I don’t know how many congregations sing this gospel song by Connecticut Methodist Jefferson Hascall, but Hymnary.org claims it has been published in 183 hymnals since 1860. This tune is not the original, but the meter of the lyric is so common, you could sing it any number of ways. William Batchelder Bradbury gave us the current tune, entitled, “The Land of Beulah,” published in 1862.
1 My latest sun is sinking fast, my race is nearly run; my strongest trials now are past, my triumph is begun.
Refrain: O come, angel band, come and around me stand; O bear me away on your snowy wings to my immortal home. O bear me away on your snowy wings to my immortal home.
Thursday was the anniversary of the completion of Paris’s iconic ironwork project, The Eiffel Tower, named for the owner of the company that proposed and assembled it by March 31, 1889. They were aiming to have it up for the 1889 World’s Fair to be part of the centennial gala of the French Revolution. Philadelphia held a similar one in 1876.
The architect proposed using large stone monumental pedestals at the base and glass halls on every level of the tower. It’s final, simplified design was constructed in 18,000 parts in Eiffel’s factory about three miles away. The measured every piece carefully and mathematically configured the lattice work to minimize wind resistance. Two and half million rivets hold together the 1083-foot tower.
Viewing the construction for a few weeks before completion, journalist Emile Goudeau wrote, “One could have taken them for blacksmiths contentedly beating out a rhythm on an anvil in some village forge, except that these smiths were not striking up and down vertically, but horizontally, and as with each blow came a shower of sparks, these black figures, appearing larger than life against the background of the open sky, looked as if they were reaping lightning bolts in the clouds.”
Beauty: Where would we be without beauty? It enlivens the heart; we value it, even if the beautiful thing isn’t useful–putting aside the inherent beauty of some useful, well-designed things.
Symphony: Robert Reilly says, “There is a steadiness in Haydn’s music, a sense of normalcy. At the same time, it is filled with wonder at what is—at its goodness.” Haydn was told his sacred compositions were too cheerful; he replied that his heart leaped for joy at the thought of God. As an example, here’s a performance by the Chiara String Quartet of Haydn’s “Seven Last Words of Christ.”
Isaac Adams: “The race conversation often feels like talking to each other at the Tower of Babel. We may be trying to build together, but we’re frustrated and speaking past one another.” Adams’s book, Talking About Race, intends to inspire healthy conversations on this subject and bring us together.
This is a book I mistook for a promising novel by a Christian writer. Having finished it, I still consider it a promising novel (the author has gone on to write several and seems to be doing well). I’m not so sure about the Christianity. Though Preacher Finds a Corpse (awful title) is not exactly anti-Christian either.
Evan Wycliff grew up in Apple Center, Missouri, and then went away to Harvard to study theology. Then he studied astrophysics. Then, after a personal tragedy, he went home again, where he now works as a bill collector for a car dealer and now and then preaches in local congregations. Hence his nickname, “Preacher.”
His return allowed him to reconnect with his boyhood best friend Bob, though they haven’t actually spent much time together. Nevertheless, Evan is shocked when, one morning when he’s on his way to join some buddies on a turkey hunt, he finds Bob’s dead body waiting on the path. Bob has apparently shot himself to death with a pistol.
Evan is not a serious suspect in the case. In fact, the sheriff quickly closes the case, but confides to Evan in private that he wouldn’t mind having someone look a little closer at it. Bob’s financial affairs had been in disarray. A farm he’d been renting to a friend was about to be taken over by the government, and Bob had told the friend not to worry – he’d prevent that from happening. Only now he can’t. And Bob’s beautiful wife, who’s set to inherit all his property, seems less than devastated. And what is it with the property, anyway? Why is there no clear title? Why is an area there fenced off by the military?
Evan will poke around in his low-key way, digging up some history, and some people will feel threatened. Physical attack and involuntary commitment to an institution are just some of the challenges Evan will face. But in the end the truth will out.
I found Preacher Finds a Corpse a promising book in terms of narrative. Evan is a layered character, and the other characters are complex too. I thought the prose a little weak – the author needed to move the story along faster. He’s probably figured out how to do that by now.
The plotting was weak, I thought, in the sense that everything turns out to be less than the reader expects. The conclusion was kind of flat. Another problem was that one surreal plot element – Evan having conversations with the imagined spirit of his dead fiancée – doesn’t start happening until half-way through the book. If you’re going to add that kind of mystical element, you need to establish it earlier in the story.
But my main problem was theological. Evan is supposed to be a popular supply preacher in the small-town churches around Apple City. But, judging by the topics he preaches on, he’s only marginally orthodox (or not orthodox at all). He tells the people in the pews that “God is all there is” (pantheism). He questions whether human souls in Heaven possess personality. I have trouble believing small town preachers would put up with that sort of thing. However, I suspect the author means well. I think he wants us to like these people because they’re open to “original” ideas.
Preacher Finds a Corpse wasn’t awful. But I didn’t like it enough to go on to the sequels.
Kenyon, Minnesota back in the 1930s or so. Before my time, but this is pretty much how I remember it.
