After the killings of two black men at the hands of white police officers in July, and the subsequent murders of several law enforcement officers, there has been much discussion about the social injustices many African Americans and others have experienced in the United States for decades, if not centuries. Continue reading Spiritual Foundations of Non-violent Resistance
Movies based on Biblical stories and characters have been extremely successful in the past. However the 2016 motion picture treatment of Ben-Hur—a retelling of a best-selling novel, a long-running play, and one of the highest grossing movies in history—has met with poor box office receipts at its North American release this month. Why? In the 1950s, Biblical epics were among the most profitable movies released up to that time. And among these films are at least three in which Christianity is viewed through a positive lens. Has the appetite for ‘Jesus-friendly’ epics changed? I’ll argue that the audience for Christian-based films today is fundamentally different from sixty years ago, and this difference may be an example of a growing divergence between the secular and the religious in today’s society, especially when compared to the middle of the twentieth century.
In this piece I’ll take a look at three films, extremely successful in the past, and sympathetic to the Christian faith. They are Ben-Hur, The Robe and Quo Vadis.
I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. How could he have gotten that score? As I approach the car, the engine automatically starts and the right side door, the one closest to me, pops open. As soon as I sit in the cheap cloth seats the seatbelt automatically wraps around me. Even though it’s thirty degrees in the car-waiting area, it’s cool in the vehicle, the natural temperature in the car’s ergonomics program.
‘Where to?” Siri asks.
“Home.”
We glide out of the waiting area to the main street. Sometimes I wish Siri would speed up a bit. Can’t she tell that I’m in a hurry? I have to talk to somebody about this, or this is going to drive me crazy.
Madison? My mother, his only daughter? She would be the obvious person to handle this. I’ve got to tell her about this. Somebody’s gone and screwed with her own father.
“Call Madison,” I practically yell at the centre console. I pull a bottle of water with a twist of lemon out of my bag and take a long gulp.
The call goes through, but the voicemail returns. “Leave a message.” My mother was never one for words. “Yeah, Madison, it’s me. Listen, I…” I don’t know what it is but something inside, that small annoying voice in my head—I don’t know where it comes from—tells me to hold on. Why, I don’t know. Just think about this for a while, before you bring her into this. After all, she’s been acting kinda strange lately, ever since you started visiting him more frequently.
“Yeah, Madison. Just saw Pops. He says to tell you hi. Talk later. End call.”
Don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s fifty-five years old, looks twenty-five, but sometimes acts like a five-year old. I take another swig of the lemon water. The scenery zips by outside the windows and the lower glass door panels. Inside the cabin is as quiet as can be. At times like this I’m glad for the silence.
Another five minutes and the silence is unbearable. I’ve got to talk to somebody.
My car pulls into the car-waiting area of the Regent Retirement Village and finds a spot about seventy metres from the front door, under a grove of trees. The kind of spot that I’ve selected among its list of rental preferences. A blast of hot air slaps me in the face as I step out and turn towards the building. The car resembles a massive grey egg on wheels. The whisper of the electric motor shuts down and the door closes and locks automatically.
As I approach the front door of the two-story building the tinted green glass doors slide open with a hiss that’s barely more than a whisper. There is a receptionist’s desk but no receptionist. Instead there is a microchip reader that resembles a small notepad, and an LED screen. I make a fist and hold my wrist over the reader. A woman’s voice emanates from the screen.
“Resident’s name.”
“Elijah Keeper.”
“Your relationship.”
“I’m his granddaughter.”
“For security. What is the resident’s date of birth.”
“January first, two thousand and one.”
“Name of resident’s first partner.”
“Evangeline Keeper.”
A plastic badge silently protrudes from a slit under the reader. My likeness stares back at me. Underneath the likeness is my name, time and date of sign-in: Three forty-seven p.m., Sunday, July 21, 2080. Another set of ghost doors slide open on my right. Pops, here I come.
The Regent Retirement Village is more like a holiday resort than a retirement home. Past the lobby area, you enter through a pair of glass doors to an atrium. Natural light filters through the glass domed roof, from the entrance area, past the administrative offices, all the way to the rear and the first floor suites. As you enter the atrium, to the left are two tubular elevators with glass doors. I take the first to the Level Two suites. The units open to a long balcony that the residents use as a walking path that wraps its way all around the second level. Residents in groups of twos and threes chat quietly and look over the balcony down to the activity on the ground level. The second level is the envy of the entire complex.
Here it is, Room 2C.
There is a numeric pad on the door. I enter the visitor code.
“Come on in, Ayana.” Pops’ voice is now becoming thin and brittle. The door slides opens onto a small living/ dining room. At the far end, through another set of sliding glass doors, Pops is in a flannel bathrobe sitting at a small table on the veranda. His cane is resting against the table. I pass through the living/ dining room and open the veranda door. A blast of hot air practically pushes me back into the air-conditioned living room. Thank God, I wore my shorts and a t-shirt.
