New Year, and thoughts on prayer

A new year. My… well, the number for me is over 70th… trip around the great nuclear furnace.

I was going to do a post about where I’m standing in terms of my work – that I seem to be on track with my translation (I worked a little late last night to meet a personal deadline). That I’ve been temporarily sidelined in my effort to get Troll Valley into paperback. I was going to mention that I’m recovering pretty well from my eye surgery, feeling better every day.

But that will do for that stuff.

It occurred to me to mention something I learned recently – or think I learned. (One is never sure, in matters spiritual.)

It’s about prayer.

I’ve never been very good with prayer. I’ve told you more than once that I have no stage fright (an abnormal condition). The one exception is that I hate praying in public. I hate doing that. I always feel I’m doing it wrong, that I’m sounding foolish, that I’m… embarrassing God, somehow.

It’s not quite as bad with private prayer, for me. I do that regularly. But I’ve never felt my prayers counted for much. I felt my prayers were small and weak things, set up against the great evil and sadness of the fallen world.

However, I had a thought recently that may have some relevance. Maybe it will be helpful to others.

If you recall, a while back I was rhapsodizing about how the science of physics seems (in my ignorance) to feed into theology. I actually forget the details, but it was pretty heady stuff for me. Waves and particles, and how the created universe is like a story or a song. All proclaiming the character of their Creator.

Anyway, it occurred to me to think that when I pray, I’m not there alone in front of God. I’m part of a great wave, a great song, a great dance. I’m not creating anything, I’m not composing something out of my own material. I’m just joining in. Participating in an ongoing story – or hymn. Or dance. Whatever. It’s not on me alone.

The call goes out – “Join the dance!” And I join.

I like that. It helps me relax when I pray.

Still can’t handle the public praying, though.

A blessed new year to you.

Godt nytt år!

Photo: La Rochelle, France. Credit: Rafael Garcin nimbus_vulpis. Unsplash license.

There is no reason whatever why you should be interested in Norwegian New Year’s customs, but it’s something I’ve got at hand (in the form of Sverre Østen’s book Hva Dagene Vet [What the Days Know]), published 1988 by Ernst G. Mortensens Forlag, and I haven’t got any other ideas. I translate from his account:

  • The day is dedicated to Saint Sylvester, who was pope from 314—35, and bore the responsibility of leading the church from the period of persecution to the new period of peace.
  • On the last day of the year people ate oatmeal and herring, as they believed their ancestors had done. The oats symbolized gold and the herring silver; which is to say, wealth.
  • Many believed that empty pockets and cupboards today portended poverty, which may have been the reason many did a great deal of shopping in the last few days.
  • It seems to have been particularly common to throw shoes: They would sit on a stool at the door with their backs to the living room. Grabbed their left earlobes with their right hands, and tossed a shoe with their left hand over their right shoulder. If the toe of the shoe landed pointing toward the door, they would quit and find a new job. But if the toe pointed inward, they would continue there until the next “moving day.” [It was the custom in old times for all farm workers to move to a new farm, if they chose to change jobs, on one single day of the year. I can’t remember which day it was. lw]
  • New Year’s Eve is haunted, but one can scare off ghosts by strewing beans around the house during the day and saying this: “With these beans I redeem myself and mine.” The spirits will then pick up the beans and not bother the family over the coming 12 months.
  • New Year’s Eve was often a dangerous evening; all kinds of witchcraft was about. To keep witchcraft away, they fired shot after shot over the house roofs. In later times it became the custom to “shoot in” the new year.

And on New Year’s Day?

  • One custom was to keep the door shut to make sure the first person across the threshold in the new year was not a woman. That would be bad luck. The best thing would be a dark-haired man. He would bring good fortune.

Godt nytt år. That means happy new year.

‘Murder, Mere Murder,’ by Bruce Beckham

I had gotten a little behind in my reading of Bruce Beckham’s Inspector Skelgill mysteries, set in Cumberland, which is why I’m reviewing another so soon after reviewing the previous installment. This new one, Murder, Mere Murder, is one of the best of the series, I think.

