9/11

9/11

The date is September 11, 2001. It’s 9:30 p.m. and I have just left a dinner at the American Club in Hong Kong. I was the honored guest of the Alumni Association of Concordia Lutheran School, Kowloon. It has been a wonderful evening of memories, laughter and hope.

A car and driver had been sent to pick me up and return me to my hotel. The driver is obviously agitated, paying very close attention to the car radio. My Cantonese is surely not what it used to be, so I don’t catch all of what he and the radio are announcing. But I do get the message than at airplane has hit a building in New York. I do understand enough Cantonese to know that the driver keeps repeating, “This is terrible, terrible!”

I rush to my hotel room. Worldwide CNN is there live to air the tragedy. Like millions all over the world I watch in horror as the second plane hits, the twin towers collapse. Throughout the night I watch in sadness, horror and anger.

In light of the indescribably terrible consequences so many experienced, because of this tragedy, my messed up plans, cancelled flights and delayed trip home, of course, amount to nothing. Further, in view of all the sadness so many endured because of this tragedy, my own memories of the World Trade Center amount to nothing.
Yet for each one of us, our memories are personal. And mine of the World Trade Center are all wonderful. I loved the bar at the top at the Windows of the World restaurant. It was a “must stop visit” with any relatives and friends who came to see us in New York. There was a the private club on that same floor at which Jane and I (and a host of private donors) arranged for an appreciation luncheon for all Lutheran School principals of the metro New York area. For all those urban principals this was their first experience in the marvelous exclusive setting. It was on the 98th floor of the other tower where I had conducted workshops for the staff of an international bank. It was in the basement where we always found parking to explore so much of what those towers offered.

Now all that made up the physical components of that center has been pulverized, melted, or carted to a dump on Staten Island. As I write this more 8 years since that fateful day, the whole world continues to weep, to cope and dares to hope.

The Benefits of Gin and Tonic

The Building Committee of the Lutheran Church of Hong Kong for which I served as chair made a mistake. We hired a construction contractor to do the site formation for Saviour Lutheran Church and School on Tai Po Road. He was a fraud on many counts. I did not know that when we had the first of many “unfortunate incidents”. He was blasting away a rock hillside to create the level building plot. He had erected a huge bamboo screen to contain the blasted rock. Then one day he used entirely too much explosives. One of the rocks flew over the screen. It landed on and shattered the front windshield of the Rolls Royce parked there. The owner: The Chief Justice of the Hong Kong Supreme Court.

By the next morning I had the official notice from Crown Lands. “All site formation at said site is herewith terminated until further notice.”

I knew that I did not have a strong case when I went in to make my appeal for another chance. For over a month all work on that site was suspended.

Through the kindness of the Director of Kodak International, a wonderful Lutheran layman from the USA, I had been accepted into associate membership in the exclusive Royal Hong Kong Golf Club and I regularly made use of that privilege.

Since only British citizens had the right to full membership, we associate members did not always interact with those with higher status. But one day after a round of golf one of “them” invited me to join him on the veranda. I offered to buy the first round. We made our introductions. When he learned of my work with Lutheran schools he asked me if I had any connection with that new building planned for the Tai Po Rd site next to the new court building. I confessed that I did indeed have some responsibility. He informed me that he was the person responsible for all blasting permits in Hong Kong. His next sentence was unequivocal “Well, blasting at that school site will continue on exactly the same day hell freezes over !” I hastily ordered another round of gin and tonics which I offered as apology for his having to deal with a very upset judge.

And so we commiserated: my problems with greedy contractors, my deep desire to get that school built and open for the poor children of the community and his having to respond to people living near construction sites and all their unreasonable objections and complaints. One more round of gin and tonics and we might be able to endure!

Exactly ten days later I received the registered letter on official crown stationery. “The blasting permit for the site on Tai Po Road is herewith immediately reissued.”

Retirement

Sometimes I think I ended up as head of Lutheran Education for a major Lutheran denomination as a result of a fluke. For a very brief period (before it was ruled to be illegal age discrimination) the Church had a rule that heads of major departments had mandatory retirement at 65. My predecessor, Dr. Arthur Miller, got caught by that rule and entered forced retirement, the only officer ever required to do that.
One of the saddest moments of my stint as his successor was when he came to see me not long after I assumed office. He told me that he had taken a new job. He was going to be a door to door salesman peddling encyclopedias.

I saw (and still see) this as a tragedy Art was a man of great passion for Christian education. He himself earned a Ph.D. when few professional church workers made that choice. What he lacked in personal charm or charisma he made up with meticulous attention to detail, astute management of budget, surprising skill at getting larger fiscal appropriations for his department and great ability at hiring and supporting very competent staff.

