For something like a year and a half I have been posting my sermons on this blog. Mostly they are meditations on the things I see around me: essays on not being a dick. And I want to say right up front, that I believe that every time each one of us refrains from being a dick, the world is a better place.

And although the world might not improve drastically because you don’t cut in front of someone on the freeway, I believe that you are yourself changed each time you don’t get angry, each time you refrain from saying something hurtful, each time you make a point of putting someone else first. I certainly believe that whenever you treat someone the way you would like to be treated, you are better for it. Certainly their life is improved, but so is yours, because being aware of how your actions impact others makes you happier. It makes your life more pleasant.

Whenever you stop yourself from being a dick, you are being what the Buddhists call mindful. Mindfulness is the awareness of the world around you, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. What this gives you, the non-dick, is the ability to live in the precious moment that if unnoticed, will speed past, leaving you the poorer for a bit of your life you threw away.

“Live in the now, dude!” If you take a second to ask yourself, “What would a dick do?” and then decide not to do that, you are slowing your life down for that second. In that second you are mindful, and the minute that follows – the minute when you don’t drop your garbage by the side of the road, when you don’t ignore a colleague just because she is a woman, when you don’t cut in front in traffic, that next minute is a moment of peace for you. A moment of happiness.

I honestly believe that’s all we have to do to start making all of our lives better.

But it’s not all that we can do, and I want to talk a little about that right now.

The guy who throws his half-empty McDonald’s shake into my front yard is a dick.

The girl who takes hers home and puts it in the garbage is not a dick.

And the person who sees the garbage by the side of the road and picks it up, is an anti-dick.

The guy who stops his friend from interrupting their female colleague and says, “Hang on, let her finish,” isn’t doing much, but he is being an anti-dick. Because the interrupter is being a dick.

In our apartment building there is a rubbish room on every floor for the garbage and for storing the recycle for pick up. It’s only a small room, and what with pizza delivery, the Amazon boxes, the flat pack furniture, and the paper grocery bags full of cereal boxes, it gets filled up with recycle really fast. By Friday evening it’s hard to even get near the garbage chute. I love the guys who come Monday morning to clear it all out, believe me. Who I don’t love are the neighbors who ignore the instructions to break down cardboard boxes and just dump them in front of the biodegradable bin. I mean, come on now!

So yeah, the neighbor who leaves his boxes piled up? Dick.

The neighbor who flattens his boxes and stuffs them up against the wall behind the bin? Not a dick.

The guy who takes his box knife with him and flattens other people’s boxes? Anti-dick. (That would be me, by the way.)

And yes, this is really trivial. But our days are filled up with the trivial, and doing something about the trivial helps, too. If flattening boxes is one way to make the world just a little better to be in, it’s worth doing. It’s easy. All it takes is mindfulness, a little time, and a box knife.

Moving the abandoned shopping cart out of the parking place and putting it into the collection area is trivial. Letting the person with one loaf of bread go in front of you at the check out is trivial. Goodness knows, just holding the door open for someone whose arms are full is trivial, but I’ve been glad of it. And I’ll bet there are a lot of you that have been glad of a trivial act of kindness.

A trivial act of kindness is remarkably easy. Less easy is standing up to intervene when some dick is insulting a counter worker because he thinks she’s too slow, but we need to do that. Even harder, perhaps, is standing up when our political leaders seem to take misogyny in younger men as some kind of god-given right and attack the women who complain about it.

It seems to me that whenever a man says he was sexually assaulted as a boy, it is taken as a matter of fact, but when a woman finds the courage to do the same thing, she is doubted, insulted, threatened, and shunned. Any man who makes that kind of a judgment, without any information to go on, is a dick. And if he’s a person in a position of power, he’s a king-dick. Holding yourself or your group to a lower standard than you demand for others is the exact opposite of the Golden Rule. Legally, morally, spiritually, socially, individually, it is toxic. Poisonous.

And the only anti-toxin we have is to be an anti-dick. Because that social poison is killing us.

The good we do doesn’t have to be a big deal. Just make good someone else’s bit of dickishness. Maybe we should be like the anti-dick organizations that “adopt” a stretch of I-5 and clear up the mess. Just chose a piece of your life where you won’t let people drop their physical, emotional, political, or sexist garbage. Maybe at work. Maybe at the roadside. Maybe at your local Starbucks. Maybe just in the recycle room.

Be an anti-dick when you can.

But at least, you know, in the first place…

Don’t be a dick.

 

A week ago I went to the Puyallup Fair. We go pretty much every year, to look at the animals, eat the mandatory scone and see the rodeo, or listen to whoever is in concert that strikes our fancy. This time we went to see a horse circus. It’s kind of our end of summer birthday treat.

As it happens I was wearing my minister rig: pretty much the Man in Black with my  little white flash of dog collar. As we were going along the fairway, someone called out, “Hey, Father!” I was talking to my wife at the time, and my hearing isn’t so good, so it took a second to realize what I had heard, so I turned, but couldn’t make out who had called. I gave a general wave in what I hoped was the right direction, and we passed on. If it was you who called out, I’m sorry I missed you.

