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My Big Fat Greek Shrimp and Tomato Saganaki with Feta

We had something similar to this in the pretty seaside town of Molyvos on the Island of Lesbos back in 2003. Martha’s grandparents emigrated to America from Lesbos, and it was her first time visiting there. It’s a beautiful place.

This summer Andrew and Jess came back from the Greek Islands and reported having a version of it in Santorini, though they claim mine is better, which may just be because there is more of it.This is a tourist dish with no claim to authenticity, but it is yummy. And, once you’ve cleaned the shrimp, easy and pretty foolproof.

I use frozen easy-peel shrimp that come in 2 lb bags. You will need a heavy-bottomed skillet, and an ovenproof serving dish (I use a Le Crueset enameled one, but you could do it any shallow casserole or baking dish.)

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion chopped
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
½ tsp crushed red pepper (or to taste)
2 lbs jumbo shrimp, peeled and de-veined
2 large fresh tomatoes in season, coarsely chopped (or use a 14.5 oz. can of diced tomatoes)
1 cup of crumbled feta cheese
Salt and pepper to taste
¼ cup flat-leaf parsley, rinsed and chopped

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Heat the oil in the skillet over medium heat and cook the onion, stirring occasionally until it is soft, about 5 to 10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for another minute, then add the red pepper flakes and tomatoes, and let it cook for another ten minutes or so until some of the liquid has evaporated and the sauce begins to thicken. Add the shrimp and cook for a few minutes, stirring now and then, until they turn pink and begin to firm up (don’t overcook them).

Turn the mixture into the baking dish, sprinkle the feta over the top, and put it in the oven for 10 minutes until everything is bubbling nicely. Salt and pepper to taste (the feta should be all the salt you need), and sprinkle with the parsley.

Although in Greece this is typically a starter, it will easily feed four people as dinner with some crusty bread and a Greek salad. In the best of all worlds your kids will bring you a white wine back from Santorini to have with it (as mine did), but any sturdy crisp white will go just fine (feta is a tough flavor match for wine.) White Retsina works if you’ve acquired a taste for it, which most people who aren’t Greek haven’t. Enjoy.

(Photos: R.L. Floyd)
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>Robert Reich explains the Public Option and it doesn’t sound so scary to me

>

I have been hearing that the “Public Option” in Health Care Reform will never happen, that it is “off the table,” and a “non-starter.” So what makes the “Public Option” so scary to our elected officials?
I just watched this video by Robert Reich, former Secretary of Labor, and it doesn’t sound scary to me. In fact, it makes a lot of sense to me. So who is scared by this? And what can be done to assure that our broken health care system can be fixed? As he says: this is our last chance. “In a few weeks this will all be history.”
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The best little bands you’ve never heard of! Volume 1: Middlefish Pond.


There must be thousands of them out there. Just in my own circle of friends there are a handful of guys (yes, all guys) who play in bands that only meet periodically, but have been doing so for decades. Many started with friends while in school, but keep meeting, writing songs, practicing and recording. Whether you call them garage bands or indie rock bands these guys are the true amateurs (from the Latin verb amo: to love), but their music is anything but amateurish. Some use professional sidemen when they record. All write their own songs, no cover bands here.

