Leaving Egypt: Time to Get Growing (Part Two)

There is a story I heard once about a boy who was afraid to climb the stairs at his family's new house after they moved.

Where on earth do kids get these fears from? It's a silly fear, all things considered, but what are you going to do? People enjoy what they enjoy, and they're afraid of what they're afraid of. Still, it's a problem. So the boy's father makes him an offer: “Climb up to the first step, and jump off. I'll catch you.”

Now the boy is young, maybe only 3 years old. He's in awe of his father. Compared to the boy himself, the father is a large and powerful presence, someone who fills the room just by being there. He can be overwhelming and stern, but at the same time there is a tireless joy that undergirds the father's entire personality. It's more than a little perplexing; but the boy loves him, and so he agrees.

The first jump is more of a step than a leap, but the father is true to his word. He catches the boy before his foot touches the floor, almost before he even has had time to realize that his feet have left the first step. The boy smiles, and his father lifts him up onto the second step.

“Now,” says his father, “jump off the second step. I'll catch you.”

The boy is nervous. This step is ten inches off the floor, but his father is standing there, eyes full of encouragement, his arms stretched out. The boy takes a breath, closes his eyes and does it.

This time there's a moment of fear, but it's mixed with the exhilaration that comes from free fall. The boy feels his father's strong hands close on him, and maybe he even hears his dad make a whooshing nose like an airplane as his father swings him back up and puts him on the third step.

“Do it again!” the father says, and the boy laughs. “I'll catch you.”

Each time the boy jumps, his fear recedes amid a rush of excitement. It's a wonderful game they're playing, and by the time they have finished the fifth step, the boy's fears are forgotten. The stairs are no longer monstrous. They're exciting, wonderful, fun! Laughing with abandon, he needs no encouragement to climb to the sixth step all by himself.

“Now,” says his father, arms crossed in front of him. “Jump.”

The boy doesn't even hesitate. He is a bird in flight as he leaps off the stairs and into empty space, arms upraised. And then, the unthinkable happens. His father doesn't catch him. He doesn't even move. Instead, his father watches as the son lands on the wooden floor at the foot of the stairs with a loud thump. As the boy begins to cry, he sees on his father's face an emotion we can only describe as ironic satisfaction.

“There,” says the father. “That'll teach you.”

I'll admit that the first time I heard this story it left me bewildered. What kind of man plays a practical joke like that on his kids? It's just cruel. But of course, like all good stories, this one has layers that you have to think about before you can understand it.

The key here is the last line: “That'll teach you.” What's the lesson being imparted here, that you shouldn't trust anyone, not even your parents? That's a pretty sick and cynical lesson. It's not much better if we say that the lesson is that we should listen to our fears and avoid stairs. It's obvious that the father loves the boy, given that he spends so much time playing with the boy and teaching him not to be afraid. With that in mind, it stands to reason that the intended lesson is more nuanced than our immediate reaction would allow.

At the very minimum, one obvious lesson is that it's still stupid (and risky) to play on the stairs. Another is that sometimes the people you depend on will fail you, and that even though your father has been watching out for you, you won't always be able to count on him like you would like to.

And of course there is the obvious interpretation that this isn't a story about the mean things fathers do to their kids at all. It's a story about God, and the journey of faith that the Israelite people have had over history, beginning with the period right after God freed them from slavery.

In Christianity we often think of redemption as a fixed point in our lives. In some denominations this comes at the moment of baptism, when a priest prays over an infant and that child is cleansed of original sin. In other churches it comes later, with a personal prayer of repentance and commitment to following Jesus.

Regardless of how this act of redemption occurs, it's an accepted truth within Christianity that we are born out of harmony with God and need to be restored to that perfect peace. You can view it as something like passing through a wicket gate. One minute you're standing before the gate, groaning beneath the heavy weight tied to your back like sin. Then you step through the gate, kneel at the Cross, and the burden falls from your back. There will be dangers along the road and you'll have to pass through Vanity Fair, but in times to come, you can point back to that moment and know something real happened, and that you're now walking on the king's highway as a loyal subject.

Here's the thing, though. Redemption isn't a single event. It's a journey. Setting people free is only the first part of God's plan. It's not enough to be free if the first thing you want to do with your freedom is to want to return to Egypt. God's goal all along was to get Israel, a people who had lived as slaves in Egypt for 400 years, to cross the desert and enter the Promised Land.

In order to do this, God has to show the Israelites that there is nothing to fear. So when Pharaoh pursues the people and threatens to trap them by the Red Sea, God gets them to take a leap of faith and then destroys the Egyptian army. When the people grow hungry and fearful of starving, he sends them manna and quail. Then it's water. He even has them set aside a sabbath day for rest and relaxation. His goal throughout this process is the same as the goal of the storied father: He wants his son to overcome his fear and to learn to trust.

But just as the father in the story needs his son to rely on himself on the stairs, God has bigger plans for Israel than simply bailing them out with a miracle every time there is trouble. God wants his people to maintain a relationship with him, as adults

Redemption isn't just a single point in our lives. It's about growing up, becoming self-sustaining, and reaching the point that we can enter the family business.

The people are going to need the Torah.

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Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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Leaving Egypt: Redeemed (Part One)

There's something I need to get off my chest. I'm not particularly a fan of the way the exodus is written.

It's a beautiful and moving story, full of pageantry. You want high-stakes drama? Nothing less than the freedom and even survival of the Hebrew people is at stake. Irony? God appoints an adopted son of Egypt as his agent, to confront Egypt at the height of its power. This is an epic story, one for the ages, as God of the slaves fights their oppressors and takes them down. But as storytelling goes, it's got some flaws.

Let's break it down.

In literature classes, professors will teach you that every story has four distinct stages: the introduction, the conflict, the climax and the denouement, which leads to the establishment of a new normal when the conflict is fully resolved. This is true throughout Western literature, whether you're watching a full-adrenaline movie like “The Avengers” or reading a story like “Goodman Brown,” by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

The first stage is the introduction, in which the narrator establishes what counts as normal. In the story of the exodus, “normal” is pretty brutal. The Israelites have grown so numerous that the Egyptians have pressed them into slave labor. In fact, it's even worse than that. Fearing that the Israelites may rebel or side with the enemies of Egypt, Pharaoh has decreed that newborn Israelite boys are to be thrown into the Nile.

Next comes the conflict, which upsets the status quo. The best conflicts begin small and gradually grow in scope. This is the case in the book of Exodus, where conflict comes as a Hebrew woman named Yochavad hides her newborn son among the bullrushes, rather than let him be killed. Pharaoh's daughter finds the baby and recognizes him as a Hebrew; but rather than having him killed, she decides to adopt the boy and raise him as her own.

The boy, Moses, grows up and discovers his true heritage, and the conflict within the story grows as he does. Eventually Moses kills an Egyptian. When word gets out, he runs for his life into the desert. Out there he meets Jethro, high priest of Midian, and marries his daughter. Away from the palace life, Moses begins to tend sheep.

The climax is the pivotal part of the story. This is when the conflict comes into focus, and the protagonist must decide how to resolve it. The protagonist can do this by fighting to restore the original status quo, or by fighting to overthrow it. If the protagonist succeeds, then our story has a happy ending. If the protagonist fails, it is a tragic ending.

In Exodus, the climax is actually where the protagonist first openly appears. At the burning bush, God appears to Moses and explains that he has heard the cries of the Israelites and intends to set them free. God appoints Moses and his brother, Aaron, to be his representatives and to carry a simple message to pharaoh: Let my people go.

Up to this point, Israel has been the underdog. The only power they have on their side is a single god who skeptics would claim wasn't even strong enough to keep them from being enslaved in the first place. On the other side stand all the many gods of Egypt, the most powerful empire in the world at the time. Here at the climax, God declares that he will fight for his people and take them to a land of their own.