Remembering this the next day, my wife asked, “Is it just Catholic Priests who are called Father, or other ministers as well?” I answered that basically, priests are called “Father” and ministers “Reverend,” more or less. So Catholic, Anglican, and Orthodox are Father, and Lutheran, Unitarian, Baptist and the rest are mostly Rev. And soldiers call everybody “Padre.” Really, though, there isn’t any rule.  

“Why do most people call ministers Father, then?” she asked. I’m not sure, but I think it’s because (especially here in Cascadia) many people aren’t religious, or at any rate, don’t go to church, and so get their ideas from the TV or movies, and for some reason those like to show Catholics. Better costumes, I suppose. Except on the BBC, where everyone is C of E, except Father Brown.

If somebody calls me Father, I ask if they are Catholic, and if yes, tell them I’m not a priest, because it matters to them. Anyone else, they can call me whatever they like. Just as long as they aren’t a dick about it. But what is interesting about this is that people do respond to the dog collar. Always positively.

Sometimes they want to talk, sometimes just say hello, sometimes to ask where my church is. Well, as you know, I don’t do the church thing, so I just say I have no brick-and-mortar church; I’m just online. Here. But the interesting thing is, my impression is people like to see priests, or ministers, or whatever. I know I always feel a little lift when I see a Buddhist monk around town. I’m glad they are there, doing their thing.

I think this is because, even though we are a very secular society here in Seattle, and most of the people I know are atheists, the reaction to somebody wearing a dog collar is positive. This is because, as I like to say, it’s a badge, declaring, “I’m more interested in values than things.” And in a world where we are bombarded by advertising exhorting us to go buy and consume and fulfill ourselves by wanting more and earning more, people like to be reminded of something else. Even if they think, “How can you possibly dedicate your life to a fairy tale?”  They like to see ministers or priests doing their thing.

Because, after all, a dog collar is a kind of advertisement. And yes, ministers are selling something, in a way. But I live in the hope that most of them are selling the ideal of knowing the value of things, and not just the cost of things. Perhaps the simple idea of treating the people around you well. Loving your neighbor, even. Something like that. Not being a dick, anyway.

Goodness knows, priests as people, and churches as institutions are fallible, venal, sometimes corrupt. And there are some ministers out there who are in it for the money, or worse. And this is why, I sometimes think, many ministers have stopped wearing their dog collars in public. Because …. well. They don’t want to catch the flack. Being a minister isn’t very cool, after all. It’s kind of antiquated. Pathetic, really.

Only there isn’t any flack that I can see. Only polite interest. Maybe even an ironic thought that though they can’t believe in anything, it’s kind of nice to think that maybe someone else does. Call it God, call it the Good, call it Buddha. Whatever you want to call it, I think people kind of miss it. And they want somebody out there, putting some effort into making the world a better place. Even if that very notion is really old fashioned and out of date.

But some things never go out of date. Like treating others with respect. As individuals, not as members of a group. With compassion. As you would like to be treated yourself. You know, with kindness. Fairness. Honesty, maybe. Sympathy and understanding. Honor. Virtue, however you define it. Love. All the things that are also fairy tales, but that make our lives not just better, but possible. And it really doesn’t matter where you get your inspiration to believe that a life of values is a happier one than a life of consumption, making the statement that you believe in something beyond the physical is welcome in our society.

After all, if God is a myth, so are Democracy and Freedom. Fairness and honesty don’t exist, except in our hearts and in our minds and in our actions. The Golden Rule has no mass, no energy, no physical existence.

Dickishness is an attitude, not an atom.

Which is why I wish more ministers wore their dog collars. In the 20 years I have lived in Seattle I have seen two men showing their colors. One Lutheran Minister we gave a lift to, and one Catholic Priest, striding along like Father Brown on a case. It’s why I go out with my dog collar, especially if I plan to see someone in anyway connected with what I believe is my vocation: to teach the love of beauty and creativity, of honesty and compassion, and of not being a dick.

Because sometimes someone on the street will call out, “Bless me, Father!” And if he wants the blessing of a rational humanist art-minister, he’s welcome to it.

Can’t do any harm. And to refuse would be the act of a dick.

 

 

There’s no getting around it; I cannot claim to be young, and my family background is almost 100% northern European, and although I was frequently mistaken for gay as a young man, and on one memorable afternoon in 1967 was propositioned by both a girl and a fellow, I can report that as far as I know, I am what they call cisgendered. Not that I knew there was ever an alternative when I was young. So, for good or ill, I am an old, white, man.

What is more, I was born shortly after the end of the Second World War, and thus count as a Baby Boomer. Strangely enough, my brother, who is only two years older than I, is, according to Google, not a Boomer. Of the four boys in my family, that label belongs only to me.

It also belongs to anyone born up to twenty years after me.

