Meditation

In Retreat: Back in the USSR

Monkey-Mind is the real enemy to meditation. I can’t focus on my breath or anything else for more than a few minutes and then I’m thinking about what I ate for breakfast, or what the vegetarian meal I am about to eat at this retreat (that I didn’t want to go to in the first place) is going to taste like.  

As you can see I am not very devout in terms of vegetarianism. As soon as it as an “ism” attached it sounds like an ideology and that could be fascism and I’m reminded of my childhood when I was forced to eat my spinach and I just get upset.  I did eat at the Lotus Teahouse on at least three occasions and even at Jane Bond, another vegetarian restaurant, and I actually quite enjoyed the food and the experience.  Although other than in my inner monologue, and of course writing about it right now, and my posting on U-tube and my entry on the wall in Face Book, would I ever admit that I ate vegetarian to another human being. Mums the word!

At one of these places my soup appeared to have sausage in it, like that Chinese soup with a real bird’s nest in it.  I was as convinced of the authenticity of the meat as I was at seeing a bird’s nest in my soup.  I was to discover it was some sort of mock concoction, a surreal version or protein and a cruel trick on the palate.  Why should I be surprised as the menu actually read: mock salmon, mock chicken and mock beef.  The menu in short was a mockery of everything I had grown to know as sacred especially the proper form of protein. 

Although, just today, I had lunch with a vegetarian and I asked him how he kept up his energy level. I  cited the fact that my daughter, who is a flight attendant for Jazz Air, and also a vegetarian, discovered the hard way that she did not have enough energy to do her job efficiently.  Really, what sort of confidence does it engender when you see the attendant fainting in mid-flight.  It’s like the captain coming on the PA system and randomly saying, “There is absolutely no cause for alarm.” And then just signing off to see what sort of reaction he might get.  It’s just not done, well maybe on some West Jet flights. They seem to have a sense of humour.

My daughter, started eating chicken, not the mock kind either, this was very real.  In response to my question my lunch partner indicated with an interesting piece of rhetoric, “Have you ever seen a cow eat steak?”  Other than in a Far Side cartoon I have to admit that I have never seen a cow do that, although I would guess it has crossed their collective consciousness.

At the Buddhist Retreat I find myself sitting on my ass on a bean filled pillow in a remote area of the country listening to a monk chanting and explaining how I should be focusing on my in-breath and out-breath.  That is my reality and I am cursed with this constant, rambling monkey-mind as I flash from thought to thought, somewhat like my writing style.

My self-talk or inner monologue goes something like this, “Focus damn it you paid almost $800 for this retreat and you will get something out of the experience if I have to kill you, (I often issue myself with death threats as it is one of the few ways I can take myself seriously), you are on a voyage of discovery and tranquility.” Then the loop from Seinfeld kicks in and plays several times through my mind in which Jerry’s dad is screaming for “serenity now.”

The monk actually makes a lot of sense. He explained in his very subdued intonation, that our brain is like a jar filled with swirling water.  The jar, in this analogy, has five holes in the lid. I’m not sure why five. I think each one represents one of the senses. I thought we had six senses, but that might only apply to Bruce Willis.  In each of these holes coloured crystals or sand or something, maybe its Kool-Aid, I’m not really sure, is slowly poured in.  Eventually, and the point is, all of these coloured crystals, or whatever, blend together to make one colour and that too eventually settles to the bottom of the jar.  The swirling is the ‘Monkey-Brain” that all meditators suffer from, but when the swirling stops, and it will stop, you will find yourself transported and in touch with yourself, which may be way too personal, but that after all is the purpose of this retreat, to stop the swirling.

The monk was perfectly framed by the expansive window over looking a wide river valley.  On the deck behind the priest, a black cat leisurely stretched and then stalked an invisible creature, probably a mouse, stage left and out of my field of vision.  This encounter would likely play out in a life and death scenario in the deep grass. 

I was jealous of the cat for its protein lunch and ability to stretch.  I listened as the monk alternated between speaking, chanting and silence, God how I learned to hate silence. But what does that say about me? I began my inner journey with the realization that my ass was now numb.  My wife poked me and I silently chanted my mantra, ”White Album,” White Album” over and over again until I think I could hear “Back in the USSR” as sung by a heavenly host and praising Hosanna in the highest. 

 I had made a break through. 

I looked into the light.  It was pure and sweet. I wept.

Marty Rempel

From the short story collection, “Monkey Mind”

Loving Mind Games

Loving Mind Games of Narcissistic Madness

and other Misdirected Road Kill

She loves her children 

truly,

dearly,

she does with all her heart and souless soul,

an abyss of conscience.

like a female preying mantas, consumates,

then consumes her mate

toxic, like the daily bottle of wine disolving

her liver.

Mother is happy. Her hands shake.

She delights to play the eldest against

the youngest one day,

the reverse, the next.

They are her  little play things,

puppets and mimes

speechless and helpless

competing for their mother’s love

trying to please

never quite perfect enough

never quite good enough

Mother laughed, always, unite

than divide and conquer.

Triangulate!

Yearning,

“She favoured me today

I’m the golden child.”  

“She knows I’m the special one,

not her.”

“She loves only me.”

“I love her. I hate her”

“We will never leave.”

The three musketeers, they smile,

they hate covered with a

veneer of emotions, 

a facade of joy

to the depths of deception.

The wealthy lawyer slyly got out,

another woman I’m told.

The teacher learned his lessons well.

Sadly, the retired bus driver,

well he

never really knew what hit him.

Surreal Reality

Surreal Reality 

On a summer night I was stocked by a Velveteen Rabbit,

with the state I was in it seemed so real.

I walked along the grass and heard the sunset

sizzle in the river at high noon, all my senses riveted

while sitting on the floor of a used book store in a futile effort

to make pictures appear in 3D much like life on a good day.