Following this declaration comes the denouement, as God begins to unleash a series of devastating plagues. In our contemporary way of looking at stories, the struggle here is between Moses and Pharaoh, or between God and Pharaoh. In truth, every plague that God sets loose is a blow against a different deity in ancient Egypt. This isn't a fight between Israel and Egypt; it is a proxy war among their gods. Each plague targeted a different Egyptian god, and showed how that god ultimately was powerless against the God of Israel.

The first plague saw the Nile turn to blood. Hapi, the god of the Nile, was unable to stop it. In fact, the Bible notes that the Israelites continued to have safe drinking water, a distinction made throughout the plagues to the very end. The Egyptians would suffer from every plague that hit the land, while the Israelites would be unharmed. Even if an Egyptian wanted to claim that the plagues were being sent by their own gods, they would still have to account for the Israelites not being affected.

Heqet, the Egyptian goddess of fertility, resembled a frog. In the second plague, frogs swarmed out of the Nile and covered Egypt after the plague.

Seth, god of the earth, was next to fall, during the third plague on Egypt. According to the biblical account, Moses lifted a handful of earth and threw it into the air. The dust became a plague of gnats that bit and stung the Egyptians wherever they were. Once again the Israelites were left unharmed and untouched.

And on it goes. The book of Exodus recounts cattle dying in the fields, followed by painful boils that erupted on the skin of the Egyptian people. Hail and fire fell from the skies and destroyed the crops in the fields. After that, a swarm of locusts covered the land and devoured what crops remain. By this time, according to the Bible, many of the Egyptians had stopped trusting their own gods to protect them and had begun listening to what Moses said because it was clear that the God of Israel could be depended on to do what he said.

Finally the sun god Ra was defeated by an unnatural darkness that blanketed the land for three days; and when the firstborn in Egypt all died in a single night, it was finished. Even Anubis was powerless. All that was left was for the people of Israel to walk out of Egypt, as free as they were intended to be. As finales go, this is a big one.

Except if you're familiar with the story, you know that this isn't the end. After that dramatic conclusion, Pharaoh changed his mind and pursued the Israelites, and overtook them at the shore of the Red Sea. Caught between a hostile army and the impassable waters of the Red Sea, the Israelites understandably panicked. They forgot everything that had happened in the past month and complained that God had brought them out of Egypt only to let them die on the seashore.

What came next is one of the most iconic moments in the Bible and in American cinema. We all know the scene by heart: Moses stretches out his staff, and as he strikes it against the water, the Red Sea parts. Israel passes through, unharmed, but when the Egyptian army tries to follow, the waters of the sea rush in and the entire army drowns.

Psalmists and prophets invoked the language of this scene for the next thousand years. The story itself evokes the older story of the Genesis flood that destroyed the wicked while the righteous survived in an ark. To Christians, the parting of the Red Sea foreshadows baptism and the new birth that comes from a life of faith in Christ. No matter your religious beliefs, it's impossible to imagine the Haggadah without the parting of the Red Sea.

But iconic and inspiring as it is, the scene is also anticlimactic. Think about it for a minute. For the past 13 chapters, the book of Exodus has recounted a titanic conflict over whether the Israelites would go free or remain as slaves in Egypt. That issue was settled midway through Chapter 12. It is done. It is finished. Why on earth are we going through it again?

If the story of the exodus were being written for the first time today, what author wouldn't end it with the Israelites leaving the city of Rameses as free people? It's the perfect ending to a perfect tale. God has struck the Egyptians so powerful a blow that they were handing over fine clothing, gold and silver, just to get the Israelites to leave before God did something else. It's a perfect time for the camera to pan out to a wide shot and fade to black before the credits roll.

Instead, we have the miracle of crossing the Red Sea too. It's almost as if the author had two endings he loved, and decided to keep them both instead of getting rid of one.

Either the story is screwed up, or we're missing the point of it.

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Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.

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My dreams, and what they reveal

Dreams are a fascinating business because of what they reveal about us.


​I don't mean dreams in the sense of our ambitions, although that also is true. No, what I mean is that I love to hear people share the dreams they have at night when they're off in slumberland. The flying dreams. The dreams that make no sense. The dreams that were terrifying at the time but seem ridiculous in the light of day.

(We still laugh about the nightmare I had when I was 6 years old. I realized a few years ago that it was based on a "Schoolhouse Rock" video, but at the time, I was so frightened that I threw up on my younger brother in his sleep. We all laugh about that detail, except for Steve. For some reason, Steve doesn't find it funny at all.)

Some years ago, I had a dream that Peter Parker and Bruce Wayne were working at the Daily Bugle together. Not only did they know each each other's secret identity, each of them kept dropping hints about it in front of everyone else. "Don't act so batty, Bruce," Pete would say.

Another time, I dreamed about the Justice League. As the dream went on, my subsconscious mind started noticing continuity errors and would correct them. "No, Wonder Woman didn't fight in World War II," my mind would realize. "That was pre-Crisis continuity." And bam! The dream would change, and reflect that it was Wonder Woman's mother, Hippolyta, who had fought the Axis.

Last night I did it again. I've observed several times that we only have the word of the Rebel Alliance that the Galactic Empire was evil, and that the first Star Wars movie comes across more as propaganda than as a reliable account of the Battle of Yavin IV. So it's possible that Darth Vader is actually one of the good guys.

In my dream, the Galactic Empire was known by another name: the United Federation of Planets. It appears one of the responsibilities the Enterprise has had to deal with lately, is dealing with insurrectionists. So we had Commander Riker arguing with Han Solo, and Chewbacca fighting Lieutenant Worf. Plus the 11th Doctor had an appearance.

I told my children.

"She-Hulk showed up in one of my dreams once. The dream somewhat drew on 'Lucifer's Hammer,'" Oldest Daughter shared. "Your dream sounds weirder, though."

What do my dreams say about me? Middle Daughter was to the point: "It's official, dad. You're a geek."


Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.

An empty 'maranatha' waiting for Godot

It's Sunday evening. My family is gathered around the dinner table as we have every Easter for the past fourteen years. There, in the center of the table, a wine glass stands on a saucer next to a bottle of wine.

“How much joy have we had this year?” I ask, and fill the wine a quarter of the way. “This much?”

My girls know the drill. “More than that!” they answer, and I fill it halfway to the top. “This much?” I ask.

“More than that!” I pour again. Three-quarters. “This much?”

“More than that!” Wine flows, and a moment later wine fills the cup past the rim and splashes joyously to the saucer below. We have friends. We have a home. We have one another. Middle Daughter has found a passion for the stage that will carry her well into adulthood. Oldest Daughter is in the home stretch of her junior year and thinking about college. For Youngest Daughter, every day is a new adventure, every moment a treasure to unpack. Life overflows with joy, and with love.

After we have measured our joy but before we eat the meal, comes what I am finding is the hardest part of Easter. My own wine glass in hand, I turn to Youngest.

“Before Jesus ascended into heaven, he told us he would return one day,” I tell her. “Open the door and invite him in.” I quickly add: “Don't let the dog out.”

Youngest knows the routine by now. She opens to the kitchen door and peers out into the back yard. “Maranatha,” she calls. “Come, Lord Jesus.”

There is a pause. Jesus doesn't come. “Maybe next year,” I say. Mr. Godot told me to tell you he won't come this evening, but surely tomorrow. 

It's been about two thousand years. How long are these Last Days supposed to last, anyway?

I had my religious awakening in 1988, about six weeks after high school graduation. While I was away at college I soon found myself drawn to an Assemblies of God church off campus. Services there were lively and boisterous, a marked departure from the staid Presbyterianism I had grown up in. There was an immediacy about worship there that I had never felt before, a sense that we were in the very presence of God and not just admiring him from a distance.

With that immediacy also came an urgency. Christ could return any day. The modern nation of Israel had formed in 1948, an event that to many evangelicals fulfilled key biblical prophecy in heralding the Second Coming. Adding to that urgency were the dramatic shifts in the popular zeitgeist and in geopolitical power over the course of that one decade.