That’s the trouble, you see. Because I truly find it impossible to believe that when I was eighteen, a newborn girl and I had much in common. Yet, as we are both supposedly Boomers, we are supposed to share the same politics, the same moral imperatives, the same educational background, and the same opinions about anyone born after 1961. That, apparently, is when you get to be counted as a Generation X-er (notwithstanding that one can claim Boomer status right up to 1964). However, the brothers I grew up with should, theoretically, not share these characteristics

They are not Boomers.

Now, according to what one sees on social media, all of us Boomers went to cheap colleges, got jobs for life, have bought our second homes, and ruined the environment. We are racist, conservative, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic idiots, who despise Millennials for being entitled, lazy, and for spending too much time on their cell phones.

This should be especially true for me, because I was born south of the Mason-Dixon line and my parents were Republicans. But since absolutely none of these things apply to me, I can only suppose that some woman born in 1964 is an absolute terror and clearly a Nazi. She has to be,  to average things out, you know.

Now, I know that protesting that I do not fit any of the stereotypes shoved onto Boomers is just a bit of “Not All Men” special pleading. But when you start presuming to know what someone is like because of when they were born, that’s simple prejudice (or astrology), and it isn’t any more attractive when it’s ageism than when it’s racism.

But the thing is, the protest that not all men are rapists, or even misogynists, is actually true. Even if this truth is used to hide behind and to ignore the fact that far too many men are at least tacitly supporting rape culture by their silence. I accept that. I mean, when it comes to being abusive to people, one dick is one too many.  So though it’s true that not all men are misogynists, way too many are. Still, the basic fact remains: if you prejudge people by their color, their religion, their gender, their politics, or their age, you stand a better-than-even chance of being mostly wrong about them. This is especially true if you start projecting all the things you don’t like about the world onto a particular group and blaming them for your woes.

It’s yet another example of binary thinking, which I wrote about back in August, 2017.  I am not the stereotypical Boomer. However, because I am not conservative, I must, by definition, be Libtard, and therefore in favor of abortion, against traditional marriage, an atheist, a socialist, (which is to say, a Communist)  who’s soft on crime and secretly supports Daesh, while wanting open borders and hating our freedoms – and who definitely wants something for nothing.

Sorry, still wrong.

In fact, forget about age and race, stereotyping anyone because of a group you decide to put them in is just plain dickish. Not because it denies the individual any autonomy, but because it’s just factually wrong.

Most of my friends are younger than I. In fact, for a Boomer, I am friends with a lot of Millennials. This may be because we have a lot in common. Not everything, mind. One of my favorite young parishioners is much more politically conservative than I am. Sometimes we get close to arguing about it. But we don’t, because we know that the things we might disagree about are much less important than what we have in common. We know better than to argue about what we are, because we both know who we are.

It seems to me there is something even more invidious than putting other people into boxes and labeling them – and that is putting yourself in a box and labeling yourself. Even worse than prejudging your so-called enemies, is prejudging your friends. I fear my conservative parishioner has a tendency to agree with other conservatives simply because they are more like him than not. After all, if you agree with someone about small government and abortion, you might as well take for granted what he says about Mexicans is also true, even though your personal experience indicates he is wrong. At any rate, don’t argue with him about that, because, overall, you agree on a lot of things.

The real danger in this kind of tribalist thinking is that when you go looking for things to agree about, just to fit into your box more comfortably, you shut down your sceptical faculties, because they might cause embarrassment.

So, please, don’t put people in boxes. That includes yourself. It’s a dickish thing to do.

After all, there are boxes waiting for all of us down the line, and I see no virtue in hurrying to get into them.

About a month ago, I tried to write a sermon and got stuck. Mostly when this happens, I leave it for a while and then go back and try it again. This time, it didn’t work. I showed what I had managed to write to my editor, and she said it didn’t make sense.

I was blocked. Nothing would come.

Then, on Good Friday evening I was sitting in a noisy bar talking with friends about the nature of friendship and how valuable a good friend is and where we learn the values of friendship. For example, the martial art that we share together is the glue that binds us together as a group of friends. We talked about how the focus of our practice is fundamental to how we face our daily lives, how the desire to improve must be stronger than the desire to ‘win,’ how in life, as in martial arts, there is no end point toward which you travel, but only the journey.

We talked about how lucky we all are to have each other as friends – as companions on that trip. We are all very different, and the differences help. We talked about how fortunate we are in our Sensei, and how the senior students are role models for the juniors. We talked about how hard good role models are to find, especially (dare I say it?) for men. I said how lucky I am to have walked into the dojo on the day I did, and how I recognized within half an hour that I was “home.”

And my friend said, “Yes, it isn’t luck, it is a matter of grace.”

Thirty-three years ago, my wife collapsed and was diagnosed with a brain tumor while we were on vacation at my parents in the United States. We were a long way from home, broke, and with no insurance. Back in Wales, our friends did fundraisers, held bake sales, sponsored runs, and otherwise saved our bacon. They paid our bills and got us home. Back in the Teifi Valley at last, a woman from the local radio station came to interview me.

“Do you think it’s fair that your friends had to raise so much money for you?” She asked.