I bought a novel about an Oracle in hopes of divining the future.

The cloudy morning shrouded the Three Sisters.

I walked the mountain path, drank in nature, a rabbit

in a blue vest looked so surreal.

Negative shades are a form of nothingness like

an old man with a brown cap clasping the steering wheel

aimlessly driving a traffic circle

counter clockwise,

always approaching never reaching his destination 

until he uncoils and reads a bed time story to his sleepy

grandson about a Velveteen Rabbit,

as mother stands hidden by the door, a tear falls to the carpet.

With the state I was in it seemed so real.

  

A Failure to Germinate

A Failure to Germinate

Hail the size of kerneled corn

summer tempest spent

grass seed slides between his fingers

nestles in moist black soil

germination days away

his children like mute bricks

on a building ancient toppled

many miles away

anguish from his voice

the scars no longer hidden,

the healing never took.

A Parable of Sorts

A Parable of Sorts

Cats are users and manipulators while dogs, at worst, are enablers and often just don’t clean up after themselves.  There I said it. There is no simple way around the truth.  Let me clarify even further, just as bipolar America can be divided into Republican and Democratic factions with opposite irreconcilable ideologies, so too goes the world.  The world and everyone in it is either a cat lover or a dog lover. 

Naturally, the corollary of that statement is that everyone can also, and at the same time, be a cat hater or a dog hater.  With the numerous permutations and combinations it gets incredibly complex and my purpose is not to confuse you.  Let me put it to you as a parable. 

Verily, verily I say unto you, imagine for a moment a Republican gun owner (that takes no imagination at all) who loves dogs and hunting, who while on a hunt happens upon a Democrat walking his declawed, neutered, politically correct cat early one morning. The Republican mistakes the cat and its owner for a deer, a pheasant, a hooded teenager with skittles or some other game animal or bird. It really doesn’t matter he only needs a target.  He fires, multiple times with his automatic rifle, pauses, then changes clips and fires another 14 rounds.  Since this happens to be in the state of Florida the shooter goes free. 

The scenarios are nothing short of mind boggling.  I hasten to add as a caveat that with my little parable I am in no way implying that all dogs associate with Republicans.  Dogs are just not that stupid.

I know much has already been written as to why dogs are better than cats or vice versa, that argument gets nasty because then, by extension, it becomes an issue as to why cat owners are better than dog owners or vice versa.  Does one type of person or animal have something divine, spiritual, or innate superiority over the other. The answer pure and simple, without bias, is a resounding, yes of course they do. Dogs and their owners are better for all of the above reasons and more.  Let me explain why.  I’ll start with cats.

If one were to Google “cat lovers” there are numerous sites available in which people describe with candid glee how they have been adopted by a cat. Some people refer to it as “Catitude”. In the real world it is more realistic to think of cats not as assimilated domesticated animals, a more reasonable view is cats as clandestine infiltrators of human society.  

Historically, cats never allowed themselves to be domesticated.  Cats are opportunistic.  Cats were likely first “domesticated” at the same time wheat and barley was farmed.  During Neolithic times when the Agricultural Revolution was catching on and urbanization was all the rage in new settlements such as Shillourokambos, on the island of Cyprus, rodents were attracted to the stores of grain crops.  Cats followed the rodents to the new town sites as an abundant food source and put up with human co habitation as a means to an end.  The point is cats snuck in because they saw and opportunity. They used charm to engratiate themselves and were even seen to have god-like qualities by the Egyptians and soon cats were the most popular mummified pet.

Dogs on the other hand were brought into the fold of human habitation because they provided us with useful services and resources.  At various times and in different cultures they served mankind with guard and hunting duties, provided food and fur and served as a beast of burden.  They were a useful and functional part of society and became so thousands of years before cats crept in through the back door.

Today not much has changed in terms of Man’s best friend. That phrase may be a cliche, but have you ever heard any one refer to a cat that way?

Dogs serve as seeing eye dogs for the blind and sniffer dogs for various branches of law enforcement.  Dogs star in movies and many became famous such as: Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, (probably the most famous of all), The Littlest Hobo (a Canadian star), Clifford (a giant red dog), Brian (from Family Guy who drinks martinis) Goofy (beloved by all), Bolt, (has actual super powers), Snoopy (an author), Marley (a Loyal family member), Dino,( from Flintstones technically a dinosaur) and 101 Dalmatians (more than 100). 

When I google “famous cats” I get hits which include unusual and uninspiring characters such as: Mr Bigglesworth (Dr Evil’s pet), Church (psycho cat from Pet Cemetery by Steven King), The Cheshire Cat ( Psychedelic drugged out cat), Garfield (hedonist). I find that there are no true super stars, such a sad litany of burnt out animated characters and has been character actors. There are no cat super heroes and if there were it would be like comparing Super girl to Superman, (see my article on gender and super heroes). 

When we think of lonely and isolated members of society such as cat ladies, those sad individuals who live hermit like lives hoarding this in that in the company of scores of cats, we must be reminded there is no dog equivalent to this malady.  There are no “dog ladies”.  Dogs are just too well adjusted to put up with such crap. Cats are neurotic to begin with and just perpetuate mal adaptive social behavior among certain sub sets of old women in the population.

When we hear of heroic rescue stories of mountain skiers being buried in avalanches such heroics are associated with Saint Bernard's and the like.  I have never seen a cat rescue anybody. 

I ask you. What is the stereotypical situation in which firemen find themselves coming to rescue what out of a tree?  Yes, that would be a cat.  Dogs do not need to be rescued.

I rest my case. Cats are generally users within our society.  They serve no useful purpose.  They manipulate people with cheap tricks and antics.  Purring.  Really.  Are you actually fooled by that?

A dog is loyal, useful, functional and can follow commands like sit, beg, role over and play dead. Cats don’t even respect authority, so they don’t follow commands.  They don’t even listen.