For much of the 1980s the entire nation had lived under the cloud of nuclear war. Made-for-TV movies like “The Day After” in 1983 and “Countdown to Looking Glass” in 1984 carried the fear right into our living rooms. Conflicts like the military downing of a Korean Air Lines flight in September 1983 set the nation's teeth on edge. Even the pop culture reflected this fear, with songs like "99 Red Balloons" and "It's a Mistake" imagining nuclear war breaking out over a simple misunderstanding. (As it nearly did.)

Then in the late 1980s, reforms like glasnost and perestroika led to the breakup the Soviet Union. One by one the Baltic republics declared their independence and established democratic governments. The Berlin wall came down, and suddenly there were talks of reunifying the two Germanys for the first time since World War II.

With that much change afoot, it couldn't help but feel that Judgment Day was coming. And when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait in 1990, armchair interest in biblical prophecy shot up in a way it hadn't since Hal Lindsey had published “The Late Great Planet Earth” in 1970 and Christian moviemakers started producing B-movies like “A Thief in the Night.” Jesus was coming! No one knows the day or the hour, but still it had to be soon. It had to be.

Except Jesus didn't return. In fact it's been 68 years since the founding of Israel, so significant that Edgar Whisenant once wrote a popular book, “88 Reasons Why the Rapture will be in 1988,” prompted by that event. (Spoiler: It didn't happen.) Whisenant later predicted the return of Christ in 1989, 1993 and 1994 as well. Jesus didn't return then either.

'And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached throughout the whole world, as a testimony to all nations; and then the end will come.' — Matthew 24:14

This has been going on for a while. The church fathers were so convinced that the Parousia was coming within their lifetimes that the Bible contains apostolic letters reassuring people not to panic that they were dying of old age before Christ's return. He's coming, Peter says. Just be patient. It's been about 1,980 years. How patient do we have to be?

I don't have a good answer for that. I'd love it if I could find a neat and tidy conclusion that makes the interminable wait seem worthwhile. The gospels tell us that Jesus is going to return, and it's the creeds that we recite; but year after year keeps going by. We keep waiting, and he keeps not returning.

Why do we do this? Is it because the Second Coming is supposed to be such a major event? At the Parousia, that wondrous appearing of Jesus, we're told that all will be made right. Fish will team in rivers and streams whose waters will be restored, and herds of buffalo will stampede across the plains again. The wicked will no longer feed off the anger in the land and turn us against one another, and the arrogant will no longer sit in places of power.

When Christ comes, we'll recognize the dignity of one another without pause or exception. We'll recognize the wrongs we've done one another over the centuries, and we'll ask forgiveness for not setting it right sooner. We'll apologize for separate drinking fountains and for glass ceilings, for stolen land and for stolen labor. We'll dismantle empire and repair the damage it has caused, and as we get to know our neighbors, we'll wonder why we ever avoided them before.

Is that why we wait, to remind ourselves what the Kingdom of God is supposed to look like? Do we have the promise of a Second Coming so that we can take seriously what he said the first time he came, and start working on that in the meantime?

“Maranatha,” my daughter dutifully says. There is a pause. Jesus doesn't appear, just like he didn't appear last year, or the year before that.

“Maybe next year,” I say, and I think: “I doubt it.”

The doubt is all I have, Lord. I give it to you, and pray that it's enough.


Copyright 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.

Saturday and the Dead Christ

It is a horrible thing to have the life and hope sucked out of you.

On Thursday Peter and the other disciples were overflowing with hope. How couldn't they be? They had marched into Jerusalem the previous Sunday with Jesus on a donkey as the crowds waved palm fronds and threw their coats on the ground amid cries of “Hosanna!” Their moment had arrived. Change was afoot, and there they were, riding the wave that was going to sweep through Jerusalem, to all Judea and across the rest of the world. The day of redemption was at hand, and not only were they to witness it, they were part of it.

When did that hope begin to fray? Was it outside Jerusalem, when Jesus looked down on the city and foresaw his own death, and began to cry? Maybe it was inside the city, where the religious leaders were on edge than ever before. They used to debate, argue and judge. Now their questions carried daggers, and they used their words to conceal dangerous traps.

The menace that hung in the air that week took its toll on the disciples every time they breathed. The land was parched for want of justice, and people in the crowd itched for Jesus to light the fire of revolution. The leaders of the people knew this, and they looked at him with fear and worry and undisguised hatred.

Even Jesus himself seemed to be losing control. In the Temple he hurtled one stream of invective after another at his opponents, and he talked about his death more and more as each day passed. The disciples closed ranks and talked, and when Thursday night came they told him they had two swords. Hope, still strong, had begun to stumble a little.

That night the soldiers came without warning and arrested Jesus, and for a moment panic set in. But then hope rebounded. And why shouldn't it? Peter and the other disciples had seen Jesus in tough spots before, and he always managed to get out of them.

Just in the past week, they had seen the Pharisees and the Sadducees and even the Herodians lob one tough question after another after Jesus. Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar or not? If a woman gets married to seven husbands and each one dies without her ever having a child, whose wife will she be at the Resurrection? Who gave you the authority to make such a scene in the Temple?

Every question masked a sword pointed at Jesus' throat. All week long the questioners had swung them at him in an effort to show that this messiah bled, and all week long Jesus avoided taking a single hit. The Sanhedrin had it in for him, everyone knew that. They had tried to take Jesus down before and it never worked. Pilate was a brutal dictator, but if the best minds of the Sanhedrin couldn't trap Jesus, how could a Roman? And if it did go wrong, there was still the Passover Amnesty.

Somehow it did go wrong. Pilate and the Sanhedrin didn't let Jesus go. He didn't pull off a last-minute miracle, and somebody else was released for the amnesty who didn't deserve it. Jesus was convicted and sentenced, and he died gurgling blood like a common thief. Not knowing what else to do, the disciples went and hid, hoping it was all some horrible nightmare.

Except it wasn't a nightmare. The sun came up Saturday morning, and Jesus was dead. They had thought Jesus was the messiah, sent by God, and now he was dead, and people don't get better from being dead. Everyone knew that, and if they doubted, all they had to do was to look inside some of the tombs outside the city. Jesus was dead.

How long do you think it took until Peter felt like an idiot? Three years ago he'd had a wife, a home and a job. Now he had no way to support a wife or family, and the authorities were watching him to see if he would follow the example of Jesus and try to start a movement of his own.

What about John and James? They were the sons of a prominent rabbi, a member of the Sanhedrin. Their father, Zebedee, had owned a fishing business, one that they had stood to inherit. They had given that up and now faced a lifetime of poverty.

Matthew probably had lost the most, financially. Before he became a disciple of Jesus, Matthew had been a tax collector working with the Romans. With the authority and power of Rome behind him, he not only could compel people to pay taxes, he could extort as much money as he wanted them for his own livelihood. People had pretended to be his friends because of his wealth and influence, but that had all changed three years ago. Anyone who remembered him now would remember him as a collaborator with the Roman occupiers, guaranteeing his life would be unpleasant and short.

And on it went for each of the other disciples. They had wasted three years of their lives on a dream, for nothing, for a man who had been good with words. He seemed to have come right out of the old days, when prophets knew how to perform miracles. but in the end he was just a man like every other man. Just as human. Just as mortal.

Jesus had promised them all something worth believing in. “The Kingdom of God has arrived,” he had told them. “Mountains will be laid low, and the valley will be raised up. The rich and powerful will use their wealth and influence to serve the poor instead of themselves. The outcast will be an honored guest at the feast. Women will enjoy the same respect afforded men. Everyone will have the chance to come in and sit at the table together. There will be justice.”

Now Jesus was dead, and all those promises had died with him. That whole Kingdom of God thing? Not going to happen.

I know someone out there is reading this who wants to interrupt and say that Sunday is coming. But here's the thing about Sunday: When it's Saturday, you can't see Sunday. It's too far off. On Friday you can hope for a miracle, but if you put your head inside the tomb on Saturday, there's a body there.