The first band I am going to feature is the oldest. Middlefish Pond will celebrate its fortieth anniversary next year. And I was there at the founding. During the beginning of my senior year at Coe College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa I met two very cool freshmen long-hairs named Tom Winter and David Kameras. Tom and I shared an apartment briefly the next summer, but the less said about that the better. David and I worked together on an underground newspaper called the Catalyst, which got us briefly busted in downtown Cedar Rapids for hawking papers without a license. David took a picture of the undercover officer who was questioning me on the street, and we put it on the cover of our next issue. But, as usual, I digress.
Soon Tom and David formed a band and were playing gigs at “the Pub,” which was the student snack bar in Coe’s Gage Memorial Union, and, despite the promising name, didn’t serve alcohol.
But it was a popular venue for plays (I was in Spoon River Anthology there) and music, and Tom and David soon became sort of a house band for the Pub. They named their band Middlefish Pond, after a beautiful setting in the Amana Colonies we used to go to and hang out at, not to put too fine a point on it.
Their two-man mostly acoustic band was lots of fun to listen to. They played lively up-tempo tunes with irreverent often goofy lyrics, reminiscent of Steve Goodman, John Prine, and Frank Zappa. Both guys wrote songs and sang and they often had intricate harmonies. David played viola and drums, Tom played guitars and harmonica. He once tried to teach me to play guitar, and I can still play House of the Rising Sun and Cocaine, but unfortunately, there was little call for either in my 30 years as a pastor.
So the year went by and in 1971 I graduated and went off to Boston to seminary, and the boys kept playing at Coe and other venues in Cedar Rapids and Eastern Iowa, and they eventually graduated, got jobs, got married, and went their separate ways- but the band played on. I haven’t seen David since 1971, but recently reconnected on Facebook and was astonished to find out that MFP was still alive. Tom came on his motorcycle to visit me at the parsonage in my first pastorate in West Newfield, Maine about 1975, but there was a Church Ladies Bazaar going on, and I think it freaked him out, so he left abruptly. I couldn’t be happier that these two terrific guys are still making music, and that it is now easily available due to the wonder of the Internet.
Here is how they describe themselves on the album notes of their most recent album, Last Chance to Breathe: “Middlefish Pond is a two-person vocal group spawned in the fertile terrain of eastern Iowa in 1970, now a commuter relationship between Random Fill Studio (Chicago area) and Amanapond Music (ASCAP) (Washington area). The band, which plays original songs sharing a satiric blues-rock-folk-often political-Zen sensibility, is comprised of songwriters David Kameras on vocals, viola and drums, and Tom Winter on vocals, acoustic and electric guitars, bass guitar, harmonica and bazouki. The team has also drawn, as circumstances require, on kazoo, variable speed electric drill and ambient sound (including locusts on the current release). Speaking of which…. 

 Last Chance To Breathe showcases the group’s more recent efforts, touching on themes of love, loss, class, race, courage and obsession, filtered through a comic-mystical lens. This is music that reminds one of Chicago blues, Delta blues, Steve Goodman, Shel Silverstein, Siegel-Schwall, David Lindley, Warren Zevon, LeRoy Marinell and Frank Zappa, all in a good way, of course. 

Shock your family, astonish your friends, or just settle back with a good pair of headphones and groove to Last Chance To Breathe pursue new and exciting, yet still irreverent, directions.”
So check these guys out. I think you’ll enjoy Middlefish Pond. To buy Last Chance to Breathe go to:
To see their site with blog and pictures go to:
(photos: above, then at Coe; below, now. Left to right in both, David Kameras, Tom Winter)
Unknown's avatar

Help! My Facebook Page, like Billy Pilgrim, has become “unstuck in time.”

I noticed it earlier today, Labor Day, Monday September 7, 2009. I opened my homepage and the top post was from Rachel Flynn, who was “moving to New York tomorrow.” Wait a minute, I recalled that she had said that on Friday, and I knew there had been several posts since Friday. What is going on?

I looked at the previous post. It was from my New Zealand Internet friend Jason Goroncy promoting his excellent blog, Per Crucem ad Lucem, on Saturday at 8:13 pm.
The previous post was Donna Schaper enjoying the end of summer and looking forward to events in September, posted on September 3.

“And so it goes” at Kurt Vonnegut might say. In his book Slaughterhouse Five, one of my favorites, his protagonist, Billy Pilgrim “becomes unstuck in time” and experiences past and future events out of sequence. So one moment he is experiencing his life as a middle-aged married dentist in upstate New York, and in another he may be back as a young chaplain’s assistant in WW2 experiencing the firebombing of Dresden in a bunker the Germans have put him as a P.O.W, and in another moment he is naked in a zoo on the planet of Tralfamadore with B-movie starlet Montana Willdhack, both having been kidnapped by the Tralfamadorians as examples of earthlings. You get the idea.