Its not that I hate cats.  I have actually owned several, eight in fact. They were all called Kitsie.  Kitsie III was my favourite. True, they brought me a small measure of joy as a child, but when I think of my childhood in its broadest sense, it is really the adventures with friends and our dogs that stick in my mind.  When I divorced, it was my dog Kennedy who got me through some pretty rough times.  No cat would have the empathy to deal with social healing on that scale because they are users just like my ex and that’s why she got to keep the cat.

Marty Rempel

Carnal Love and Death

Between The Garages

My childhood friend Larry tried to kill me and his sister tried to seduce me. I think the seduction, if you want to call it that, (I know I do), happened before the attempt on my life; so there could be a little cause and effect going on here.  I don’t think my friend Larry really meant to kill me, but he sure came close; of course it came close with his sister too.

There were far too many distractions along the way and I seldom got to school on time.  My route took me through and past numerous orchards and vineyards, as we were located in the Niagara Fruit Belt. There were pear, plum, apple, peach, and apricot delicacies to choose from en route. It was like going to school via the Garden of Eden without the snakes, but with most of the temptations.

One temptation we could never ignore was a construction site.  Because we lived on the rural-urban fringe of the city there were many such sites and several on my route to school, which made it almost impossible to attend school with any regularity. The fact that I failed grade one had a lot to do with my early morning visits to construction sites. It was only an ironic twist of fate that I ended up as a teacher and not a construction worker.

There was always something sublimely complying about the deep dank hole in the ground that formed the foundation of a new house, or the fresh smell of cut lumber, or the irresistible framing which served as a jungle gym to my youthful enthusiasm.  For some reason, maybe because we were stupid kids, we never figured out why contractors and new home owners did not appreciate us playing at their building sites. Despite the fact that we seldom did major damage, we were chased by the usual suspects of construction workers, their bosses, their dogs, and/or the future home owner out to protect their investment.

We were young, fit, fast and flexible and we seldom got caught.  Often in hot pursuit, we would head out across the orchard, backing on to the construction area, as if on cue we would split into several directions to throw off our pursuers.  Eventually, we would jump any fence, hedge or other intervening barriers to make good our escape.  As kids we always had the advantage when running through vineyards.  With each new line of parallel vines, without losing speed, we would drop and roll to the next row of vines until our pursuers, even dogs, gave up. We would then infiltrate the neighbourhood on the other side of the orchard.  After a suitable length of time, using every clandestine means at our disposal, short of disguise, we would slowly and one at a time infiltrate into our own neighbourhood until the heat was off, leaving the construction workers, their bosses, their dogs and/or the future owners wandering aimlessly in the wrong neighbourhood looking for us, with no leads. 

I spent lots of time at Deserei’s house because I was good buddies with her younger brother Larry and they were our next door neighbours. Deserei would often invite me downstairs into their unfinished rec room, sit next to me, really close on an over stuffed, soft couch while showing me pictures from the Eaton’s and Sears catalogues.  She would often lean into my body, while whispering in my ear, “What do you  like?”

She was totally into fashion and I wasn’t yet familiar with the concept. Deserei would ask me to pick, from a given page, the best looking outfit, pair of shoes, or model.  The difficult part was somehow justifying my catalogue selections to Deserei as my choices were often random and I had no set of criteria to guide me. Deserei could keep going with the catalogue game for hours. She had stamina which I greatly admired. I humoured her because I was excited just being in the same room with her sharing a couch. There was something vaguely tactile that attracted me to her and she smelled really good.  I would find every opportunity to lean into her, easily facilitated by the softness of the couch, in order to get a better look at the page under scrutiny, pretending to study every detail when I was just trying to be as close to her as possible.  This was heaven, or something very close.  In fact later in life I was to discover that it actually was heaven.

With the help of  Richard, my big brother, Larry, and a few miscellaneous friends, we excelled at building underground forts. I believe it was a niche market and apparently we had cornered it. My father had helped us with two tree forts in our backyard, one in a plum tree and the other in a willow tree. He had also built us a playhouse of epic proportions, complete with moveable glass windows, and furniture. We had to share this with our sisters and their friends; so it lost some of the luster for us, therefore, the quest to go underground.

We chose our fort location with precision, usually close to existing construction sites to reduce the cost of materials and transportation. Our basic design was a huge pit or trough-like hole and by using unwanted valueless lumber from the nearest residential construction site we fabricated a lattice or framework of 2 X 4’s and 2 X 6’s, depending on availability. This sturdy and heavy framework was covered with whatever plywood the contractors happen to be using at the time. We preferred three quarter inch for its durability, if nothing else, we were all about quality.

Once the plywood was situated we would joyously fling shovelfuls of previously excavated dirt over the entire project. The soil was covered with sod and within two weeks the whole thing was overgrown with weeds and was therefore perfectly camouflaged with the existing environment. Naturally, being attentive to detail and cognizant of the need to breathe while underground, we inserted eaves troughing and pieces of downspouts along the edges of the roof, penetrating into the cavern below.  A second smaller trench, covered with branches served as an entranceway. The floor was modeled after soddies from the prairies and other Depression era homes with dirt floors. Ours were covered in generous layers of the venerable St Catharines Standard, allowing us to keep up with the news while staying relatively dry and cozy. 

Our fort had three rooms; we called them chambers, as this was actually part of a secret lair project from where we hoped to achieve world wide dominance, or at least hide from our parents when we were called in from play. Each chamber was joined to the next by a tunnel about three feet in length. Along the earthen walls we dug shallow enclaves to situate candles. We discovered that by the time we got to the third chamber (here after referred to as the inner sanctum) the candles would barely burn.  Apparently, and no one told us this at the time, candles need oxygen to burn. 

After one lazy summer afternoon of scrutinizing the Eaton’s catalogue shoe section, in later life I was to discover that to a woman a shoe is not a shoe.  A shoe, in all its discomfort and impractical design and numerous short comings, is actually a piece of art. 