The body is wrapped in linen that's been stained with thickening blood and ooze, and it smells awful. The stench of death is so strong that you want to gag. They took Jesus on Friday and they flayed the skin from his back, and after they had tortured him to death, they shoved a spear in his side. All those smells that the body keeps inside have been brought out into the open. You can touch the body, but it's not going to move for you, no matter what you do. The muscles are stiff with rigor mortis. No one will answer when you call, and there's no one to give you hope. He's dead.

Saturday is an agonizing place to be. You believed with all your heart all that you had been told about this man, but suddenly that belief just isn't enough. You staked your hopes, your faith, your future and your very identity on Jesus, and suddenly it turns out that he's not who you thought he was.

How on earth could I ever have believed Jesus was the Son of God? That's a question you'll ask yourself a lot on Saturday, if you're willing to be honest. Did you honestly think that people rise from the dead? You know better than that, and so did the disciples. The tombstones of Judea were as full as the graveyards of the 21st century are with the remains of dead people. Check out your family tree sometime. You won't have to go back very many generations before you find withered branches. Dead is permanent. You know that in your very bones.

It's surprisingly easy to kill Jesus. I've seen parents do it by rejecting their children over their sexual orientation or gender identity. I've seen churches do it by telling women that they have no place in ministry, or no right to teach; and turning liberation into a prison. When Christ is dead, his promises of love and value have no meaning.

I've seen educators kill Jesus by suppressing science and concealing history. One day, their students get older and discover what they weren't taught in school. They realize that evolutionary biology actually makes a lot of sense, and so does the rest of science. Or they discover the side of history Christians are ashamed of: jim crow injustice, chauvanism, terrorism and war; and they wonder what else we're not owning up to. When Christ is dead, his claim to be the truth rings hollow.

Sometimes life itself is enough to kill Jesus with deep pains and bottomless griefs that have neither reason nor explanation. When Christ is dead, there is no end to suffering or to tears. All that there is an endless Saturday, a body in the grave, with no way out.

Holy Saturday is a place of reckoning. Some of us may come here only once, for a day, and then we leave. Others of us return again and again. Sometimes Saturday lasts only a day; sometimes it lasts for years.

Come in to the tomb, Christian. Make your peace with the end of Holy Week, and listen to the worms moving. It's Holy Saturday, and Christ's body isn't going anywhere.


Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.

dying of thirst

I want you to think about the thirstiest you've ever been.

In March 2010 I returned to Haiti to assist at the Quisqueya Crisis Relief Center with its efforts following the earthquake. I'd been up all night the night before, on an airplane with its dry, air-conditioned cabins. After that I stood in a crowded tropical airport so hot that the shirt on my back was plastered to my skin within minutes. All I'd had to drink since leaving home was about a quarter-cup of water given to me on the plane. I should have known better. But I didn't.

I'd been standing in the sun for 30 minutes, looking for the ride I was told might be able to come get me, when I noticed my head was hammering at me. My skin was red and starting to ache. And my stomach wanted to revolt, but there was nothing in it.

 I was dehydrated, and I needed a drink of water — badly.

This was just poor planning on my part. The adult body sheds about a quart of water every day just through run-of-the-mill perspiration and breathing. We lose another one to three quarts each day through urination. Think about that. Your body is roughly 60 percent water, and in the course of a day you can lose a gallon of it just by living.

As dehydration sets in, the body begins to move water from its cells into the bloodstream. As the water leaves, cells begin to shrink. The throat parches. The tongue becomes a clumsy, inarticulate piece of meat. Fine and even gross motor skills decline, sharply. Your head starts to hurt and it gets harder to think clearly.

Let it go too long, and the kidneys can start to fail, which lets the body's toxins build up in the bloodstream. Soon the organs begin to fail, and then death follows. People can survive weeks without food, but only a few days without water. Water is life.

It's no wonder then that in ancient times it was considered an act of war to fill someone's well with stones. And it's no wonder that the psalmist compares worship to thirst:

As a hart longs
    for flowing streams,
so longs my soul
    for thee, O God.
My soul thirsts for God,
    for the living God.
When shall I come and behold
    the face of God?
— Psalm 42:1-2

It's Sunday morning and I've come to church to worship, but I'm dying of thirst. Think about the sort of song you're likely to hear on Sunday morning at church. If you go to a church like the one I attend, chances are good you'll hear songs about how wonderful it is to be saved, or how we much we love Jesus. There's nothing wrong with appreciating salvation or loving Jesus, but there's something essential missing in both songs: a sense of adoration.

Think about those songs, and then listen to this. It is one of the most beautiful recordings of "Holy, Holy, Holy," one of the most beautiful songs ever written for corporate worship. The entire focus of this song is not on we feel, it is not on what Christ did for us on the Cross, and it is not about how we desire to know God better. It is a song about the holiness and majesty of God. Who wouldn't love to hear music like this in church?



Older worship songs like "Holy Holy Holy" have fallen out of favor in recent years among worship bands, which is a shame. These were songs that had a lot of thought put into them. They contain solid doctrine, and often possessed some good melodies too. We still sing them hundreds of years later, because they were that good.

There are any number of reasons why older songs, particularly hymns, have fallen out of favor. For many of us the word hymn is enough to send us cowering under the seats in whatever space our church rents. It conjures unpleasant childhood memories of attending a church we didn't enjoy, and enduring the uninspired singing of the entire congregation as they were accompanied by an organ played at the same tempo by the same woman every week, year after year. For many of us, hymn denotes boredom and irrelevance, the exact opposite of what we require church and particularly worship to be.

This is, of course, due a complete lack of imagination on our part. Back when I was in college, Word Records published an album called "Our Hymns," a collection of classic hymns rearranged along then-contemporary sensibilities by Christian bands like Petra and singers like Amy Grant. Far from organ music, these songs sounded like they could have been written in the 1980s.

One of the songs included on the album was "O God Our Help in Ages Past," published in 1719 by Isaac Watts. Phil Keaggy gave it a hauntingly beautiful intro. Keaggy trimmed it to the first and final verses, threw in a Bach composition and made it possible to appreciate the soft, meditative sound of the song and its lyrics.


   

The same album included "'Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus," as recorded by Amy Grant. The song was written in 1882 by Louisa Stead after she and her daughter witnessed her husband die in an attempt to rescue a boy from drowning, and soon fell into financial destitution without his income.  I've heard worship leaders dismiss older songs as irrelevant because of their age, but I confess that is an argument I've never understood. The joys and the sorrows that birthed these songs in the first place are just as meaningful today, and with some effort any song can be arranged to any other genre.


   


Forty years ago, it was difficult to find a church where songs such as these were not in currency. It didn't matter if you were Lutheran, Methodist, Pentecostal, Baptist or Catholic. You could walk into any church of any other denomination, and the chances were good that you would find the familiar hymns of your own church contained with that denominational hymn book.

That's a power to music that we often don't appreciate. Studies have shown that when a choir, a congregation or even a stadium full of people begins to sing the same song together, the experience produces a measurable physiological effect on them. Singers' heartbeats and respiration begin to synchronize, and the group forms a cohesive collective identity through the shared experience.

Now stop and think how this approach to worship can mend some of the splits fracturing the church.

Consider "Just A Closer Walk with Thee," as recorded by folk musician Joan Baez. It starts off a little slow, but just wait until she hits her stride, around the 1:20 mark. (There's no one else like Joan.)




Because these worship songs were so common, they often became woven into the identity not just of the church but of the larger community itself. A lot of churches lament the declining spiritual influence of Christianity in America. Small wonder when we've abandoned the music that once helped to knit us together, regardless of age, denomination and region, in favor of music written only within the past few years — especially when the selection changes every few weeks.

