Setting my alarm

I’ve once again set my phone alarm clock to buzz every morning at 8:45. I first set this alarm after the shootings at Sandy Hook school in Newtown in December 2012. I had the alarm set for a long while but then lapsed into skipping it, then forgetting, and then the new habit was gone. Then came the Boston marathon in April 2013, and I set it again. I set it again after the Charleston shooting in 2015. Each time, I confess, I've let the practice eventually fade. After Uvalde, it’s time to set it again. If you’re wondering what I’m talking about, please follow this link to a short essay I wrote for the “Good Letters” blog of Image Journal back in 2013. Then, please, would you also set your alarm?

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[Photo: taken of a toy dinosaur, no doubt lovingly placed, on a retaining wall I sometimes pass when I walk.]

Malcolm Guite Reflecting on C.S. Lewis's "Learning in Wartime"

Malcolm Guite, poet and Anglican priest, offers on YouTube periodic musings and readings from his study in the UK. In his latest video from this past week, Guite reflected on C.S. Lewis's essay "Learning in Wartime"—originally delivered in December 1939 as a radio address in which Lewis advised his students on how to live in times of war—and then drew connection to today. The video is 16 minutes long and is well worth a listen.

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[Photo: Coming home this from the Ash Wednesday service at my church, I passed The Museum of Russian Art. This locally- and privately-owned museum has the largest collection of Russian Art outside of Russia. It’s very beautiful, and I’ve written about it several times. I was pleased to see this banner they’ve placed on display over their usual exhibit banner, the yellow and blue of the Ukrainian flag.]

Covid and Camus' The Plague

Given the success of the vaccine in reducing the rate of new Covid cases, life has opened up substantially where I live, and I hope it has where you are as well. The relief has reminded me of the last handful of pages of Albert Camus' The Plague, which you probably remember is a sobering and frightening novel about a mid-twentieth century plague in a town in Algeria. Finally, the plague did lift, however, and the roads and the railroad tracks into the town again reopened, and the people returned to moving about the streets. In the days just before the gates allowed entrance, for Dr. Bernard Rieux, the story's narrator, "the prospect of imminent release had obliterated his fatigue."

"Hope had returned and with it a new zest for life. No man can live on the stretch all the time, with his energy and will-power strained to the breaking-point, and it is a joy to be able to relax at last and loosen nerves and muscles that were braced for the struggle.... Indeed, he had a feeling that everyone in those days was making a fresh start."


If you've read the book, you know it's not a fairy tale and not everyone lives happily ever after, even with the plague lifting, but still, joy returned.

"[T]he moment they saw the smoke of the approaching engine, the feeling of exile vanished before an uprush of overpowering, bewildering joy. And when the train stopped, all those interminable-seeming separations which often had begun on this same platform came to an end in one ecstatic moment, when arms closed with hungry possessiveness on bodies whose living shape they had forgotten."

The Trajectory of a Subtle Pivot

I’ve been reading The Code Breaker by Walter Isaacson (2021). My father gave it to me, and he and I have been talking about it in the evenings on the phone as we go through the book. One small scene towards the beginning of the book has continued to hum in my brain, although it has nothing to do with the work of mapping the structure of RNA, the theme of the book. In reality, however, this small scene has everything to do with that work, which means it has everything to do with the fact that we now have a Covid vaccine.

Jennifer Doudna, PhD, the subject of the book, and her colleague, Emmanuelle Charpentier, PhD, won the 2020 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for their invention of an RNA-guided gene-editing tool, which played a key role in the development of the Covid vaccine. The scene I’m thinking of was when Doudna was in sixth grade, and her father gave her a copy of The Double Helix by James Watson, a book that detailed the discovery of the structure of DNA. Reading that book was a pivot point for Doudna. While it didn’t give an immediate 180-degree shift in whatever her sixth-grade self was doing or aiming at, the shift carried her somewhere.

