The Politician and the Pulpit

My friend Q just forwarded to me the video of Sarah Palin speaking at a church-related graduation ceremony at her church. I watched the whole thing.

First I want to say something in Palin's defense, because I do occasionally like to appear fair-minded. Some have misconstrued Governor Palin's words when she asked the congregation to pray for the military and for the situation in Iraq. She said this:

Pray for our military men and women who are striving to do what is right also for this country, that our leaders, our national leaders are sending them out on a task that is from God. That's what we have to make sure that we're praying for, that there is a plan and that that plan is God's plan. Bless them with your prayers, your prayers of protection over our soldiers.

It's all over the Internet that Palin said that the Iraq war is a mission from God--but that's not what she said. She was urging the congregation to pray that they are being sent "on a task that is from God"--in other words, that the choice to wage war in Iraq is one that pleases God.

This commission sounds good on the surface, at least to the evangelical mind. We are supposed to pray and be concerned that our choices please God, and that they fall in line with God's plan. But if you look a little closer, it's actually quite confusing and illogical. I'm convinced that Palin is NOT saying that the war IS a task from God. Perhaps Palin is suggesting that she hopes God will get on board with our plan to wage war, and make it his plan.

No wait; that can't be right. It's not humble enough.

What about this interpretation: Maybe Palin is saying we've made this choice to go to war, and we continue to make it every day, and our prayer should be that this choice falls in line with what God wants.

But what if it doesn't? Isn't the flip side of that prayer that if the war is NOT in line with what God wants, that we should ask God to do his God-thing and influence our leaders to get us OUT of Iraq? What if God is up there grieving and pissed off because we continue to choose to wage a war that is not just?

But this logical correlate to Palin's prayer does not show up in her spiritual exhortation, nor in her speeches. She appears to be convinced that the war is indeed a task from God, in line with his purposes. And if that is the case, then isn't it disingenuous to pray that the war fall in line with God's holy plan? Because essentially she's saying, "And tough luck if it doesn't." And that is not very Jesusy.

But my biggest problem with the video is that her church has given her a political platform to promote her own political career and agenda--and that is NOT what the church is supposed to be doing. Palin said,

What I need to do is strike a deal with you guys, as you go out throughout Alaska. I can do my part in doing things like working really really hard to get a natural gas pipeline, about a $30 billion dollar project that going to create a lot of jobs for Alaskans, and we're going to have a lot of energy flowing through here. And pray about that also. I think God's will has to be done, in unifying people and companies to get that gasline built; so pray for that.

But I can do my job there in developing our natural resources, and doing things like getting the roads paved and making sure our trooper have their cop cars and their uniforms and their guns, and making sure our public schools are funded, but really all that stuff doesn't do any good if the people of Alaska's heart isn't right with God. And that's going to be your job. As I'm doing my job let's strike this deal: Your job is gonna be to be out there, reaching the people, hurting people throughout Alaska. And we can work together to make sure God's will be done here.

Don't even try to tell me that that is not a political stump speech. She is speaking their language, the language of God-minded evangelicals. She even spiritualizes things that are way outside the purview of our ability to know God's will--like the natural gas pipeline, for example.

The church is not the place for politics; it is not the place for a leader to endorse one political party, candidate, or position. I'm not saying that there should be a dichotomy between our faith and the rest of our lives. I do believe that every aspect of our lives should be informed and influenced by our faith; but what that looks like, outside of the realm of specific Biblical mandates, is up to the individual believer.

The church should not provide a stump for a politician to use to bolster her own cause and her own agenda. That particular church has a history of promoting partisan politics, and in this case, Governor Palin made the politically advantageous but ethically ambiguous choice to use the church to advance her politics.

The whole video made me uncomfortable, not because I don't agree with Palin's politics, but because of the inappropriate marriage of the politician and the pulpit. How much more admirable would it have been if she had left her politics outside, and used the opportunity to congratulate the graduates and remind them to love God first, and let the politics fall as they may.

It's All About the Kids, Part II

Sometime during our stay in Door County, we lost the Sangria Poltergeist--although we still have the fumes and fruit flies. Maybe my mechanic is not so crazy after all. I'm kind of going to miss the Korean alt hip-hop, though.

