The Birds and I

The sea is turquoise
And the cliffs austere,
The plangent pounding
Of the waves

The gulls are glad
To heed themselves
When we are
Shadows far away

But we are just
As real as they
And need companions
In the world

Not to impose upon
A nesting shore
Our vagrant errantries
Of self

But to imagine
More than sand,
Our souls beyond the
Broken drift of sea

For we are here
The birds and I
In spite of all the
Things I thought to be

Where Are We?

Several months ago, on a flight from Dallas, I overheard a short conversation between a young mother and her son. They were just settling into their seats, getting carry-on bags positioned and seatbelts secured. After looking around a bit, the young boy asked, “Mom, are we in church?” His mother smiled and said, “no son, we’re in Texas”.

I laughed quietly and wrote down the conversation in my notebook. Yet, for all the pleasure this little incident gave me, I couldn’t put my finger on the reason why I laughed. I’m still not completely sure, but I have an idea.

One possibility is that I find geographical blunders funny. I also find them a little bit dismaying. I have a handful of friends that believe I just returned from a trip to South America or Africa – when in fact, I visited the country of Honduras (in Central America!). These people have no clue where Honduras is and they never bother to find out.

Of course, I don’t expect a child to be so geographically informed. And I was pleased that his mother wanted him to know where he was. But I don’t think geography is the point here. I think the issue is a bit more fundamental than that. In our frequent concerns about place, many of us really do have trouble knowing where we are. This is, of course, a navigational issue. It is also a spiritual one. We certainly want to know how to get home. But we also need to know where home really is.

What I’m trying to say is that we somehow know of a domestic standard that is higher than our immediate experience. Maybe we know of this standard because we have visited beautiful homes and carefully landscaped villas. Or maybe we have seen these places in movies and books. Maybe we have memories of an ideal childhood retreat or vacation spot. Maybe we just know and can’t explain how we know.

Plato (as part of his idea of forms) called a true standard eidos. Such standards have become part of our Western heritage as the objects that cast shadows on a cave wall. We experience only the imperfect shadow, but the shadow itself hints of a true reality outside the cave that we cannot see. Somehow we all have an idea of what an ideal home really is.

There is a popular dialogue going around the Central Valley (of California) these days. It goes something like this: “Is this Heaven?” asks a visitor. “No”, is the reply. “It’s Fresno”. This, of course, is not meant to be a serious Platonic commentary. It is meant to be an endearing joke. At least it makes those of us who live in Fresno smile.

And maybe we laugh, and yet we wonder. Where are we really? If our Judeo-Christian heritage informs us of a better place beyond this vale of tears, should we even try to find our home here below?

Of course we should. And we should appreciate the beautiful places all around us. We should recognize them for what they are: imperfect semblances. To do so is an act of spiritual realization and healing. We live amidst the Created Order. To a greater or lesser degree (depending on where we live and how much we have destroyed it) the handiwork of Heaven is right here.

Of course some days are bleak, even if you live in a place like Neuschwanstein Castle. It rains, it snows, the roof develops a leak. The inventory of perfect days, even in Disneyland, can easily fit on a small sticky note. This is mortality after all.

Our goal of finding Shangri-La (or even a perfect weekend retreat) will ever be denied as long as we hope for perfect weather, perfect health, and perfect cooperation in a fallen world. But, if we allow them to, Jesus and Plato can keep us from despairing. Not all cavernous shadows are malignant.

A rose is still beautiful even if it’s raining. Our loved ones are still children of God even if they’re currently feeling a bit down – or even if we are. A faded butterfly pinned to the bottom of an old unit tray is cause for rejoicing. Somewhere - thanks to the Creator – there is a similar one flitting among wildflowers having a perfect day. It is a reminder, like so many other beautiful things all around us, that we are heirs of perfection. You can find hints of Heaven in Fresno. It just takes practice seeing through the fog.

How to Wade a River

Some time ago, in a remote area of Central America, I went trekking with a friend of mine. We followed a trail that rural people and horses occasionally use to move cattle up and down the local mountain. It was a decent trail but the canyon was often narrow and a river ran over it in several places.

At first we experienced the river as an inconvenience. We felt obliged to sit down after each crossing in order to empty water out of our boots – and wring it out of our sopping socks. But eventually we just kept plodding along in wet footwear. There were just too many crossings.