The trajectory of any subtle pivot, carried over many years, changes everything. Take a piece of paper and draw a dot on the left side of the paper and another dot on the right side. Now draw a line between the dots. Next, draw a third dot just a tiny bit above the dot on the right side. Finally, draw a line between the original left dot and the new right dot. Imagine that the lines go on and on beyond the page, and think about how those two lines would travel out across time with the distance between them growing. It makes for an interesting assignment: think back to childhood, or later, and consider what was the toy, the book, the conversation, the game, the film, the scene that nudged you ever so slightly or is nudging you even now.

Intellectual Hospitality: A Way to Rebuild Trust

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The theme of the current issue of Comment magazine (Winter 2021) is rebuilding trust in each other and within communities given all that has happened in recent months and years to break down that trust. I encourage you to read the piece by Cherie Harder, president of the The Trinity Forum, titled, “Reviving Intellectual Hospitality.” The essay discusses ways to “disrupt this vicious cycle” we have gotten ourselves in of attending only to what we already think is true and only to those who agree with us. The practice of intellectual hospitality is about being open to each other again, to discussing with and learning from each other. It’s a path of humility and camaraderie.

"How to disrupt this vicious cycle? A society of diminishing public trust in both institutions and each other—riven by difference we seem unable to bridge, and marked by malice and misinformation—calls for creative means of rebuilding a shared sense of the common good. Vital to such renewal will be the reinvigoration of what might seem a modest practice: the extension of intellectual hospitality."


Harder outlines multiple ways to practice such hospitality, including: read widely, particularly to learn other perspectives; pursue friendships with those who think differently; cultivate curiosity; ask questions; and many others. I hope you’ll read the article for all her suggestions. In fact, read the entire issue. During this time of Covid, the publisher of Comment (tagline: "Public Theology for the Common Good") has been generous in opening up many of their issues to online reading without a subscription.

Harder also points out that a key corrosive to trust is over-reliance on social media. (For more on the need to reduce the over-reliance on social media, not just for reasons of intellectual hospitality but also to free up leisure time for many other pursuits, let me also recommend Digital Minimalism, by Cal Newport.)

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[Photo: Beauty beneath the Ford Parkway Bridge, which connects Minneapolis and St. Paul.]

On the corner of 38th and Chicago, Minneapolis

On the same day here in Minneapolis, Memorial Day 2020, my mother died of Covid infection and George Floyd was killed by police. It took about 6 weeks for me to sufficiently steady the mix of grief inside before I could make the pilgrimage to 38th St and Chicago Ave where Floyd was killed, just a few miles from where I live. Yes, there were banners of outrage and memorial painted across outside walls. Yes, there were flowers heaped at the corner of his death. Yes, the intersection’s core was a growing ad hoc monument to the mattering of Floyd’s life and black lives. But there on the quieter northwest side of the intersection was a garden someone had started, with dirt and mulch and plants of all varieties right along the edge of Chicago Ave, right where the tires of a thousand and one cars have splashed through standing water and where a thousand and one cigarette butts and candy wrappers have in the past been tossed. Into that garden, someone had placed painted rocks, and the rocks spoke of beauty and hope in the midst of grief of multiple varieties.

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The Life of Another

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My dear friend Jessica Brown sent a group of friends this new poem she’s written during the Covid-19 outbreak. With her permission I’m sharing it here for you to read as well. As far as I know, it’s yet untitled.

Could this be world war?
I see parallels:
Life severed
from what was before,
Death’s maw hounding us
more than normal.

But then. One difference airs—
We are not at war with each other.
Over small tracts of land
bullets do not shred flesh,
field hospitals built now
are not readying for wounds of war.
Heart’s wrung not by terror of weapon,
but by what we allow ourselves to feel
when cherishing the life of another—

The life of another,
This is the time for that.

–Jessica Brown. Used with permission.
Visit Jessica’s website at: https://www.jessicabrownwriter.com/

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Thank you for reading this post. I’m praying for all those who visit these pages.

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[Photo: Fabric bought who knows how long ago, now cut into rectangles and awaiting transformation into face masks.]