On Saturday we took the herd to a campground to swim and to somehow lose six golf balls in the water hazard on the miniature golf course. (The only reason the golf balls matter is that it was my driver's license that was being held hostage until the golf balls were found and returned.)

We set up camp in a picnic table clearing, and while the kids splashed and dunked and slid down pool slides, Mr. D'Onofrio cooked up a storm. Actually, it was more like an entire tornado system.

Earlier that day Mr. D had created a huge batch of homemade potato salad, complete with hard-boiled eggs. We were originally planning on having deviled eggs, but we waited too long to peel the dang things, and the peeled eggs were so pock-marked they looked like ovoid golf balls.

I do not know what Mr. D included in his mayonnaise mixture, but it was so delicious that if they had trading cards for picnic side dishes, the Mr. D Unbelievably Delicious Potato Salad card would be as coveted as the 1909 Honus Wagner.

He laid out a feast of burgers, hot dogs, sausages, and a huge pan of BBQ ribs. Then, after everyone had piled their paper plates to the tipping point, he said, "I guess I'll throw the steaks on now." Oh yes, he did. We all just looked at him like, "Dude, you're insane." Then we looked at each other and shrugged. "OK," we said; and we proceeded to eat ourselves into the greatest meat coma of all time.

After we all regained consciousness, we drove north for the Big Sister Bay Fireworks Extravaganza. We spread our blankets and folding chairs on the lawn overlooking the bay, and waited for dusk to turn into dark. Someone near us had what sounded like a transistor radio tuned to a station playing patriotic numbers.

As the fireworks began, I suddenly missed Mr. Peevie, so I borrowed a cell phone. It was hard to hear, what with the bombs bursting in air and the rockets' red glare and all. We passed the phone around for a few peeps to say hi; and when C. Peevie started talking, I almost cried. "I really, really miss you, Dad," he said. "I wish you were here." He might be almost as tall as me, way smarter, and with twice as much B.O.--but inside, he's still just a little boy who needs his daddy. Aw.

When I saw that A. Peevie had snuggled into the lap of C. Peevie's friend X-Man to watch the light show, I got all misty again. (Anytime somebody is kind and gentle with one of my kids, it just makes me all verklempt. I can't help myself. Sometimes I am just a big crybaby.)

Eventually we made it home to the shack. The adults were exhausted, but the teenagers found a second wind and decided to hang out by the bonfire until the wee hours of the morning. Several had brought guitars, both acoustic and electric. They played music and talked and made s'mores--it was like a scene out of a teenage-angst-but-with-a-happy-ending movie.

Most of these eighth graders have been together since kindergarten. A couple have even left our school for other education options--but they still choose to be a part of this unique and diverse collection of kids from all across the city: black, Asian, white, faithful, faith-free, long-hairs, crew cuts. They are actors, musicians, artists, athletes.

Mrs. D'Onofrio might be a tiny bit insane for putting together this "It's all about the kids" Door County farm weekend--but sometimes insanity is a good thing. What a great finale to what feels like not just the end of the summer, but the end of an era. Next summer, these kids will be getting ready to head off to high schools across the city. Some will keep in touch; some won't.

But I bet when they're 20, or 30, or--heaven help us--40, memories from this farm weekend will still crop up from their subconscious. They'll smile, and one or two of them may even press a button on whatever cell phones have evolved into, and reach out to one of their eighth-grade buddies, and say, "Hey, remember when we went up to Door County that one week with that crazy Mrs. D'Onofrio? Fun times. Wanna get together for lunch sometime?"

Thanks for that, Mr. and Mrs. D.

(The fireworks photo comes from PD Photo.org. The other photos courtesy of J.Ro.)

Believe In Something Much, Much Better Than This Crappy Ad

Does anyone else find the U.S. Cellular billboards to be creepy?

I'm referring to the ubiquitous (in Chicago, at least) billboards featuring a little girl peeping out of a carboard box, with the slogan, "Believe in something better."I do have a degree in advertising, but that's a lifetime of not being in the advertising industry ago, and I'm not writing this from the perspective of an advertising expert. I'm writing this from the perspective of a prospective customer who, instead of being attracted by the ads, is creeped out, confused, and irritated.

I can't really put my finger on why this image disturbs me. The little girl has messy hair, and she's hiding in a box. She might be there because she's having fun...but the expression on her face is more like, "I wonder if the scary man saw me crawl in here?"