Our garage, built from scratch by my dad, and our neighbour’s garage were side by side with a narrow space between them. This space was an actual location we referred to as “between the garages,” for obvious reasons.  My dad stored lumber here from his various projects. We used the pile of lumber as a step to getting up on the roof. We liked doing this because we were kids and it was there, some adults have the same attitude about mountains.

Deserei suggested that we needed a break from the catalogues; my eyes were blood shot from the strain. She held my hand and led me “between the garages.” I should have known something was up because I didn’t think she had any desire whatsoever to get the panoramic view from the garage roof.  Did I mentioned for a young girl she was extremely voluptuous and could easily have appeared on a catalogue page herself, possible on the swim suit or lingerie pages, but what did I know because when she purred (and I swear I thought it was a cat), “I’ll let you see mine if I can see yours.” I thought she was referring to my Swiss Army knife with the multiple blades, can opener and what looked like a corkscrew.  I should have recognized one of the most famous of pick up lines for what it was.  I was naïve, curious and very eager.

Deserei was already taking her clothes off.  I vaguely recall that Deserei wore a pale blue pair of tight Capri pants. Her toe nails were painted in a deep purple and nicely contrasted with the Capri’s. Her sandals were of light brown leather the colour of her silky hair, which flowed long and straight to her shoulders. She was highly tanned with strong muscular definition along her calves. She wore a white peasant type blouse, hiding a delicate lacy bra which with great effort held back the formidable abundance of her splendid endowment.  Her cleavage was an inviting darkness full of shadow and wonder.  Around her long neck she wore a delicate gold chain caressing a heart shaped pendant. I did not know, nor would I ever, what lay inside the pendant.  My breath came in short spasmodic gasps.

I soon discovered to my boyhood amazement what was under her blouse and I was mesmerized by here proportions and magnificence.  There truly was a God and I was thankful for all of his creations.  My mind was frantically and desperately in over drive trying to absorb and assimilate every nuance and magnificent detail of the beauty radiating before me.  I was the proverbial deer blinded, yet attracted, by the rapidly oncoming transport truck with high beams blazing.  I froze  in those headlights and would have been content to die then and there.  Life was complete, this moment indelibly frozen in eternal time and space, as I stood before a now naked Deserei.  I raised my trembling hand toward the light and this magical moment was synchronized with the exact moment that Larry stumbled between the garages,  “Hey, what are you guys doing?”

Of course I will never know what could have happened next and I bear no malice towards Deserie’s idiot brother Larry for his interruption while I lusted after his sister, other than the standard wish that he would rot in the fourth level of purgatory until the end of time. 

The next day found me forlorn and alone in the inner sanctum of our fort, whiling away the time with some sort of carnal magazine with fold out pages.  The air was already quite stale this far into the fort; so when I had my first whiff of smoke I didn’t panic until my eyes were watering and began to burn, as massive billows of smoke from the smoldering newspapers wafted towards me.

The depth of the chamber was such that I couldn’t get enough leverage with my arms or my legs to push the roof off because with all that stolen lumber and dirt it weighed about 17 metric tons, nor could I move forward to the next chamber without crawling over burning newspaper.  I began to scream loud and long through one of the air tubes to the outside world.

I was only ten; so when my life flashed in front of me I had to rewind several times to pick out the skimpy detail, because there really wasn’t much content.  I did pause several times at the clip with Deserei between the garages, but even that couldn’t bring me much joy during such a crisis.

I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in my brother.  Even though we didn’t always get along and he frequently blackmailed me about not telling our mom about his smoking down by the canal, or about the cat incident and the ax, or about the broken cellar window, or his driving in a stolen car with an under aged driver while under the influence, or about the crossbow he made from a car spring that nearly decapitated his friend Victor.  I forgot all of that, as my brother literally tore the roof off of our fort and flung it to the side, like a superhero, while simultaneously grabbing me by the forearm and practically throwing me out of the pit of death. I was saved.  

Minutes later Richard had me smoke damaged but alive before my mother, still oddly clutching my fire damaged copy of the July 1960 copy of Playboy Magazine rescued along with me from the fort.  My dear sweet Mennonite mother took a long hard look at her prodigal son.  She probably didn’t know whether to slap me on the back of my head or give me a hug.  In quick succession she did both.

Honing in with our fine detective skills we narrowed down the incriminating web of evidence and concluded that Deserei’s brother, Larry, had indeed set the fire.  After coming clean with my brother about Deserei  and my out of body experience between the garages my brother concluded that the fire was likely designed to be an honour killing.

My brother and I, with a heightened sense of social justice, went over to Larry’s house where I hid behind a hydro pole.  Richard marched up to the Larry’s door without letting me in on his game plan.  A jubilant Larry came to the door.  He became progressively less jubilant as my brother explained to him that I was dead.  From the corner of the house I could only hear vestiges of sentences spoken by my brother, “Yes, burnt beyond recognition...His dying words... he identified his killer...certainly reform school for life Larry.”

I had a sense of the subtle nuances which were being played out and like Mark Twain, I knew that the rumours of my death had been greatly exaggerated, but definitely had the desired effect on Larry, who, as I could see from my vantage point, was in tears.

In one week I had experienced the delights of carnal knowledge, a near death experience, the loyalty of a brother who always had my back, the love of my mother and the long abiding dream of what could have been “between the garages.”

Mennonites in the Militia

From Growing up Mennonite...

Mennonites in the Militia

Have you ever noticed that after a particularly violent summer storm, once the rain has abated and the rainbow is shining like a neon sign in Times Square, (God’s promise not to destroy human kind ever again, no matter how bad we get) beams of light stream out in a powerful geometric array from one central source (likely the sun) through cracks in the still dark cumulus clouds.  That my friend is “God Light” not to be confused with the “Spielburg Affect” in which ominous cloud formations herald the coming of alien life forms at Devil’s Peak.  “God Light” (copy right protected) is quite the opposite phenomena and a technical term and image I picked up either while attending Sunday School or Daily Vacation Bible School (DVBS) during the formative years of my Mennonite childhood.