“Fair? What’s fairness got to do with this?” I answered. “Was it fair that my wife got cancer? Is it fair that the United States has such a useless health system? My wife did not deserve to get sick, and we do not deserve to have friends like this. NOBODY deserves friends like this. It isn’t a matter of deserts. It’s a matter of grace!”

She stood with her mouth open for a moment, and said, “Thank you very much,” and turned off the recorder.

Grace is defined as simple elegance or refinement of movement, poise, finesse; and the free, unmerited favor of God.

The two most important words here are simple and unmerited.

Simple, because in movement, whether in dance, or acting, or martial arts, or drawing, beauty doesn’t require anything fancy. The simple graceful move of a gesture will say enough and can become the foundation for any complexity you might need to add.  

Unmerited, because the dumb luck involved in finding the right place to train and meeting the right people to train with isn’t something you earn. You don’t earn points from the universe that buy you good luck. Or friendship. Or love. These things are a matter of grace. Unmerited.

I have often said that if you are looking for God anywhere but inward, you are facing the wrong direction. The source of grace is in you and in the people surrounding you. You have to be brave enough to look for the place where you belong, smart enough to recognize it, and strong enough to dig in. And then you must have the grace to treasure it, and work for it, and do your part to make it what you and your world needs.

It can be a job, or a sword school, or a Masters’ Degree course, a Dungeons and Dragons group, or a club, or a church. Or your family. Or your friends. With a little grace, it can be the whole world.

I have seen dancers and martial artists and actors and acrobats and artists move with outstanding grace. And I have seen ordinary, simple people live with amazing graciousness. And I see that in life as in art, with care and attention, the simple, learned ability to do the simple, elegant thing creates beauty. Beauty on the page. Beauty on the stage. Beauty in the street.

Grace is given to all of us every moment, and it is to be found in yourself.

What does it take, after all, not to be a dick?

Just a little grace.

 

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With thanks to Abbott and Don, who reminded me of the nature of Grace.

I believe in telling it like it is.

This is often the explanation, or excuse if you will, given by people for being insulting about someone or somewhere they feel superior to. “What’s wrong with the President saying that some immigrants come from shit-hole countries? Some of these countries are shit-holes.”

My answer is that it’s always a bad idea to insult people or places, because being insulting is the act of a dick. And trying to excuse it by saying that you are just voicing your opinion doesn’t make you less of a dick. It just makes you a dick who is proud of being a dick.

Let me explain why I think it’s a bad idea to be a dick in this particular way. Let’s start by looking at things from the other direction. In my opinion, Paris is not a shit-hole, and I believe many people will agree. To me it is a beautiful, dynamic, exciting city, full of culture and art and life. To an immigrant living in the Banlieue or suburbs, though, it might not be so good. They are out of work, out of money and out of place. To them, Paris is a shit-hole.

Of a beautiful city like Paris, I suppose it’s fair to say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Which means that shit-hole is in the eye of the beholder, too. And that’s just the point. it isn’t Paris, or Haiti or You or me that are beautiful or ugly, or shitty; it’s the viewer’s opinion. Paris is not beautiful because I say it is. I am not ugly because you say so. It is our choice to see beauty in something or not. Because for every American who thinks that developing countries are shitholes, there are foreigners who think the USA sucks.

I think realizing this simple truth is very important: that it’s not the thing, it’s the viewer’s opinion, prejudice, or taste that determines matter of beauty. Nothing is beautiful or ugly, pure or shitty, but our thinking makes it so. There is no accounting for taste, we say. So the important part of the phrase “I think Paris is a shit-hole,” isn’t “Paris,” or “shit-hole,” but “I think.” Because this fact invites us to examine why we think that. To find out more. Not to rely on prejudices. And to remember that people have opinions about us, too. Based on nothing more than…. their opinions?

Now, we all like to hear other’s good opinions about ourselves, and we don’t like being insulted. So, Golden Rule time again: don’t do it if you don’t like getting it back. Don’t be a dick.

Especially if your bad opinions show you to be a bigot, as in the case of “shithole countries.”

“But wouldn’t you rather have a bigot speak his mind, than hide behind honeyed words?” someone asked me. Well, honestly, no.

First of all, it’s pretty easy to find out if a person is prejudiced anyway. And I’d rather give people the benefit of the doubt when possible. But more important, it encourages other people to be bigoted, because they think it’s acceptable to say dickish things. And more than that, people who stop themselves from saying insulting things are at least thinking about the fact that what they are thinking is insulting. At some level they know they are being a dick. And that can lead to rethinking the whole issue.

Because, after all, why do people call each other names? Why do dicks run other countries down? Because it makes them feel better about themselves. Because there is always a touch of “At least I’m not YOU. At least I don’t come from there.” And because I can look down on you, that makes me just a tiny bit better. It’s all ego. And the individual who says that he is just speaking his mind is bragging about putting someone down. He is making a point of being a dick, because it makes him better than…. well, someone from a shit-hole. But here’s the thing. You don’t have to do that. We are all just as good and just as bad as we are. Other people don’t come into it.

