Getting ready for General Assembly

Early Monday morning, I’ll be headed off to St. Louis, for the annual meeting of the Unitarian Universalist Association. As usual, I’ve put off some of the necessary preparations, so now I’m madly trying to get ready. Even though it’s a gorgeous sunny day here in New Bedford, I’ve spent the whole day inside, glued to the computer, finishing up preparations for my workshop “Creating Great Content for Unitarian Universalist Web Sites.”

One thing is easier about preparing for this workshop: in the past, I’ve had to carry handouts for the workshop, never knowing quite how many people will actually show up; but this year, there will be no handouts because the entire text of the presentation will go up on my Web site immediately after the workshop. No handouts to carry while I travel — hooray! (I’ll also take notes on questions that are asked during the question period, and post my responses, and any additional follow-up, on my Web site too.)

I’ll finish preparing for the workshop soon. The next problem will be figuring out what to pack to bring for a week in St. Louis. Laptop and charger. Cell phone and charger. Day planner. Ukulele. A book or two for the trip out. Guess I better bring some clothes. I’m never good at packing for a trip, and as usual I’m sure I’ll forget something.

Swan

Carol and I stopped in at “Swan,” a new store on Union Street just across from First Unitarian. A woman said hello to us as we walked in.

“Are you the owner?” said Carol to the woman.

“No,” she said, laughing, “but we’ve known each other for years Our sons grew up together. Starting with T-ball, and now they’re in high school. I’m Lisa.”

We introduced ourselves. Lisa told me she appreciates the Wayside Pulpit sign in front of the church, with its changing sayings and proverbs.

“It makes my week,” she said. “I look forward to seeing the new one.”

“I’ll tell Arthur, the sexton, that you like it,” I said, “tell him to pick out good ones for you.”

Lisa said she has talked to the owner about opening the store on Sunday. That led us into a discussion on why downtown New Bedford is so empty on Sundays. Carol and I see people wandering around the downtown on Sunday, having finished with the museums and the national park, looking for something to do. If all the store owners decided to open up, eventually the downtown would probably generate enough additional pedestrian traffic to make it worthwhile to open up. But only a few stores stay open, and when they don’t make a success of it, everyone says that downtown New Bedford is dead on Sunday. And so Carol and I see those people wandering around the downtown, looking for something to do.

Which took us into a discussion of downtown rents.

“One downtown landlord is charging $14 to $17 a square foot,” said Carol.

Lisa shook her head disgustedly.

“I know,” said Carol. “You can charge those kind of rents in Cambridge, maybe, but not here.”

“My grandmother owned a triple-decker in Boston,” said Lisa. “Her philosophy was you don’t need to get top dollar for rent. It’s better that you find good tenants that you can trust. She’d say, I’d rather have a good tenant who takes care of the place, someone that I can depend on, than get a high rent.”

“Some New Bedford landlords should pay attention to that,” said Carol darkly.

We spent some time looking around Swan. They have some great things — funky furniture, collectibles, prints, odds and ends. Carol almost bought a bowl, and I was eyeing a framed print, but in the end we didn’t buy anything. I suspect we’ll go back soon though….

Update: As of August, 2006, Swan is gone…. closed for good.

Fathers and badgers and magpies and love

Yesterday I was reading up on fathers, in preparation for the sermon I’ll give for Father’s Day, this Sunday. I ran into too many sentimental stereotypes about fathers. I got sick of all the rhetoric around fatherhood and responsibility and family values. I got tired of the usual worn religious cliches about fathers and father-gods that have only a tangential relationship to the real live fathers I know. I made the mistake of rereading the story in Genesis where God tells Abraham to sacrifice Abraham’s son Isaac, which only served to raise my blood pressure.

Then I remembered the second section of Robert Kroetsch’s long poem “Seed Catalog,” a section which seems to me to break away from lots of the stereotypes about fathers; probably because it’s a documentary poem which presents a more-or-less accurate portrait of a real man. Concrete rather than abstract. It’s an odd text for a sermon, but sometimes you have to take your religious sources where you can find them….

My father was mad at the badger: the badger was digging holes in the potato patch, threatening man and beast with broken limbs (I quote). My father took the double-barreled shotgun out into the potato patch and waited.

Every time the badger stood up, it looked like a little man, come out of the ground. Why, my father asked himself — Why would so fine a fellow live below the ground? Just for the cool of the roots? The solace of dark tunnels? The blood of gophers?

My father couldn’t shoot the badger. He uncocked the shotgun, came back into the house in time for breakfast. The badger dug another hole. My father got mad again. They carried on like that all summer.

Love is an amplification
by doing/ over and over.

Love is a standing up
to the loaded gun.

Love is a burrowing.

One morning my father actually shot at the badger. He killed a magpie that was pecking away at a horse turd about fifty feet beyond and to the right of the spot where the badger had been standing.

A week later my father told the story again. In that version he intended to hit the magpie. Magpies, he explained, are a nuisance. They eat robin’s eggs. They’re harder to kill than snakes, jumping around the way they do, nothing but feathers.