Buttermere is the lake near which Inspector Skelgill grew up, but he doesn’t get up there much anymore. It’s out of the way, and has no good boat access for fishing – beside which, the fishing isn’t very good anyway.

But one day a couple hobby divers discover a woman’s body, wrapped in plastic, at the bottom of the mere. Immediately Skelgill heads for the area, along with his subordinates, Sergeants Jones and Leyton, to find out whether anybody’s missing. Initially, clues are few. Yet there is no lack of shady citizens who seem to have one or two secrets. A couple local men were having affairs with mysterious women who might conceivably have been the deceased. And there’s a strange lesbian couple, one of them a famous mystery writer, who both show an unexpected sexual interest in Skelgill. Meanwhile, an ambitious police rival is jockeying to grab the case for himself.

There’s a lot of subtle humor here as Skelgill deals with the predatory lesbians, but there’s also well-crafted rising tension and a climax worthy of a movie.

My only quibbles are (as usual) the present tense narrative (though it doesn’t really bother me; I only object on principle), and the fact that the author misuses the phrase, “begs the question.” He should know better.

Quite entertaining. Recommended.

Movies I worked on: ‘La Palma’

A few days back somebody mentioned on Facebook that they’d watched La Palma. And I said, “Wait a minute, is this La Palma, the Norwegian movie I did script translation on?” (Actually, I had the idea it was a miniseries. Maybe it was, when I worked on it.) A little research revealed that it had indeed debuted on Netflix this month.

I don’t subscribe to Netflix at this point, so I can’t review it for you. In fact, I probably shouldn’t review it at all, under the terms of my non-disclosure agreement.

You have to understand, I’m completely out of the loop anymore. I agreed in the NDA not to tell anyone I’d worked on any particular project until it was released. But nobody announces the releases to me. I get no memos.

The script as it exists now may very well have been altered considerably since the last time I saw it. The script I saw was based on an (unproven) theory that human activity activates geological instability, causing earthquakes. And earthquakes cause tsunamis. And that’s the cue for a disaster movie.

I might also mention that the story involves a lesbian couple.

Beyond that, you’ll have to make your own judgments.

‘A Short History of England,’ by G.K. Chesterton

We make the Puritans picturesque in a way they would violently repudiate, in novels and plays they would have publicly burnt. We are interested in everything about them, except the only thing in which they were interested at all…. About the Puritans we can find no great legend. We must put up as best we can with great literature.

Anyone approaching G.K. Chesterton’s A Short History of England in the hope of learning many facts is likely to be sadly disappointed. I expect Chesterton himself would have been astonished at the very expectation – in his day, anyone who bought a Chesterton book knew he’d be getting a polemic. A witty polemic that might be very illuminating – even if one disagrees with the premises – but the author assumes a fair knowledge of the dates and facts from the outset. What Chesterton offers is a fresh perspective.

In this relatively short, very superficial overview of English history, the author has two advantages in creating his provocations – first of all, he’s G.K. Chesterton, a man who forever looked at the world as if in a fun house mirror or a photographic negative; and secondly that he’s a Catholic, a perpetual outsider in a land of lapsed Protestants.

Sometimes he can be surprising – he seems to anticipate interpretations of events that were unusual at the time, but are commonplace today – such as that the Saxon invaders in Arthur’s time may have only been an aristocratic minority.

As Chesterton sees it, England went wrong at two major junctures (aside from the Reformation, something he thinks self-evident) – when Richard II lost his bid to reform the government, and when, more recently, England began to ally itself with the Germans. He is writing, of course, as World War I rages, and is comforted by the fact that England is once again allied with France, which he considers a much more fitting combination.

I do recommend A Short History of England, but only if you already know a good deal of English history. (I’ll admit a lot of the names were unfamiliar to me, too.)