“How are you, Precious?” He holds my hand as I throw one arm around his shoulder and plant a kiss on his forehead.
“That’s a question for you, Pops!”
“Oh I can’t complain.”
“Never does any good anyway, right. They treatin’ you good?”
“Uhm, I guess.”
“You’d tell me if they weren’t, wouldn’t you, now?”
“Uhm, I guess.”
“Why don’t you sit inside? It’s burning up out here.”
“Oh I don’t mind the heat.” He looks away at the sky. “So many fancy new drones and AAV’s nowadays. It’s like getting to a point now where there are traffic jams in the sky. I can’t believe there aren’t more accidents.”
I reach into my purse. “Brought you a present.” I place a small cardboard box on the table. “Open it.”
“What’s this,” he says, eyeing the box.
“Open it! I printed it especially for you.”
He slowly reaches for the box and opens it. “A watch? What do I need another watch for?”
“It’s not just a watch. It’ll only work when it’s on your wrist. And if you just tap this button here, then this one, it automatically alerts me. It’ll tell me that it’s more than a telephone call. It’ll tell me to come and get you right away.”
“Why? Why do I need this?”
“I want you to know that you will always have me, Pops. I never want anything bad to happen to you. I’ll always be your Ayana.”
“Why all of this all of a sudden? Who’s been talkin’ to you?”
My shoulders stiffen and a slight chill shocks my body. I could never hide anything from those all-seeing eyes. I tug at his chair and roll it out a bit. “Here, let me sit on your lap.” His eighty-year-old eyes are as clear and bright as ever. He extends his hand. It is cold and clammy, even though it must be at least thirty degrees out here on the veranda.
“There’ll be coming for me soon, you know, I can feel it,” he says.
“I know you didn’t mean what you wrote. We all do. Why don’t you just apologize? I’m sure you’ll be able to come home with me. I’ll take care of you, and you’ll be safe.”
“I hope you’re right, Precious. But my days are numbered. I’m sure of it. Whenever anyone has said anything good about Fallstead, bad things happen. Every time.”
You just made a mistake. You know you didn’t mean it. I know you didn’t mean it. Just apologize, and sound like you mean it, and you’ll be okay.”
“Not sure that I can do that…”
“Why not?”
Just then there’s a buzzing sound and he pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Yes, Bess. Come in.” He turns to me. “It’s Bess, with my medication.”
I clutch my bag. “Would you like me to leave?”
“No, don’t,” he says, with a steel rod in his voice, but his old hands can manage only a gentle squeeze as he grasps my wrist.
The nurse approaches with a small bag. “Hello, Bess,” he says.
“I didn’t realize you had company. Hi, Ayana.”
I ask her how she’s doing.
Bess extends her hand and I take it. “I can come back later if you like,” she says.
“No, no, no. It’s quite all right. Ayana doesn’t mind.”
I start towards the cool of the living room. “While you’re doing this I’ll get out of your way. There’re a couple of calls I’d like to make.”
Inside I close the door behind me. There are two ottomans in the living area. On one of them is a thin glass or polymer pane, about twenty centimetres by twenty-five centimetres. Bess’ notebook. I shoot a quick glance out to the veranda. She’s talking to him, holding his right hand.
I can’t help myself. I slide over to the notebook. It’s open. There’s a long list of medical terms that I don’t understand. It looks pretty good though—there’re a lot of lines in green font. That has to be good. No red font anywhere. Good for you, Pops! You’re going to be around a long time. At the bottom of the screen, the page counters shows ‘2’. I slide the screen to the right. The first page of his profile appears—a 3-D image of his unsmiling face, and general information. Birthdate, most recent address, closest relative–Madison Keeper. Occupation, yearly income, lifetime income, net worth, volunteer activities, length of stay at the Regent Retirement Village, key life accomplishments, and…oh, my God! This can’t be true! That PV Score! That Personal Value Score!? How did you get such a low PV Score? This’s got to be a mistake.
Outside Bess is still holding his wrist. Did Pops know about his score? Is this why he was so depressed? Pops, what’s going on here?
© Weldon Turner, 2016. All rights reserved.
Nest month, Ayana’s Ride, Parts II and III.
The writers and stories behind ten of our most beloved and influential hymns.
All Creatures of Our God and King – St. Francis of Assisi
A Mighty Fortress Is Our God – Martin Luther
Doxology (Praise God from whom All Blessings Flow) — Thomas Ken
Christ the Lord is Risen Today — Charles Wesley
Amazing Grace – John Newton
Battle Hymn of the Republic – Julia Ward Howe
Blessed Assurance – Fanny Crosby
Jesus Loves Me — Anna B. Warner
Great Is Thy Faithfulness — Thomas O. Chisolm
Take My Hand, Precious Lord — Thomas Dorsey
From St. Francis of Assisi’s, ‘All Creatures of Our God and King’, to Thomas Dorsey’s ‘Take My Hand, Precious Lord’, hymns written to the glory of God have encouraged, sustained and uplifted people of faith for hundreds of years. Here are the stories and writers behind ten of the most beloved and influential hymns written for the glorification of Jesus Christ.