When my second daughter was about eleven, (And therefor much wiser than her forty-something dad,) she caught me shouting and swearing at the cats for leaving paw prints on the countertop. “If you call them bad names, you just make it worse,” She said, “But if you say sweetie-pie, or fluffy-kins, you can’t be so angry.” She was right. It’s really hard to curse out “Fluffy-face Cotton-paws.”  In fact, it’s pretty near impossible to get angry at all under those constraints.

It didn’t stop the cats from walking on the countertop, of course, but then, shouting didn’t either. And I did remember that cats are just cats, and it was I who had the problem with the counter being dirty, not them. Cats are going to stay cats, no matter what I think about it.

And Africa will stay Africa.  

But dicks aren’t necessarily going to be dicks. Because I think any one of us can do dickish things. And all of us can avoid doing those same things. The difference between a dick or not is not what you are, but what you do. And we all can make that choice. Because you know what is a real shit-hole?

A country full of dicks.  

 

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The image is of Mumbai, the richest city in India. And it has slums, too.

 

Recently there have been a number of cases appearing in the media, of women coming forward to tell their stories about being sexually harassed, assaulted and otherwise abused by men, especially men in positions of power, up to and including rape. I think we have to say that this is a step forward, because unless men are held accountable for this kind of behaviour, it will doubtless continue, and honestly it is the worst kind of dickishness. The number and similarity of the #MeToo posts are depressing, but (sadly) not really surprising.

So let me once again repeat what I have been saying all along in these sermons: bullying, assault, harassment, misogyny, racism, sexism, religious bigotry, all of this kind of behaviour is complete dickishness. No one but a total asshole acts like that.

And it’s good that women stand together and reject this kind of thing. And it’s important that men listen and support women and fight against this kind of behaviour. And it’s necessary that people in positions of power and trust be called out and made to pay for being King Dicks.

But this all made me think. You know it isn’t just women who get treated this way, don’t you? And it isn’t just men acting like dicks to women. And it isn’t just men who do it.

Which made me think about the things appearing in the media. Would we notice it if it was men sexually harassing men?

Such as happens to gay men and transmen? Would we be seeing men, or women posting #MeToo if a gay man came out against his boss for harassing him?

Would there be a media storm resulting in a Senator, let us say, resigning because he touched a gay man inappropriately? Or a cis man, come to that? In fact what would we call that, a cis man patting a cis man on the bottom? Is is sexual harassment? Assault? What if it was a gay man, touching a straight man? Sexual assault? Being friendly? A joke, even? Is it funny if it’s a man, but not if it’s a woman?

And what if it wasn’t a pat on the butt, but a kick in the arse?

I mean seriously, how many men have been assaulted, physically assaulted by another man? Leave out the sex, assault is assault, right? How many men would come out and say #MeToo, if some bloke went to his HR director because his boss shoved him? Threatened him? Insulted him?

What if the boss was white and the employee was black?

Or the boss was straight and the employee was gay?

I mean, I got beat up for having long hair. And I got harassed, sexually and otherwise all the time when I was a hippy. Don’t even talk about high school. Merely being a bit eccentric got you labeled queer in those days and that was not a good thing.

Anyone of us can find ourselves the victim of harassment and exclusion if our face doesn’t fit. If you are black, or a woman, or asian, or hispanic, or a goth, or atheist, or Jewish, or gay or trans or just about anything.

I mean I wonder how many of us would be included in a #MeToo campaign that included everyone who has been made to suffer just for being who they are?

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not making a #BlackLivesMatter / #AllLivesMatter comparison here. I think the most abused in our society should be listened to. I think women, blacks, hispanics and all other minorities deserve the attention, sympathy and help of the majority. Especially those majority members (I mean white males here) who have power of any kind.

Because every time we let some dick get away with that kind of intolerable behaviour, we make it tolerable. We make it acceptable. And then we will be the next one in line to be threatened. Or groped. Or cat called.

Or abused for being who we are.

Which makes me wonder, how far does it have to go, before we all can agree that someone has reached the limit? Clearly, there are a lot of men who feel it’s alright to abuse women. And many people, men and women, who feel it’s alright to abuse blacks. Or asians. Or Hispanics. Or GLBTQs. And I get the feeling that there are a lot of people out there who think it’s alright for men to abuse other men. And presumably, for women to abuse women, or men, if they are strong enough to get away with it. So where do we all draw the line? Children? Is that what it takes for us to say, alright, now you’ve gone too far?

If the recent election in Alabama is anything to go by, apparently not.  

You see, once you start down the road to thinking that it’s alright to abuse someone, whether sexually, or physically, or emotionally or economically, there really isn’t anywhere that we, as a country as a people will say, “NO!”  

Which is why each one of us, every day, has to not let ourselves, and other people get away with dickish behaviour. Because, my dears, once you start, there really is no stopping. And that is the fast track to Hell.

 

 

 

December 25th, Bristol, England.

Noel is a funny word. It isn’t clear exactly what it means. Christmas, mostly, but it arrives in English from the medieval French meaning Christmas from the Latin meaning Birthday. Birthday of the sun. Birthday of the new year. Birthday of a lot of feasting and present giving.