“God Light” is one of those indelible images that never fades in my mind, in fact it is fixed in my mind through reinforcement from the numerous pictures I have viewed from decades of Sunday School attendance.  In my mind’s eye I also see Jesus Christ standing either on a mountain top or sometimes on a church steeple with long purple, flowing robes.  He is smiling, well groomed, sporting a trimmed beard and probably at the peak of his career at a time when his heavenly father was well pleased with his achievements here on Earth.  In this undated image Jesus was likely content in the knowledge that he could heal the sick, feed the hungry, drive spirits from swine, bring lizards back to life (a childhood trick apparently), and the source of much of his early success, turning water into wine.  God Light shines all around, and still takes my breath away and that may be about as spiritual as I get.

Going to church each Sunday was literally a ritual, while living in Waterloo we would get into my Dad’s 1950 Ford and drive the length of Weber Street to the Ottawa Street Mennonite Brethren Church.  My dad was a slow driver and would always make comments about drivers who passed him only to be at the next stop light at the same time.  My dad had his ways.  One of those ways was not to join the church.  Its not like membership at a country club.  Joining means getting baptized.  He never did, so in this way he was somewhat of a renegade.  I don’t know what stopped him but I think it was a real issue between he and my mom, and I’m sure church members in their shunning way were able to exert subtle and not so subtle pressures on my parents.

If there is one thing Mennonites are good at, that would be shunning and I say that with a total absence of pride.  There are so many things I am really thankful for having been raised Mennonite, but this cruel practice of shunning is not one of them.  Statistically, look at it this way, there are about one and a half million Mennonites world wide and at least a dozen different denominational categories.  For example, my tribe called Mennonite Brethren broke away from the larger Mennonite Church while still situated in the Ukraine prior to immigration to Canada.   

Enter one, Jacob Amman, truly the “Man of the Year” (1693) who introduced the concept of shunning by breaking away from the Mennonites.  He favoured the social avoidance of baptized Mennonites who left the church; so you see even the Amish were formed as a splinter group.  I’m not sure how far Mennonites can continue to splinter before they lose viability. I only mention shunning and its judgmental counterpart because my family felt the cruel hand of shunning because of my unbaptized father who liked to make wine and kept a TV in the house, and I later conjectured because I was a nuisance in Sunday School, a DVBS drop out, a German School reject as well as a total failure as a choir member and that’s what this story is really about.

I think to over compensate for my father’s sinful ways and to stave of the specter of shunning I was encouraged to do things like go to church regularly, and attend Daily Vacation Bible School in the summer months. Now that’s a double whammy, like taking cod liver oil and then licking the spoon.  In the bigger picture my sibs went to a Mennonite High School, Eden Christian College, we were also encouraged to attend Bible College where it was hoped we would meet our future spouse. I even volunteered, over my Spring Break, with Mennonite Disaster Service. I went to Pennsylvania to help after a flood season. There was also MCC for foreign service and the list went on.  Not to toot my Mennonite horn too loudly, Mennonites could be found around the world helping people.  They may shun each other, but will quickly pitch in to help others, doesn’t make any sense, but that’s all part of the Mennonite enigma. 

Driving through the suburban country side during summer months in most Southern Ontario communities, I often observe church signage advertising their Sunday schedule, or they make statements like “Jesus is the answer”  (What was the question?) and advertise, flea markets, bingos, upcoming miracles, UFO sightings and their Daily Vacation Bible School Program.  An opportunity for the chosen to go to a summer program, in a church, during the summer.  Yeah, that has about the same appeal to me now as it did when I was a kid. In fact back then it set shivers of fear and dread spiraling through my central nervous system. I think I developed ticks.  

Today, church educators try to spice things up a bit to attract kids to their summer programs. Themes are used, such as the Rainforest, or Ecology, “Superhero Missionary,” or whatever creative trick adult minds can devise to get kids inside a church during the months of summer these same months recognized, I might add, in the Bill of Rights and Freedoms as the “inalienable months of freedom.”  I felt then as I do now that DVBS is a violation of my civil rights. 

My mom wanted me to go to the DVBS at the local Mennonite church which happened to be a rival church, not our own MB church.  They wore a different coloured bandana. My mom was also able to over look the minor theological difference between the two churches and saw an opportunity for me to go to church in the summer when my friends were at the canal swimming, and generally having summer fun in the manner in which God intended.

The worst thing about VBS, other than it was in the church, in the summer, when my friends were swimming and having fun, was memorizing verses and reciting them in front of the entire church congregation at the end of the program, somewhat like a religious graduation ceremony.  I guess I shouldn’t complain because I have since learned that certain students and believers of the muslim religion will memorize the entire Quran.  This rote exercise in futility probably gives them about as much insight into living a righteous life as does memorizing IKEA assembly instructions, but at least with that you end up with a completed bookshelf, or chair and a free allen wrench.  At least I didn’t have to memorize the entire Bible, but I still have trouble with IKEA instructions.

My favourite verse was, “Jesus wept,” also the shortest verse in the BIble, unless someone can show me a verse with one word.

On the final day of DVBS, during the grad ceremony, I can still vividly remember walking to the pulpit to make my brief recitation.  My mouth was dry, my lips were cracked, my vision blurry, my mind as blank as blank could be.  There was no TelePrompTer, nor teacher to cue or coach me.  For a prepubescent kid I sweated like a pig as a hush fell over the congregation as if I was about to commit a felony or a miracle.  I was hoping the sweat on my shirt would form a pattern resembvling the image of the Virgin Mary and everyone would be distracted at such a revelation, but oh no, that little trick only works at a Catholic DVBS. They seem to have a “Mother Mary Monopoly”. I was of the Anabaptist persuasion, we separated from the mothership and formed our own franchise in the early days. I was so screwed. 