If you are one of the handful of people on earth who read blogs, but doesn’t have a Facebook page, here’s how it works (when it isn’t broken): you scroll down your homepage, and all your “friends” posts cascade down the wall in order of posting time. To have your Facebook page become unstuck in time is most disconcerting.
I thought it might be a problem with my computer, but posted about it and got two responses from other people that said it was happening to them too. I can only access their posts from the little notifications thingy in the bottom right corner.
I just checked to see if they fixed it, but no: Rachel is still moving to New York tomorrow. Unstuck in time. Sorry Rachel!
I hope they can fix it.
Unknown's avatar

What if we had to choose a former Red Sox Pitcher to be our Senator?

In yesterday’s post I gave the definitive reasons why Curt Schilling will not be Senator from Massachusetts. But it got me thinking. What if our next United States Senator had to come from the ranks of former Red Sox pitchers?

To start you can just eliminate some guys. There are certain Sox pitchers, mostly relievers, that just have no chance with the electorate: B.K. Kim, Calvin Schiraldi, Mike Torrez (remember Bucky Dent? I do, I was there!), Curtis Leskanic, “Heathcliff” Slocum are just a few of the many that spring to mind. There are just too many painful memories there.

And when I think back on the starters it doesn’t get much better, because the Red Sox management in my early years of fandom believed you could win pennants by stacking the line-up with hitters and pretty much let the pitching take care of itself. They were wrong. So there are guys from that era that did a pretty good job, but just don’t have that much name-recognition anymore like Dave Morehead, Dick Drago, Reggie Cleveland, Rick Wise, “Oil Can Boyd,” Roger Moret, and Bruce Hurst.

And we can’t count pitchers who came to us late in their careers, but made their reputations in other towns. Tom Seaver is a Met, Frank Tanana is an Angel, Bret Saberhagen is a Royal, Mike Boddicker is an Oriole, and Frank Viola is a Twin. They may have played for the Red Sox, but it’s just not their team.

So who else is there? Let us think big. When you think of iconic Red Sox pitchers the first name that comes to mind is Cy Young. He has great name recognition, with the eponymous award and all, but he died in 1955, and nobody except Strom Thurmond ever served in the Senate when he was dead, and Thurmond was alive when he was first elected, so that rules out Cy Young. Same thing for Babe Ruth; sorry Babe, most folks don’t even remember that you were once a pitcher, and a good one at that. Actually, most people don’t remember that you ever played for the Red Sox, but we don’t want to get into that.

There are some other high name-recognition guys, but they all have fatal flaws. Jim Lonborg, the star of the 1967 Series (although we lost) is probably not remembered by the younger generation. Besides, he went to Tufts Dental School and became a dentist after retiring, and why be a Senator when you can be a dentist; the pay is better.

Roger Clemens was once very popular with the voters, I mean fans, but now is universally scorned in New England for committing the unpardonable sin, and I don’t mean the doping. And he is so from Texas.

Pedro Martinez was about as good as it gets for several years with the Sox. The dominant (and Dominican) was 117-37 (not a missprint) for his career with them, although marred by the infamous Grady Little 100 pitch non-decision. The non-citizen thing might be a problem, plus going to New York (even if it was to the Mets).

The next name that comes to mind is Luis Tiant, who for many years of my fandom was the only decent Red Sox pitcher we had. In 1966 he pitched four straight shut-out victories, one of only five pitchers to do that. “El Tiante” has some valuable gifts for the Senate. For one thing he can look one way and pitch the other.

Tiant is personable, wise, and colorful, although sometimes I have trouble understanding what he is saying, but that shouldn’t really be a problem in the Senate. Besides, he has a new documentary about him just out called Lost Son of Havana, which would give him a quick media bump. He actually lives in Massachusetts, and I think he is a citizen, which is a plus. If not, he was born in Havana in 1940 (more or less) before the revolution, and we pretty much owned Cuba then, so I’m sure with a little paperwork from the State Department it could be worked out. People here love him. So he’s a possibility.

guy that would probably make a good senator is Bill Lee. The former left-handed pitcher, nicknamed “Spaceman,” is articulate and has outspoken views on most subjects. He once said

his marijuana use allowed him to jog to work at Fenway Park without being bothered by the bus fumes. He also said that since the right hemisphere of the brain controls the left side of the body, and the left hemisphere of the brain controls the right side of the body, only left-handed people are in their right minds. Sounds good to me, but I’m right-handed, so what do I know. But the downside for Bill is that he isn’t a resident of Massachusetts (he has a lumber company in Vermont), and his appearances on Charlie Moore’s NESN fishing show looking like the Unabomber might scare away some voters.