Worship is meant to be a congregational experience. Too often that is not what happens. Rather than one person or even a group leading the congregation in worship, what is happening in our churches is a shift of our focus to the band and its performance, We crank the volume up like we would for the radio or at a concert, and the band plays the songs it has rehearsed for that week. This isn't a bad thing, but with the volume pounding, worship ceases to be an active, participatory experience because we're listening to the music instead. New songs are never bad, but in order for the congregation as a whole to join in on the worship, they need a chance to learn the song. That doesn't happen if the songs change to a new set before the congregation can learn them.

There is power in singing familiar worship music, just as there is in telling familiar Bible stories. While we should never close ourselves to innovation and new music, we're wrong to ignore the much greater participation that comes when we invite the congregation to sing familiar songs.

We're dying of thirst out here, and these are familiar channels where the water flows.


Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.



Still reading? I based this on something I wrote earlier. You can read it here.

fruit of the vine

Nothing beats a nice glass of vino at the end of the day. Tonight's glass comes courtesy not of the liquor store, but of my own work.

I got the idea a few years ago from Spike Your Juice, a company that sells a wine-making kit that allows you to turn a bottle of juice into alcohol, relying on a scaled-down version of the process that vinters have used for centuries. Their kit costs about $10; I made my own for about $2 using parts from a local homebrewers supply store.

Here's how it works.

Buy a bottle of actual juice. I like to use Northland or Welch's, because their sugar count is reliably high; but the truth is you just need a minimum 20 grams of sugar per serving. The higher the sugar content, the more alcohol you'll get. I selected Welch's black cherry concord grape juice, which has 36 grams of sugar per serving.

Next, buy a rubber stopper and an airlock. You can get these at a homebrewers supply store, like I did; or you can buy them online. (Note: If you buy them through that link I get a small referral payment, which keeps me in business as a blogger.)

The most important ingredient, of course, is yeast. You can spend $2 a packet on vinters yeast, which is all thing considered the best course of action. I say this because vinters yeast has been cultivated for decades expressly for the purpose of making wine, and it has been cultivated from the strains of yeast that naturally are found on grapes in the first place, It therefore may be said that vinters yeast both has evolved for the purpose of fermenting grape juice, and has been fine-tuned by vinters concerned with getting rid of the bad strains that are more likely to ruin your wine.

That being said, all sorts of yeasts make alcohol if you turn them loose in a liquid medium with sugars mixed in. It's what they do. You can use brewers yeast if that's what you have, and you also can use bakers yeast if that's what is available. The wine snobs will howl, but who cares about the wine snobs? We're trying to make alcohol on the cheap, not to win a wine-sniffing contest. Full disclosure: I used a small amount of yeast from my sourdough culture, which is sure to make the wine snobs howl, scream and gnash their teeth.

Open the bottle, pour in the yeast, close the bottle up with the stopper, and jam the airlock into the stopper. You will need to pour a small amount of water into the airlock first, so that its U-bend is completely filled with water and no air can pass through.

If you do use a packet of vinters yeast, keep in mind that you will not need the entire packet for one two-quart bottle of juice. You can use a much smaller amount, and thus use the packet for several bottles simultaneously or spread out over a period of time.

Over the next couple days, it won't look like much is happening, but don't fool yourself. The finest alchemy in the history of the world is about to begin. Whatever kind of yeast you used, it is busy consuming both the sugar and the oxygen in the juice. And as soon as the oxygen is gone, magic beguns.

Yeast is anaerobic facultative, a nicely biologic way of saying that while it thrives best in an oxygen-rich habitat, it also survives in media with no oxygen at all. While there is stll oxygen dissolved in the juice, the yeast will break down the sugar in such a way that it releases carbon dioxide as a waste. If you drink the juice during this period, it will taste more or less like a fizzy grape juice. Not bad, but not what we're after. As the oxygen dissolved in the juice runs out, the yeast will need to get it from a new source. This new source is the sugar, and as the yeast mines the sugar for oxygen, it will shift the way it metabolizes it, and it will begin to produce alcohol.

You'll notice a few things happening over the first two weeks of fermentation. If you have children, this process actually can be a fascinating lesson in applied science. In addition to the biology of yeast reproduction, they can learn the chemistry of how yeast breaks down sugar, and they also can see the physics of air pressure as the yeast produces more and more carbon dioxide that races to the airlock and forces its way out. There also are other chemical changes at work, as the juice will change color.

After about two weeks, the bubbling process will slow and appear to stop. You might have the urge to get a drink, but fight it off. Give the yeast more time to do its job. This is perhaps the sixth time I've made wine this way, and I've found that the alcoholic content is much stronger from waiting four weeks

Last night, my wife and I opened the bottle and I poured us each a glass. It had that heady aroma that wine has, and after only two glasses, I was starting to feel it. A friend of mine asked me to bring some to our next Bible study, and I had to laugh at his little joke. I wouldn't drink it all in one sitting, but there's no way it's going to last until next week.

But I'll be happy to start a few new bottles, and maybe bring one of them.

Russell Moore doesn't like me

Russell Moore doesn't like me.

It's not that big a deal, to be honest. I've never had the privilege to meet the esteemed Dr. Moore. If I hadn't encountered his declaration “The word 'evangelical' no longer has any meaning,” embedded in a tweet by Rachel Held Evans, our paths would still have yet to cross, even online. But cross our paths did, at least online. And in that interactive noninteraction, something about me rubbed him the wrong way, and he decided he disliked me enough to take the time to block me from reading anything else that he tweets.

I don't meant to make a big deal out of this, to be honest. I'm more amused than I am bothered, and even more puzzled than I am amused.

Moore, if you've never heard of him, is president of the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention. Judging by his Wikipedia page, we have a few doctrinal differences. He believes in the inerrancy of Scripture, subscribes to the doctrines that one must be a Christian to enter heaven and that everyone else descends into a literal hell of eternal torment, and favors complementarian gender roles. I'm sure we could have some rather lively discussions if we wanted.

On the other hand, Moore also is the adoptive father of two children. Anyone who looks at orphans and says “They are my family” is someone who lives in the very heart of God. All his other work — be it as pastor, professor, theologian or ethicist — is straw compared to that bold act of love. That makes him good people in my book.

I encountered Moore's tweet embedded in one of Evans', and Twitter being what it is, I followed Moore's tweet back to Moore's stream. I found this particular gem, which amused me and reminded me of the old joke: Why do Baptists oppose premarital sex? Because it may lead to dancing!

Further down his feed came two tweets that I responded to. One had to do with Planned Parenthood and federal funding, and the other with the ongoing debate over whether it's discriminatory for Christian business owners to refuse to provide cakes or floral arrangements for same-sex weddings, or discriminatory not to allow them to do so.

Here are the two tweets and my responses, in their entirety. First is a retweet he had made on the subject of abortion and Planned Parenthood funding. It's not evident from the tweet or the rewteet, but I assume Moore is opposed to both.

@amandacarpenter @drmoore It's true. Federal funding supports the vast majority of PP's work. Not a cent goes toward abortions.

— Wicker Gate (@WickerGate) February 27, 2016

The second, a tweet of his own, on the issue of catering for same-sex weddings:

@drmoore @Andy_Taggart They consider baking cakes to be wrong? Probably shouldn't be running a bakery, then.

— Wicker Gate (@WickerGate) February 27, 2016

Now, I don't want to be too hard on Moore. I'm sure he has no idea who I am. It's possible he missed the John Bunyan reference, and assumed that "Wicker Gate" is a reference to something horrid. Importantly, @WickerGate isn't my main Twitter account. I created it a little more than two weeks ago as a platform for voicing my religio-political views separately from my more personal tweets. In that time the account has acquired zero followers of its own.

It's quite possible Moore felt that I was trolling him, even though my comments were polite and conversational in tone. I really can't blame him. The Internet is full of trolls, and he probably deals with them on a regular basis. It's not like I'm a well-known blogger like Rachel Held Evans or Samantha Field.

But then, that's kind of the point, isn't it? Moore doesn't know who I am. He doesn't know if I'm looking for answers, if I'm hoping to initiate a discussion from his tweets, or if I'm just weighing in with a different opinion. He can't tell any of those things about me, and yet he still blocked me. In itself, that's not a big deal.

