The Fork in the Road

I was privileged to sub for the regular organist at Trinity Lutheran Church in Jeromesville on Palm Sunday. I’ve played piano for years, but my organ gigs have been few and far between. The skill set was rusty at best, and didn’t return as smoothly as the proverbial riding of a horse.

As I practiced in the stillness of the sanctuary on Saturday, with light streaming through the glorious stained glass, my feet fumbled on the pedals, but the chords of the ancient hymns flowed sweetly through my hands. It had been nearly half a century since I dreamed of slipping off my shoes and sliding onto the organ bench in the choir loft at First Presbyterian Church as the new organist. Glenda was our organist then, a young woman I admired for her grace, kindness, and musical ability. I wanted to be like her when I grew up.

I was taking piano lessons, and after a bit of urging, my parents agreed to organ lessons instead. The ensuing story includes a piano-playing job offer for my instructor at Fantasy Island Amusement Park, leading to the question: “Would you like to take over my job playing the piano for a local church?” Unknown to me at the time, that question would lead to a fork in the road, one path toward the Presbyterian choir loft, and the other ultimately to the pulpit of The Salvation Army.

The fork in the road may come as a carefully researched decision to choose a specific profession or university, to take a new job or move to a new home. For some of my high school peers, the fork appeared in the form of a draft notice. At other times, the choice is spontaneous: a magical look across a crowded room, or the spur-of-the-moment decision to hop in the car and head to California. Regardless of the origin of the point of decision, we follow the advice of Yogi Berra: “When you come to the fork in the road, take it.”

Those of us who follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth are at the end of the period of Lent, the forty days on the church calendar leading up to Easter. Today, that period of self denial and attention to the things of faith is coming to an end. As Tony Campolo famously tells the story, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.”

As many Christians do during Lent, I’ve read the account leading up to the crucifixion and resurrection, “the passion of Christ.” While many begin with the Palm Sunday narrative, I started earlier in the story, with a verse in Luke 9:51: “As the time approached for him to be taken up to heaven, Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem,” or, in a different translation, “he steadfastly set his face toward Jerusalem.” Here was the cosmic fork in the road, the time of deciding to take the path of obedience.

At times, we follow the example of Jesus, sure of our choice and determined to follow the path to its end. At other points in our lives, we are as Lewis Carroll described in Alice in Wonderland: “Alice came to a fork in the road. ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’ responded the Cheshire Cat. ‘I don't know,’ Alice answered. ‘Then,’ said the Cat, ‘it doesn't matter.’”

We chuckle at Alice, but sometimes we’re in a similar position. The fork comes, and we have no clue which way to turn. We make our lists of pros and cons, but the math doesn’t convince us on either side of the equation. That’s when I agree with the Cheshire Cat: perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Here’s why. In 1980, long-time pastor Eugene Peterson wrote “A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.” I read that title and I get it: it’s not the individual forks in the road that change us; it’s the direction. For me, that direction was through faith and music. For you, it may be integrity or hard work, kindness or a passion for adventure, as you seek the direction of your life through your values, your convictions. So when the next fork appears, take it!

Not Your Grandmother's Library!

As a young child, a trip to the City of Tonawanda’s public library was a treat. Housed in the former train station, its footprint was tiny but its influence great, extending my world beyond the boundaries of my hometown. A voracious reader, I plowed through the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series, dreamed of becoming the next Clara Barton or Marie Curie, and was introduced to the intricacies of the Dewey Decimal System.

A spanking brand-new facility was opened in 1964, and I pedaled my bicycle weekly to the enticing shelves of the new library. Soon, my attention shifted from the children’s section to the adventures of young adult books, not yet the dedicated genre of today’s literature. Indiscriminate in my selections, I read of science and history, of biography and fiction both ancient and new.

And then came my first trip to the main library on Lafayette Square in downtown Buffalo. With 400,000+ square feet of wonder, I barely knew where to start. This library had approximately two million books in its possession. In those pre-google days, we still wrote research papers using card catalogues and the Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature, so access to those additional resources was life-changing.

In subsequent years, community libraries, university libraries, and the seminary library right here in Ashland have become dear friends, so my heart was gladdened a few weeks ago when the lovely Madelyn Simone asked, “Can we go to the library?” Since Madelyn and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday were having an overnight visit to our home when the question was raised, I buckled them into their car seats and headed for the Ashland Public Library. Madelyn had visited the library with me in the past, but she had no idea the library had a new look. After generous gifts from the estates of Ines Page and Nancy Stockwell, the library got more than a makeover; it received a facelift, with the goal of creating “a community atmosphere that fosters a stop-and-stay mindset.

