The Draw of the Cigarette: Life Goes Up in Smoke

Smoking kills.  But if you package it right, millions will take their chances.


According to the Federal Trade Commission Report of 2006, the annual marketing expenditures by U.S. tobacco companies was approximately  1.25 billion dollars--in 1970.  In 2006, it was 16.7 billion .    In 2008, they spent nearly $29 million each day and 52% more than they spent at the time of the 1998 settlement of state lawsuits against the industry, which was supposed to curtail tobacco marketing.


Yeh, I know.  An individual has a choice; the tobacco industry does not and can not force anyone to inhale.  But they do a masterful job of alluring, enticing, and convincing someone to take that initial drag.  And, in time, the addictive substance begins to alter one's sense of choice.


Smoking is marketed to the child/adolescent and adult market as being cool.  The "in" crowd.  Virginia Slims and others entice girls/women who are assaulted with body-image difficulties.  Men are portrayed as manly and rugged if smoking. Or cool ( my James Dean poster would not epitomize the cool factor if he had no cigarette in hand.)


The tobacco companies spend billions to convince us.


I wish the marketing gurus had been with me last week at the visitation as I stood and wept with my friend, now a widow of three days, as she mourned the loss of her 51 y.o. husband who had smoked for a long time.  Married only 8 years she had found the love of her life only to lose him and with a mere month's notice as the cancer ravaged his body.  


There was nothing cool or manly or rugged about it.  


I would think marketing meisters avoid standing in visitation lines.

A Sincere Prayer If There Ever Was One

We were visiting one of our daughters and her family.  Seven year old Keegan and I were downstairs in the lengthy family room shooting child-high hoops and throwing a football back and forth with only a mishap or two.  His mom called down, informing us it was time for lunch.  We all gathered around the table and being the patriarch I was asked to say grace.  We all bowed our heads and I thanked God for our family, for providing this food, and asked his blessing upon us.  Amen. 

And before we even had time to raise our heads, Keegan chimed in, "And please don't ever let that football hit me in the nuts again."

Amen.

Shakin' Bootie by the Time They're Ten

If a girl is "sexy" at 10, what is she by the time she's 12?  Slutty?  And by 16?


Let me explain my intensity.  My daughter called me and said she had just attended a fourth grade boys basketball game.  And there were 15 fourth grade girls comprising the cheerleader squad, pompomming them on. First of all, on frivolous note, why do the boys need cheerleaders?  Fourth graders aren't going to make any baskets, so what's there to cheer about?

Now it gets serious.  The 10 year old girls performed a halftime show.  They choreographed their routine to "I'm Sexy and I Know It."  REALLY?  10 year old girls are sexy?  And they're flaunting their supposed sexiness?  And the parents are encouraging and applauding their daughters in this endeavor?   How and what does a parent affirm?  "Nice pelvic thrust, Hillary!"  "You know what your Daddy likes!!" 


Here is a sampling of several lyrics, in case you're not familiar.  "I got passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it."  Have we plummeted to a moral low wherein we endorse aggressive sexual behavior in our 10 year old little girls?  Are we really prodding them on to cultivate, at 10, passion in their panties?  And there's no hint of modesty or self-restraint--"I ain't afraid to show it."


Another lyric-- " I pimp to the beat walking down the street. . . "  Are we grooming our  little girls to strut their stuff down the street?  Sorry, but they don't even have "stuff' yet to strut; I guess it's never too early for Mom and Dad to exert their decadent influence.  We're teaching our babies to shake their bootie.  Sadly, that's not all that's being shaken.  I fear that the very foundations of our ethical and moral integrity are also being shaken.


One more lyric--"I'm sexy and I know it; check it out, check it out."  Have we arrived at such a suave, nonchalant level of sexual sophistication that this is the trajectory on which we are launching our 10 year old little girls?  Are we now encouraging and sanctioning them as they invite boys and men to "check" them out?