But I keep having these encounters with evangelicals once they begin to suspect that I don't belong in the camp, which is odd when one considers that evangelicals proclaim themselves the possessors of the eternal truth of salvation in Jesus Christ, and want everyone to come into the fold with them. It's hard to come into the fold when the fold keeps turning you away. And yet it does.

An editor at a Christian magazine wants to buy something I wrote about surviving cancer -- until he discovers that I support same-sex marriage, and then suddenly he wants nothing to do with me. A woman at the church we've been attending for 18 months is friendly and welcoming – until she discovers that I plan to vote Democratic, not Republican, in the upcoming presidential election. Then, suddenly, I shouldn't even bother coming to church.

I'm a voice worth listening to, until it becomes apparent that I'm not a six-day creationist and don't believe in the Rapture. The negative reaction gets even stronger when I profess my belief in the humanity of Jesus. God only knows how the church would respond if I were openly gay, transgender, polyamorous or otherwise declaring an alternate sexual or gender identity.

Actually, I don't need divine revelation to know how that would work out. I have plenty of friends whose experiences illustrate quite clearly the dangers of being out in a conservative evangelical setting. In the end, this is nothing like any of those. In terms of offense, being blocked on Twitter by a complete stranger ranks far closer to 1 or 0 than it does to 10.

I leave it to the reader to determine what lesson, if any, is to be drawn from my recent experience on Twitter with Russell Moore. I don't know Moore's heart, or what sort of evening he was having. In the final analysis, here is all that happened: On a Friday night in February, I logged onto Twitter and tried to engage with Russell Moore.

And he closed the door in my face.


Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.

making history

Perhaps there should be a curriculum of study required for would-be insurrectionists.

That would have been a help to Ammon Bundy and the other members of the "Citizens for National Wildlife," the radicalized militia that made the news this weekend for taking over the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in Oregon. According to reports in the press, the militia believe that by seizing control of a birding outpost nobody has heard of, they can force the U.S. government to accede to vague demands about restoring freedom to ranchers in the Northwest.

You see, that's the problem with radicalized militias these days. They know how they want history to turn out; but they don't know how to articulate it, and they have no idea how to get there.

Changing the world takes more than a lofty ambition. You also need specific goals, and you need to take bold steps to reach them. If you want to become princeps of Rome, then you have to cross the Rubicon. Want to overthrow the monarchy, then you have to storm the Bastille. If no one fires at Fort Sumter, then there's no Civil War; and World War I can't happen if no one shoots the archduke of Sarajevo.

This is what it takes to make history and change the world. But while the Caesars and the Generals Beauregard are dropping mighty boulders that shift history from its river banks, Bundy and his fellow militants are setting up camp illegally at an unoccupied visitor's center at a bird refuge, and asking for friends to send them snacks in the mail.

Like many other Americans, when I heard Saturday that a coterie of militants was planning sedition in the Northwest and asking other right-wingers to join them, my initial reaction was disbelief at how gently they were being handled. An Ohio grand jury had just decided not to indict a police officer for killing a 12-year-old boy, and the past year has been full of reports of the National Guard deployment and heavy-handed police tactics against protesters upset by the oppression of black people. These yahoos plot insurrection, and nothing happens.

These are the same yahoos who 18 months ago, as FOX News cheered, expressed contempt for the law of the land and attempted with other militants to provoke federal officers into an armed firefight. These are the same nutjobs who threatened armed insurrection over Clive Bundy's supposed right not to pay fees to graze his cattle on land he did not own.

Walter Scott gets shot in the back by police for running away during a traffic stop, Eric Garner gets choked to death by a cop for selling loose cigarettes, and George Zimmerman gets off scott-free after hounding and murdering Trayvon Martin; and there is zero response to a radicalized militia that seizes a federal building and promises bloodshed if federal troops approach?

A few days later, though, and I have to concede the wisdom in the federal nonresponse. I'm old enough to remember what happened a year after the siege at Waco, Texas, ended. That's when American terrorist Timothy McVeigh – like the Bundys, also a radicalized rightwing militant – blew up a federal building in Oklahoma in what remains the worst incident of domestic terror in U.S. history.

I remain critical of news outlets like the Washington Post, however. The Post has insisted on calling the Bundys and their band of radicalized militants "activists," as though the militia has been going door to door and asking people to sign a petition.

There have been reports that officials plan to cut power to the Malheur building where the militants are holed up, to let them feel the "flat ass cold" of the winter in Oregon. That sounds like a good approach. Cut the power, and cut off their cell phones. Set up a fence a safe perimeter around the building so that no one can get in or out, and wait them out. From all reports, the militants brought enough food for a couple weeks at best, and while they might be able to hunt a little, that's going to take time, energy and patience.

When they surrender, I'm tempted to say that they should have the book thrown at them for sedition. But I also like the idea of charging them with as simple a crime as breaking and entering, destroying government property and any other low-level offenses that may apply. Something that will net them fines, community service and enough jail time that they lose the right to own firearms.

Because in the end, these men aren't the epic heroes they imagined themselves to be, and they don't deserve to be remembered as villains either.

They're little nobody thugs, and that's how history will remember them.



Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission. Hat tip to Jeff Holton for the inspiration.

Tale of the Town Crier

I heard the story once of a small city that employed the services of a town crier. It was this fellow's duty to walk around the city, calling out important news and announcements of interest both general and particular.

​"Quarantine lifted in Ditko Village!"

"Fire in Kirby Square!"

"Traders from Romita Valley arrive tomorrow at the South Gate!"

People didn't always stop what they were doing; but they heard, and they listened, and so important news spread, and everyone praised the wisdom of the king in appointing the crier, so that everyone knew what was going on at all times.

Now the city had enemies to the north, in the Steranko Mountains. Every winter, when the snows fell and the crops died, and food grew scarce, bandits would sweep down from the mountains and roam the plains, attacking settlements and raiding the people's stores. Sometimes, when the bandit hordes were large enough and daring enough, the wealth of the city would call to them, and they would attack it under the cover of darkness.

The city was protected on all sides by stone walls nine feet high and so wide that guards could walk two abreast on them. When the guards spotted bandits on the approach, they would alert the crier and he would raise the alarm. The men of the city would rise from their beds, seize whatever weapon they could, and they would drive the enemy away.

One year this did not happen. Perhaps the town crier was asleep himself, or perhaps he did not hear the guards call him to alert the townfolk, or perhaps the guards themselves failed to tell him. No one really knew, but no one blamed him either. What they did know is that the bandits scaled the walls of the city, slew the soldiers who stood watch. and for three terrible days the brigands ran wild through the streets of the city, looting and killing at will until they finally returned to the Steranko Mountains, their horses laden with all the plunder they had seized.

The survivors left the old crier to his task, because the king had appointed him to that task, and what had happened was not his fault. But he had gone mad. Often he did his job as well as ever, and the city was kept safe by his warnings; but other times, he threw it into needless panic. He would shout that the library was on fire, and men would rush to the scene, buckets in tow, only to find scribes quietly reading and copying the scrolls in peace and safety. Other times he would say nothing, and so a dozen people would die by drinking from a poisoned well for want of a warning that it was no longer safe.

He's still mad to this day, and it's still the devil's game to understand when to trust him and when he should be ignored.

The crier's name was Conscience.

Copyright © 2016 by David Learn. Used with permission.

Apples come from apple trees

One of the biggest gifts that parents can give to their children are their own loves and passions.

My children are their own people, and always will be. That's as it should be. But it's always a great thing to see the ways that they pick up on our interests, our hobbies and our enthusiasms. Middle Daughter has taken my amateur's love of theater and interest in acting, and has turned it into a full-fledged passion of her own. I started listening to Broadway cast albums in high school and college; she has surpassed me by far, in only middle school.