And for that he ended up knocking on doors, selling books on credit.
Out of that came a personal resolve. I would retire at 65 by my own choice, not by bureaucratic rules. I would manage my finances so that we would not feel impoverished. In retirement I would pursue interests congruent with my skills and values.

That is how I planned to retire. That is how I have done it now - many times.

More Than A Sex Symbol

I regret that I recall neither her name nor the name of her son. But I do know that the boy was a student in the first grade and that I was his teacher. The boy’s tuition was being paid by an elderly woman from our church who was the landlady for the woman and her son.

I remember what the mother looked like. She was stunning. Tall, slim, well endowed, long flowing hair. She was a Southern California carhop, a waitress at a drive-in. She came to the cars to take and deliver food and drink orders. Her scanty halter-top uniform, I’m sure, helped her generate generous tips.

It may have been because she was not home in the evening to assist her son with homework or it may have been something else. For whatever reason, he was not doing well and it was time for a parent-teacher conference.

We met in the principal’s office and discussed the issue. I soon learned how much she loved her son and was saddened by his slow progress. She really wanted the best for him. She wanted to be a good mother. We discussed a variety of options. I assured her that her efforts would bear fruit.

As we came to the end of the interview she thanked me. Then tears suddenly began to roll down her cheeks. She looked across the desk at me and said, “Thank you. You must know that no man in my whole life has ever talked to me in this way.”

It was probably an exaggeration, but I got the message. No human wants to be deemed merely an object, or symbol. We all yearn to be accepted as being more than a title, just someone’s spouse, someone who’s rich or poor, or any other symbol. “See the me who’s a real person” is the plea of us all.

Little League-1930’s Style

Like more than 50% of the television viewers in San Diego I spent time last weekend watching the Little League World Series. The team from Chula Vista just down the road from where I live won it. I admit I had a bit of mixed emotions knowing whom to root for. As an American and Californian I wanted to be loyal to my own country and area. But I also had a heart for the Taiwanese. I am forever grateful for all that my Chinese friends have taught me and just this last year my 11-year-old grandson had spent the year in Taiwan where he really fell in love with baseball and caught that country’s baseball fever. In the end the locals won and I joined in the celebration!

In the process I recalled my baseball life when I was around 10. There was no Little League in Texas in the 1930’s (at least not out in the country where I was growing up). In fact, I remember no structured programs of sports for kids. So we created our own. At school we went to the pasture just outside the schoolyard. We put in the bases and played at school and else where, wherever and whenever. When a group of more than 4 gathered we quickly choose up sides (after flipping a bat to see who chose first) and then went at it. We were our own umpires and we set the local ground rules. At school we played before school, at recess and noon hour (which now in memory I am sure the teachers extended so that each team got to bat at least once). Equipment was minimal. One good ball was a luxury. I remember being a hero. I had codgered relatives and friends until I had 20 tops of Post Toasties cereal boxes. Sent them off. Four weeks later the prize arrived: a brand new 12-inch in-seam softball. To this day I recall taking it to school where it was passed around to all the guy, our first experience of actually handling a brand-new never been hit softball!

Competition was limited. My memory is that we were allowed about 4 games a year, two each against the nearest public schools (in Walburg and Jonah). Being a Lutheran school we were not allowed to play against the local Catholic school. I don’t know which of us feared spiritual contamination more! Forever etched in memory is the day my mom and dad took me to a very rare dentist appointment on the very day we played and I missed the game. I was convinced that my replacement at shortsto,p Wimpy Kalmbach would lose the game for us. I regret to report that after the game when I returned from the dentist it was reported that Wimpy had played very well and in fact made one spectacular put-out. To my shame. I was kind of sad to hear of this threat to my position.

Fantasy often replaced formal opportunity. Sunday afternoon after Sunday afternoon found the two us together: Skippy Mertink and me. We played fantasy big league baseball. The batter stood in front of the barn. The pitcher out toward the barb-wired fence. Singles, doubles and homeruns were carefully delineated by benchmarks. The pitcher was also the radio announcer. Since there were only 2 major leagues with only 8 teams in each league we knew by heart the line-up for each team. Sunday after Sunday we assumed the identity of both player and announcer: the names keep coming back: Bucky Walters, Red Ruffling. Bob Feller, Dizzy Dean, Carl Hubbel - throwing strikes and fastballs at Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig. Jimmy Foxx, Mel Ott, the whole lot ! My blood flows more quickly just remembering it.

So now we have tee ball, Pony League and Little League etc.etc. There are managers, uniforms, and umpires, and water coolers and new balls and aluminum bats and away games and playoffs - even Little League World Series! Great! I am glad our kids have them all. And sometimes this old man would love to see a group of kids just creating their own field, choosing sides and then going at all on their own until the sun goes down!

