraneous ideas, but I do think of two possibilities. One is my life-long fascination with the Ephesians 4 model of the church. There is some connection here to the need for individuals to have their special space in a larger community. I've run from this model for years (because it is almost impossible to bring to birth and sustain), but it is apparently going to assault me in the middle of the night.

The other is more obvious. Yesterday I went to a seminar put on by Moral Kombat, a program used by juvenile officers to teach values, tolerance, and proper self-image to teen-agers. The statistics were troublesome. 10% of teen-agers are gay or bi-sexual. 30% of teen suicides are because of struggles with sexual identity. Most have no concept of proper ethics in relationships or in the work place. Commitment to long term relationships is difficult for them. Please understand I am not playing "ain't it awful." But my heart goes out to these that are simply lost (even though I can no longer speak Adolescent), and need a safe room in the company of safe people who can hold them until their roots are firmly planted.

These dreams may be all about church.