So that leaves me with the last, best, obvious choice. Yes, you guessed it, Dennis Eckersley! Hall of Famer Eck had two smoking seasons with the Red Sox in 1978 (20 wins) and 1979 (17 wins), but then, frankly, he was pretty bad until he left in 1984 when he was traded for Bill Buckner (Oh, the irony!).

Eck never really had it again as a starter, but in 1987 he got traded to the Oakland Athletics and Manager Tony La Russa used him as a long reliever. When closer Jay Howell became injured Eck filled in and never looked back. He won the AL Cy Young award as a reliever in 1992 as well as the MVP. He ended his career with 390 saves and went straight to the Hall of Fame. Most Sox fans forget how bad he was here toward the end, and those like me who remember have forgiven him long ago. So we can all feel good about this extraordinary Red Sox reliever who is in the Hall of Fame, even though he wasn’t a reliever for the Red Sox. Eckersley is the final proof that F. Scott Fitzgerald was wrong when he said, “There are no second acts in American lives.”

Today as a commentator for NESN Eck is extremely popular with the fans, and he even lives in Massachusetts (although he is such a California dude). He is smart, funny and articulate. He does have his own unique lingo and likes to coin new words or use old ones in new ways. He coined the term “walk-off home run” after Kirk Gibson victimized him in the 1988 World Series.

I can imagine him in the Senate kibitzing with Al Franken, saying something like, “Wow, that new Senate Environmental Bill is hard cheese with hair on it!” It’s true that he might not want the job, or move to Washington, since it would cut into his golf time, but it never hurts to ask. People should approach him and see if he is interested.

If we have to have a Former Red Sox pitcher for United States Senator I vote for Eck.

Unknown's avatar

Senator Curt Schilling? I Don’t Think So.

Former Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling told the New England Cable Network that he had been contacted by people seeking to recruit him to enter the race to fill the vacant Massachusetts senate seat to succeed the late Senator Edward Kennedy, and that he hadn’t ruled out the possibility.

Now I truly admire Curt Schilling, and will never forget his performance in game 6 of the 2004 ALCS against the New York Yankees, when his victory forced a game 7, allowing the Red Sox to become the first team in history to come back from a 0-3 deficit, and go to their first World Series since 1986. This was the first “bloody sock” game; the second was in game 2 of the World Series, which Schilling also won, and the Red Sox went on to win their first World Series since 1918. So Schilling is much beloved by Red Sox fans here in New England, and much admired for his charity work, but he will never be senator and here’s why:

  1. He has no political experience. Now one might argue the case that this is an asset, but one would be wrong.
  2. He isn’t really from Masschusetts. He was born in Alaska, and grew up in Arizona, where he attended college. He considers the Pittsburgh area to be home. There have been other carpetbaggers with state flags of convenience; Robert Kennedy and Hillary Clinton both became senator in New York on slender evidence of residency, but this isn’t New York.
  3. He doesn’t have a college degree. In Massachusetts that matters.
  4. He is known for being something of a hothead and shooting off his mouth, which can be entertaining from an entertainer, but disastrous for a politician. He admitted as much yesterday, saying, “That is probably another one of the reasons why I wouldn’t make a good political candidate right now is that there is an enormous amount of house cleaning that has to be done and I don’t have a really good filter,” Schilling said. “My first press conference could be my last.”
  5. He has spent much of his public career sparring with the press. The war of words has been fun to follow, but journalists have long memories. He has publicly called Boston Globe sports columnist Dan Shaughnessy a “tool,” a “hack” and an “idiot.” And these are just the ones I can print in a family blog like this. I’m actually not a big Shaughnesssy fan myself, so I find these amusing, but they won’t help Curt run for office. The Boston media would have a field day with him in the run-up to an election.
  6. There is still some resentment against him among some fans for his last year with the Red Sox in 2008 when he squabbled with management, and never threw a pitch.
  7. His views are pretty conservative. Ours aren’t.
  8. He can’t legally run as a Republican. He says he’s registered as an Independent. In Massachussetts law one must be registerd in the party for 90 days before the November 3 deadline. He doesn’t have 90 days. He would have to run as an Independent.
It’s just not going to happen.
Unknown's avatar

September Signals a New Chapter

Something about the beginning of September makes me feel like starting a new chapter. Perhaps it’s all those years of getting a new blank notebook to begin the school year. It’s been many a year since I went back to school, but old habits die hard.