I was always puzzled by the carol, The First Noel. Alright, the angels said it, but what the heck did they mean?

Noel. Christmas. Yule. Solstice. Also Father Christmas, Pere Noel, Santa Claus, Sankt Nikolaus, der Kristkindl and Chris Cringle, the Krampus, the Perchtenlauf and the Bellsnickels.

From the windows of my brother-in-law’s flat I can see five church towers. At some point today, if they haven’t already, the vicars of those churches will be celebrating a Christmas service, having spent part of yesterday stripping away the Advent decorations and replacing them with Christmas decorations. All five are Church of England institutions. I daresay there are a number of other chapels, churches, temples, or synagogues around town as well.

And whether the people around those churches go to them or not, they are all pretty much celebrating today. Maybe not Christmas, but something. Day off. Time with the family. Solstice. Midwinter. Five days after the end of Hanukkah. Lots of presents. The day before the Boxing Day sales.

You see, there is no “War on Christmas” here. Because the United Kingdom is officially a Christian country and the C of E is the official church, nobody thinks much about it. Not that there haven’t been wars about Christianity fought here. There are all kinds of monuments marking the locations of where this priest or that was burned at the stake for being the wrong kind of Christian. But that was just politics.

A lot of what you hear about religion is actually about politics – all of it centered on the idea of “What I’m doing is right, and what you are doing is wrong, so I get to burn you at the stake.” OK. We don’t have many stake burnings these days, but apparently some people wish there were more.

Instead, they argue about the “True Meaning of Christmas.” As if one church, one religion owned this time of year. Even though we know that midwinter was celebrated long before Christianity. Even though we know that most of the symbolism, the decorations, the lights, the tree, all of it has nothing to do with the Biblical birth of Jesus. If the churches get to borrow the symbolism and traditions that came before, surely the rest of us can borrow the word Christmas? Or noel, even? Because, let’s face it, Christians don’t have a copyright on Christmas, because they don’t have a copyright on celebration.

The true meaning of Christmas? It’s holly wreaths and candy canes. It’s mistletoe and mince pies. It’s Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph. It’s Saint Nicholas and Krampus (who comes on December 5th, you know, not twenty days later.) It’s nativity scenes mixing the wise men in with the shepherds, even though the magi didn’t arrive until Jan 6th according to the church calendar. What, did Joseph and Mary hang around in that cold stable for twelve days? With the kid? And the shepherds? I mean, that’s the thing that knocks me out, most things we associate with Christmas are a mashup of all kinds of religions, all kinds of stories, all kinds of traditions.

I love the inverse menorahs I see in people’s windows these days. Little triangles of candles, marking advent. Where did they come from?

Walking around Ballard just before the solstice, I saw the following decorations in people’s front lawns:

• Santa Claus and his reindeer
• Half a dozen gnomes and a gingerbread man
• A creche with the holy family, lambs, shepherds and wise men, and the Buddha!  
• An inflatable Santa
• Mrs. Claus
• Frosty the Snowman
• Kwan Yin, the Bodhisattva of Compassion
• Yoda and Darth Vader with Santa hats. May the Force be with you this festive season.

Just exactly what are people celebrating? I don’t know. Whatever they feel like. Though to me it all adds up to this:

• The fact that it’s bloody cold and dark, and if we try hard enough, and light enough candles, and drape enough fairy lights on our houses, we can beat back the night.
• The fact that it really is nice to get presents, but giving them is awesome.
• The fact that if we try really hard at this time of year, maybe most of us can avoid being dicks.

 

Noel to you all. Now and all year through.  

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Today is the first of December, and although it isn’t officially Advent for Western Churches until Sunday, it’s the day the first little door on the calendar is opened, so as far as I’m concerned, the run-up to Christmas has started.

Let me begin by making it clear that I use the word Christmas as a kind of generic name for midwinter celebrations. It was the word used when I was little, and although my family opens the presents on the 21st in celebration of the Solstice, I’m happy to call the whole thing Christmas and to call the run up season of parties, shopping, cards, presents, wrapping, etc., Advent.

So I was taken by the idea suggested by @RevRachelMann on Twitter. First of all because I think Rachel Mann rocks. She’s a trans vicar of the Church of England and a whole lot of other cool stuff besides. Her suggested “Modest Proposal”* for Advent is one of her cool ideas.

Basically it’s this: Tweet only nice things for Advent. Don’t point out that somebody’s tweet shows that they are an idiot who knows nothing about history/language/economics/art. Maybe say that although they might need to do some research, they have raised an interesting issue.  Instead of complaining that you hate Daylight Savings Time because it gets so damned dark so damned early, remark on how pretty the lights on the trees look.

Think and, more importantly, speak positively.

Now, as far as I’m concerned, simply not posting the critical response to that idiot is a good step toward not being a dick. What Rev. Rachel is suggesting is being being an anti-dick. The Antidote to Dickishness.  