And what's with the shanty-town box? Is she believing that someday she won't have to live in a box under the overpass with her drug-addict mom? I'm just sayin'.

I'm also confused by the emphasis on the word something. Why is that word emphasized, as opposed to the more logical choice, better? Even believe would make more sense. But when the design emphasizes the word "something," it sounds like a desperate plea for something, anything, to be better in this miserable world of pain. "Believe in something better," even if it's only a bigger cardboard box, or a better location under the el tracks, where the wind doesn't bite so much in the winter, and there's a little protection from the elements.

It just sounds kind of desperate, you know?

This ad irritates me, probably mostly because I'm peri-menopausal, and pretty much everything irritates me. But also because it doesn't say anything, and it does not even make any sense; and I do not want advertisers cluttering up my skyline with useless, meaningless slogans. "Believe in something better" begs the question: what the H-E-double-hockey-sticks am I supposed to believe in?

It sounds almost spiritual--but for crying out loud. We're talking about wireless service, people. Let's lose the pretentious, and get real, 'kay?

Maybe it's just me, but these ads suck.

What do you think?

What's Missing From the GOP

A few comments on the GOP convention:

1. This interesting perspective from Harold Meyerson in the Washington Post echoes one of my original concerns about McCain's campaign: there is no talk about the economy, or creating jobs, or balancing the budget, or what to do about the 37.3 million Americans that are living in poverty. (That's 12.5 percent of Americans overall, and 18 percent of our children.)

2. Meyerson also observes that "this year's GOP convention is almost shockingly--un-Americanly--white." He doesn't cite his source for this opinion--is it based on what he sees at the convention on TV? Or is there something more substantial backing it up? I don't know, and he doesn't say.

But even if his point is merely based upon his own observation of a sea of white faces on the convention floor, dotted with an occasional brown one--why would the GOP convention look that way? It's true that white Americans comprise about 2/3 of the population--but the Census Bureau projects that that is changing quickly. By 2042, minorities are expected to become the majority of the population. (Will non-whites still be referred to as minorities at that point?)

Is the Republican Party ignoring minorities? Are they unable to craft a platform that appeals to people who are not white? If I were a Republican in this presidential election season, I would be embarrassed about it. I'd be embarrassed because diversity is not just a liberal agenda item--it's a cultural reality. Not reflecting reality is a form of denial, and denial is not a sustainable position.

3. I would be remiss if I did not mention McCain's choice for veep, Sarah Palin. When I first heard the news, I thought it was a brilliant move. Choosing a woman gives him, at least superficially, a broader appeal. Palin rounds out the ticket just by virtue of the fact that she's a woman, and I think it's likely that that will be enough for some voters. Add to that the fact that she's more conservative than McCain, and is vocal opponent of abortion, and she definitely bumps him up in the polls.

This recent article in the Financial Times posits that the choice of Palin was shrewd because McCain's team had calculated that they were "on track to lose the election." They are taking a chance on Sarah Palin because she is the social conservative they need to shepherd the John Birchers back into the fold.

But, as Mr. Peevie noted, it does not appear that she will add much depth to policy discussions, as Joe Biden will. In spite of what Mr. Crook says in the FT article, I think the Dems will now be triple-dog-daring McCain to bring up the experience issue again during the campaign. Not to mention the foreign policy issue, national defense, and the war in Iraq.

Check out the poll to the right, and please take a moment to vote.

Real Life Has Got to Go

It's my favorite season of the year: The new TV season.

Many of my friends, acquaintances, and family members are all, "Oh, I never watch TV!" or "The only thing I watch on TV is CNN" or "There's never anything good on TV!"

Whatever. They can have their books, their relationships, their LIVES. I'll take my TV.

I am coming out of the closet as a full-blown TV-sexual. I love TV--and I'm talking regular TV! I don't even have cable! Not that I wouldn't give my left arm, a couple of toes, and one of my kidneys to get it. (Hello, Mr. Peevie?)

So here's what's on the line-up for me this season:

First, we had the two-hour season opener of Prison Break on Monday night, which totally threw me because of the holiday. I missed the first 45 minutes, and when I finally tuned in, whoah! There's Sarah! No longer headless and no longer dead! Crazy writers.

In case you missed the epi, you can read the recaplet at the always-hilarious Television Without Pity, which is my favorite source of TV mockery.