If my granddaughters’ reaction was any indication of the achievement of that goal, the APL was extremely successful in accomplishing what they set out to do. We were at the library for at least two hours, and only part of our time was spent running, crawling, sliding and climbing in the new play area. We also used our imagination to create art, race cars and trucks, and build towers. Madelyn carefully selected books to borrow, including a chapter book she is learning to read on her own. So excited to share the joys of reading with her! On the other hand, her little sister delighted in removing books from the shelves just because she could. If I have any complaint about the new configuration, it’s the lack of a wall to keep our busy toddler from escaping to the reference section. They may not have a treadmill, but I certainly got my exercise quota for the day.

We definitely enjoyed the “stop and stay” feel of the library, but I especially appreciate the broader goal of community atmosphere that pervades the library. As a child, I was taught to whisper, to choose a book and to head home. But now, in a world where libraries could easily become victims to the internet and the e-book, more than ever they are becoming places to gather, to learn, and to become better acquainted with our neighbors.

I’m excited to participate in two of those learning experiences. The first is April 17, when Diana Spore, Judy McLaughlin and I will be leading a workshop, “Journaling for Caregivers.” I’ll also be teaching “Self Publishing 101” on May 8th. The library’s website can fill you in on details and registration requirements (if any) of these and many other community education opportunities. As the Stark County District Library reminds us, the library is “the smart store: where everything is free.”

I just checked my column word count, and I’m out of words already. But the Ashland and Loudonville Public Libraries have plenty of space for words – and for people of all ages. National Library Week begins today, the perfect time to discover for yourself that it’s “not your grandmother’s library” any more.

Swords Into Plowshares

In my desire to dig deeper into what it means to be human, I listen to “On Being,” a radio broadcast (on NPR stations) and podcast hosted by Krista Tippett. Described as “thoughtfully delving into the mysteries of human existence,” “On Being” also offers a variety of essays in its Facebook feed from its regular contributors. One such essay this week was written by Parker Palmer, who raised the question, “What’s an Angry Quaker to Do?”

Quakers have a commitment to peace-making and nonviolence. Yet in his personal life, Palmer is experiencing a contradiction between his long-held beliefs and his emotions. In the essay, he asks: “Does anger have a role to play in the life of someone who aspires to nonviolence?”

His question is intriguing to wrestle with, not just for Quakers, but also for those of various philosophical or religious persuasions who live life with the goal of nonviolence. What I especially appreciate about Palmer’s words is his willingness to expose his personal struggle with a subject that doesn’t fit very well within his worldview or public persona. What does a person committed to peace and nonviolence do with anger?

The Ashland Center for Nonviolence is facing a similar dilemma this weekend as they host a number of speakers on the Ashland University campus who will make presentations under the banner, “Understanding Our Gun Culture.” When I first heard this theme, I scratched my head. How do guns and nonviolence fit together? What kind of topics will be part of that conversation?

Like Palmer’s essay, some of the presentations begin with a question. Should concealed guns be permitted on college campuses? Who owns handguns? Others are historical in perspective, such as Ohio State’s Randolph Roth, who suggests that “Guns Are and Aren’t the Problem,” reviewing the relationship between firearms and homicide in American history. Another interesting topic, from Mark Ryan of the University of Dayton, will focus on “The Storied Gun: Using Narrative to Grasp the Moral Logic of Guns in America.” What stories shape our understanding? Wyatt Earp or NCIS? JFK or John Lennon? George Zimmerman or Trayvon Martin?

Why plan a conference around that particular theme? Shouldn’t they be bringing people together around a campfire, singing “Kum Bah Yah” or “Let There Be Peace on Earth”? The answer to my question begins with this statement on the ACN’s webpage: “The Ashland Center for Nonviolence believes that there is more to peace than opposing violence. We are dedicated to raising awareness, thinking and acting creatively and encouraging open discussion on issues of peace and social well-being.”

That’s how the ACN conference connects with Palmer’s essay. Why does a person committed to peace write about anger? Why does an organization committed to nonviolence hold a conference on gun culture? Instead of choosing the ostrich “head in the sand” approach, pretending that all is well in our heart, or that all is well, both Palmer and the ACN accept the reality of living in our twenty-first century world. Anger doesn’t magically dissipate into the atmosphere just because we are raised in or converted to a particular religious belief. And swords don’t transform into plowshares just because we sing songs of peace or wave the flags of nonviolence.

Anger and fear are powerful motivators, and those of us who have parked ourselves at various locations along the “right to bear arms” continuum must find ways to understand each other’s positions. We begin by recognizing the truth in what the world-famous philosopher Yogi Berra may have said, “Where you stand depends on where you sit.” Can we possibly talk respectfully about where we sit, where we stand?

More than fifty years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote: “It may well be that we will have to repent in this generation, not merely for vitriolic words and violent actions . . . but for the appalling silence and indifference of [those] who sit around and say, ‘Wait on time.’” When we’re losing eight children and teens each day, we’re out of time. I’m grateful the ACN is welcoming this conversation today.