Remembrance Day

Having read and heard a wide diversity of views on war, peace, peacemaking, and state-sanctioned violence around Remembrance Day, I feel a need to respond so as not to fester.

Let those who hold to positions of pacifism, conscientious objection, etc. remember that the very freedom to hold and express such opinions is won and maintained for them by those who do not refuse to bear arms, and who pay a terrible psychological price for their involvement in conflict even if they escape physical damage. They, too, are victims of war, and it is entirely appropriate to call them “heroes”, as they freely choose to put themselves in harm’s way on behalf of all of us.

For a civilized nation, the impetus for war is not imperialism, but defence of human rights and fundamental freedoms. The quarrel is an ancient one, and the foe an ideologically-fuelled hatred that would impose totalitarian oppression on one people group after another, taking away each individual’s freedom to think and choose for him- or herself. Religious freedom would be among the “collateral damage.” Furthermore, if such oppression is not kept at bay in Afghanistan and elsewhere, it will most assuredly come to our own doorstep. In fact, for those with eyes to see, the war is already all around us, but it is, so far, being fought on a political, rather than military, level. Hatred takes myriad forms, but comes, ultimately, from one source. “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” Nor is it in error that the apostle Paul uses military metaphors: “Put on the full armour of God…for our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” Instead of engaging in petty denigration, let us boldly hold our government accountable (another hard-won freedom), and ensure that the wars our country fights are not squabbles over territory, resources, or culture, but a reluctant and well-considered defence of the (biblically-based, don’t forget) ideals of a free society.

Human nature being what it is, is anyone really, really a pacifist, through and through? I strongly doubt it. And it’s also clear that peace – the real thing, not some variety of ceasefire - can only take root when everyone gives up the desire for domination, which will happen only with the advent of the Prince of Peace. And even the One who bears that title “will rule them with an iron scepter…dash them to pieces like pottery.” And only then will they “beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore.” May that day come soon. In the meantime, may we not fail to stand firm for what we know is right.

An evening off

Went to see La Traviata last night, presented by Vancouver Island Opera, for which I am the rehearsal pianist, on this side of the pond anyway. This company uses young (for the most part), emerging singers in the main roles and amateurs in the chorus. I loved it. Opera is one of few genres where even a lot of small flaws somehow fail to detract from the whole. Evelyn Thatcher, who has been the heroine in every full production we've done, was back as Violetta, and, as usual, blew the crowd away. She does some odd things with her vowels sometimes, but she has a voice like a floodlight and she ACTS. A micro-synopsis: Act I: Alfred, a young twit, falls like a ton of bricks for Violetta, a well-seasoned party girl. She thinks it through, decides he's the one she's been waiting for, and they go off to the country to mess around. Act II: A few months later Alfred's dad catches up with them, corners Violetta and lets her know that her kind is not welcome in a decent family like his and, in fact, his daughter's fiance will ditch her if V. sticks around. V. decides to do the noble thing and split. None of it really matters cuz she's dying of consumption anyway. So she takes off and heads to a party with another guy. Alfred, who doesn't know the whole story, gets some PO'd and follows her. He insults V. in front of everyone and her new BF challenges him to a duel. Act III: Okay, Violetta 's really dying now, but as is usual in these things, she takes an unconscionably long time to do it. After an aria from her deathbed she gets up and sings a couple more, during which she and Alfred are reunited and all is forgiven, following which she continues to totter around and sing at the top of her lungs until the very moment when she collapses, lifeless, into his arms. All most lugubriously satisfying. I may actually have had some damp eyelashes near the end. Amazing where you can go with a whacking dose of suspension-of-disbelief, willingly imbibed.

Chor values

Went to see Musica Intima in concert a few weeks ago. This twelve voice a cappella vocal ensemble sings, for the most part, non-standard repertoire, and does so with impressive technical flawlessness. Unfortunately, it ends there. The performance was somehow flat (not musically) - short a dimension, like looking at a perfectly realistic mural where you expected a window. I couldn't put my finger on why until one of the members made some remarks about the program, including a statement on the choice of repertoire which amounted, not overtly in its words, but in its tone of voice and body language, to a sneering dismissal of Christianity and the choral music informed by the Christian faith. I saw no need for such a statement - if they want to sing unusual material then they can knock themselves out and nobody will bat an eye. The fact that it was made at all indicates an anti-Christian bias that goes far beyond the mere desire to explore different musical paths. No wonder they're the darling of the CBC. And that explains the missing spiritual dimension in their performance - they themselves have banished it. Interestingly enough, some spiritual depth began to show up in the second half, which did include some faith-based repertoire. I'm sure they didn't intend it, but there it was. Beware, humanist musicians. If you participate in music that was created for the glory of God, He will be glorified in spite of you. And if you refuse, the very stones will cry out. Rock music.

