Wanting to Believe

On Christmas Eve I went to see the movie version of the wonderful children's book The Polar Express. The movie, as a sidenote, is magical and entertaining. The tale is about a young boy and other young children who have lost faith in Santa Clause and subsequently the joy that Christmas brings. It occured to me that like the belief in Santa Clause, people's belief in God has dwindled with age and experience, and that the world is truly looking for an honest answer to the void that belief has left.
At one point in the movie, the young boy is talking with a hobo as the train speeds over the track, snow driving across the their faces. The hobo asks the boy what his persuasion is when it comes to the big guy, Santa. And with an emptiness that strains his voice, the boy replies, "I want to believe." Maybe in the midst of a Christmas movie, no one else was struck by that remark, but I was.
Want comes in many different forms. There is the form that causes our hearts to blacken with greed. Other times, want comes to those who truly lack, in which case want is more alike to need. And then there is the want which causes one's heart to pain because that want springs from something we once had but are now missing. And that is what I think the boy meant. He wants to believe because somewhere in the depth of his being he knows what it feels like to believe; he knows what that belief can make him do--the caring for others, the unselfishness that ultimately is born out of believing.
When that young boy spoke those words, I understood him on a much different level and yet, perhaps in the same way. On my best days, I believe in God. I believe that in his love for this world, he chooses to stay the hell out of what we choose to do. When I am at my best as a human, I believe that he is using me of all people to somehow show himself to the world around me. And as a dear Professor has so eloquently put it, God is subtle and elusive. But that is on my best day.
The other days, when the news headlines scream atrocities, when I can't find it in myself to give a damn about the students in front of me, when the story of the Bible seems to absurd in the middle of my reality, believing is the hardest thing to do in the world. Because my reality is that the whole thing is preposterous. A God that cares. This Jesus who was selfless and human. Jacob the Deceiver becoming the Chosen One. King David the Cheat and Half-Naked Lunatic Dancer the descendant of a Saviour. It is just silliness most of the time.
But when I have that feeling when believing is just too difficult, and I find myself saying, "I want to believe," it is great to know that I am not the only one in the world who has that sentiment. And whether it is a Sleigh Bell, like the one in The Polar Express, that reminds me of the other reality, or it is an unexpected smile from a stranger, seeing is believing and sometimes its not.

Traditions

"Tradition, Tradition, Tradition!" belts the song from Fiddler on the Roof, and at no other time in the year than Christmas does Tradition take such a central role in our lives. I've always thought that traditions haunt our lives like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Traditions don't allow us the freedom to move about our lives in the many directions they must go. Traditions get in the way of impromptu events and spontaneous new traditions.
Last night my wife visited with her parents at their house. In the tradition of the Boyd family, they sat around and watched A White Christmas--a wonderful old classic that takes place in my native New England. But I've seen it a couple of times now and had no desire to join in the tradition. I told my wife that I just don't get it, the whole tradition thing. And if you are one who holds to tradition, I don't want to downplay what is meaningful to you, but until this morning, I didn't understand.
As I live three thousand miles away from my immediate family, Christmas time is difficult to deal with. I miss the great possibility of snow on Christmas Eve, the chillingly clear nights that make the moon glisten. In preparation for my annual Christmas call, I called my mother to find out when they would be at my Grammy Mac's on Christmas Eve and when they would arrive at Aunt Barbara's for Christmas dinner. But this Christmas, I will be calling my older brother's house on Christmas day--and Grammy Mac's on Christmas Eve if I want to talk with everyone else.
For the first time that I can remember, my parents and siblings will be breaking our tradition--even though I had never thought of it as that. I was a bit stunned. Even though I rarely get the chance to be home for Christmas, I know where I would be if I was. Grammy Mac's provided me with so many great Christmas Eve moments--intoxicated Santa's, Kevy's meatballs, and the 24 hour marathon of A Christmas Story starring my older brother when he was a kid. (I'm sorry Keith, but you did look like him) If I had to be so far away on Christmas Eve as an adult, at least my parents and siblings would be there for me. If they were there, than in a way, so was I.
So there it is. I do have traditions. But like rules, traditions were meant to be broken. So enjoy your traditions and maybe start a new one.