We have objectified our daughters.  To objectify means, simply, "to treat, regard  or present as an object."  We do it all the time in other arenas.  In war, we do not regard the soldiers of the other country as "fathers" and "sons" and "someone's daughter."  That would  make it much more difficult to kill them; you can't attribute to them personhood.  We objectify them; they are "the enemy," "gooks," "Cong," "scum," "animals."   It's much easier to pull the trigger on objects.


 We are not only objectifying "the enemy;" we are doing it to our 10 year old girls, as well.  We are turning them into sex  "objects."   That may not be our intent, but it is most certainly the outcome.  Our girls are becoming mere bodies;  in particular, they are becoming body parts for them to shake and others to view and exploit.  And we applaud this in our gymnasiums.  God help us all.


Henry Nouwen, in The Way of the Heart,  quotes Thomas Merton, "Society. . . was regarded by the Desert Fathers as a shipwreck from which each single individual man had to swim for his life. . . these were men who believed that to let oneself drift along, passively accepting the tenets and values of what they knew as society, was purely and simply a disaster."  Nouwen then comments on this.  "Our society is not a community radiant with the love of Christ, but a dangerous network of domination and manipulation in which we can easily get entangled and lose our soul.  The basic question is whether we. . . have not already been so deeply molded by the seductive powers of our dark world that we have become blind to our own and other people's fatal state and have lost the power and motivation to swim for our lives."


Nouwen wrote that 32 years ago.  If we haven't already we are perilously close to being so "entangled" and "molded" that we have not only lost our soul but are glibly sacrificing our children on the altar of sexual conquest.

God help us all.


If you're one of those cheerleader parents I ask you to really look at your little girl.  Do you--can you--see her for who, not what, she is?  I beg you to ask her to forgive you for what, not who, you've made of her thus far.  It's not too late--yet.


 I hope all of us can "swim for our lives" and the lives of children we know and love, and chart for them a different course.  Can we teach them to swim toward self-respect and dignity?  Can we teach them to know the difference between loving themselves and flaunting their bodies?  Can we swim against the current of our culture and cherish and protect our children, bestowing honor and instilling moral sense within them?


God help us all. God save our girls.

What Story Lies Under the Cemetery Slice of Marble?

When I am seeking peace and quiet there are times I go to a cemetery on the edge of town.  It was unseasonably warm this past Thursday, Feb.2, so I decided to visit my haven. I was taking in the quiet beauty of the surrounding countryside when a car stopped a few hundred yards from me.  A middle aged woman got out of the passenger seat, walked around the car and assisted an elderly man out of the driver's seat.  She had a bouquet in her hand.  She walked slowly with him, as he had a noticeable limp.  They ambled over to a few scattered headstones.  These several  marble headstones were flush with the earth, no protrusion.  Small and simple, maybe 24"x6".


The old man slowly bent over and began tidying up the marker, pulling grass that had begun to creep over the perimeter of the memorial.  After he completed his task, she stooped and gently placed the bouquet on the grave marker.  She stood up, assessed the placement and bowed again to adjust the flowers of tribute at just the right spot. They stood there, looking down, for several moments and then made their way back to their car.  She opened his door and helped him into the car, closed his door, and after she entered her side of the   car they drove off.


I wondered about their story.  Who had died?  What is the relationship between these two?  What place of honor and love did the deceased hold in their lives?  In light of their ages I surmised that they had come to honor the passing of his beloved wife of years, her cherished mother.  I walked down to the site where they had paid their respects and the first thing I noticed was that the surrounding grave markers--all recessed into the ground as was this one--were commemorating the deaths of children.  I will not make public the name on the marker; somehow to do so feels like it would invade their private sorrow.  The date reads Febuary2, 1981.  Most of the other markers contain the customary two dates--birth and death.  Not this one.