Bringing in the sleeves

So here it is the End Of Summer, and the harvest is coming in apace in spite of the atrocious weather, on which I will not pontificate, mostly because everyone is, all the time, but also because of the temptation to go on forever. Suffice it to say that it hasn't slowed down the zucchini - mind you, I've never seen anything slow down zucchini. (I'm reminded of those automatic ball-launcher things at tennis courts - ptui! ptui!) If I didn't cut them every couple of days they'd be flying up hitting the window. The blackberries are impressive this year, too, also undeterred by rain. The tomatoes, alas, are in the pits of despair, and the pepper plants apparently have the botanical equivalent of undescended testicles or something similar, as they can't seem to make it past puberty, poor scrawny things.

In the midst of it all, I've picked up a rhinovirus, for the first time in more than three years. I've gone through the standard stages of grieving: shock, denial, numbness, anger, etc. I am a snot volcano. Fortunately, it's moving fast: after three days I'm fully functional although I sound like end-stage TB. And I suspect the reason I stayed healthy for so long was the toxic roiling soup of hormones in my bloodstream, fluctuating faster than any microorganism could adapt.

Noticed the Zantac 150 ads on TV lately? This fat couch-potato gets some delivered with his pizza and goes into transports of redneck ecstasy over the prospect of eating all his favourite greasy foods and simply medicating away the natural and well-deserved consequences. This, in the face of a well-documented epidemic of lifestyle-induced obesity. So much for pharmaceutical companies having any real interest in promoting health. Seems to me they're the ones keeping HIV meds unaffordable in the Third World, too.

Dabbling

As it turns out, I'm spending the summer careering along a mad parabola of rearrangement and redecoration. The young'un is back to stay for a while and her room is getting a facelift, just in time for her to vacate it for two weeks while a Japanese teenager comes to stay. And I'm reorganizing the rest of the house. And gardening. And sewing. And NOT practising. And enjoying it all hugely, except I'm not sure how long I can maintain the pace. I'm no spring chicken, after all. More of a stewing hen. Jaded Old Bird.

Fate is a fink

So, the concert...ahh, the concert...that which has occupied every nook and cranny of my increasingly-convoluted brain for the last few months. Surprisingly enough, it's all coming together beautifully, with 13 days to go. I expect the inevitable tornado to touch down any moment now. The guitarist will break a hand, or the church secretary will realize someone else had already booked that night, or I'll come down with laryngitis, or I'll think of something crucially important that hadn't crossed my mind before, and about which it's now too late to do anything, or any of a myriad other possibilities on the unspeakable fan of evil destiny which waves about on the periphery of my mind and sends its foul swamp-gas wafting past my nose every so often.

Or, simply, nobody will show up. The thought corrodes my insides, surgical mesh and all. And I'll spend the summer careering along a mad parabola of self-recrimination, into the mythical Oort cloud of scuzzy bars where the has-beens hang out with the never-weres. And even there, I'll be on the outside looking in.

And so I surf the waves of anxiety, sucked back out yet again as the breakers roar...

A one-eighty

Here I was all ready to lambaste the Canucks, and they yarded it, slime-covered, up and out of the cesspit. I have nothing to say.

Road rage

People who drive, at night, with their high-beams on, with traffic around them, should take a sniper bullet in the headlights. And the kneecaps, for good measure. And, after a short pause, the gas tank. There’s nothing like gliding past someone (on the right, because he’s dawdling along in the fast lane, too), then having your eyeballs boiling in their sockets (as you frantically fumble for the mirror-flip-switch, only to find that the side mirror is equally ablaze) for a km or so, until you get far enough ahead, at which point the idiot decides to dim his lights to match his brain. All the fancy technology in cars these days, and still no front- and rear-mounted rocket launchers. No wonder the Big Three are going under.

Don't monkey with that

Today’s caveat: Watch out for theistic-evolutionism, an insidious compromising belief system infiltrating the Church in the guise of “harmonizing” faith and science. I recently read The Language of God by Francis S. Collins, director of the Human Genome Project. In spite of the author’s apparent sincerity of faith in Christ, this book is nothing more than soothing pap for those with itching ears. Collins raises no new issues, introduces no new ideas, and, most importantly, produces no new evidence to support his position. He fails to argue convincingly, fails in logic, and uses dishonest tactics. He regards the consensus of the secular academic community as authoritative, but accords no authority to Scripture. This is clear from his consistent willingness to re-interpret or dismiss the latter without any consideration for Biblical scholarship. This book should be recommended reading for those in the Church who do not wish to be ignorant of the devices of Satan, but others should steer clear. A better choice would be Refuting Compromise by Jonathan Sarfati, which lays out the basis for Biblical creationism and demolishes arguments against it.

Marley was dead, to begin with

So it has come to this at last. Blogging seems to be the new wave in this family, such that in a few more years we may never have to actually speak to each other. Mind you, the fact that we hardly ever speak to each other anyway may well mean that this new trend will improve communication among us. Time will tell. However, I, squid-like, am rarely driven to spew out ink unless irritated; hence the title of this space.

So. Okay. Being a little ray of sunshine is not my biggest gift. I know what is, though: Being a nuisance. The thorn in your side. The fly in your ointment. The monkeywrench in your machinery. All with the purpose of prodding you to apply critical-thinking to your own worldview, and revise it as needed. Test all things. Throw out the ones that break.