Yesterday was a good day. There’s been a sudden hiatus – for some reason – in my translating. I got a sudden reminder on Facebook that some of my high school classmates were meeting down in Kenyon (our home town) for one of our occasional get-togethers. (When there are five Wednesdays in a month, we try to meet at some restaurant for lunch on the fifth one. The lockdowns, of course, played hob with this admirable plan, but we’re back at it again).
We met at a new restaurant in town. I might as well mention it, as I liked the food and the service. Kenyon has not been a lucky place for restaurants since I was a boy. This place, Lacey’s, occupies a space where two restaurants have died over the last few years. But one of my friends, who’s stayed in town and knows everybody, said they have a good business plan and are doing a brisk trade. God bless them.
I genuinely enjoy these little reunions. I don’t know any of these people well anymore, and we have vast differences in beliefs, education, and politics. But we have two inexhaustible topics for conversation – our shared school experiences, and the multiple indignities of growing old. There’s a bond there. I suppose military veterans feel much the same. And our casualty list is, I expect, comparable. Members of my class started dying off fast after graduation, and they kept it up at a rapid pace through the years that followed. Somebody noted that we haven’t actually lost any for a few years now. It would appear that we few, we happy few, we survivors are a hardy lot.
A wiser man might have stayed home due to the driving conditions (it’s a tip of over an hour). The temperature lingered just around freezing all day, and what the meteorologists call a “wintry mix” kept falling. But in practice I found the road surfaces fine, and made it there and back without any scares.
An update on my great plumbing crisis – the way things have shaken out, it all proves to be not only a case of God’s provision, but of my own obliviousness. The Bible says, “Before they ask, I will answer them,” or words to that effect. (Actually I’m not sure it does. I’ve heard it quoted many times, but Bible Hub doesn’t produce a reference.)
I have a Home Service Warranty, and have had it since I bought this place. It had honestly never occurred to me that it might cover plumbing. I had what I assumed to be an adequate understanding of what warranties cover – not structural stuff, but appliances. And in my mind, plumbing was a lot more like a roof than like a clothes dryer.
But lo, I was wrong. My old pipes are covered, thereby saving me piles of money. I am gratified by this, but embarrassed to have almost missed it.
Elisiv of Kyiv, probably drawn from life. The earliest portrait of any member of a Norwegian royal family.
I am savvy enough about the current climate of opinion to be aware that it can be a dangerous thing to criticize Ukrainian President Volodymir Zelensky (for the record, I have no doubt that Vladimir Putin’s attack on Ukraine is both illegal and unjustified).
Nevertheless, I have to correct Pres. Zelensky today.
Something you probably haven’t heard about, but I have, is that Pres. Zelensky addressed the Norwegian Parliament (Storting) today, by remote video. I know this because I was listening to the Norwegian NRK radio network at the time, and heard it live. And I understood it perfectly because (for some unexplained reason) they broadcast it with simultaneous English translation – not Norwegian.
Pres. Zelensky appeals, among other things, to the historical ties between Norway and Ukraine. He says this in particular:
Today, Russian bombs are flying at our land and our people. At the land where the Ukrainian Princess Elisiv of Kyiv was born and grew up. Wife of King Harald III of Norway, mother of King Olaf the Peaceful, grandmother of Magnus III, great-grandmother of Eystein I and Sigurd the Crusader.
This statement is in error – though the fault is probably that of the president’s speech writers.
Princess Elisiv (Elizabeth) of Kyiv (portrait above, taken from a church wall in Kyiv) was indeed the wife of Harald III, better known as Harald Hardrada, the freebooting Viking and mercenary who became king of Norway in 1046 and died in England in 1066. And she did bear him a child, a girl named Maria who was later declared a saint.
The mother of King Olaf the Peaceful, however, was not Elisiv, but Harald’s mistress, Thora Thorbergsdatter, daughter of Thorberg Arnesson of Giske.
What makes this fact of particular interest to us is that Thora’s mother was Ragnhild Erlingsdatter, daughter of Erling Skjalgsson of Sola, hero of my Viking novels.
The marriage of Ragnhild to Thorberg actually constitutes a plot element in my work in progress, King of Rogaland, currently nearing completion but delayed by heavy translation work.
Tonight, another pulse-pounding report on my ongoing conversational Norwegian project.
If you haven’t been following these posts, the situation is this: I know the Norwegian language well enough to be supplementing my retirement (and quite well, lately) by doing Norwegian translation for pay. But this facility applies only to the written word. I have a lot of trouble understanding it spoken.
To fix this situation, I took the advice of commenter Deborah HH, who suggested I download a radio app and listen to Norwegian radio. This project has worked far better than I ever hoped.
So here’s where I am. Each day, as a sort of sound track to whatever I’m doing, I listen to NRK all-day news (think the BBC, but in Norwegian for Norwegians). However, they turn the broadcast over to a BBC feed at night (around 3:00 p.m. my time). At that point I turn to Jæren Misjonsradio, a Christian station from Stavanger. A further wrinkle is that there’s no NRK all-day news on weekends. So I spend that entire period with the Christian station. This is not a trial – I rather enjoy it, and even feel it’s edifying me (“edification,” oppbyggelse, is a word we use a lot in Norwegian pietism).
