Sunday Singing: With Grateful Heart My Thanks I Bring

“With Grateful Heart My Thanks I Bring” piano accompaniment by Andrew Remillard

This adaptation of Psalm 138 appears to have been written for a Presbyterian Psalter published in 1912. The tune is one of the two most commonly used for this hymn. Entitled “St. Petersburg,” it was written by influential Ukrainian composer Dimitri Stepanovitch Bortniansky (1751-1825).

1 With grateful heart my thanks I bring,
before the great thy praise I sing:
I worship in thy holy place
and praise thee for thy truth and grace;
for truth and grace together shine
in thy most holy word divine.

2 I cried to thee and thou didst save,
thy word of grace new courage gave;
the kings of earth shall thank thee, Lord,
for they have heard thy wondrous word;
yea, they shall come with songs of praise,
for great and glorious are thy ways.

3 O Lord, enthroned in glory bright,
thou reignest in the heav’nly height;
the proud in vain thy favor seek,
but thou hast mercy for the meek;
through trouble though my pathway be,
thou wilt revive and strengthen me.

4 Thou wilt stretch forth thy mighty arm
to save me when my foes alarm;
the work thou hast for me begun
shall by thy grace be fully done;
Forever mercy dwells with thee;
O Lord, my Maker, think on me.

Don’t Call It a Culture War. Call It Being Salt.

Last week, I wrote about an English teacher encouraging her students to read challenged books. Yesterday, World’s Doubletake podcast released a story on diversity libraries in schools and parents and teachers pushing back against school boards who advocate immoral reading. They mention a book “about a 17-year-old alcoholic girl in a sexual relationship with a 38-year-old man. . . . Other books describe teenagers in homosexual activity with adults. Others depict incest.

“Some parents, teachers, three school board members, and a librarian defended the material at that 2020 board meeting. They said young kids should be able to see themselves ‘reflected’ in the books. They said it was important to read about pedophilia because it was, quote, ‘culturally enriching.'”

This may be what school-choice supporters need to fuel their fire.

However, some have reacted negatively to this and any aspect that smells of a culture war. They would much rather Christians keep to themselves: “For all the voices calling our attention and energy to school-board politics right now, discipling our kids in a holistic and faithful way is a more constant, difficult, and worthwhile task.” Influencing your school board or, I guess, being a voice in your community is not within the scope of discipling your children. Maybe if we thought it as being the salt of the earth?

The World and Everything in It, another excellent podcast, has a segment reacting to the above article.

Discipline: “Religious discipline confounds the modern sensibility because it upends our ideas about the value of discipline and sacrifice. To a person steeped in modern heroics, religious discipline looks solely like abstention, with none of the benefits of lifestyle discipline. It is giving up pleasurable things just to make your life less enjoyable; it is overcoming, ignoring, or dismissing your own desires solely from masochism, or because of communal expectations, which is the worst possible sin these days, to do something because someone or some group expects you to.”

Faith: “O Timothy, guard the deposit entrusted to you. Avoid the irreverent babble and contradictions of what is falsely called ‘knowledge,’ for by professing it some have swerved from the faith.” (1 Tim. 6:20 ESV)

Poetry: A cottage in which John Milton resided for a short spell survives and is open to the public for half a year. A couple weeks ago, a group met there to read Paradise Lost.

Used Bookstores: Carl Lavigne writes about his time at The Dawn Treader Book Shop in Ann Arbor, MI. “Is there a German word for being surrounded by stacks of once-feted, now forgotten novels piled in a deeply haunted basement wondering, ‘What if this is where my book ends up?’

“A customer demands a book recommendation. ‘Something good.’
‘Sorry,’ I joke. ‘Fresh out.'”

Poetry: Speaking of Ogden Nash (see post earlier this week), his last surviving daughter, Linell Chenault Smith, “an extremely classy woman,” died last month at age 90.

Photo: YMCA, Geneva, New York. 1995. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.

‘The Key to Justice,’ by Dennis Carstens

I’ve been reading the later books in the Marc Kadella series of legal thrillers (set in Minneapolis), and enjoying them with some reservations. So when I got a deal on a package of the first three books, I bought it. Not sure what I was getting. I had the idea the first books might be a little clumsy. Instead I found that The Key to Justice, the opening novel, was remarkably good and wickedly entertaining.