The Incarnation in a chicken coop

Photo: Oruanui Road, Oruanui, New Zealand, credit: Leonie Clough, leoniec. Unsplash license.

I’ve told this story here before, but it was a long time back. For me, it’s as good an illustration of the Incarnation, the meaning of Christmas, as any I’ve ever heard.

I heard it from an old man I met some years back. He passed away several years ago. His father had been a pastor in what was the predecessor organization to my church body. The events happened when he was a boy – I suppose it must have been in the 1930s or ’40s.

They lived in a small town in the Upper Midwest. My friend (I’ll call him John) was a teenager at the time, and feeling his oats. Some kind of entertainment event (John did not specify) was coming to their town, and John announced one night at the supper table that he intended to go to it.

“You will not go to that event,” his father told him. “It would cause a scandal in our congregation.”

John stuck his chin out. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m going, and you can’t stop me.”

His father gazed at him a moment. Finally he said, “You’re right. You’re old enough now that I can’t stop you. But understand this. If you disobey me by going to this event, when you come back here afterward, you’ll find the house locked against you. You’ll have to find some other place to sleep that night.”

John said he didn’t care. When the day came, he went to the event. “I honestly can’t remember,” he told me, “whether I had a good time or not. But I’ll never forget what happened when I went home.”

He found the house locked, as his father had promised. Front door. Back door. Side door. Even that window in the basement that was always unlatched if you needed it in an emergency – tonight it was hooked up tight.

Where could he go? All the neighbors were in bed.

He thought about their chicken house. Their family kept chickens to stretch their budget with eggs and meat. Inside the chicken coop there was a little loft, and the kids had made a play space up there. They’d left an old quilt on the floor.

He went out to the chicken coop. Climbed the ladder to the loft.

The floor was bare. Someone had removed the quilt.

At least he was under a roof. He lay down and tugged his jacket up around his neck. He shivered and breathed in the ammonia smell of chicken droppings, preparing for a long night.

He lay there for some time.

At last he heard the coop door creaking open. Quiet steps crossed the floor. The ladder creaked as someone climbed up to him.

In the darkness he felt a quilt being wrapped around him. Then strong arms enfolded him and held him, laying down behind him.

In his ear, he heard his father’s voice:

“Son, when I told you that if you disobeyed me you’d have to sleep outside, I never said that I’d be sleeping inside.”

A blessed Christmas to you all.

‘Det Lyser i Stille Grender,’ with Sissel

It’s Christmas Eve. Very likely Christmas Day (or later) by the time you see it. Consider this your Christmas greeting from me.

I’m sure I’ve posted this song before (though perhaps not this performance), but I consider it one of the most beautiful Scandinavian Christmas songs out there. If I post it enough, maybe Americans will catch on to it. If not, you’ll have the satisfaction of being among the few, the proud, the Initiated.

God became man. Without in any way questioning the primacy of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, I have long noted that the great heresies almost always began by getting the Incarnation wrong. So it’s perfectly all right to make a big day of this one.

God jul, as we Norwegians say.

‘Ask Not: The Kennedys and the Women They Destroyed,’ by Maureen Callahan

What Marilyn could not see was that Bobby, like Jack before him, was less interested in strengthening her than annealing her; heating her up like white gold, then leaving her alone to cool down, making her more pliable, bendable, easier to manipulate. Wearing down her strength.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table for lunch with my family one day back in the early 1960s. The news was on the radio, and the announcer mentioned that the first lady, Jacqueline Kennedy, had suffered another miscarriage. There was, the report said, great grief in the family.

My grandfather, who was at the table with us, said drily, “All that money Joe Kennedy made running bootleg whisky during Prohibition sure didn’t bring their family much joy.”

Talk of the Kennedy curse was common back then, and continues today. But Maureen Callahan’s book Ask Not: The Kennedys and the Women They Destroyed offers a more prosaic explanation – Jack was carrying asymptomatic chlamydia, and had infected Jackie.