You will enjoy Prison Break if you like TV shows with explosions, shooting, double-crosses, complicated plotlines, tattoos, car chases, prosthetic hands, and moral dilemmas. Oh, and eye-candy. The boys are very, very yummy.

Tonight we'll have the season premiere of Bones. Mr. Peevie and I both have crushes on this show. Mine is, of course, David Boreanaz, who I fell in love with when he played Angel, the caveman-browed vampire-with-a-soul. Mr. Peevie's TV crush is the beautiful and talented Angela, played by Michaela Conlin.

You will enjoy Bones if you like crime procedurals, characters that are so smart that they seem like weirdos in social situations, beautiful people, sexual tension, mysteries, and forensic anthropology. It's kind of like CSI without the showgirls.

Uh, oh. I'll have to fire up the DVR to make sure I can catch the latest episodes of another favorite crime procedural, Criminal Minds, which will also be airing on Wednesdays, starting September 24. This one I initially loved because of Mandy Patinkin, who has since left the show because it showed too much violence. Even though I love the show, I gotta respect that about him.

But I have come to enjoy the other characters on the show as well, including the adorable, brilliant geek played by a former Calvin Klein underwear model; the colorful computer wizard, Penelope; and of course my home-boy, Joe Mantegna.

(Bonus mini-movie review: I have loved Joe M. ever since I saw him in House of Games, a crime and con story that had me surprised and guessing right through to the end.)

And then there's Life, a cop show with a conspiracy angle that totally hooked me in before the writer's strike last fall. The main dude is a detective who says zen-like things, but also has a secret conspiracy wall where he's trying to connect the dots to figure out who framed him for a crime he served 12 years for. I love the conflictedness of it all.

Of course, I will be watching the re-broadcasts of the Law and Order: Criminal Intent episodes on network TV SINCE I DON'T HAVE CABLE. Even though I cheat on him with many other Hollywood boyfriends, my number one pretend boyfriend is still Vincent D'Onofrio.

The one non-crime drama that I hope to watch is Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. I've been catching up on the re-runs this summer because I just could not squeeze it in to my regular rotation last spring. It's a futuristic survival-of-the-human-race-hangs-in-the-balance thrill ride with lots of chases, shooting, and, in the quieter moments, snippets of clever dialogue.

I do not know how I am going to keep up with all this TV, plus check out some of the interesting-looking new shows, plus, you know, maintain my real life.

Real life has got to go.

It's All About the Children, Part the First

That's what my insane friend Mrs. D'Onofrio says: "It's all about the children."

The hell you say.

I might be willing to spend my entire Labor Day weekend at a "shack" in Door County with 400 eighth-graders and their assorted siblings and pets--but I refuse to get on board with this "it's all about the children" insanity.

But I'm ahead of myself. Mr. and Mrs. D'Onofrio invited the whole eighth grade class to hang out at their Door County farm property for an end-of-summer-eat-play-chill-fest. From Monday to Labor Day Monday, people came and went. Mostly, they came. Twenty-two children, ten adults, two dogs, three goats, and a pot-bellied pig swarmed over the property, in and out of the two small farmhouses, up the hayloft, and across the soybean fields.

By the time I arrived with the two younger Peevies on Friday evening in my sangria-infused van, I was ready to sit back, put my feet up, and partake of an adult beverage. Seven or eight sweaty teenagers were playing basketball against the side of the barn, dribbling and passing on the packed dirt "court." C. Peevie, the clear leader in the Sweatiest Boy of All Time contest, held up the game to come over and say hi.

I hugged him gingerly, trying to avoid a massive sweat transfer. "C. Peevie!" I said, happily, "I missed you!"

"Hi, mom," he said. "Missed you, too." He had been at the farm since Wednesday afternoon, and I suspected that I was looking at two or more days of accumulated sweat and grime. I saw it as a positive thing: three girls had bravely joined the class outing--but what 13-year-old girl would want to get within a yard of a boy that smelled that bad? Apparently an eighth-grade boy's aversion to showering was the equivalent of an adolescent prophylactic.

Mr. D'Onofrio whipped up a dozen frozen pizzas for the younger set while the grown-ups patiently sipped margaritas. Then he set to work putting a more mature feast out, including steak, Boursin-and-spinach-stuffed chicken breasts, rice pilaf, fresh green beans, and gravy. If this is what Mrs. D. means by "it's all about the children," then I'm totally on board.