Oxymoron

When we put words together that are conflicting in defintion and meaning, we have created an image that conveys the blending of worlds. Bittersweet memories, for example, bring together the aspect of a memory that is wonderful to remember, but something inside of the wonderful memory balances the scale a bit. The reality of life is that we cannot break down our world into a divided state where opposite ideas don't intermix. When Paul writes that all things work together for the good, there is inherent in that statement, an oxymoron. All things must include the sorrow of death, the anxiety of unpaid bills, and any other sordid detail of our lives.

I woke up at my usual 6:00 a.m. this morning, doubting whether or not I really wanted to go face five classes of rambunctious students who are as ready as I am for the two weeks off. Inside of my head played a hymn I have not heard in ages. The funny thing is that I had tired of church hymns from the songbook by about 12 years of age. Now, I miss them in relation to the sappy love songs with insignificant verses and repetitious choruses. As a reader, now I understand the depth of meaning behind those stories put to lyrics.
And as I stepped into the shower, I began singing, and I use that term loosely, At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light--and the burdens of my heart rolled away. I'd never realized the oxymoron in that one line. Of all the moments in the history of the church, and despite understanding the symbol that the cross has come to represent, the cross is the darkest moment in the life of Jesus, his mother, and his disciples. Sometimes I think we forget the pain and suffering that took place on yet another oxymoron, Good Friday. If you asked Peter and John about that day, I believe we get a vastly different word than good.
The song says that at the cross we see the light. And that is quite a spin. Symbolically, yes, we find the light, the way back to God, after the grossness of the cross. It has over time become a relic of sorts to all who seek a symbol of hope. And I don't downplay the importance that the cross plays in that process. Without the cross, if Jesus had just done what he really wanted to do--have God take that burden from him,--we would not be able to sing at the cross with tears of thankfulness.
In the midst of the darkest and most humiliating moment in the life of Jesus, a light of significance somehow penetrated the darkness. And only after the crucifixion and resurrection, can we look back and and sing:
Alas! and did my Savior bleedAnd did my Sovereign die?Would He devote that sacred head For such a worm as I?
Refrain
At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the light,And the burden of my heart rolled away,It was there by faith I received my sight,And now I am happy all the day!
Thy body slain, sweet Jesus, Thine—And bathed in its own blood—While the firm mark of wrath divine,His Soul in anguish stood.
Was it for crimes that I had done He groaned upon the tree? Amazing pity! grace unknown!And love beyond degree!
Well might the sun in darkness hide And shut his glories in, When Christ, the mighty Maker died, For man the creature’s sin.
Thus might I hide my blushing face While His dear cross appears, Dissolve my heart in thankfulness, And melt my eyes to tears.
But drops of grief can ne’er repay The debt of love I owe: Here, Lord, I give my self away ’Tis all that I can do.

Advent

Each year we celebrate the coming of the Christ into our muddled world. It is a worthy celebration indeed. Some would simply call this time the Christmas Season, though many would prefer to not offend anyone and call it the Holiday Season. I prefer the term given by the Catholic Church and is used by many others of various denominations--Advent. Just the word, which implies the coming of something, has a sweet and melodic air about it. And this time of year, despite the long lines, cold, and shorter days, we need the hope of something coming.

Churches hold special services to bring people into the warmth of the building, to honor the Christ through singing and dramatic representations. Our pastors work diligently on preparing a most poetic and imaginative sermon to bring our hearts to an appreciation of this time of year. And the truth is, the advent of Christ is worth celebrating and announcing each year, just as the star and angels announced his coming that first of so many Christmas mornings. It is worth celebrating because each year in countless ways and to unknown people, Christ is born again in their lives. Christmas morning happens to someone every day of the year and it is fitting that we honor that most holy of experiences at the very least, once a year.
The greatest and most profound of those new births into our world, however, do not happen inside the church building, and often times without much help from the church itself. That is the absurd joke of it all, that despite ourselves, Christ can be born afresh without our help.
Here at Cascade High School, for forty some odd years, students have been bringing Christ into the heart of their community, and most don't recognize it as more than a good deed, a charity that is worthwhile and makes them feel good. Students spend workweek hours outside of grocery stores asking for donations. Students spend the equivalent of a second and third school day after school shopping our cafeteria in order to create baskest that will provide weeks worth of food to the poor. And every time a student does that, whether they count themselves as a believer, or are simply earning hours for the National Honor Society, Christ is born again into our world.
What gives us pause during this season is not the gift count, nor is it the sweets. What we, the world included, hold our breath in awe of, is the advent of compassion that fills the air with more beauty than the falling snowflakes and frozen ponds of our world. There is nothing more beautiful or more befitting the advent season than the giving of the truest and best of humanity to a world in need.