Oldest Daughter dabbles in theater the way I do. It's a hobby, something she enjoys doing; and while it's nice to get bigger and better parts, she has no serious aspirations as an actor. But she shares my love for folk music.

Peter, Paul and Mary are a folksinging trio I discovered some time after college. I had heard of them before, obviously; primarily for their cover of Bob Dylan's "Blowing in the Wind," which I had first heard in college and then for a few other songs I heard on Oldies 99.9 while I was living in the Lehigh Valley. I'm a bigger fan now of Pete Seeger and early Joan Baez, but Peter, Paul and Mary are still a good listen.

For the past few months, I've heard Oldest Daughter singing this song all the time. She created a station on Pandora for folk music, and has been listening to Peter, Paul and Mary, and others on it.

It's a great song. I'm glad she turned me onto it.

Land of the Lost: 'Pylon Express'

Land of the Lost: 'Album'

There is trouble brewing in the Land of the Lost. For starters, an unknown animal is coming into the Marshalls' cave at night and eating their stores; and then there is a strange buzzing noise that only Will can hear, that draws him to the Lost City.

In the Lost City, Will finds something that looks like a matrix table of the sort Enik used to open the time portal, but made with colored stones instead of the stones. On the floor is a pulsing blue crystal. When Will picks it up, a nearby doorway fills with mist -- as when Enik showed each of the Marshalls their deepest fears -- and in it he sees a woman beckoning him to come closer, whom he recognizes as his deceased mother.

Holly, who has been working on a trap to catch the animal eating their stores, eventually hears the buzzing; and she and Will go to the Lost City together. Holly sees their mother too, after she picks up the blue crystal. Will speculates that they've found a time portal has opened to a point where their mother is still alive, and that they see her through a mist because they don't remember her well. Their mother fades from view, and they return to their cave.

Rick Marshall notices how despondent his children have become, and when they wander off to the Lost City together the next morning, he fellows them. There he discovers that the whole thing is a trap. The Sleestak are using the blue crystal to show the Marshalls what they most love, as a way to draw them in, so they can feed them to the Sleestak god at the bottom of the pit. Rick frees his children, tackles two Sleestak and pushes them into the pit, and leads his family to safety.

Back at their cave, he explains to the children how the Sleestak trap worked; and Holly abandons her own efforts to trap the animal coming for their food.

What I loved about this episode:

It's tightly written. The subplot about trapping the animal synchs nicely with the larger plot about trapping the Marshalls. Rick explains to Holly that a good trap relies on offering the animal something it wants but doesn't already have easy access to. The Sleestak offer the Marshall children not just a loving parent, but a loving parent whom they have lost.

Family ties. There has been no mention the entire series that I can recall to the children's mother. Why wasn't she on the "routine expedition?" We're never told, until this episode, when we find out that she died, years ago. I can think of few things more upsetting to young children than the thought of losing a parent, particularly a mother. But that's what happened here. A 1974 children's Saturday morning show actually gave us a widowed father raising his children. Even more daringly, while the mirage of their mother is alluring enough to draw the Marshall children close, the trap doesn't work until the children believe they're seeing Rick.

The Sleestak. They don't move particularly fast, they hiss a lot, their aim with crossbows is terrible, and frankly they walk like they're grown men trying to move around in rubber suits. But they are cold-blooded, vicious, and evil to the core. When the Marshall children believe that they are walking through the Lost City with their father, the camera keeps showing us brief snatches of what is happening: A Sleestak is leading two trusting children to their intended deaths. I'm 45, and it still creeped me out.

I keep saying it, but it bears repeating. "The Land of the Lost" was an intelligently written TV series for children. Forty years after its initial broadcast, this remains a show that children and adults can watch and enjoy together in a way they can with few others.


Forget the Will Ferrell attempt to make a comedy about this show. It deserves a serious and respectful treatment, either as a new kids show revisiting the concept as respectfully as its original incarnation did, or as a serious show for the adults who grew up watching Spencer Milligan and his castmates.

land of the lost: 'the stranger'

Self-control, and what that means, is at the heart of "The Stranger," the sixth episode of the classic "Land of the Lost" TV show.

Written by Star Trek alumnus Walter Koenig, "The Stranger" is where we start to see just how complex a sci-fi world David Gerrold created for this children's show. The episode begins with Holly and Will bickering as siblings will, while their father tries to keep the peace. They carry their fight as they go looking for food, and find a glowing crystal that converts the children's mutual hostility into actual physical pushing.

The crystal, it turns out, is called the Mageti. It is a stone that can operate the time portals in the Land of the Lost. The Marshalls are attacked by six Sleestak, and then rescued by Enik, a brown-skinned creature that looks like a Sleestak and claims to be an Altrusian from the future, descended from the Sleestak. The Mageti responds to emotions, but as a safeguard against violence, it self-destructs in the presence of too much hostility.

Enik acknowledges he theoretically could send the Marshalls home, but claims it would be too complex a calculation and refuses; besides, he needs the Mageti to return to his own time period. Will, predictably, becomes outraged; and in the ensuing fight for control of the Mageti, it explodes.

As it turns out, Enik possesses a stone that is a second Mageti, but it lacks a power source. The Marshalls lead Enik to the Lost City, where they soon find a gemstone to power Enik's Mageti; and Enik discovers that the Sleestak are not his ancestors, but the descendants of his people. He speculates that his people lost control of their emotions and descended into ignorance and savagery.

Another fight breaks out over the new Mageti, and this time Enik summons a psychoactive mist that subjects the Marshalls to their worst fears. Rick resists, and tells Enik that perhaps his people fell into the Sleestak not because they failed to control their anger and hate, but because they failed to display compassion and mercy. Persuaded, Enik releases the Marshalls and they let him return to his own time to warn his people of the danger facing them.

What I like about this episode:

Real sci-fi: OK, the matrix tables were pretty poor special effects; but this is some complex stuff. Interdimensional portals. Time travel. Evolution, and de-evolution. There's even an acknowledgment that this isn't magic; Enik could send the Marshalls home, yes; but as he points out time and again, with increasing irritation, it's not as simple as dusting crops. There are complex mathematical equations involved, and while he can do them, it could take years.

Complex world: Per the show's theme song, the Marshalls entered the Land of the Lost after an earthquake shook their raft while they were white-water rafting and plunged them down a waterfall. In the episodes, Rick has suggested that they fell through some sort of space warp, which he described as "a nightmare inside a nightmare." The world is obviously artificial, given that you can travel downstream from the swamp and end up back at the swamp without ever turning around. But now we're starting to see some of the machinery behind the world, which suggests that the Marshalls may be able to work that machinery themselves some day. (Albeit with risk. These controls are in the Lost City, which swarms with Sleestak.)

Unexpected twist. Enik is convinced the Sleestak are his ancestors, and why shouldn't they be? They're stupider, slower, and less advanced in every way. I can't imagine any viewer expects the Altrusians to predate the Sleestak, any more than Enik does.

Real fears. While a lot of kids shows have struggles like "How can I be popular?" or "How can I rescue him without revealing that I'm a mermaid?" the Marshalls just want to go home. Wesley Eure overacted a bit in this episode, and so did Spencer Milligan, but there has never been a child alive who hasn't been lost or separated from home and worried about never getting back.

Decent message. It's a kids show, so of course there's a moral. Rick Marshall puts it best: It's not enough just to control your emotions and not give into them; you also have to show empathy for others.

land of the lost: 'tag team'

I keep writing about "Land of the Lost" as though it were a sci-fi adventure show, and it is; but for all the sophistication underlying the show, it's also a children's show, with all that goes along with that.

Fifth episode "Tag Team" is a lesson about cooperation. When the Marshalls go hunting for vegetables, their neighbors the Pakuni keep raiding their cart and stealing the gigantic carrots and turnips as soon as their backs are turned. (Food plants grow to enormous size in the Land of the Lost. Carrots are 3 feet long, strawberries are the size of basketballs, and a turnip is the size of an Ottoman.)