Between the six bedrooms and the four tents in the yard, everyone found a place to sleep. Mr. and Mrs. D. selflessly gave up their air-conditioned Chinese bedroom (adorably decorated with Chinese checkerboards and Chinese-themed art and bedspread) to me because I was cranky, seasonally allergic, sweaty, and menopausal. I believe that Mr. D'Onofrio actually slept in his car.

I'm pretty sure they were all a little afraid of me.

During the night, the tent that housed the three younger boys mysteriously collapsed. I believe it had something to do with the teenagers jumping up and down on it. So the pre-teens abandoned their collapsing abode and dragged their sleeping bags upstairs to the stuffy corner bedroom where Mrs. D. had finally collapsed at about 2 a.m.

Then, because "it's all about the children," she cheerfully got up with A. Peevie at 5 a.m. to take him downstairs to the bathroom. (He was too afraid to go down the dark stairs by himself.) Meanwhile, I slept blissfully, the white noise of the AC drowning out the sounds of things going tinkle in the night.

I awoke refreshed and cool as a cucumber, thanks to Mr. and Mrs. D's insane level of hospitality. When I left the Chinese Room, delicious smells of pancakes and sausage wafted toward me. Mr. D. was hard at work preparing breakfast for the tribe, which had grown since I went to sleep the night before.

Tune in tomorrow for It's All About the Children, Part the Second.

Sangria Poltergeist

I was driving to my friend Jane Addams' house for happy hour. I had made a delicious pitcher of sangria, and since I did not want to get thrown in the clink for driving with an open container in the car, I put the pitcher in the back of the van. I braced it against the side of the car and the back seat, and I further secured it by wedging a grocery bag of fruit soaked in simple syrup against the bottom of the pitcher.

Somewhere along the way, I heard an ominous thud from the back of the van. "Oh, no," I thought, "The sangria!" But I didn't smell wine, so I kept driving. I am nothing if not optimistic. Otherwise known as "stupid."

About five miles later, I heard a sploosh, like the sound of a water balloon hitting the car window. Instantly I smelled the sweet smell of sweet sangria permeating the car. I pulled over as quickly as I could--but it was too late. Most of the two-gallon pitcher had spilled, soaking though the carpet and into the padding in the back of the van.

I couldn't show up empty-handed, and I still had the zip-lock bag of soaking fruit--so I stopped at a liquor store and bought the supplies I'd need to re-create the sangria base. At Jane Addams' house, I mixed up a batch, and even though it didn't have time to chill properly, it was still delicious. Here's the recipe:

Mix and chill 8 hours or overnight:
Two bottles of red wine (merlot, zinfandel, etc.)
1 cup orange juice
1 cup of brandy
1 quart of Fresca or other lemon-lime soda

Make simple syrup:
1 cup sugar
1 cup water

Bring to boil; simmer until sugar is dissolved. Cool.

Cut up fruit: apples, peaches, lemons, limes, oranges.
Soak fruit overnight in simple syrup.

Add fruit to wine according to taste. Chill. Drink. Responsibly, of course.

The only problem was that the car alarm started going off for no apparent reason. Oh, and the interior lights would go on and stay on; the door ajar light remained lit; the door locks clicked randomly; and the radio started playing Korean alt hip-hop at will. Apparently, sangria does not mix well with the electrical system of a Dodge Caravan, and weird poltergeisty things kept happening for the next week-and-a-half.

Even after we Resolved and Febrezed the carpet, the car still smelled like sangria. We are an open container arrest just waiting to happen. "No, officer, I swear I haven't been drinking! The car smells like sangria because I spilled it in the back TWO WEEKS AGO!"

Finally I took it to my normally reliable mechanic, who insisted that the sangria had nothing to do with the coincidental electrical shenanigans. He sprayed some sort of magic spray on each door lock mechanism, chanted a spell, and said, there you go!

But what about the Korean hip-hop? I asked. Just a coincidence, he said. As I drove away from the mechanic's shop, the door ajar light went on, and the locks clicked in time with the radio. I heard a deep, ghosty laugh--bwah-ha-ha--coming from the rear gate.

I decided that I would change mechanics as soon as I got back from my trip to Door County.