Just call me sure-shot,
my father added.

A scream…

A scream.

(Nothing.)

A keening cry; a gull screams quite close;

Something hits the skylight; I’m awake.

I open my eyes a little:

The sun has barely hit the top of the building next door;

Screaming: Kyuk-kyuk-kyuk-kyah-kyah!… Keer-ee-uck!…

Ki-ki-ki!… Keer-keer-kee-kee-keer!…

Hyah, kyah, kyah-kyah!…

Sounds of a scuffle on the roof: I’m awake.

I close the skylight, and pull the pillow over my head;

And sleep.

Spring watch?

Spring watch?

Is it summer yet? Or is it still spring?

Here in southern New England, I think of summer as a time when the weather patterns settle down and become fairly predictable. When it gets sunny, you know it’s going to stay sunny for a few days. In summertime, you can count on the weather.

We’ve had four days without rain now, but it hasn’t felt like summer. The weather has been a little too variable: windy, calm, warm, cool, dry, damp. It got up near 80 yesterday, but we had a blanket on last night. Sunny this morning, but clouds moved in today, heavy enough that I brought an umbrella when I went up to the church late this afternoon. Now they’re saying we’re going to have mixed showers and sunshine over the next few days.

We can’t quite trust the weather yet. Guess that means it’s still spring.

Pym in Cambridge

Perhaps you missed the announcement, but the Barbara Pym Society of North America will host a “Barbara Pym Garden Fête” on Sunday, June 25, 3 to 5 p.m. at 10 Chester Street, Cambridge. Pym fans who are in the area should send e-mail to Tom Sopko at jtsopko@speakeasy.net

I love the way Pym illuminates human character in very few words — as in this passage from An Academic Question, her novel from 1970. The narrator Caro is chatting with Iris, whom Caro suspects of having an affair with her husband Alan:

‘Tell me about Coco Jeffreys,’ said Iris. ‘I believe you and he are great friends.’

‘Yes, we are friends,’ I began.

‘But not lovers, I imagine. No, not that, obviously! What is Coco exactly?– I mean, sexually.’

‘Well, nothing, really,’ I said, embarrassed.

‘But he must be something.’ A note of irritation had now come into Iris’s voice — irritation and impatience of my ignorant stupidity.

‘You mean hetero or homosexual?’

‘Of course that’s what I mean,’ she mocked. ‘Surely you must know.’

‘We’ve never talked about it. In any case, are people to be classified as simply that? Some people just love themselves.’

Iris frowned into her empty glass. I could see my vagueness worried her….

Those who attend the Barbara Pym Garden Fête “are asked to bring finger food á la Pym, or suitable beverages.” I imagine this means there will be sherry. But I have a hard time imagining the kind of people who would attend such an event. Unfortunately, I am committed to attending my denomination’s annual General Assembly; otherwise, I would go myself to the Pym Garden Fête to see what kinds of people turn up.

If you go, please write and tell me who is there.

Self-esteem is not a panacea

My partner Carol brought home the Winter, 2005, number of Stanford Social Innovation Review, which seems aimed at people like me: “…Stanford Social Innovation Review presents the best in research- and practice-based knowledge to help the people who do the important work of improving society do it even better.” An awkward sentence, but a goal that intrigues me.

If, like many of my readers, you work in a socially responsible job that makes you feel “burned out,” you will want to read the article on “Reversing Burnout,” which is available for free online [link]. It’s a good article, but I was even more interested in an article titled “Rethinking self-esteem: Why non-profits should stop pushing self-esteem and start endorsing self-control,” by Roy Baumeister.

I know I have been losing any interest in promoting self-esteem in my work as a minister. It has seemed to me that promoting self-esteem never gets you anywhere; in spite of the seeming consensus among psychologists, gaining additional self-esteem doesn’t seem to solve any other human problems. In a review of relevant academic literature, Baumeister found that in fact promoting self-esteem can be counterproductive:

…[S]everal close analyses of the accumulated research have shaken many psychologists’ faith in self-esteem. My colleagues and I were commissioned to conduct one of these studies by the American Psychological Society, an organization devoted to psychological research. These studies show not only that self-esteem fails to accomplish what we had hoped, but also that it can backfire and contribute to some of the very problems it was thought to thwart. Social sector organizations should therefore reconsider whether they want to dedicate their scarce resources to cultivating self-esteem. In my view, there are other traits, like self-control, that hold much more promise. [p. 36]

Baumeister’s review of relevant research finds that Americans routinely test very high for self-esteem, and indeed that we “overrate and overvalue ourselves.” Nor do researchers find that traditionally marginalized groups — e.g., African Americans and women — score significantly lower on self-esteem measures. Problems like racism and sexism do not seem to have a strong link to self-esteem

In another example, correlations between self-esteeem and good grades are merely correlations, not causal relationships, says Baumeister:

…a review of more than 100 studies with more than 200,000 students as subjects confirmed that there is a positive correlation between self-esteem and school performance.