I was too nervous to ad-lib, and how does one ad-lib a Bible verse anyway.  I looked to the stained glass windows for inspiration, any God Light?  I at least looked for a bolt of lightening to strike me dead and end my misery.  As is normal under such a stressful situation I experienced a flashback, like a literary out of body experience, sending me back to two weeks prior.

Stage Directions: Page takes on a translucent-like appearance as reader participates in the flashback...

DVBS had just started and as far as my mother knew I had biked over to the church to attend. In reality I had doubled back, actually took my bike through the orchard behind our house and hid in our garage.  I was prepared to stay there for hours and remerge to synchronize with the DVBS dismissal time and then slickly tell my mom in all sincerity about the insights and Biblical revelations I had experienced in DVBS.

Had there been a mall I guess I would have opted for that distraction, but malls were still not really a mainstream phenomina and it never really crossed my mind to go to one, so there I was in a dark hot, humid garage on a summer day when my friends were at the canal swimming.  My DVBS subterfuge apparently did not allow for the fact that at some point in the morning my mother would take out the kitchen garbage and put in into the metal garbage bin in the garage where she automatically caught me doing my time.  Mission aborted.

She was speechless.

Flashback over. 

I was still speechless.  Stalemate.  Flashbacks only buy you so much time and when you come out of them you still are stuck in reality. Somehow I mumbled something and stumbled away from the podium after my stellar Biblical pantomime, likely bringing shame to my entire family and all of our ancestors which could likely result in an honour killing that same afternoon.  As a theological note Mennonites don’t actually openly endorse honour killings, nor do we practice ancestor worship, but in the religious sphere, I always felt that good karma derives from a sketchy knowledge of comparative religions like a Darwinian evolutionary survival skill.

My mom, bless her huge loving Mennonite heart, always wanted me involved in things, if not the unsuccessful DVBS program, than German School.

German School was offered in the basement classrooms of the MB Church on Scott Street where my family attended.  As an adult, who speaks only one language, I can well understand why my parent’s generation would desire to have their beloved culture and other Mennonite traditions live on through the German language and through the over achieving seed of their collective loins moi (mich?).

German, as taught in a MB German school, like the Quran and the three R’s taught in frontier pioneer schools was all taught by rote.  The first word I can remember learning in German class was Vogel, which means bird.  The paperback text book had a wonderful illustration of a Robin and I associated robin with hood and somehow remembered vogel.  Now every time I see a bird the socialist in me thinks of taking money from the rich and giving it to the poor. Funny how the mind works.  My first phrase I learned while in the Mennonite student exchange program in Germany was, “Ein Beer bitte.”  I had come a long way in linguistic development and cultural understandings.  My insights had no bounds.

None the less I must have been a disappointment to my parents.  Not only was I a DVBS failure with severe attitude and truancy issues, it soon became apparent that I had no discernible aptitude whatsoever at learning a language.  I still struggle with English. It is not without coincidence that later the church choir director would make a parallel statement about my singing abilities.

I can’t in all honesty say I don’t know any German at all as such a statement would be a complete disservice to my upbringing, because like most good Mennonite kids of my era I grew up watching Hogan’s Heroes (a WW II comedy set in a concentration camp, doesn’t sound funny.  I guess you had to be there) that along with German school and living an entire year immersed in Germany in the wine region of Bad Durkheim, it is safe to say, that today, I can fluently speak in excess of 60 German words.  In addition, while traveling I can identify German tourists at a glance, at a distance.  Clearly education, travel and cultural exposure was not entirely wasted on me. While I can’t boast being a prodigy, I can say, “Ich Bien ein Berliner.”  Which I’m told, after Kennedy said it, might actually mean I am a sausage.  Language is such a hit and miss thing at the best of times.

My mom, like mother Teresa, never gave up on a cause.  I was her cause.  Her youngest child who one day would be set adrift in a large and frightening, secular world considering Sunday School, DVBS, choir and German School, as they related to me, were no longer really issues of family discussion. My mother, despite her lack of formal education did have the ability to think out side of the box.  She lived by the phrase “paradigm shift” and made one with me.  My mom in her wise problem solving mode decided to send me to cubs, a decidedly English institution. In fact, at the time,anything not purely Mennonite was termed either “English” and remember to wrinkle your noise as you pronounce the word, or ”Canadian” another wrinkle.

I believe that I may have been the only Mennonite in my church or possibly community who served active duty as a cub.  As it turned out I had somewhat of an aptitude for cubbing. It did not involve a different language, there were no Bible verses to remember, I did not have to sing and it wasn’t held during summer months. As a result I rose rapidly through the ranks to boy scouts and eventually Rangers, the young adult version. 

Cubs was so very much not in the Anabaptist tradition. We wore uniforms with long socks, green shirts, and cute little caps. It had a somewhat cuddly neo-nazi look to it. Every little thing we did we got a badge for it and I thrived on positive reinforcement.  I had an arm full of badges for building fires (my dad was a pyromaniac), marksmanship (I loved guns), knot tying, map reading (I became a geographer), survival skills, arts and crafts, etc.  If we did something one of our leaders would be sure to pin a badge on our arm.  I learned to make presentations without freezing up in front of an audience.  Cubs did not use pulpits which took off a lot of pressure while public speaking.  I was truly built for the secular world.

I think my mom’s plan to change her timid little Mennonite boy into someone with a skill set marketable in the global economy finally started to pay off. I may have been a tad weak in my Mennonite traditions, but I turned out to be a damn fine cub. It was a start. 