Mi familia

As Christmas approaches with the slow roar of frantic shoppers and stressed relationships, I feel the need to share my thoughts about family. I've never been much of a believer in evolution on a macro scale; there has to be something or someone who set this all in motion. But when it comes to family, evolution is the word to use for its survival. People can talk about family values and the nuclear family, but what they miss, I think, is that to be a part of a family is to simply survive at times. And as we grow older, marry into other families, and begin our own new families, we must adapt in order to fit into that one family that matters--the Human Family.

It is a difficult thing, this ability to evolve as a family. I can use no better example than my own experience. My experience is only important to you because somewhere in my story is your story; we share a common humanity that binds us together and allows us to grow with each other. I come from a nuclear family, and yes that is intentional. I have a mother and a father that were around to raise me. I have an older brother Keith, who is a pastor, a younger sister Brie, who is a paralegal, and a younger brother David, who is trying to figure life out at the mature age of 18. We even had a dog. As a family we went to church three times a week, just to be safe; we ate dinners together almost regularly; we went on vacations. All things that the nuclear family does.
But for the longest time my sister and I hated each other in the most nuclear ways. By the age of 17, I wanted to be on my own and so I skipped across country the fall after graduation. By that point, my older brother was meeting his lovely wife and marrying--I didn't quite connect with her as a sister-in-law which disconnected me from my brother. My younger brother, the baby of the family, was far too bright for someone his age and without his siblings around, found other ways to entertain himself, much to my parents chagrin. And for a while it seemed the McNamar clan had been destroyed. We had all gone separate and distinct routes as children, leaving my parents, hands in the air--perhaps in prayer, perhaps in confusion--trying to figure out what went wrong.
So here it is Christmas, nearly 10 years since I skipped town, my older brother is a pastor with two children and living an hour from my parent, my sister, a paralegal living on her own fifteen minutes from my parents, my younger brother living at home and still not sure what life is about, and me, married and living 3000 miles away. The nuclear family had to evolve.

By the grace of God alone we have evolved. I can say confidently that we have lived our own nuclear wasteland and evolved because of it. We've adapted to become stronger, to survive with the fittest. We've stewarded our pain well and the result is survival.
As a teacher, I see first hand the agony that Christmas creates in individuals who are now living their own version of the nuclear family. People are in pain all around us for so many reasons. Divorce. Death. War. A wandering child. But in the end, it is not how many Christmas Days you've spent together, or the traditions you've held to dearly. For most it is have you survived and have you evolved to keep that family, whatever it might look like.

Dreams

The Creed song proclaims that when dreaming we are guided to another world. And the truth of this is that whether we mean dreams that come to us like mist in the darkness of our sleep or the dreams we imagine into existence and call goals, dreams are other worldly.
There are few sleeping dreams that I can recall, they come and go so quickly that typically I am left only with the feeling that they impart. Some dreams seem so real, as if they burst from deep with my heart. Other dreams have caused trepidation and fear. And still others have been so odd that I am curious to know which part of me those dreams came from.

There is nothing in life quite like dreaming because we are not in control of the scenes that play out. While we may be capable of dictating the dramatic events of our day to day life, the interactions with our peers, the confrontations with our loved ones, dreams are of another world telling us something. There are countless books to help you understand your dreams. Some I suppose are genuine and real, others a sham to make a profit. But regardless of whether we believe the opinions of others, it still remains that dreams are meaningful.