The book opens with Jake Waschke, an honest, respected Minneapolis police detective. He’s half-brother to the governor’s chief aide, a troubled young man whom he has protected all his life. Now he faces a horrific problem. A knife-wielding serial killer is raping and murdering young women in the Twin Cities (including the governor’s daughter), and Jake knows his brother is doing it. So he selects Carl Fornich, a scumbag with a past rape conviction, and fakes evidence to get him prosecuted.

Carl’s brother comes to Marc Kadella for a defense. Marc is a struggling, small-time lawyer. He needs all the business he can get, especially because he’s involved in countersuing the US government in a tax case and it’s taking forever. Though the prospects of collecting a lot from Carl’s family seem small. But when Marc meets Carl, he’s convinced he’s innocent. If he is, that means the police are framing him. Which makes Marc mad.

In his Introduction, author Dennis Carstens informs us that one of his main motivations for writing the story was to dramatize the un-glamorous side of the practice of law. The long hours, the tedium, the difficulties in getting paid, the official arrogance that has to be swallowed. And that element was in fact one of the things I’ve liked about the books all along.

But to be frank, the later books have gotten a little formulaic. This first one is genuinely original. Lots of surprises and twists, and very dark irony. Carstens isn’t a great prose stylist (and he has a real problem with punctuation), but he can tell a heck of a story.

Also, thanks to his stinginess with character description, I’ve never known what the beautiful Maddy (Marc’s investigator, later his girlfriend) looks like . Now I know she’s tall, brunette, and blue-eyed. Good to know.

Recommended, with the usual cautions.

‘Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man’

One of the shifting and inchoate goals I pursue in this blog, when I think of it, is promoting Ogden Nash as a great American light poet. Above, he reads his poem, “Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man.” It’s about sin, and not doctrinally correct. But perceptive nonetheless.

‘A Man of Affairs,’ by John D. MacDonald

I had the uncomfortable feeling that you could be marooned on an island with this fellow for seven years and never get a clue as to what he was thinking. He would be inevitably and interminably polite and charming, and were he forced to kill you and eat you, he would be deft and slightly apologetic and quite noble about it. And he would know exactly which leaves and berries to boil with you to give you the right flavor.

John D. MacDonald wrote paperback novels for Fawcett Gold Medal, whose stock in trade was cowboys, private eyes and soldiers of fortune. It’s a tribute to his skill that he could write a saleable (and engaging) story for that market about business. (He had a business degree from Harvard.) A Man of Affairs isn’t one of his top novels, I think, but it’s a pretty good read.

Sam Glidden is a top manager for a small manufacturing  company, the Harrison Corporation, in a fictional town. He rose from the work floor partly with the assistance of the company’s late owner, who was energetic but improvident. Since his death, Sam and the other managers have been trying to rebuild an out-of-date operation, which has prevented them from paying dividends to stockholders. This results in discontent, particularly with the late owner’s two adult children, one of whom, Louise, Sam has carried a torch for since high school.

Then Harrison Corporation comes into the sights of Mike Dean, a famous investor who’d be described as a “corporate raider” today. Dean talks a good talk about rebuilding the company, but Sam knows how this guy operates. He’ll pump the stock up, unload it, and leave the other shareholders in possession of the smoking ruins of a gutted operation. When Dean invites Louise and her brother and their spouses to his compound in the Bahamas, Sam manages to get himself invited too, in hopes he can counter Mike Dean’s persuasions.

What he finds is a house party with a creepy but seductive vibe. Millionaires, publicity people, entertainment people, hangers-on. Greedy, bored, kinky. Sam finds that Mike Dean’s charm and psychological strategy have him on the point of selling out. Then people start dying…

It’s a tribute to MacDonald’s narrative skill that he could transform a story about business into a life-and-death thriller and make it work. There’s sex in A Man of Affairs – fairly shocking by the standards of the time though tame nowadays (it’s all straight sex). The violence is a little far-fetched, but that goes with the territory.

The heart of the story, however, is a pretty solid examination of personal and business integrity. I think it holds up well on that level.

Recommended for adults.