That’s essentially the tone of this book – there’s a lot of legend and romanticism in the Kennedy story, but it all boils down to some pretty sordid facts about a truly degenerate political dynasty.

The book is told from the viewpoints of a series of women (there are many, and more could have been listed) whose lives were ruined – and sometimes ended – because they flew too close to the Kennedy flame. Some had their reputations ruined, a couple died (at least one murdered), and one was crippled for life. What they got from the Kennedy men was a brief encounter (none of them seem to have been very good lovers) and all the bad consequences, because no Kennedy male ever took responsibility.

The stories are told out of sequence, which can be confusing to the reader. Also, because viewpoints change, characters often surprisingly change… character. Someone who was kind in one story is vicious in another. As in the play, Rashomon, it all depends on the point of view. There’s little sisterly solidarity here – the women tend to rip each other up when wounded.

I was often annoyed by the author’s point of view. She seems to be an orthodox neo-feminist. For her the real problem with all these women was that they’d been expected to marry and have children. If they’d just devoted their lives to career and money, I suppose, they’d have found happiness and fulfillment.

Frequent jabs are taken at the Roman Catholic Church, which admittedly does not cover itself in glory in this narrative. However, more recent Kennedys, like Jack Jr. and Bobby Jr., affirm(ed) feminism, and there’s no implication that their hypocrisy was feminism’s fault.

Even when I was a Democrat, I was never a Kennedy fan. So I wasn’t shocked by these revelations, and had no illusions to be dissed. But the coming new administration, which I support, includes one of the characters described in this book, and not one of the least reprehensible. He must be watched – no journalistic firewall will protect him this time out.

My conclusion is that Ask Not is an important book, clearing out a lot of mythical cobwebs in an era of American history. It is not a salacious book, and not particularly sexy to read. It’s dismal. A dismal, bleak story about a dysfunctional family with abysmal values that held too much power too long.

Best Christmas Carols Ever

You can find lists of great and favorite Christmas songs everywhere, and whose list is definitive will depend on who you trust. This morning, I looked up Parade’s list of 50 best and compared it to a list of 30 from ClassicFM. You might think Parade’s list leans toward pop songs, but I found a 46% overlap between the lists out of a possible 60%. I wish these songs were what you could expect on the radio or while shopping.

Parade’s first 10 (with ClassicFM’s number in parentheses), not intended ranking priority:

  1. Silent night (2) 
  1. O Come All Ye Faithful (6) 
  1. 12 Days of Christmas  
  1. Do You Hear What I Hear 
  1. The Little Drummer Boy 
  1. Joy to The World (13) 
  1. The First Noel (29) 
  1. Jingle Bells 
  1. Deck the Halls 
  1. O Christmas Tree (this one also made it on the list at #43 as “O Tannenbaum”)

That leans toward popular fare, and it’s a good, fun list. “O Come All Ye Faithful” is one of the best carols of all time. You could sing it year round in English or Latin. On “Silent Night,” ClassicFM notes, “During the Christmas truce of 1914 during World War I, the carol was sung simultaneously by English and German troops.”

Continue reading Best Christmas Carols Ever

Two Scandinavian Christmas Hymns

My second day after eye surgery. (It was a detached retina, I might as well admit.) I have no reason to complain. I can go about my life moderately well (though my depth perception, never the best, is pretty poor right now). I am in very minor discomfort, not pain. Just enough to make me grumpy,  if I took the trouble to be around people to be grumpy at. Give it time.

The little two-hymn medley above from a young Sissel Kyrkjebø is included on her classic Christmas album, Glade Jul, which sold almost as many copies as there are people in Norway. The first one is Det Kimer Nå Til Julefest ([Bells] Ring Now for the Christmas Celebration). The lyrics are by the Danish preacher and author N.F.S. Grundtvig. The second is Jeg Synger Julekvad (I Sing a Christmas Song), which is, I believe, more of a folk hymn. Both hymns are offered with subtitles, apparently done by AI and not always to be relied upon.

Have a blessed weekend.