But even more meaningful than the wispy dreams of our sleep are the dreams that make up the foolishness of life. Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed his dream that one day his four children would be able to live in a world where character counted for more than skin color. He dreamed of world where all men, all religions, all ages would be able to stand together under the protection of freedom. And in 1960's America what a foolish dream it was. We are such stuff as dreams are made on... claims Prospero, and if that be the case than dreams are truly foolish in the most holy way possible. Foolish as his dream was, King belted it out from the valleys of Tennessee to the hilltops of Georgia and people responded.
In a world that is desperate for dreams, the pastors and priests and pew members must once again find in themselves a dream to share. We need a dream to bring us hope in a tempestuous world, but most of all we need a dream that is foolish enough to believe in and holy enough to care about. A dream so daring that it will stir in us the best of intentions and perhaps, maybe, the greatest of action. "Love your neighbor as yourself," dreamed Jesus. And I can't help but believe that he didn't command it so much as he dreamed it aloud. "Love your neigbhor," is a dream worth fighting off the dawn for.

Defending the Faith

In recent years as George W. Bush has made his faith clear, Christianity has fallen under attack. What bothers me most about the generalizations made about my faith is that too many of the arguments made make sense to me. Having grown up in and out of New England Evangelicism, I agree with many detractors in the notion that Christians are narrow-minded, spiteful, and arrogant. We have the answer to life. Jesus is the Answer. God is my co-pilot. God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. And when these charges are leveled, the Christian Apoligists jump to their pulpits and preach about the laws of Christ.
What, of course, they fail to mention is that they do not speak for all of Christendom. But there they stand, telling Christians that we must vote for this person or that person. That a true Christian will rise against the immorality of homosexual marriage and fight to protect the sanctity of marriage. I believe that if two people love each other and want to be married and that affects your marriage, you have issues of your own. So I find myself, as a person who has some measure of faith that falls into the category of Christianity, having to regularly defend my faith to not only myself but to others.
I won't dare speak for all of Christianity, or for God, but I think that we as individuals need to be able to better defend our faith instead of relying on pastors, evangelists, and presidents of Christian organizations. I have a hard time buying that what many pastors preach as absolute truth is really just that. Jesus is truth, we are told, and even that statement alone is rather vague, much like like the stories he told were vague. But if Jesus is truth, then how can we be absolutely positive that what we preach, outside of Christ crucified, is truth?
I don't mean to imply that there aren't any truths in life, though many of the truths we proclaim are nothing more than human interpretation, only that we ought to be far more careful in how we defend our faith. But more precisely, I think we ought to focus on our faith instead of defending Christianity. If we would step outside of our bubbles, we might find that much of modern Christianity is not worth defending.
If the apologists and pastors would focus on teaching their students and leading their sheep, and looking inward at themselves, maybe we can get to the task of defending our individual faith. The faith that we posses within ourselves and has not been given to us on a platter from well-intentioned pastors. Because the faith that will change the world will be the honest faith, the truth of who we are inside of that faith, and the honesty of our actions as a result of our faith. We need to turn inward as individuals before we can lead the world.

Patience

People say patience is a virtue and that one should control one's temper. The book of Proverbs is continually reminding us the value of a controlled temper. This has always irritated me because I'm not very good at it yet. I made calmness a personal goal one year. I had finished reading The Art of Happiness by his Holiness the Dalai Lama and recognized many similarities between what Jesus taught and what the Buddha taught. But as with anything new and fresh, I took the teachings to heart. But as with any New Year's resolution--it faded.
As a sidenote, I am fascinated by the many similarties between the Buddha and the Christ. But even more fascinated by the reality that it always refreshing to hear old sayings in a new way. And the language of Christianity is an old language indeed.
I don't know if I am predisposed as a character in this world to be the quick-tempered one and that is holding me back, or if it just that I don't want to give that part up. I think it a bit of both. And despite the warnings against quick-tempered individuals, I've done reasonably well for myself, though mostly when I've protected my rising temperature.
As an assistant coach, I've been again reminded of the virtue of patience. A missed call, a bad call, a quick whistle. As I sat on the bench of our game last night, watching what I considered to be poor officiating, I wanted to let loose. I wanted to stand and pace and glare--maybe even drop in a few well placed expletives. But I couldn't. I had to sit and encourage our players to play on and focus on the game while I stewed.
I know--it's just a game. Five girls from one school playing against five girls from another school. But in that moment I was so consumed with that game, those competitors, that I felt a part of it. I felt the need to defend it at all costs. I know--I'm just an assistant. One man on the end of the bench offering what little expertise I have to players wanting to learn, even if only a little. But what they were doing felt a part of me. I had put my time, my effort, my heart into teaching them and only the head coach got to question the ref. My blood pressure is rising now and I've cocked my head to the side with a grimmace on my face and it happened last night.