This little girl died the same day she was born.  Was this Grandpa and the still mourning mother of this child?  The child was given a name and, most profoundly, a deep, deep place in the hearts of these two mourners.  Feb.2.  This was the anniversary date of this infant's death.  I am led to believe that thirty one years ago, on this very day, this mother gave birth to this child, to hope and joy.. This grandfather was beaming proud and shedding tears of joy for his own daughter. 


And within hours  dreams were shattered and Grandpa was weeping for himself and his daughter.


What astounds me is this:  it's been thirty one years.  The baby lived outside the womb less than a day.  How is such a deep, irrevocable attachment made in that brief a time that three decades later they are visiting the cemetery?  Are there are times when the heart loves deeply and quickly and forever?   Are there are times when one's entrance is so anticipated that their departure, though immediate, is never forgotten?


Frail infant girl, rest in peace.  You are still loved and missed.
Mom and Grandpa, go in peace.  My heart tells me you are still loved and missed, as well.

Running From and On Empty

I run.  I run a lot.  I run far, I run frequently.  And I often do so sitting on the couch with the remote.  Or surfing the Internet.  Or sleeping.   Sometimes I run by eating.  Or spending.  Anything to avoid facing the dark side of my self.  I distract myself so I don’t have to think.  I numb myself to ward off the demons.  I fear that if I am still very long that either the dark side will suffocate me in the thick pitch of the tar or God will not meet me in the silence and I will completely alone.  There are other times when I run to either deny or assuage the emptiness inside.

So I run.  And our culture values and rewards this running.  If I run by keeping busy I am applauded for being industrious.  “Wow!  That guy is so involved in so many wonderful things!”   In fact, if we’re not busy beyond belief we are regarded as a slacker.  Consequently, this kind of escapist busyness is reinforced by my peers.  I find myself embarrassed if I have time on my hands, particularly time that others don’t seem to have.  A friend calls to set up a time to get together and when he says, “Let me check my calendar,” and I simultaneously say, “My day is open,” I feel so unsuccessful and rather pathetic.  No one else seems to be “free;” why am I?

I run to avoid.  The darkness, the emptiness.  I have come to realize that my running merely reinforces the power of the darkness and exacerbates the emptiness.    I’m like Jackson Browne.  Running on empty.

If it’s the darkness that plagues me I need Light to dispel the darkness but my running prevents my receiving of the Light.  If it’s the emptiness that haunts me I need filling but my running does not allow me to be still in order to experience the needed filling. 

Ironically,  to ward off the emptiness I fill myself with that which doesn't matter and thereby deprive myself of that which ultimately matters.  A busy, preoccupied man visited a Zen master for tea.  The Zen master poured the tea until it overflowed the cup, and still he continued to pour.  Agitated, the man cried out, “Master, stop! Why do you keep pouring?  The cup is full.”  The master replied, “You are like this cup.  You are full of yourself—your judgments, your opinions.  You must first empty yourself.”

Both counter-culturally and counter intuitively, God beckons in this manner:  “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)  It appears that it is in silence and solitude that the “knowing” is cultivated.  It is in stillness that  authentic filling can take place. 

It is in the quiet, in the being still that the emptying can take place.  The question I wrestle with is this:

Will I stop or will I run?

These words are recorded by the Old Testament prophet Isaiah:

This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says:

“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it..”  You said, ‘No, we will flee. . . “”

Notice wherein lies salvation and strength.  Quietness and rest; silence and being still.  And notice their response.  “No, we will flee.”  That mirrors my typical response.  “No, I will run.”

It’s a new year.  May God give us grace to resist the running and embrace the resting.  May we empty ourselves of the clamor, the distractions, and, in time, receive the Healer and the healing. 

Saint and Sinner

I couldn't resist a memoir that begins like this.