The weather here in New England changed this past week. We’ve had a miserable summer, rainy and humid, by turns too cold and too hot, but always damp and sticky. Now the air is dry and the sky is high and blue, and it is cool enough to work outdoors without losing your weight in sweat. I trimmed my hedges today and hardly worked up a sweat. Perhaps the change in the weather sets off some internal clock, like a migrating bird, that says it’s time for a new chapter.

For me September is the real beginning of a new year. It marks the end of summer and the approaching Fall. It marks time like a turning hinge, from then to now, and from now to what now?

This cool weather reminds me of a September day twenty-seven years ago in 1982. We lived in Maine, 20 minutes outside of Bangor on a 100-acre farm. We had a new baby, born July 22, our first child, Andrew, and we were in transition. I was about to take a new job and we would soon be moving to a new state. I had accepted a call from a search committee, but hadn’t been voted on by the congregation yet. That would take place on September 12 down in Massachusetts. These votes usually work out, but New England Congregationalists take their prerogatives pretty seriously, so it was by no means pro forma. I was still working at my old job, although I can’t say my heart was fully in it.

It was Labor Day weekend, and my Dad and his wife Virginia (my mother died in 1967) had come up from New York City to see the new grandchild (my Dad’s second, but first in almost a decade. His first one was Adam and he asked me dryly, as only Larry Floyd could, if the family was working their way alphabetically through a Biblical Concordance).

The weather was bright and cool like it is today. We were all having a good time, still in summer vacation mode, and a new baby is a great distraction from whatever else might be vexing you. We went down the road to the next small town to eat, nothing fancy, but good Maine summer fare: steamers, lobster, sugar and butter corn, blueberry pie.

Driving home in the dark I noticed a spectacular display of the Northern Lights, so when we arrived we took our flashlights and some lawn-chairs, and went out behind the barn (to escape the inevitable big rural floodlight our landlord had on the front of the barn.)

We sat silently in the dark and watched this extraordinary display of God’s grandeur. I have never seen anything like it, before or since. Martha quietly nursed our new baby. I took it all in, the sky, my family, my wife and new son, my Dad and his wonderful wife. Life was good if a bit uncertain. There was a new ministry ahead, a new town, a new house, a new chapter.

That day was a hinge time. God is good to us to let us live and enjoy the moments we have. This was one of them, and the change in the September weather always reminds me of it.

It was my Dad’s last September for he died the next July. These rare moments we are given when life seems especially good are to be embraced and remembered. Like this great September weather they only last so long.

Unknown's avatar

Chef Hats off to Julie and Julia!

If you haven’t seen the film Julie and Julia yet you must.By now you probably know that it is based on two books, My Life in France (which I have read) by Julia Child and her nephew, and Julie/Julia (which I have not), by Julie Powell that grew out of a blog by Powell in 2002, in which she attempted to cook every recipe in Child’s iconic Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year.Both books are getting a bump from the movie and are on the NYTimes best seller list.

The film interweaves the two stories, and although some critics have a point that the Childs’ sections overshadow the Powell sections, the result is engaging and lots of fun.The incomparable Meryll Streep once again demonstrates her powers as a conjurer by becoming Julia Child, the lilting voice, the stoop ofa too-tall woman, the goofy charm, it’s all there and it is something to behold.Stanley Tucci is wonderful as her husband Paul, and the chemistry between these two is terrific to watch.Would that any of us could have that much fun together

Of course, the real star of this movie is the food, as you see Julia and Paul eat their way through France, and Julie (played capably by charming Amy Adams), cooking her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking in her upstairs apartment over a pizza parlor. The movie gets a little overly mystical for my tastes about Julie’s imagined bond with Julia, but after a year of cooking her recipes Julie is entitled to be a little off balanced.