During my grade nine year at Waterloo Collegiate Institute, at a time when Canada must have been far more militaristic then it is today, all male students were expected to join the militia. “Canada, you say.  What a pity.” My God this was the sixties, peace and love were in the air, Jupiter was aligned with Mars, Men were not yet from Mars, or women from Venus.  It was the era of the hippies, free love, drugs and oddly, high school students marching and carrying really heavy rifles.  There were no flowers stuffed down the barrel.

Its not like I volunteered for militia, apparently it was on the curriculum.  I didn’t have the vocabulary back then but since my hackles were raised I had an inclination that militia, as practiced in my high school was some fascist, neo nazi, bullshit perpetrated on a guileless, quasi patriotic civilian population by the vast Canadian military industrial complex, or was I thinking of another country?  I joined because I had to join.

The day I got my uniform I realized what pompous, narcissistic little shits the “regular” militia guys were.  By regular I was not thinking entirely of their colons.  The regulars actually wanted to be in the military.  I think I was experiencing a latent anabaptist reaction to a military presence.  I can never really be sure if at that moment I wanted Menno Simons to be proud of me, or it was a conversion of convenience, like marrying to get a green card.  Either way after just a week of marching in the hot sun in the parade ground, which doubled as the staff parking lot.  I concluded: let the Americans protect us.  They have more guns.  What  purpose did NATO and NORAD serve I asked in my own internal monologue. Personally, I wanted no part of the military.  I played my Mennonite card and with a note eagerly signed by my mom had me back on the streets faster than you can say, “Brunk Revival Campaign, born again Christian and Jesus Saves.”

Having given that vitriolic and anti militaristic statement I also have to admit that I loved to shoot a rifle.  Sorry Menno! Our school, buried deep within its bowels, had of all things, a rifle range.  I wondered what else they had buried under the school, or maybe some questions are better left unasked.  There were certain urban myths left unanswered.  Like did Jason Hurlbutt from 11-C actually move to Regina like school officials told us?

In order to pursue my love of shooting I had to put up with some of those mis cretin regular military types who also liked to shoot things.  We used old military rifles which were altered with a 22 bore, so the power they purported was illusory, but then so was the uniform.  My non-anabaptist friends wanted to know how they too could become Mennonite and get out of the militia while still being allowed to shoot a rifle.  My mumbled, inarticulate, but otherwise evasive answer had to do with a tangled web we weave when first we try to deceive and once I got passed the drowning of anabaptists I had pretty well lost my audience.

I have never attempted skit shooting, that may be more part of the Anglican faith.

     

Really Deep Religious Thoughts

Really Deep Religious Thoughts

I have grown up in the Mennonite World and for the past two years I have lived in the Muslim world. It was my students who gave me the best insight into their culture and religion.  I was struck with the many similarities between growing up Mennonite and Growing up Muslim. I have had two long years in this little desert country to think, ponder, research and delve into the complex intricacies of these two religions, Mennonite and Islam. For example, did you know that the names of the followers of these two religions each begin with the letter M.  Don’t let that I in Islam fool you.

Even though I pride myself in being somewhat of an armchair Mennonite/Islamic scholar/theologian don’t feel at all intimidated by the depth of my insights or the vast extent of my knowledge.  As Mennonites like to say, “be in the moment,” although that could be more of a zen thing now that I think of it. All I ask is that you read this chapter with an open mind and get what you can out of it, even if you have to read it twice, that just makes the book seem longer with more value for your money.  This whole book has been a satirical, tongue in cheek, quasi historical diatribe and I for one have had enough.  This chapter is serious.

It is impossible really to separate religion from the culture.  The two form an intricate interwoven fabric of values and norms that would be about as easy to separate as Siamese twins using 17th century surgical technology and know how.  The Islamic faith and virtually the entire basis of their belief system is often referred to as the Five Pillars. It is a rich architectural analogy that really seems to work, although I think it was Samson who pulled some pillars down in a rage over a really bad hair day he was having, but that could be more a Biblical than a Koranic reference.

The first pillar of Islam deals with prayer, ironical as I wrote that word prayer, I happened to be sitting in my office in Kuwait, in fact I can go one further, the call to prayer sounded at the same moment my I-Pod blasted out Placido Domingo singing Verdi’s Celeste Aida.  How ironic is that?

Personally, I have adjusted to the call to prayer and often wage a war of attrition with my I-Pod or TV set to drown out the call to prayer in its entirety  as it is projected from two giant minarets, sounds like a contradiction, I know.  Each tower is mounted with four loudspeakers so the Iman can be heard in surround sound. The minarets are situated directly across the street from our apartment at about the fourth floor level. Fortunately, our apartment is on the eighth floor and this affords us a small measure of acoustical relief.

During the call to prayer, each of the approximately 1000 mosques in Kuwait is actively broadcasting a similar message in 1000 different voices.  I have always felt, since living here, that Cat Stevens, now called Yousef and a devout Muslim, should be hired to make a Call to Prayer CD with a little acoustical guitar added in, so that all the mosques could pump out an identical message that had some musical merit.  Some Iman’s sound rhythmic while others just wouldn’t know their way around a Gregorian chat if it bit them in the ass.

The sound begins to bounce off buildings, echoes, and recoshes in every direction, like a 22 caliber bullet off a cement wall, to the point that the “call” morphs into an incomprehensible jumble of Arabic that I doubt many Kuwaitis could discern in any logical fashion. Yet it seems to work because as I look out my bedroom window I see the faithful begin to assemble from the four points of the compass and know exactly how to align their prayer mats with Mecca.

I have often wondered what the call to prayer actually means.  And I know as a reader what you must be thinking at this point, if I am such a hot shot Islamic/ Mennonite scholar/theologian why don’t I know what the call means.  The best way to interpret the meaning to the call to prayer, other than googling it, is too simply use sound recognition and basic phonetics. Its quite simple.