Because, let’s face it, being not a dick is good. It cuts down on the world’s burden of dickish behaviour. And there is a lot of it around these days. Obnoxious, entitled, privileged, self-satisfied, selfish, harassing dicks. Mostly male. Mostly in positions of power. Mostly not called to account. Every time you are not one of those people, that’s an improvement.

But now, maybe just for the next twenty-five days, I’m going to ask you to go one step further. By all means, refrain from being a dick. But if you can, once a day on your digital medium of choice, say something positive. Give a shout out to everyone serving away from their families – not because they are service men and women, but because being away from your family sucks, and it’s nice to be recognized. Put up the puppy picture that makes you happy. Say thank you online to your friends who have been cool recently.

In short, be kind.

Now, if you have been following along with what I have been saying all these past months, you will realize that this is just another way of treating people the way you would like them to treat you. In other words, not being a dick. But don’t you like it then somebody thanks you? Don’t you like it when people say you look nice, not in a creepy, manipulative way, but just an honest compliment? Don’t you like it when somebody holds the door open for you, especially if your hands are full of all that shopping?

Well, do the same thing. Be nice. Smile, not because some asshole tells you to, but because you might just feel happy at this minute. Say hello to your neighbor in the lift.

Because for every jerk who harassed someone at work, we need someone to say, “Back off, dick. She doesn’t want you leering at her.” For every nit-picking administrator, we need a co-worker to say, “I think you’re doing a fine job. is there anything I can do to help?” For every greedy pig who steals someone’s lunch from the fridge we need someone to say, “Would you like some of my chicken? I’ve got lots.” For every boy racer who cuts someone off at the lights, we need someone to give way and let the bus go first.

Now the world would be a better place if we just had fewer dicks. And by remembering not to do something stupid yourself, you do really make a difference. But simple acts of kindness, even if it is just a word or two, cost nothing, and make everyone’s life better.

So I hope that Krampus comes on December 5th and leaves nothing but hoof-prints, and that Father Christmas/Santa/SantNiklaas is good to you. I hope that your Solstice celebrations are good, and that your Yule Log burns bright. May your Festivus pole be shiny. May you have your family near for Kwanzaa. May your Hanukkah be happy and your Diwali be bright. And if I have missed out your personal celebration, may you not be a dick, and cut me some slack.

Last time I talked about #Inktober and the idea of taking some time out of every day to engage in some activity that you might not ordinarily do. Of course, my first choice would always be drawing, but it could be anything. I think November I might have to make it Banjomber or Musikember or something.

I’m working on my #Inktober, #InkOnPaper drawings and have noticed, as I always do, that no matter what is going on in my life, drawing calms me down. It focuses me; it centers me. All of the problems and stresses of my life are waiting when I put my pen down, but I am better able to deal with them. And, curiously enough, I seem to come up with answers, when I have been drawing. Please understand me, I haven’t been thinking of whatever it was I was trying to sort out. I really haven’t been thinking at all. If I were to put into words what goes on in my head it would be something like, “Line, line, line… Darker? Darker. Lumpy blob is slightly triangular…. And darker there. Line line line…Higher?”

If I am drawing a figure, I don’t think about the figure. If I am drawing a box, I don’t think about the box. I don’t believe I think at all. I’m too busy observing to think. And still, as I focus on the drawing, my mind calms, and I disappear into the process. The centeredness I feel when I finish is my reward for doing the process. The drawing, good or crap, is merely a by-product.

If this were all that happened, it would be reason enough for events like #Inktober, but I believe there is more to be gained by drawing, or dancing, or carving wood, or playing soccer… or doing anything like this. It comes from the process of focusing. It comes from the satisfaction of trying. It comes from the peace that you find in complete engagement. What #Inktober does is build discipline.

Drawing is a discipline, in the sense that it is a field of study. What is more, it requires discipline; you have to make time for it, you have to practice, you have to commit to getting better. I have always said I can teach anyone to draw, if they have three things: one working eye, something they can hold a pencil with, and the desire to draw. I’m not sure if the first two are necessary, but the last one is. If the desire does not produce discipline, it won’t work.

Discipline, unless it is self-discipline is useless. I can’t make you draw. I can’t make you play scales. But if you want to do the thing, the disciple comes naturally. You will do ten push-ups a day. Until it becomes twenty. Until it becomes thirty. And along with stronger arms and a tight core, you get the satisfaction of having done something you set out to do. And practice, the process of doing a drawing, leads to discipline. Because you are doing it, you keep on doing it. Because the goal is to do it, not to finish it. And so you get better.

If you are good at something, or if you are only working towards getting good at something, you have something to be proud of. The process of doing gives structure, gives a base, a foundation for your life. Even if only for a few minutes – for half an hour. And that foundation is the start of inner peace. And that peace, that contentment, feeds back into our lives, and into the lives of everyone around us. I don’t have to be one up over the other guys at the office; I know my own worth. Why be a dick, if you can polish your car instead?

We are, I believe, a species that likes to DO. We take pleasure in cooking a meal, or hanging a shelf, or painting a miniature. It is instinctive to have something to show for our effort at the end of the day. A field plowed and planted. A deer chased down and killed. A kiln full of pots. But too often, our work does not give us that kind of satisfaction. Sure, I’ve sold three used cars, and made a big fat commission, but what have I created?