So this one goes on my list of other favorite foodie movies with Eat, Drink, Man, Woman; Like Water for Chocolate; Babette’s Feast; and Tampopo. Foodie friends tell me I must see Big Night and it’s on my list.

Yesterday I pulled my copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking off the cookbook bookcase and noticed it is a first edition. It was given to me by my late Aunt Tia (Grace Louise Forster, aka Brownie Boghosian). It is a Book Club edition, so I am pretty sure she got it from The Book of the Month Club.I have both volumes with their dust jackets and they are in pretty good shape, since Tia didn’t cook very much and was pretty neat when she did (like my mom she was a librarian.) I, on the other hand, who also take good care of my books but give cookbooks a big exemption, have left pinot noir stains on both the Boeuf Bourguignon and the Coq au Vin (photo below) pages.

In addition to these two provincial classics, I have made Julia’s Cassoulet, and all three of these dishes are delicious, labor intensive, time consuming, and laden with butter. The Cassoulet takes several days to digest,

Julia’s later book, The Way to Cook, has simplified recipes, but loses some of the joi de vivre (along with the butter) of the original.I have made her “Zinfandel of Beef,” an updated and simplified Boeuf Bourguignon, and it is delicious, but not nearly as sumptious as the original, in which you braise onions and mushrooms separately and add them to the final dish at the end.

In today’s NYTimes Book Review Mastering the Art of French Cooking is now number one on the Hardcover Advice and How-To List, which means it will be taking up space on many a kitchen bookshelf for years to come.For those who actually open it and try to cook from it be warned. It is a great cookbook and deserves its reputation, but Julia was not fooling around.

The movie makes Julie’s attempt to cook all the recipes seem pretty grueling, but I suspect the reality was even more daunting.These recipes take time, thought, care, attention, good ingredients and love.There are no shortcuts.They yield wonderful results.

And in many ways Mastering is an artifact from another age.It is not only French cooking made accessible for Americans, it is French cooking from 1960. A lot has changed since then, and even the French don’t cook this way much anymore.

But it is still wonderful, so hats off to Julia for being Julia, and also to Julie for sparking a new interest for another generation in this great cuisine and the oversized personality that brought it to America.

(all photos: R.L. Floyd)

Unknown's avatar

Where I Ruminate on My Experience of the British National Health Service

One of the many inflammatory charges that frequently gets tossed into the current health care reform conversation is how bad nationalized health care systems are.

I have recently read an interview with David Sedaris (very funny, of course) about having kidney stone attacks in New York and Paris and comparing the two experiences (and costs.) And author Sara Paretsky, creator of fictional detective V.I. Warshawski, had a piece in the New York Times Magazine about taking her husband to the emergency room in France with chest pains. Both Sedaris and Paretsky agree that the French hospital experience is bureaucratic, but also effective, and above all, cheap.

“I can’t speak to the subject, since I have always been healthy when in France (I suspect it’s all the wine and cheese), but I have been ill while in Britain, and have first-hand (although somewhat dated) experience with the British National Health Service

My family and I have lived in Britain for extended periods of time on three occasions during sabbaticals. My first one was in Oxford, and my children were almost 5 and almost 7 when we got there. Our doctor was Dr. Shakespeare (I’m not making this up) in Summertown, and he ran a clean efficient surgery that adequately took care of our medical needs for the months we were there. Medications, such as antibiotics for a child’s earache, came from the neighborhood chemist. Both the visit and the prescriptions were free, thanks to the NHS. We were resident aliens, but we received care with no questions asked. Sometimes we had to wait, a situation not unknown in America.

On one of the children’s mid-term holidays, we left Oxford and traveled, along with Martha’s sister Andrea, to the Cornwall coast. We stayed in the charming fishing village of Mousehole (pronounced Mowz-uhl) at a guesthouse called “The Lobster Pot.”

I awoke one morning with a sore throat and a slight temperature. We were slated to go down the coast to see St. Michaels Mount, a part-time island with a picturesque priory on it that sits just off the coast in the English Channel. I decide to tough it out, but inquired from our host where I might get medical care if I needed it. She told me that there was a medical group in the village of Marazion, on the mainland, just across from the island.