I successful used this system with my own children when they were young, while on family vacations.  I loved to drive and listen to opera which of course, like the call to prayer, is in some strange foreign language (I know I could google that too).  But I didn’t have to as it was quite easy to offer my kids a play by play translation of anything from  Puccini to Gershwin based on word parallelism.  Oddly, I soon discovered that many operas are actually about extreme sports (little known fact), such as hang gliding, motor cross racing, snow boarding, bungy jumping, heloskiing and various Nascar themes.  At least it kept my kids entertained and today they have a greater appreciation for extreme sports.

If your biological clock is not tuned into the schedule of the call to prayer, one only need get a copy of the Arab Times in which the prayer schedule is posted.  I am at the point at which my bladder is synchronized with the 3 am call to prayer. Sometimes I am up and semi awake and just tooling along the dark hallway to the washroom before the call even starts. Most often I could be back in bed before the “call” is finished.  I took it as a personal quest to do so.  During  many nights I don’t even hear the call to prayer any more.  I have hardened my heart.

Mennonites, like Muslims, are also expected to pray.  We are not on an exacting schedule and it is more up in the air (pun) as to what we say in our personal relationship to God and even when we say our prayers. Thank God we lack structure in regard to prayer.  I don’t want to be told when and where to pray.  We may pray in the car, in bed, kneeling down, on or off of a tiny rug, while walking, before meal time, at bedtime in rhyming couplets, free verse, or just as an inner monologue in traditional speech bubbles.  Basically, prayer is a free form open ended communication with out a cumbersome service provider and bad reception, using completely integrated and Apple compatible software.  The point is as Mennonites we probable pray a lot and for any number of reasons.  

As kid I prayed long and hard for a puppy, a new bike, a rifle, cap guns, snow days, White Christmas, a long and happy life for the Easter bunny and a heavenly host of other similar items, events or products.  I had mixed results with my praying and so the verdict is still out as to its effectiveness.  

I know as a kid, my brother and I shared a bedroom, actually we shared until we were in our twenties, despite the fact I had prayed for a separate room since grade 7; so I guess you can better appreciate my point relating to prayer effectiveness.  Perhaps praying for selfish things is not acceptable and if there is any pre screening or editing process for prayers on the way to heaven some of these more self centered wishes may get filtered out.  I don’t know for sure I can only pray for understanding. I have even considered prayer wheels in my unending quest for understanding.

When my mom was in my room at bed time we always prayed on our knees beside the bed, in what I would term a regulation pose.  When mom wasn’t there, if I did pray, I would pray in a prone position in bed, under the covers moments before falling asleep.  As a teen ager I think my prayers grew to be even more self centered and often had sexual themes about girls I had crushes on in grades 9 through 13. In retrospect I believe this era of prayer was probably verging on blasphemy and explains why I had pimples into my twenties and was very awkward with girls.  God works in mysterious ways.

As a university student I had a moratorium on prayer.  University days were a time of self doubt, religious doubt, a lack of faith in governmental institutions, a fear of nuclear war, and sexual transmitted diseases.  University was a time during which many Mennonite youths likely drifted from their faith. It might be safer to say that I didn’t so much drift away as much as I escaped in a high powered speed boat, like the ones used by drug runners in the Bahamas, and I made a dramatic rooster tail as I temporarily sped away from my religious roots.  The problem with drifting or speeding from your faith is that it is difficult, if not hypocritical to pray for guidance along the way.  

You see the thing about prayer I think is that we have to become vulnerable, have faith and trust in God.  As a student, and even now I still have core questions as to whether prayer can be answered.  One school of thought is that God did not create Man.  We created God and in our own image, but in some circles I could get shunned for even having that thought.

Recently, I had a excellent opportunity to reconnect with my Mennonite roots while trying to explain just exactly what Mennonites were to a class full of my own Muslim students.  How on earth could they possible relate in any meaningful way to a conservative  based religion founded by holy prophets from isolated Middle Eastern desert countries?  How could they grasp a religion, such as mine in which women were often covered and dressed in black, religion in which men held dominance and controlled everything from finances to family planning and who often had long beards and wore sandals.  It all seemed so theoretical.

How could I convey to my students the subtleties of my religion that originally had an agrarian base and a very nomadic existence as Mennonites in their diaspora settled around the world from Paraguay to Alma Ata on the Chinese border?  How could Muslim kids connect with the idea that we read from a holy book and often went to special classes, frequently held during the hot summer months, to memorize long passages of scriptures? How does one try to elucidate the concept of the importance of family and extended family over the importance of the nation state?  In so many ways explaining the characteristics of Mennonites to questioning Islamic students was like getting a camel through the eye of a needle.  It can’t be done.  My students just thought I was making it all up like I did most of my other lessons.

I soon grew to realize what a bizarre religion I had sprung from, even some of the stories we were taught in Sunday School don’t really hold up under heavy scrutiny.  I have heard these Bible stories over and over again to the point that it is difficult for me to write a piece of fiction without including Biblical allusions. Do you remember my reference to Samson in the introduction?

Bottom line is that I’m thankful I live in a multicultural tolerate country (Canada) which embraces religious freedom. I am most thankful that the Christian Bible was first written in English, I refer of course to the King James version, and not in some difficult foreign language that is read from right to left and from the back of the book to the front.  I believe, like most Christians, that the Bible was divinely inspired.  Had it been written in other languages like say latin, (no longer on the curriculum), Hebrew or even Greek each time it was translated it would lose some potency as meanings were lost in translation.

Was the Earth really completely flooded?  Did Noah actually gather up 2 of every species or just a partial representative sample?  Does God answer prayer?  Why is there suffering in the world?  Why was my 2005 tax return audited?  Religions create more questions than they answer.

I can only be reminded of the words of the Dali Lama who once said, “ ..test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” I just pray the next time he is reincarnated the Chinese will give him his country back.

Amen.