A Grand and Splendid Feast from History

And now for something completely different, “grand and splendid entertainment in two courses” from a 200-year-old cookbook.

Food scientist Anne Reardon worked through the recipes recommended a couple centuries ago for an entertaining meal and shares her family’s opinions on them. It’s impressive, historical, and sometimes gross.

Reardon’s YouTube channel is excellent for exposing silly or dangerous food hacks in other videos and explaining how to bake things well.

‘The Color of Magic’ by Terry Pratchett

“He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard,” he muttered.

“You don’t understand at all,” said the wizard wearily. “I’m so scared of you my spine has turned to jelly, it’s just that I’m suffering from an overdose of terror right now. I mean, when I’ve got over that then I’ll have time to be decently frightened of you.”

Terry Pratchett’s first book in his long-running Discworld series, The Color of Magic, has an explosive start with the city of Anhk-Morpork (doubtless based on Dallas-Fort Worth) in flames and main characters Rincewind the wizard and Twoflower the tourist dragging themselves away from it. Both the wizard and the twin city, “of which all the other cities of time and space are, as it were, mere reflections,” found themselves completely unprepared for the arrival of a new type of visitor, a tourist. Here they have a man who doesn’t speak any of the languages, has plenty of money to spend, and hopes to see some of the legendary, fantastical people and events he has read about in his homeland far across the sea. Heroes, bar fights, dragons, magic–how fun it would be to see some of that!

Twoflower the tourist is guided into a tavern that happens to be tolerating the presence of Rincewind, who isn’t really a wizard because he was kicked out of magic school, but he can converse in many languages and consequently approaches the tourist as he attempts to talk to the innkeeper via a phrase book. The two can understand each other, and Rincewind is hired as a tour guide, a challenge he may not be able to rise to.

More than that problem, however, is the problem of helping his patron survive the night, because not only does he overpay in pure gold coins (not like any coins you’d find on the streets of Morpork), but his luggage is made of rare, very expensive wood and follows him around on its own tiny legs like a faithful, aggressive dog. Even without eyes, it leers maliciously at perceived threats. Rincewind immediately discerns there’s no telling what that thing could do when cornered or its master harmed.

Because Twoflower doesn’t understand the natural, human yearnings of the Morpork heart, he is instrumental in burning it to the ground, which can’t be a spoiler because you can see the flames on page one. But that story only takes you to page 87. There are more stories as the two travelers ride to the next city–all of it zany, funny, and ridiculous. The last story in this book is quite beautiful.

The humor isn’t particularly chaste, but it never gets bawdy. I wonder if that holds throughout the series. Once I thought it sounded just like The Princess Bride, and a couple times I noted turns of phrase that echoed Wodehouse.

I’ve read you can pick up the series at any point, because there isn’t a grand narrative to follow. The second published book, The Light Fantastic, does appear to be a direct sequel to The Color of Magic, so there’s some sense of order to some of them.

‘Showdown on the River,’ by J. L. Curtis

Rio Bell is 22 years old, the son of a Texas rancher. In spite of his youth, he already has an impressive reputation as a gunfighter. But he doesn’t expect to need that skill a lot on his present job – leading his first cattle drive, up the Goodnight-Loving Trail to Colorado. He’s got some older friends to back him up, but the decisions will be his, and he feels the responsibility.

The first part of the novel Showdown on the River, by J. L. Curtis (who happens to be a friend of mine, I need to confess) is pretty standard Western fare – the hard days of riding, the boredom and the danger involved in a cattle drive. I didn’t mind that at all. I can read that stuff all day long, if it’s done well, and it is here (Red River is one of my favorite Westerns).

Once the drovers reach Colorado, they encounter challenges they didn’t expect. Rio was planning to visit his hermit uncle in the mountains, but discovers the old man is dead. The people living on his old place are a father with two daughters, one of whom is away at school. But another rancher has moved in on the other side of the valley, with a plan to take over the whole area, at any cost in human lives. With the help of some old mountain men, friends of his cook, Rio and his cowboys will risk their lives to save his new friends – one of whom is a very attractive young woman.

Taken purely as a story, I thought Showdown on the River worked pretty well. I felt the last scenes were a little rushed, and could have been fleshed out. But reading the book was a lot of fun, and that’s the main thing we ask for in these parts.