A Time To Speak

It was mid-December, 1949. I had joined a significant number of my college colleagues in the on-campus women’s dorm lounge. In fact, the place was packed. We were jammed into every square foot of sofas, chairs, floor space. The place was aglow, not only from the warmth of the fireplace, but also from the ad hoc harmony of Christmas carols. It was our pre-holiday all-school Christmas party and everything felt just right. The snow was glistening. Home for Christmas was just days away. Engagement rings were anticipated by some and homemade Christmas cookies, candies, eggnog by many others.

We had moved through “Jingle Bells” to “Let It Snow” to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Then it was my turn to speak. I was the president of the student body and so was invited to give the devotion/homily/speech, whatever one wants to call it.

So I spoke on “Let us go to Bethlehem.” We were going home and that was great. We were going to be among those who loved us and that was wonderful. I suggested that all of this was part of going to Bethlehem, to the crèche, to the place where we meet anew the infant Jesus, to the place where angels assure us that this is where acceptance, hope and love abound.

The speech worked. Since all in that room were preparing for public ministry with the Lutheran church, most were touched at a deep spiritual level of the meaning of their life.

It was a great time to speak.

Since then I have spoken to a hundred (maybe more than a thousand) different audiences in settings as varied as convention centers in New York City to the tiny chapel of the Baptistery of Lydia in Greece. Every once in a while it all worked.

The crowded low-ceilinged meeting room was in a Colorado Springs hotel. It was the 60’s and Lutheran schools shared in the upheaval. Young and old were questioning institutions, even schooling itself. I spoke to some 300 teachers in the schools of the “4-corners” area. My theme was “The Church That meets in Your Classroom.” I reminded those teachers that their classroom met all the criteria of church: the Gospel was shared, faith united the community, and the demons of ignorance, racism, and sexism were being exorcised. Miracles like learning to read and write were happening every day. And each teacher was the minister in that classroom that God used to make it all possible. The addressed worked. It was a time to speak.

Every once in a while the magic occurred. Speaker and audience reacted in unison. Thoughts were stimulated. Emotions were evoked. Hope and promise seemed real.

Of course, sometimes it just didn’t work. (See “A Time To Keep Silent). Sometimes it was just another speech. But when it all came together it reassured me that even in the age of multi-media there are still occasions when the best communication occurs because “It is the time to speak

A Time To Keep Silent

We are in a staff meeting checking calendars. Mine lists lots of speaking engagements. My colleague comments, “Mel will speak on any subject, anywhere.” I still don’t quite know what Don meant by that remark. I took it as much more of a put-down than as a vote of confidence.

In later years I realized that I should have taken it as a warning. Sometimes I have made speeches when I really should have chosen silence.

A rather fundamentalist congregation was sponsoring a weeklong revival. I was asked to speak on “the Battleground for the Gospel”. I knew what they wanted: Warnings against secular humanism in public schools, The shame of removing posters of the Ten Commandments in southern courtrooms, The threat of radical feminism, free condom or drug needles distribution. I chose another route.

I suggested that the real “Battleground for the Gospel” lay deep within the heart of each one of us. Our struggles between knowing the good, but not doing it. The continuing wish to earn God’s favor in place of freely accepting grace. The constant seeing of the speck in my neighbor’s eye, ignoring the beam in my own.

As I spoke, the usual “Amens” were very sparse. “Tell us brother” was not to be heard. At the end of the day I decided that I should have suggested a different speaker while I remained silent.

The event was a national conference of construction workers and spouses. It was in a very fancy Hollywood Hotel. I was scheduled to speak at a 3:30 p.m. sectional on effective parenting. Attendees there were hoping to forget their children for a few days. Vender hospitality suites next door were stocking their bars. My audience had one goal: Get out of here. Let the good times roll. Effective parenting - well, I’ll think about that when I get home. I should have chosen silence.

Not just a lecture, but a whole course. I was asked to teach General Psychology to a class in a seminary. Two problems: I was to teach it in Cantonese (even after 6 years in Hong Kong, teaching a psychology course in Chinese was not to be recommended.) the second problem: The only psychology texts available in Chinese were translations from Russian behaviorists, hardly the best grounding for future Lutheran pastors. The students (at least outwardly) were marvelously patient. I was terrible. I should have remained silent.

There is one whole class of speaking opportunities that has no equal. Give a lecture, conduct a workshop or lead a seminar. Do it for a faculty that is required to attend. Speak at the close of the school day on a Friday afternoon in any (especially urban) school in America. Forget about it. Stay silent.

The ancient writer had it so right, “There is a time to speak and a time to remain silent.” Why is that silent part so hard to put into practice?