While the six of them threaten one another and yell about the vegetables, Grumpy returns and chases them away, breaking off pursuit only when they break into two groups; but since Cha-Ka has remained with the Marshalls, the conflict continues. Before long, they're being pursued not only by Grumpy but also by an allosaurus the Marshalls have named Alice -- and then the children all get trapped by themselves.

Eventually things work out, as they always do in these situations, but the episode is made ironically amusing as Rick Marshall explains his rescue plan to Ta and Sa, the other two Pakuni, through the time-tested means of speaking English very loudly and gesturing a lot with his hands in hopes that he'll be understood.

The Pakuni distract Grumpy and Alice while Rick rescues the children, and afterward the Marshalls show the Pakuni how to work together to harvest their own vegetables. Cooperation. It's such a nice lesson to pass on, especially when it involves running for your life from dinosaurs.

land of the lost: 'downstream'

The mystery of the Land of the Lost deepens in "Downstream," as Rick Marshall leads his children on a rafting expedition downstream to see if they can find a way out of the land.

Along the way the episode sets up a number of mysteries about its setting. First is Jefferson Davis Collie, a Civil War artilleryman. Second is the cave where he lives and excavates jewels that store and direct large amounts of energy, enough that Rick speculates that they may be the power source for the time portal that brought theme there. Third, the show establishes that the land is finite and self-contained; heading downstream ultimately just leads back to the same point. Lastly, this is the first episode to mention Pylons.

As episodes go, this one was lackluster and not particularly exciting. But it does reveal just how intricate a world David Gerrold had created as a setting for the show. It's no surprise that 40 years after the show aired, my daughter right now is creating her own pretend Land of the Lost.

land of the lost: 'dopey'

If "Land of the Lost" was an edgy show for children, with monsters like the Sleestak; it was still very much a Saturday morning show that competed with cartoon fare.

That's shown in Episode 3, "Dopey," where Holly Marshall becomes enamored of the latest dinosaur the family has encountered. Out foraging giant strawberries for food, she and Will discover a giant egg, hatched, and wonder what could have come from it. They don't have long to wonder, because they soon encounter a baby brontosaurus whom Holly names Dopey.

The episode becomes a classic stray dog episode, as Holly begs her father to let him keep her new pet. When it becomes evident that they can't make a 4,400-pound brontosaur leave if it doesn't want to, Rick reluctantly agrees; and Holly sets about showing how useful he can be. In short order she is training him how to fetch, riding on his back, and hitching him up to the cart.

The downside is that Dopey makes a lot of noise when he's hungry, and his cries keep attracting Grumpy, the T-Rex, and putting the Marshalls in danger. Thus it is not long until Rick Marshall is telling his daughter the sad news that she has to give up her new pet and let him be with other brontosauri.

"Dopey" isn't an adventure episode like "Cha-Ka," or a suspense episode like "The Sleestak God." Instead, it's very much rooted in family, with children wanting to adopt wild animals as pets, whining about chores; and a parent setting boundaries and enforcing good behavior. We also see signs that Rick Marshall is a handyman: Like the good folks on "Gilligan's Island," he has managed to make a wooden cart with wheels, and a dinner table, using only the natural resources available.

We also get a little more speculation about the nature of the Land of the Lost. In the first episode, Rick Marshall told his children that they weren't on earth, judging by the three moons he had observed, and said that when they fell down the waterfall it seems like they were traveling through some sort of "space warp." Now Will tells Holly that their father things they are in an entirely different universe, one that connects to all space and time, which is how there can be dinosaurs there the same time as humans.

land of the lost: 'the sleestak god'

If you want an example of how intense "Land of the Lost" could be for young children, check out its second episode, "The Sleestak God."

A similar concept to the Silurians on Doctor Who, but with slightly better productions values, the Sleestak are a race of reptile people who soon became the main villains of the series and its most iconic characters. They're tall, skinny and long-limbed. They don't move particularly fast, and they hiss instead of talking.

During "The Sleestak God," Will and Holly are sent to fetch water -- even in the Land of the Lost, this is still a family, with chores and whining over having to do them -- and decide to go exploring as they go. One of their discoveries is a mysterious and midlly foreboding building. Before long the two of them are caught by the Sleestak, put into a net and hung over a pit to be fed to a monster in the pit, the presumed Sleestak god.

The children are saved by their father (of course) after their friend Cha-Ka is able to alert him to the danger they're in, but if you think about it, this is a pretty intense concept for a young child. It's probably one of the chief reasons that the Sleestak gave me nightmares when I was younger.

'To Catch a Killer': Brian Dennehy as John Wayne Gacy

 

I've spent about three hours the past two nights watching Brian Dennehy play John Wayne Gacy in "To Catch a Killer."

Gacy, for those unfamiliar with him, was a Chicago-area serial killer convicted of sexually torturing and murdering some 30 teenage boys and burying their bodies in his basement, under his garage, under the floorboards of his rec room, and elsewhere. To all outward appearances, he was an upstanding member of the community who regularly donated to civic organizations, and who performed for children as Pogo the Clown. The movie was made for TV, and aired in 1992.

Dennehy gives a great, just-the-right-side-of-creepy performance of Gacy, a man with cocksure grin who engages police in cat-and-mouse maneuvers as the pressure slowly builds; opposite an equally strong Michael Riley as Detective Joe Kozencza, who becomes convinced early on that Gacy is behind the recent disappearance of a local teen and then gradually realizes the monstrosity of Gacy's crimes.

The movie's got some good drama. In addition to the performances of its leads and supporting actors, it depicts Kozencza as a man under pressure as he overcomes colleagues' professional skepticism to bring Gacy in. He's got to convince not only his chief to provide the manpower, but his detectives that he's not wasting their time; and he's got to complete the case before Gacy's attorney can file a harassment lawsuit that will shut the case down.

It's got a few weak points too. I could have done with fewer car chases, myself; and the decision to include a psychic (Margot Kidder) seems silly in a story that focuses on more serious detective work in a true crime story. It also felt too often like the movie focused on Gacy's orientation, as if that were a sign of his depravity instead of incidental to it; but that at least may be a product of when the movie was made.

Still, what a movie. Dennehy was nominated for an Emmy for his portrayal of Gacy; and Riley and director Eric Till each were nominated for a Gemini Award. I generally don't think much of TV movies, and there's no doubt that the movie glossed over the more horrifying elements of Gacy's crimes; but this was a good movie.

Part two:


 

land of the lost: 'cha-ka'

Today I began a task that every man must undertake when he is a father. Today I began watching "The Land of the Lost" with my youngest daughter.

"Land of the Lost" was created by David Gerrold for Sid and Marty Krofft, and originally ran on Saturday mornings on NBC beginning in 1974. For a show that ran opposite cartoons like Bugs Bunny, "Land of the Lost" had a pretty intense setup. It was about a father and his two children trapped in a mysterious land with dinosaurs and other menaces.

The episode Alex and I watched tonight was "Cha-Ka," on YouTube. It's the pilot episode, but the theme song that plays over the open credits is really all the introduction you need: Rick Marshall and his two children, Will and Holly, are whitewater rafting when a terrible earthquake drops them 1,000 feet. They miraculously survive the terrible fall, only to find themselves running from a Tyrannosaurus rex they call Grumpy.

The episode picks up not long after the Marshalls' arrival in the Land of the Lost, and for a young child especially, offers a fantastic mix of adventure and risk. There is Grumpy, a regular dramatic threat who chases the Marshall children or who corners them in their cave. And there is Cha-Ka, a missing-link ape boy whose friendship the Marshalls cultivate by rescuing him from Grumpy and by treating his broken leg.

The writing is a little corny some times, and the banjo soundtrack adds a touch of feelgood sensibility to what could be an otherwise scary show for a young child. But all that aside, it's as engaging to Alex as I remember finding it myself. Two hours after watching it, she was walking around the catching saying "Cha-Ka! Cha-Ka!"

She's already asking to watch Episode 2 tomorrow.