At some points the crossings were simple. The water was only a foot deep. In other places it was a bit more difficult as water inched up to our waste and threatened to knock us over. The current made all of the crossings partially dangerous – at least to someone who doesn’t know the correct method of wading rivers.

This, however, was something I still had to learn. The first problem is the optical illusion of moving water over stones. You might think you can see clearly where to step, but this is not true. The uneven water surface makes it impossible to see the relative sizes of stones with the level of certainty needed to step with confidence. And this same optical illusion also makes it difficult to measure water depth. I can’t remember how many times I thought I was stepping into a deeper part of the river only to hit bottom much sooner than expected – kind of like stepping onto the basement floor when you think you have another step to go. It makes you move awkwardly - fumbling to catch your balance.

I’m not suggesting that you should step blindly. You can tell the difference between boulders and smaller stones. You can also judge fairly accurately where the major currents are going (the water moves that way).

I found that the safest way to manage the watery illusions was to step slowly onto the river bottom. This also helped me avoid the dangers of slippery rocks. Some of the biggest dangers in the river are stones covered with algae. Sometimes it is long enough to see easily. You can predict that the stones underneath these areas will be slippery.

It’s the stones with new algal growth that present the danger. They often look like any other stone until you step on them and quickly slide off. If you step slowly, you’re less likely to make a mistake. The key is to have your other foot safely and firmly planted before you commit your weight to an unknown stone.

And then there is the challenge of currents. It’s easy enough to see them when the surface currents are extensions of the water movement below. Sometimes this isn’t the case and unexpected currents can take you by surprise. The solution, again, is to move slowly and test the ground before you commit your weight.

Another helpful tip is to use a walking stick. It can help in a number of ways. You can judge depth with it. You can determine how loose some of the stones are. You can also put some of your weight on it if you start to lose your balance. If it hadn’t been for my walking stick, I would have fallen on many of the crossings.
All told, I learned four keys to successfully wade a river: step with reasoned intent, let the river guide where you finally put your weight, make sure you are firmly planted on one foot before you commit to another, and use the help of a walking stick.

I assure you that this is good advice. I only wish I had learned these lessons a little bit earlier. I don’t mean for wading rivers. I mean for managing life. As I plodded up and down the river over a period of two days, I realized that my life is often passed in the same way I hike. I move easily, as if I know where I am going. Each step assumes that the ground will be secure.

It has taken me years to learn that this is not always the case. When wading rivers (or in other insecure situations) it is wise to walk differently. Be smart about decisions. Use the best judgment you have. When finally making a step, be ready for surprises. Your foot might not land where, or how, you think it will. And then be sure of where you start from. You can catch yourself if you are firmly holding on to something secure.

Then, finally, get some help in making your decisions. Maybe a friend or someone you trust has experience that will help. Maybe the great (and sacred) literature of the world has some advice. Certainly a conversation with our Heavenly Father would be in order.

Maybe I’m just getting older and a bit more cautious than I used to be. Or maybe it’s the accumulating experiences of falling and getting bruised. Either way, I stand by my recommendations. And I mean what I say: I stand because of them.

Botfly Lessons

There are a lot of creatures in this world that get bad press. Think of rats which hide beneath old boxes in garages, and that linger in our memories as the carriers of plague. Or consider rattlesnakes that slither in tall grass and bite unsuspecting passersby. Or the yellow jacket that interferes with our picnicking and stings us when we least expect it.
Of course we recognize that these creatures have their place. And in our more reflective moments – safe in a clean and comfy easy chair – we will grant them a place in the created order, far away from us. There are a handful of things, however, that hardly ever make it even to this guarded list of acceptable nuisances. Mosquitoes, for example, come to mind. What good do they provide? Not many of us have the understanding (or the desire) to accept their immature stages as an ecological plus - as fish or frog food. They are just pests, plain and simple.

And then there is the little known but greatly despised botfly, an insect about the size of a honeybee. Bots make their living by burrowing into the bodies of animals, including humans. Female flies drop eggs either directly onto the skin of animals or they capture another creature, like a mosquito or a tick, and lay eggs on it. These smaller creatures then find their normal warm-blooded hosts and when the young botflies (now having become small worms) sense warmth, they drop onto the new host. In either case, the little worms then burrow under the skin of their unsuspecting benefactors.