All Creatures of Our God and King
Words: St. Francis of Assisi, 1182-1226
English translation: Henry Draper, 1855-1933
Music: From a German hymnal in 1623, the Geistliche Kirchengesang
All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing,
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Thou burning sun with golden beam,
Thou silver moon with softer gleam!
O praise Him! O praise Him!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
All Creatures of Our God and King, St. Mary’s Episcopal Cathedral, Edinburgh See and hear it on YouTube.
St. Francis of Assisi was born Giovanni Bernardone into a wealthy family in 1282. After serving as a soldier and engaging in behaviors and indiscretions that ultimately proved unrewarding, he experienced a spiritual awakening, and dedicated his life to serve Jesus Christ. He renounced his father’s wealth, and proceeded to live out in the open, in nature, if you will, dressed in rags, working for, and sometimes even begging for food. [1] A group of young men joined Francis. They traveled the countryside preaching the Gospel. St. Francis would go on to found the Franciscan Order of Friars. A female follower created the ‘Poor Clare’ order of nuns.
Continue reading Sacred Songs: Stories behind ten of our most beloved hymns
Amid a driving rain Air Force One touched down in Havana, Cuba on the afternoon of Sunday, March 20, 2016. The President and the First Family descended the steps under a family of stiff black umbrellas, and TV reporters and pundits struggled to find a metaphor that fit the historic occasion. Finally one commentator, steel in the voice, proclaimed. ‘A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall’—there you have it, a reference to Dylan’s song from 1963. Continue reading Bob Dylan and the Gospel Songs
In August of 1906 Mohandas Gandhi picked up one of the local newspapers and read the draft of an ordinance proposed by Transvaal Government. (At the time of the Black Act Transvaal was a province that included Johannesburg and the capital, Pretoria.) The official name of the Ordinance was the Asiatic Law Amendment Ordinance [1], but became known as the ‘Black Act’. ‘I shuddered as I read the sections of the Ordinance one after another. I saw nothing in it except hatred of Indians. It seemed to me that if the Ordinance was passed and the Indians meekly accepted it that would spell absolute ruins for the Indians in South Africa’ [2].
Truth (Satya) implies love, and firmness (agraha) engenders and therefore serves as a synonym for force. I thus began to call the Indian movement ‘Satyagraha’, that is to say, the Force which is born of Truth and Love or non-violence…This then was the genesis of the movement which came to be known as Satyagraha, and of the word used as a designation for it. — Mohandas K. Gandhi, Satyagraha in South Africa. [1]
After a long and introspective journey for Truth, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi originated a philosophy of non-violence and non-cooperation to counter social injustice and civil rights abuses in South Africa and in India. Decades later, civil rights movements used techniques patterned after Gandhi’s philosophy to address social injustice and civil rights abuses around the world. Continue reading Gandhi’s Experiments with Truth – Part I
Saint Oscar Romero on The Violence of Love.
The violence we preach is not the violence of the sword, the violence of hatred. It is the violence of love, of brotherhood, the violence that wills to beat weapons into sickles for work —Archbishop Oscar Romero, November 27, 1977 [1].
We follow the nun down a narrow street as her habit, a shimmering, heavenly white, flutters in the breeze. She opens what appears to be a large, old, wooden door. Inside is a small courtyard. She gestures to a wall covered with numerous plaques dedicated to the late Archbishop, Oscar Romero. “These plaques were on his grave because people asked for favours from God through Monsenor,” she says. She leads us to a library, where his homilies are kept, as well as four pastoral letters, and his identification cards.
The Carmelite nun is demure but her smile, as well as her voice, is fixed with a resolve and a gentle confidence as she describes the home of the Archbishop. “Here is his bedroom,” she says. We enter and the camera pans right and reveals a small bed, a cot, really, against the wall. “He would offer this little bed to visitors to stay the night. He would tell them ‘Stay the night, don’t leave this late! The neighbourhood is a bit dangerous. You could get mugged. I will sleep in the other room. I have my hammock.’”
In another corner, under a window, there is a tiny desk with a washed-out green IBM Executive typewriter, a cassette recorder that resembles a portable radio, and a telephone. “On that typewriter he wrote all his documents, his homilies…and he recorded his diary every night on that tape recorder.”
‘I Believe’ is a music video on YouTube, based on one of my songs, that looks at the struggles people have faced for as long as we have been on this earth. It also imagines the positive things that are possible if we can somehow, someday, get it right.
Please check it out on my YouTube channel. 
Next month, ‘Romero’– an article on Oscar Romero, the Archbishop of El Salvador. Hero, martyr, a voice for the voiceless in a time of oppressive government rule.