No wonder some people just go through the motions of doing their jobs. Because somehow, just getting the job done is seen as the goal. If all we are meant to do is get to the end, let’s just dig our graves and climb in. What we do, not how we do it, is seen as the measure of success these days.

Something like #Inktober is the antidote to that. Practicing music, jogging, meditating, drawing – all of these are about the process, not the result. The doing, not the thing done. But you know the real kicker? All of that ink, all of that process, that discipline, it’s turning out beautiful art. Because there is no other way to get there but by doing it.

We need more art in our society; not just for itself, but for what it does for the people who make it. We need more musicians, and more potters, and more marathon runners, and more model airplane builders, and more fishermen, and more car-waxers.

Because goodness knows we need more discipline. Because, let’s face it, who doesn’t have discipline and self-control?

A dick.

 

Fall is in the air. I love this time of year, when you need to wear a jacket in the morning but want to roll up your sleeves by lunchtime. And fall means two things, the start of the education year in September and Inktober the following month.

My artist friends will mostly be familiar with Inktober, but for the rest of you it was started by Jake Parker in 2009 as a personal challenge and has since become an internet phenomenon. The idea is to do one ink drawing each day in the month of October. Look for the hashtag #Inktober on Twitter and Facebook. It isn’t a contest; there are no winners and no prizes. It’s just a discipline. Do a drawing every day. Originally it had to be in ink, but now it seems anything will do. My goal, as usual, is to take up the challenge and see if I have the discipline to draw every day.

By the end of the month, I hope to have thirty-one drawings; but more important, I hope to have drawn for a solid month. Because for me, the point of the exercise is… well, to exercise. To have the experience, not the pictures.

This is something that over time most artists come to understand. You don’t draw to make pictures, you draw to draw. It truly is art for art’s sake. Of course, you have pictures at the end. Some are good; some are crap. But the more you draw, the more good pictures you have, and the greater the percentage of your pictures will be not crap. Practice does not, in fact, make perfect. However, It does make better. That’s another thing you learn if you draw a lot – you are never going to reach perfection. But you will get better.

And that is why you draw.

When I was chair of a college fine art department, I would read the applications from students who wanted to study art. Because we taught art for game designers, many of the applicants said that they wanted to come to the course to get jobs in the gaming industry. Depending on how good their portfolio was, I would suggest offering these students a place, but I knew that if they came, one of two things would happen. They would either change their reasons for being there, or they would flunk out. Because no one will ever get good at anything if they do it just to get a job. They will only get good if they do it to get good. Then they may stand a chance of getting a job.

I have found the same thing applies in the martial arts. If people do karate because they want to beat people up, they don’t last long in their training. And if they do stick it out, it is because they fall in love with the training. With the discipline. With the practice.

I hope to make first grade (shodan/black belt) in my Iaido school. It would be nice to think I might make second grade (nidan) as well. If I don’t, it doesn’t matter, because I will keep training for as long as I can. Not to grade, not to become a second dan, but to improve. And as I get older, and I’m fighting just to stay in the same place, I will keep on training, not because I ever think I will be attacked by ninjas and will have to defend myself, but because I really, really like the training, the discipline, the practice. I like trying to improve, even if I’m not making much progress.

I loved playing soccer for the same reason. It was a blast to be part of the team. And yes, I was insanely proud when I scored! What I was too young to recognize was that what I liked best was playing. Winning was cool, but being good enough to play for forty-five minutes without a break was awesome.

I remember two things from playing soccer. One was scoring the tying goal in an important match. The other was watching the winning goal roll past my feet and into the net, without kicking it in myself. After all, it was already going in. Why not let the other guy get the credit? He was playing for the love of it, too.

Play to play. Train to train. Draw to draw.

The participation is the prize. Yes, I like being paid for my artwork, but I also realize I am a better art minister than I am an artist. I got paid for teaching, and that was cool. But my students come back to me to ask questions or just to say hello. Even cooler.

There is a Sufi expression, “Pray without hope of heaven or fear of hell.” I think life should be like that. Especially if you don’t believe in either heaven or hell. Live, without hope of success or fear of failure. Draw without hope of art or fear of crap. You’ll probably do both from time to time.

So, for October, pick something you like to do, or wish you were better at, or wish you could do but never really tried. And then make time every day, to do that thing. It doesn’t matter if you suck at it. It is the nature of humans, that if we try to do things, we get better at them. So just do it.

You artists out there who make a living from your art, this counts for you, too. Do art just for its own sake – something not related to your job. Make art like you used to when you were a student. Or before then. Art for the hell of it. Art for the fun of it. Art for the art of it.

Do a drawing a day.

Write a letter a day.

Take a walk a day

Do some push-ups a day.

Read a chapter a day.

Play a song a day.

Be grateful for one small thing a day.

Meditate for ten minutes a day.

Practice being un-dickish, just so there is one less dick a day.

Happy Inktober.