By the time we got to Marazion I was feeling pretty feverish, so I had Martha drop me off at the medical group while the rest of the party went to see the island. I waited for about a half hour for my turn to go to the window. The friendly receptionist asked me my address, and I explained that I lived in Oxford, but was on holiday in Cornwall. “Where are you staying?” she inquired. I told her I was at “The Lobster Pot” in Mousehole, and she said, “Then you must go to Penzance for care, you are not in our district.” I don’t know if it was the fever or the reference to Penzance, but the conversation did seem to have a Gilbert and Sullivan feel about it.

So, having been denied, I left and walked across the causeway to the Island (you can only do this at low tide) found my family, and spent several hours huddled on a stone bench in a shady spot burning with fever. In due time we found the doctor’s office in Penzance, waited a reasonable amount of time, and I saw the doctor, who, now that I think about, it looked a lot like Hugh Laurie, the British actor who plays Dr. House, in the TV show “House”.He asked me where I was from, and I told him Oxford. “Ah,” he said, “the city of dreaming spires.” He looked in my ears and throat, listened to my chest, took my temperature and sent me to the chemist next door to get some antibiotics, which did the trick in a day or two. All at no cost.

So I draw no big conclusions from my tale except to say I always felt welcome as a visitor in Britain, and it always felt like the right thing to do to provide health care for everybody.I’ll let the experts work out the details, but I am really hoping we can do that here.

Unknown's avatar

Eugene Peterson on Spirituality

I always gain some insight when I read Eugene Peterson, the pastor scholar who created The Message, a fresh contemporary paraphrase of the Bible. Peterson’s own immersion in the Biblical texts makes him refreshingly immune to the seductions of the culture, and I find him telling hard and graceful truths that both evangelicals and mainliners seldom hear because of their mutual commitment to the fratricidal Christian culture wars. Peterson is not ashamed to call himself an evangelical, yet he served as pastor to a mainline Presbyterian Church for many years. In a 2005 interview with Mark Galli for Christianity Today (“Spirituality for all the Wrong Reasons”), Peterson challenges the American tendency to see spirituality chiefly in terms of personal growth and relational intimacy.

Galli queried him on this: “Yet evangelicals rightly tell people they can have a ‘personal relationship with God.’ That suggests a certain type of spiritual intimacy.”

Peterson responded: “All these words get so screwed up in our society. If intimacy means being open and honest and authentic, so I don’t have veils, or I don’t have to be defensive or in denial of who I am, that’s wonderful. But in our culture, intimacy usually has sexual connotations, with some kind of completion. So I want intimacy because I want more out of life. Very seldom does it have the sense of sacrifice or giving or being vulnerable. Those are two different ways of being intimate. And in our American vocabulary intimacy usually has to do with getting something from the other. That just screws the whole thing up. It’s very dangerous to use the language of the culture to interpret the gospel. Our vocabulary has to be chastened and tested by revelation, by the Scriptures. We’ve got a pretty good vocabulary and syntax, and we’d better start paying attention to it because the way we grab words here and there to appeal to unbelievers is not very good.”

I’ve been watching Mad Men, a TV show about Madison Avenue advertising men in 1960. It is a very cynical show, but captures some of the manufactured quality of American culture, which relies on superficial images to sell products. Part of the climate for this to be effective is what might be called historical amnesia for what has come before. It is always change that is sold (even, perhaps especially, in politics). As Peterson wisely points out, the church has “a pretty good vocabulary and syntax” rooted in Scripture and long generations of rich tradition. Sadly, we in the church too often jettison this grammar for the grammar of the culture, which is typically ephemeral.

I think that one of the reasons Martin Luther King was so compelling was the way he employed the sacred vocabulary during the civil rights movement to speak to a great public moral issue. Folks in the black churches in America were acquainted with this vocabulary, because it had been preserved in their churches. But suddenly it spoke to us all with great power.

We have rich traditions of spirituality in the church, but we tend to ignore them and look elsewhere for wisdom about it, often to a faux Eastern spirituality made for America. What Peterson articulates so well is that when spirituality becomes unmoored from the grammar of faith it becomes vacuous, just another consumer product sold to us to enhance our quality of life. As he puts it: “It’s very dangerous to use the language of the culture to interpret the gospel.”