This book is by the one who thought he'd be farther along by now, but he's not.
It is by the inmate who promised the parole board he'd be good, but he wasn't. 
It is by the dim-eyed who showed the path to others but kept losing his way.
It is by the wet-brained who believed if a little wine is good for the stomach, 
then a lot is great.
It is by the liar, tramp, and thief; otherwise known as the priest, speaker, and author.
It is by the disciple whose cheese slid off his cracker so many times 
he said "to hell with cheese 'n crackers."
It is by the young at heart but old of bone who is led these days
in a way he'd rather not go.
But,
This book is also for the gentle ones who've lived among wolves.
It is for those who've broken free of collar
to romp in fields of love and marriage and divorce.
It is for those who mourn, who've been mourning most of their lives,
yet they hang on to shall be comforted.
It is for those who've dreamed of entertaining angels
but found instead a few friends of great price.
It is for the younger and elder prodigals
who've come to their senses
again, and again, and again, and again.
It is for those who strain at pious piffle
because they've been swallowed by Mercy itself.
This book is for myself and those who have been around
the block enough times that we dare to whisper
the ragamuffin's rumor--
all is grace.


Brennan Manning is now in his 70's and is saint and sinner.  Decades ago I began reading him (e.g. The Ragamuffin Gospel) and his authenticity, his vulnerability, and his reliance on grace have helped me to keep going.  

I was only a few lines into his preface above and was weeping.  I, too, often feel like a disappointment, a hypocrite.  There is often such a gap between who I really am and who I desire to be.  The shame that breeds can be paralyzing.  Brennan depends on grace and has always pointed the rest of us who are wounded and wounding, in need of healing yet healers, to that same grace.

In the intro is contained a poem by Leonard Cohen:

Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in. 


I was raised to believe that the cracks elicit the darkness of God's judgment.  It has been such a buoyant relief to know that the cracks draw the light of God's grace. 

Teach me, brother Manning, as I read further.






 

(Herman) Cain Wasn't Abel

Today, Herman Cain suspended  his campaign  in his pursuit of the Presidency of the U.S. claiming that the "false accusations" of four women and a fifth who claimed a 13 year sexual relationship with him served to be too much of a "distraction."  All of these allegedly lying women had hurt him and his wife to such a degree and the recent fallout sidetracked him from his mission, so he says, and therefore he is dropping out.   

He blamed the "spin" of the media and the "pundits" for their unfair and biased reporting.  Mr. Cain, it is that same media that catapulted you from obscurity to being known by millions. I'd be interested in seeing how you fare if you refuse the media any access from here on out, but, of course, you and I know that you won't do that.

I--none of us--knows whether Mr. Cain is being truthful in what he claims as to his innocence.  He claims he is "at peace with my God, at peace with my wife, and at peace with myself" --that's either a clear conscience or a seared one--and though I'd like to believe him something just looks and sounds suspicious as to his moral integrity.  My reasoning runs like this:  If  I am on a mission and a number of people trump up ludicrous and absolutely false charges as to my ethics and sexual morality I'm thinking that would motivate me even more to focus on the mission-at-hand rather than quit.  I'm thinking I have nothing to hide and these women have no dirt to dig up so I'll let them muck around in their mire and I, in the meantime, will be open and forthcoming--but focused on the mission.  Check my cellphone records, my email history, my texts--it's all there for your scrutiny.  While you're checking I'll be available for your questions but undeterred from my campaign.

In contrast, Mr. Cain, says these trumped allegations and the spin the media has put on all this has become "too distracting."  Again, I can't prove it, but I suspect that what has become ""too distracting" are poor choices he has made with a number of women, none of whom happen to be his wife and those choices have now bitten his beleaguered butt.

He now talks as though he is the victim.  These lying,  perpetrating women  went to the out-to-get-him  media and, consequently, all of this has brought upon him unwarranted hurt and distress.  In the Old Testament is the story of Cain killing his brother Abel.  In this scenario Cain was the perpetrator of the crime; Abel, the victim.

Mr. Cain, you don't appear to be Abel.