God says he will never tempt us beyond what we can bear, but sometimes.... It is comical how He chooses to teach us and often more comical yet, how we learn the lesson. Inner peace, patience, calmness were all taught by Jesus and Buddha alike, but neither of them had to deal with referees.

Laughter

I've always enjoyed the Reader's Digest section Laughter is the Best Medicine. But what I have always wondered is why not everyone agrees with what is funny to the point of laughter. There are often times when a student in my class will say or do something obnoxious and some students will laugh, others chuckle, and I will stand there disappointed. And there are occasions when a student says something that is funny and I will laugh, knowing that I probably shouldn't laugh but I found it funny.
Where does laughter originate? And for that matter, where do tears begin as well. I suspect that the two are closely related. I read a Sports Illustrated article about my beloved Red Sox and the impact the 2004 team had on families across New England and I cried. My wife didn't understand. I'm not much of a cryer but for each time the author mentioned a connection of family because of the Red Sox, I choked up and then laughed at the same time. So, I figure if I can cry as well as laugh, both at the same thing, then perhaps they come from the same place.

The shortest verse in the Bible is "Jesus wept." I can't recall the a line that is anything close to Jesus laughed, but I have to believe he did. What with the posturing of various disciples to sit at the right hand of Jesus. Abraham laughed. The Bible itself is comical. An all powerful and all knowing God, placing a dancing, half-naked David as King of Israel. Or Peter, never quite able to figure things out, wishy-washy, being dubbed "the Rock." The rock of what? Surely Jesus didn't mean the church. Uh, yes he did mean the church--and that alone makes me laugh and cry at the same time.
Yes, I suspect that our tears and our laughter arises from somewhere within us, in a place we have long protected from the outside world so that we might not be the subject of someone's laughter. Tears and laughter alike tell us, or hint to us at the least, something about who we are and what makes us human. We, I suppose, can shelter that part of our self and hide it from those that share our experience, or we can, like Jesus, weep, or like Abraham, laugh. Both are telling. Both should be listened to.

Reading

As an English teacher, reading is an essential aspect of my day. The irony of it all, though, is that as a child I hated to read. I can easily empathize with many of my students who voice their disgust for what seems like tedious minutes or hours with nothing but letters and words forcing themselves upon the reader. Reading in school never much interested me. Now, I could spend all day reading from various books or articles.
My older brother was an avid reader during my formative years. Reading came naturally to him and I always thought that was his gift, not attainable for me. While he was reading C.S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia in grade school, I was content with Clifford Goes to Hollywood until middle school. The truth is, Clifford is still an enjoyable read.
Of Mice and Men was the first novel I read completely. I didn't get it. So, for the better part of high school I fake read as Tovani puts it in I Read it, but I don't Get it. I became adept at listening to discussions or asking the right question. The reality is, I wrote my way through Enlgish classes.
The second novel I really read was The Great Gatsby. I recall that most of my peers hated Gatsby and the style Fitzerald used. I became enthralled by the story to the point of reading the entire book. I had found my turning point, my connection to the world of literature. The reality of characters became my reality if only briefly. The hurts and joys became mine. I went to the Congo with Conrad. I travelled the roads of South Africa with Paton. Reading, letters and words put together, connected my thoughts to my heart and ultimately to the world around.

When a student moans, "This sucks, McNamar," I can both empathize with them and drop with sadness at their lack of vision. I know that Shakespeare is difficult and that the classics can be as dry as the paper they are written on. I know that words can be difficult and meaning missed. But in all of that, I believe ever so desperately in the power of words to heal us; to stir our hearts; to create compassion--to make us human. How wonderful would it be to give to my students just a taste, a spoonful of reading medicine, to birth new life into the act and art of reading.