However, there’s a sort of a whiplash effect. I understand what I hear on the Christian station pretty well by now. Enough to make me feel I’m making significant progress.
But when I get back to NRK on Mondays, I find I’m not comprehending at the same level. This is, I’m pretty sure, due to the fact that I listen to preachers on the Christian station, preaching the Bible. I can always recognize their texts, and it’s easy to intuit what they’re saying even if I miss some words. I know the jargon, and the customs of the tribe.
But when I’ve got people on NRK discussing the latest action in Ukraine, or who’s ahead in parliamentary polling, there’s a lot less predictable stuff. So I struggle a little, and have to revise my estimation of my progress downward.
Nevertheless, I am making palpable progress. And I suspect more and more that the process is more subconscious than conscious. When I concentrate on listening and interpreting, I have trouble. If I just relax, recognizable patterns swim into my ken.
I’m recognizing phrases more and more. It’s rather exhilarating, like surfing waves of sound. You’re not doing rational analysis when you do this, but responding with a kind of muscle memory of the mind.
Jeffrey Polet reviews Emory professor Mark Bauerlein’s second book on the “Dumbest Generation,” Millennials, whose poor education has underserved them. He says, they don’t have the “moral imagination” to speak to the real world. If only they’d read good books.
Multiculturalism didn’t multiply heritages and enhance each one; it left the students with no heritage at all, no relationship to past greatness.” As witness to this claim Bauerlein offers Malcolm X, who, he avers, would have scoffed at the denuding of such a wealthy heritage. Instead, Malcolm X transformed his life when his prison cell became a refuge from the world, allowing him to read day and night, thus awakening “the long dormant craving to be mentally alive.” It was by placing himself in the horizon provided by the great works of the past that Malcolm X was able to turn his life around and give it purpose.
As you may or may not recall (why should you?) I have a fondness for tales of the sea. The great age of sail warfare, the age of Nelson, has inspired several excellent series of novels. The original, great one is C. S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower. He may (possibly) have been surpassed by Patrick O’Brien’s Aubrey and Maturin. Another contender, not to be scorned, is Alexander Kent’s (a pseudonym; Douglas Reeman was his real name) Richard Bolitho.
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho is a collection of three novellas describing Dick Bolitho’s service from 1772 through 1774, on the eve of the American Revolution. We find him, a sixteen-year-old with experience on a previous vessel, assigned to HMS Gorgon, a 74-gun warship. Richard is the son of a rear admiral, but all midshipmen (at least in theory) are treated the same – and the discipline is hard. His immediate superior, in fact, makes it clear to him that he’ll get no special treatment – rather the opposite.
In the each of these three stories, the young midshipman finds himself facing impossible challenges and pulling victory from the jaws of defeat through unwavering courage, original thinking, and an unusual empathy with the men he leads.
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho was an excellent (and educational) read, by and large. This reader personally had trouble with some of the action scenes. They reminded him of the quick-cut editing in modern action movies – characters seemed to suddenly appear in places without an adequate explanation of how they got there. But it’s possible I was just distracted and missed the clues.
Minimal bad language. Suitable for older teens and all adults. Recommended.
Here’s a hymn I hope all of us know well. “For All the Saints Who from Their Labors Rest” was written by the “poor man’s bishop” William W. How (1823-1897) to an original tune composed by the great Ralph Vaughan Williams.
1 For all the saints who from their labors rest, who thee by faith before the world confessed, thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest. Alleluia! Alleluia!
2 Thou wast their rock, their fortress, and their might; thou, Lord, their captain in the well-fought fight; thou, in the darkness dread, their one true light. Alleluia! Alleluia!
3 Oh, may thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold fight as the saints who nobly fought of old and win with them the victor’s crown of gold. Alleluia! Alleluia!
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is man. Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic’s pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God, or beast; In doubt his mind and body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas’ning but to err;
I may have some entertaining posts for you soon. The links below have a couple bits of entertainment, but the rest are about matters to grave to laugh over.
Maria Stepanova: The Russian novelist, poet, and publisher has written about the war and her country. “Dreams about catastrophe are common in what was once called the ‘post-Soviet world’; other names will surely appear soon. And in these recent days and nights, the dreams have become reality, a reality more fearful than we ever thought possible, made of aggression and violence, an evil that speaks in the Russian language. As someone wrote on a social media site: ‘I dreamt we were occupied by Nazis, and that those Nazis were us.'” (via Books, Inq)
This episode of the Hillsdale Dialogues with Hugh Hewitt and Larry Arnn is provocative in clarity, especially if you’re inclined to believe the ill-considered conclusions Tucker Carlson has drawn lately (see the comments here). How closely will Zelensky follow the footsteps of Churchill?
Photo: Hanks Coffee Shop sign, Benson, Arizona. 1979. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
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