I have a couple historical quibbles – which may be unfounded. The author likely knows more about these things than I do.

One is the availability of dynamite. Dynamite is overused in Western stories, especially ones set as early as this (1871 by my calculations). The stuff did exist at the time, but I have the idea that finding some just lying around stretches probability a little (could be wrong).

The other is the issue of violence against women. There’s the famous incident of the killing of Dora Hand, Dodge City dance hall singer (involving Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp). Though the killer escaped the gallows, the immediate reaction demonstrates the kind of outrage that the denizens of the American West were capable of when encountering violence of any kind against a (white) woman. They were rare out west in those days, and the culture was romantic and Victorian. In this book, women get threatened with rape and murder. There is negative reaction, I’ll admit, but some of the “bad guys” show an indifference that seems to me improbable. Even the bad guys wouldn’t stoop that far in that time and place. I’m not familiar with any historical exceptions.

In spite of this, I thoroughly enjoyed Showdown on the River, and recommend it highly.

‘A Divided Loyalty,’ by Charles Todd

Charles Todd, author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge series, is actually a mother-son writing team (our commenter Paul informed me of this). I found the first book in the series (the first I I read; we’re actually pretty far along in the series here) a little depressing, but I liked the positive attitude displayed toward Christians and the church. So I figured I’d try another, when a cheap download became available. Thus did I purchase A Divided Loyalty.

Inspector Ian Rutledge is an isolated man. He’s unpopular at Scotland Yard because he’s a victim of shell shock, considered a moral coward by other officers. He hangs onto his job only because they’re short of manpower, due to the losses of World War I. His shell shock takes a particularly painful form – persistent hallucination. His friend Hamish MacLeod, a wartime subordinate whom he was forced to order shot on the front lines, is forever at his shoulder, commenting on events. These comments are mostly – but not always – negative.

Avebury in Wiltshire is a famous place in England. It’s a double stone circle, not far from Stonehenge, less complete but larger. The village of Avebury nestles inside it.

A young woman was found stabbed to death in the ditch that surrounds the stones. Inspector Leslie, an older, respected officer, was the first to investigate, but he found no clues. Rutledge recently solved a similar mystery in another town, so his superior (who despises him) sends him to see if he can do any better. His real motive, Rutledge believes, is a desire to see him fail.

No clue to the woman’s identity has been found. She doesn’t “look English,” but she might have come from anywhere in the world. And what brought her here? How was she lured to the murder site?

Rutledge goes to work systematically, asking questions in a widening circle, investigating routes by which the woman might have come. Gradually a few facts – or probabilities – appear. And he begins finding indications of the culprit – indications that lead somewhere he does not want to go. However, the final twist will astonish even him.

I liked A Divided Loyalty better than I liked A False Mirror, the first book I read. It was by no means cheery, but it was less a downer than that one. And I liked Inspector Rutledge’s relentless professionalism in the face of depression and manifold obstacles.

I don’t recall any particular concerns in terms of language or themes.

Sunday Singing: Let Children Hear the Mighty Deeds

“Let Children Hear the Mighty Deeds” performed by Messiah’s Congregation of Maine Choir

“Let Children Hear the Mighty Deeds” was written by the great Isaac Watts, D.D. (1674-1748). The original 1917 title was “Providence of God Recorded; or, Pious Education and Instruction of Children.” It draws from the first part of Psalm 78, which says,

“We will not hide them from their children,
    but tell to the coming generation
the glorious deeds of the Lord, and his might,
    and the wonders which he has wrought.” (v.4 RSV)

The tune is one of twelve common hymn tunes published in a 1615 Scottish psalter, rearranged to be more upbeat by Theodore Ferris.

1 Let children hear the mighty deeds
which God performed of old,
which in our younger years we saw
and which our fathers told.
He bids us make his glories known,
the works of pow’r and grace,
that we convey his wonders down
through ev’ry rising race.

2 Our lips shall tell them to our sons,
and they again to theirs,
and generations yet unborn
must teach them to their heirs.
Thus shall they learn, in God alone
their hope securely stands,
that they may ne’er forget his works,
but practice his commands.