Fathers

My own father has his shortcomings. Many of which I can be sure I inherited. Anytime I visited my father at work, the little old ladies chimed, "Oh, Butchie, that is your son! He looks just like you." My guess is that what we actually inherit from our parents goes beyond the physcal attributes. And yet, with those shortcomings, my father, along with my dear mother, was able to pull off four of the greatest feats known to man. He raised three sons and a daughter. Yes, we are those four great feats. Not because we are great in the way that Martin Luther King Jr. was great, but because looking back, we were a handful.
I have not ever been all that inclined to have children, or at least I've never felt the urgency to be a father. It scares me. I mean that. I really am scared of what I might do to a child-- countless dollars and hours of therapy. Maybe I'm selling myself short, I don't know. But in the three years of my marriage, I have often pushed away any thoughts of having a child. Fatherhood seems like a terribly frightening endeavor that of all the possible failures in life, it would be the grandest.
So much had I put away the thought of children that even in the presence of the cooing nephew or excited baby daughter of a friend, I reamined indifferent. Yes, I did enjoy my time with them, but it never left a lingering feeling of paternal urges. No matter how cute or energetic a baby was, I just didn't have that need...until a week ago.
This basketball season I joined the coaching staff of the Cascade Bruins. I've always loved basketball, both as wannabe player and an avid fan. Connecticut is, afterall, Huskyland. Our team played its first game of the seaon in front of our home crowd. I had never experienced basketball from this perspective before and I could sense the slightest hint of anxiety eventhough my responisbilities are minimal. Midway through the second quarter, one of our players, and one who is on my list of responsibility pulls up hobbling.
The player, to the point of tears, was clearly in pain. I stood there watching, along with the rest of the coaching staff, helpless. I can't speak for the other coaches, but I was quite concerned. I wanted to make sure that all would be well. I wanted the pain to cease. She had worked hard in practice and it seemed unfair to be injured so soon.
Talking with my wife after the game, I expressed the emotion I had experienced. That helplessness. That concern. With a glimmer in her eye, an uncontrollable grin, my wife cupped my face in her hands and whispered, "You're ready!" STOP. What? She doesn't mean ready for a kid does she? I sure hope not because I'm not ready--am I?
I've mulled it over--and over. I've chewed it. I've pondered it. I've done whatever I can think of with it. And now I think I for the first time understand what made my father and perhaps your father great. Concern for someone other than oneself. I might not be ready to have a kid, but if selflessness is the start, the race has at least begun.

The Rarer Action

Prospero, the magician of The Tempest fame, muses, "The rarer action is in virture than in vengence." Sounds much like what Buddha or Jesus might say to their throngs of followers. And yet, the most difficult of decisions often rest in the realm of payback or turning the other cheek.
Is it that difficult to do--to choose virtue over justice? Or maybe it isn't justice we look for, but mere retaliation for being outed for what we really are. If I'm attacked, than I must retaliate. I think that it is an important question to ask in these times. Our country was attacked. We sought vengence. A high school girl steps of the bus and is insulted and pushed. She sought vengence. My competence as a teacher was questioned by a parent. I wanted vengenence.
There is a part in me that wishes I had made the points I wanted to make. To allow my ego to defend himself against the attacker. It would have been justified--I had the backing of many colleagues whom I respect greatly.
But to the delight of both my ego and my conscience, I chose neither the rarer action nor the desired end. Instead, I was polite and courteous to the questioning parent while in conversation and then berated them while in converstation with my colleagues. To some degree I feel good about what I did and yet, I find myself wondering what it would be like to have not given in to fury in any way. I am no Buddha. Nor am I Jesus. But the question that will always linger: is that what it really takes to choose the rarer action?
The consequences of either choice are astonishing when we consider them. With vengence, the consequence is a feeling of satisfaction. I won't try to persuade anyone that vengence does not have some feeling of satisfaction lingering just behind. But in that satisfaction, I believe a void exists when we choose vengence over forgiveness.
I can't say I know how astonishing the consequences of forgiveness really are. At least not from my own experience. But I can say that in the life of Jesus, all the astonishment is on full display. In the teaching of the Buddha, there is no more clear a message than forgiveness. And it is to that end I strive.