Don't Worry Your Little Head

A scientist/artist marvels at infant development.

Thousands of comments greeted Alexander Tsiaras's artistic presentation of life in the womb. Many were hostile. His biggest crime? He called it a baby. In other words:

     Don’t tell me about the vertebrae that form to hold a spinal cord. Don’t tell me about the neural cells that meet to make a brain. Don’t tell me how the eyelids form. Don’t tell me about the little hands that meet across the heart. When the heart beats, don’t tell me. Don’t worry my head with fingerprints, or DNA, or bones. I have a right, you know, to choose.

     So don’t you dare say “baby.” I have a right to words that sound not-human--zygote, foetus, embryo. I don’t care what your dictionary says about “unborn humans.” No “baby.” That word is anti-choice. I will not say what I have chosen. Damn your transitive verbs. I choose a choice. A choice to choose. No “what.” No “whom.” Don’t ask me.

     You try to show me pictures. I won’t look. How dare you try to make me see. I’ll keep my mass of cells, my blob, my thing no different from a chicken, no better than a lizard. Those can be cut and crushed and burned, and I don’t have to feel a thing. That’s all I will remember. A wart, a fingernail, a cyst. It’s gone.

     Besides, I’m just a teen. I’m starting my career. I have to finish school. The guy doesn’t care. Besides. It’s my body. It’s my life. It’s my choice. I don’t want to be tied down. Adoption? That’s too hard. Besides. Some kids are poor. Wouldn’t it be better not to live?  Unwanted, wouldn’t it better not to live? Besides, the baby… no, the foetus… no, the product of conception might grow up to be a criminal. Might grow up. Might grow. Wouldn’t it be better not to live? I’ll decide.

     Keep your scans and sonograms. Keep your physiology. Keep your scientific observations and your logic. Keep your photos and your Bible and your wonder. Keep it. It’s only propaganda. It’s only meant to deny me choice. Don’t use it. Don’t tell me. Don’t show me. I will not see.

 

Valley Forge Vision

A group of half-starved men, their feet wrapped in rags, huddles around a small fire built of the few sticks they could scavenge from the snowy ground of Valley Forge. They try to warm their stiffened hands over the feeble flames. One of the men looks across the little circle and says, “Caleb, why do you fight?”

“Well,” says the one so addressed, “I see a day when an enormous government will collect a larger percentage of the people’s money in taxes than King George does today, and they will scarcely bat an eye. And you, Micah?”

“Ah,” came the answer, “‘tis like your vision, as I imagine whole generations of citizens dependent upon that great government for their bread. In fact, there should be more of them than there are people who pay the taxes.”

“Of course, that means the Holy Scriptures will have to be ignored,” another of the soldiers spoke. “How I long to see schoolchildren prevented from reading them. Even public display of the Commandments should be forbidden, and certainly no cross must be seen in any public place.”

“A worthy goal, no doubt, Ezra. Beyond that, oh, picture it. Some day our daughters will be able to shack up with men, and we will have no fear of their becoming pregnant out of wedlock, because they will be free to kill off our grandchildren.”

“Mm, yes, imagine. That is why we fight,” arose from every throat about the fire. “And certainly our children should be forbidden to carry such firearms as we use to feed and protect our families and our freedom.” Then all became silent. Pairs of eyes met across the flames. Each of the group rose, and with a muttered, “Hell, we might as well keep the king,” they shouldered what tattered packs they owned and trudged away into the darkness, leaving the struggling fire to die in the snow.  

Hillsdale and Handel

     Are you supposed to hallucinate during Handel’s Messiah? I guess I didn’t actually hallucinate. It was more like synesthesia, seeing sound as shapes and color. Whatever it was, it happened to this Floridian in Michigan in a Baptist church that looked Episcopalian while listening to a mostly-student production of what may be the most nearly perfect piece of music ever composed on this earth. I’d been looking forward to this concert since my youngest son first applied to Hillsdale College in Hillsdale, Michigan, and I learned they put on the Messiah every four years in order to give every singer/musician a chance to participate. Isaac is a junior, and he was in the choir. I flew up for the weekend and attended both Friday and Saturday performances.