While these findings fueled the belief that high self-esteem leads to good grades, many scientists were skeptical. Most people who deal with statistics know that just because A and B are correlated does not mean that A causes B….

[Social scientists] found that students’ self-esteem rose after getting good grades and fell after getting bad grades. In contrast, they did not find that people’s grades improved after their self-esttem rose, nor did they find that people’s grades dropped after their self-esteem fell. In other words, good grades were the horse and self-esteem was the cart, not the other way around….

If self-esteem is a result, not a cause, of good schoolwork, then enhancing self-esteem is a waste of time in the pursuit of better classroom performance….

Baumeister’s review of the relevant literature also turned up some other interesting things: self-esteem doesn’t lead to better interpersonal relationships; lack of self-esteem does not lead to violence (instead, “most aggressors have high opinions of themselves”); narcissists do not suffer from low self-esteem on the inside; there is “no relationship between self-esteem and early onset of sexual behavior”; alcohol and drug use are not linked to self-esteem.

I am actually relieved to hear all this; as I said earlier, it confirms what I have already suspected. I know some people have felt that curriculum units on self-esteem were appropriate for children’s religious education, but I never felt self-esteem was worth teaching in Sunday school (no, not even in OWL classes). I know people feel that one goal of pastoral counseling is to bolster self-esteem, but I have believed that the purpose of holding someone in “unconditional positive regard” is to inculcate hope and lead persons towards forgiveness.

Instead of self-esteem, Baumeister advocates promoting self-control:

[S]elf-control can actually help one become a better person, as opposed to just regarding oneself as a better person. Indeed, self-control sounds a lot like what people used to call character: the ability to live up to goals and ideals, to resist temptations, to honor obligations, and to follow through on difficult tasks and projects. [p. 41]

We might see a distinct rise in productivity of church committees if we stopped promoting self-esteem and started promoting self-control. However, I am wary about jumping on some self-control bandwagon. I prefer to take a non-reductionistic view of human life: we must strive to be well-rounded, whole beings. Such a wholistic view will continue to guide my thinking about religious education and pastoral care.

In any case, a very provocative article from Stanford Social Innovation Review — a journal which I suspect I will find myself reading regularly.

Sound of flowers

We had our Flower Celebration at First Unitarian in New Bedford today (sometimes inaccurately called a “flower communion,” but out of respect for Norbert Capek’s original intent I’ll refer to it as a Flower Celebration). Everett Hoagland, the former poet laureate of New Bedford, pointed me towards a haiku by Basho that, for me, beautifully explains how a Flower Celebration continues to influence us long after the ritual is over:

the temple bell stops
but the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers

Rose City reading

My sister Jean just did a reading from her new book, Rose City: A Memoir of Work at First Unitarian in New Bedford. OK, I’m biassed because she’s my sister, but I really enjoyed hearing her read from her book.

Here’s what I said about her book when it came out:

“Just got your book…I like the way you write about work from the inside, not like John McPhee or Tracy Kidder who never really have to do the work they write about, much as I do appreciate their books. Your book is more like Mark Twain’s book, ‘Old Times on the Mississippi,’ about learning to be a river boat pilot; I think Twain gets it right in that book, about what it means to work. So do you. Now that I’m a minister, I’ve decided that work and working is one of the top three spiritual problems I see people facing: meaningless jobs, jobs that deny who you are as a person, not having a job. It’s good to read someone (you!) write about work as it really is.

“What really got to me in your book, I guess, was the bits on worker safety; because of my own memories of worker safety. I remember seeing a guy’s foot pulled off by a forklift. I remember seeing an old-time house painter, his hands all knarled from using lead paint. I remember standing in a 52′ trailer unloading insulation, lungs filled with itchy little fiberglas fibers that can cause silicosis. I remember choking on bronze fumes at the foundry. I remember always always always worrying about getting hurt when I was a carpenter, every single frickin day. On the funny side, I remember the carpenter I worked for climbing up into the cupola of the old Emerson School, in order to put up chicken wire to keep the pigeons out, but when he popped up the hatch all the pigeons flapped their wings covering his head in pigeonshit. In spite of all that I love to work, I have loved every job I ever had, at least at some level. You get at that in the book: the work can kill ya, but ya love it anyway.”

From the Los Angleles Times book reviews:

Rose City is a remarkable contribution to the literature of labor, a working woman’s portrait of an industry that has virtually disappeared from the United States…. Nowadays, should you want to bring your love a bouquet of red roses, be advised that such blooms have been coaxed by pesticides illegal in the United States, tended and picked by even lower-paid, less-protected laborers (most of them women)…. Perhaps a book about roses—grandifloras, hybrid teas with ‘the faintest of fragrances, like clean-washed hands,’ sweetheart Minuettes with vanilla petals ‘dipped in ruby sugar’ — a story of love made manifest in the work of roses, is a better gift.