     Just being on the Hillsdale campus starts my perceptions altering. Strolling the “quad,” I feel I’ve been transported into a Jimmy Stewart film with the same spirit of serious study, good fun and general wholesomeness. Students smile at me and say hello. This does not happen on large state university campuses. Jeans and sweatshirts abound, but so do pretty dresses, trim wool coats and fanciful scarves. Some of the young men wear coats and ties, and even fedoras, if they happen to be members of a certain music fraternity. If my math is correct, a good tenth of the students are part of the Messiah choirs and orchestra. Their majors include everything from math to economics to biology, not just music.

     I’m told that all tickets are spoken for, and the College Baptist Church fills quickly from floor to balcony. The stained glass, high ceiling and exposed beams look more like Episcopal style than the Southern Baptist churches of my youth, and they make a perfect setting for the music. Robed choristers file onto rows of risers, followed by the Chamber Choir, boys in black suits and red ties, girls in elegant black dresses with sweetheart necklines. In the center of the orchestra is an ornate harpsichord.

     At Christmas time, I inundate my kitchen with Messiah on CD, the Academy of Ancient Music version, conducted by Christopher Hogwood. I’ve never heard the whole thing in person before, and I’m pretty excited when the overture begins. There’s the tenor, “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people…” The choir belts out  “And the glory, the glory of the Lord shall be re-veal-ed…” Do choirs belt? At any rate, the powerful rush of sound tells me I’m to be carried out of the ordinary. They are singing the Bible to me, and I think they must believe what they are singing, or at least have a pretty good idea of the majesty and eternal importance of the words. The students all have papers due and finals to prepare for, yet they’ve devoted themselves to this production. It’s a fine thing.

     One of the lovely sopranos steps forward and begins her aria, “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion…” I close my eyes to marvel at the richness and intricacy of the sound. How does it come from a human throat? Here is the synesthesia. The sound rises in plumes, bright white on one side, shaded on the other, curving around an invisible axis. I wish I could draw it. Have you seen pictures of the Spanish dancer sea creature? (It’s a “sea slug,” but that word is far too coarse. So is “nudibranch.”) Its edges undulate like the hem of a dancer’s skirt. The sound was like that. You see how weak words are for this. I suppose that’s why the sound had to go three-dimensional in my head. 

A Spanish dancer. Hear it?

       Not everyone was transported. One preteen boy near me clomped out and missed the Hallelujah Chorus. He returned at its end to drop back into the pew and just about bounce me off the end. Too bad. The rest of us had stood, like George II, and thrilled to the music. Conductor Hogwood of my CD version calls the tradition “unnecessary,” but I love it. 

      Altogether, the program was about two and a quarter hours of music, with no intermission. It didn’t seem that long. After the final “amen,” the audience stood and cheered and applauded for a long time. “The glory of the Lord” indeed.

God and Gimme

     A few times too many, I've been told that Christian charity requires support for government redistribution plans like welfare and public housing and Obamacare. This is a gross distortion of scripture. Sure, the Bible contains many admonitions to believers to care for the poor, but it never, ever tells us that government programs are the delivery system. Voting for big government to do the job of caring for the poor means outsourcing the duty that God lays on us as His people and violating a few commandments rather baldly.

     Start with "You shall have no other gods before Me," as in Deuteronomy 20:3. The Lord has just reminded His people that He is the one Who brought them out of slavery in Egypt. He fed them. He gave them water. He even made sure their clothes never wore out during their time in the wilderness. He was their rescuer, their provider, their sustainer. Those are solid credentials for being their one God, and He won't be happy if they replace Him. Now, if we claim to be followers of that same God in His Son Jesus Christ, shouldn't we look to Him first for food, clothing, shelter and freedom? Making government the source of all sustenance replaces God. He doesn't like it. He is a jealous God.

    "Do not call anyone on earth your father; for One is your Father, He who is in heaven," says Jesus in Matthew 23:9. I used to think this meant that Catholics were wrong to call their priests "father," but a look at history (and current events) showed me something different. I remember reading that in Communist China, schoolchildren were taught to begin their day with thanks to Chairman Mao for their school, their breakfast, every valuable thing. Perhaps you've seen reports of North Korean children expressing the same gratitude to Kim Jong Il. Remember Germans calling "Heil, Hitler" in place of "hello" and "good-bye." No more "gruss Gott" (roughly, "greet God") as a greeting. More recently, we were treated to video of various American schoolchildren singing praises to Barack Hussein Obama, mmm, mmm, mmm. Now that's calling someone on earth your father, seeing a human being, or a human institution, as the source of your well-being.

     Farther along in the Ten Commandments, we find "You shall not covet" and "You shall not steal." These two sins  are the basis of the welfare state. The leftist demagogue encourages "the poor" to ignore any of their own behavior which might have left them in poverty, such as scorning school, serial fornication, illegitimacy, drugs, alcohol, or crime, and to think only that some other people have more than they do. (Disregard also the self-discipline and work ethic of that group.) They get angry. They demand their "fair share." That's the coveting part. Next, they vote for the politicians who promise to use the power of the state to take what the "rich" have earned and hand it over to them in the form of food credit cards, housing, medical care and sometimes plain old cash. That's the stealing part.

     So what is my responsibility? I take my cue from Leviticus 19: 9,10. "When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not wholly reap the corners of your field, nor shall you gather the gleanings of your harvest. And you shall not glean your vineyard, nor shall you gather every grape of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I am the Lord your God." I think this tells me not to spend every penny, but to keep something to devote to charity. Widows and orphans may need something directly from my hand, but the gleaners were the "working poor," emphasis on "working." Landowners were to leave something for the poor, but the poor were to get into the fields and pick it up. (See Ruth and Naomi.)

      In 2 Thessalonians 3, Paul recounts how he and his team declined to freeload off the townspeople, but worked for their food. Then he hit them with verse 10: "For even when we were with you, we commanded you this: If anyone will not work, neither shall he eat." That's the element that seems to be missing completely from our "entitlement" system. Be responsible for yourself. Work to support yourself and your family. Make enough to help others.

     Mr. Obama is fond of saying he wants everyone to have a "fair share." Well, my share of Bill Gates's money is zero. My share of Mitt Romney's money is zero. And Obama's share of my money is zero. Listen, if you're hungry, I'll make you a sandwich. If you can rake leaves, I'll pay you for it. But don't send the IRS to ransack my pantry or my wallet and call me names when I object. I'll choose my own charities, individual or organized, and I'll answer to God. I'm pretty sure giving to the Salvation Army is better stewardship than promoting big government bureaucracy. 

Penury Is the Midwife of Invention

     I was planning to make a pinwheel out of a Chipotle takeout lid, a sort of aluminum pie pan stretched into an oval. Two fabulous steel pinwheels already stood in one of my backyard peanut patches, but they were too darn expensive for doodads with no other purpose than to amuse the eye and make me feel cool and modern. Pinwheels are also supposed to scare squirrels. Though I could almost hear the little blighters snickering when I installed the store-bought ones, I decided to make my own pinwheels to stand in my raised garden beds.

     So there I sat at my kitchen table with a paper pattern, kitchen shears and a Chipotle takeout lid. I figured if I trimmed off the heavy crimped edge, I could flatten the rest of the lid, snip toward the center, turn in the corners, stick a small nail through the center, and voila. The shears bit in and made their way around the edge of the lid where it bent outward. As the trimmed bit grew, it began to curl, and when it dropped to the table, it looked for all the world like a snake.

     I did make the pinwheel, and it spun all sprightly on its bamboo stick, but my mind kept revolving around the aluminum snake. I set it in the garden with a chunk of concrete on one end. It was wonderfully reptilian, curving about and moving a little in the breeze. With another lid, I began cutting at the edge, and snipped around in a spiral all the way to the center, leaving an oval at the end as the snake’s head. I shook it out and exulted at the way it shimmered and shimmied.

      Last year, one of my adolescent fig trees produced a dozen or so fruits. Squirrels ate all but one of them, before they were even ripe. The only survivor was hidden under a leaf and discovered by a party guest. We shared it. Few things are as luscious as a ripe fig fresh from the tree. This year, the tree repeated its performance, only draped with aluminum snakes. We humans ate all the figs except one, which ants got into. What a triumph. Now the garden is swathed in snakeish effigies, and I’m—well, sort of proud of myself, but more than that, thankful to have stumbled on a solution to rodent depredation. I even sent a photo and description to local ag agent emeritus Tom MacCubbin, whose book The Edible Landscape, or, as my brother-in-law calls it, Eat My Backyard, inspired my plantings. He said he’d try it.

     So, after all the trapping and shooting and throwing stones at the squirrels, the sprinkling of cayenne and the dripping of peppermint oil and growling fiercely at the critters that ventured close to the porch (Yes, I confess I growled at them. I may have used some unkind words too.), the solution needed only Chipotle and cheapness to reveal it. Come around next summer. We’ll eat figs.