I remember a number of years ago, a friend of mine told the story of his mother’s encounter with one of these noisome insects. She had been visiting tropical America with her husband and must have picked up the parasite during their travels. She didn’t notice the bump on her skin until the bot was half grown.

And in fact this is not unusual. As small worms, the botfly larva can burrow under the skin without detection for several days. They artfully consume living tissue while leaving the nerves untouched. The human bot cases that I know of have not experienced pain of any kind. Remarkably, even the initial act of burrowing into the skin is not felt.

When my friend’s mother discovered her parasite, she was alarmed at first and then fascinated. She is a hardy sort of lady with a passion for natural history and her curiosity soon overcame her anxieties. She decided to let the insect emerge. Several days later, it did just that as she was taking a bath. The fully-developed larva broke through her skin around the neck and dropped to the ground. In the wild, the worm then hides itself in the soil to pupate, before emerging as an adult to start the process over again.

In North America (where I live), this doesn’t happen very often. We have a handful of botflies but these are parasites of non-human animals. People that have the misfortune of carrying one almost always pick them up from the tropics, where the human botfly (Dermatobia hominis) lives.

But there are exceptions. Occasionally a disoriented botfly will mistake a human for a sheep, a horse, or some other creature. I know this from personal experience.

A few years ago, while travelling on the dusty back roads of eastern Wyoming, I had a botfly land in my hair and lay at least one egg. I didn’t realize at the time what had happened. I thought it was just an ordinary prairie fly that was unfortunate enough to get blown into a slow-moving truck (of a foraging entomologist).

Several days passed. I was now at home in Windsor, Colorado taking a shower and noticed a lump on my neck. This worried me and over the course of several days I became convinced that I had cancer. The thought was constantly on my mind, although I kept it to myself. I wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

Then one morning I lay in bed longer than usual (it was a Sunday). While I was in that half-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness, I realized what had happened. I remembered the Wyoming fly buzzing around in my hair and knew that it must have been a botfly. I quickly ran my hand over the area of my head where the fly had landed. Sure enough, there was a bump.

Now if I had been a little more restrained and in control of my reflexes, I might have left it alone and waited for the larva to come out. I wasn’t and I didn’t. As an immediate reflex, I buckled my fingers and punched myself on the head. Not just once, mind you, but several times. Kathy, who was asleep next to me, rolled over and mumbled something incoherent. After a few minutes, it was all over. Then I remembered the lump on my neck. It was still there and I realized that it was an enlarged lymph node. My body had been fighting the parasite in its own way without my knowledge. The lump stayed on my neck for several days before going away. Slowly my body cleansed itself of the worm, and my head – bruises and botfly behind – began to heal.

It’s understandable that we would despise botflies. If the very thought of one doesn’t give you the willies, I challenge you to find a picture of one emerging from its host. Unless you happen to have a truly unusual stomach, I guarantee that you will lose your appetite in short order.

What are we to make of such creatures? I know of no Victorian descriptions or essays of natural theology dealing with botflies. Such stories were often written during the 19th Century with the intent to draw a moral lesson from the Creation or to gain insight into the mind of the Creator Himself. The botfly, it seems, is hard to make sense of in this sort of doctrinal milieu.

It is clearly a creature of mortality – of the fallen Darwinian order. It is one of those threads – woven into the fabric of Creation – that ensures a future dissolution. Its very existence is a hint that evil cannot be escaped in this mortal sphere. And maybe this is its purpose. This part of our divine curriculum involves death and suffering and bots are one of its purveyors.

In certain parts of the world and to some animals this fallen fly requires a very real vigilance. The tropical American oropendolas are one of these. They are fairly large birds that are known for their large well-crafted nests that hang like grassy gourds from high branches of trees. A golf-ball sized hole is the entrance to the nest. And, as you may have guessed, sometimes botflies make it inside and feed on the young oropendola nestlings. When they do, the young birds often die.

But often the botflies don’t bother the birds. When there are wasps or wild bees living nearby, the flies stay away. The oropendolas also have another line of defense. It comes from an unlikely place. In fact it comes from a bird that we often despise. It is a parasite known as the cowbird, and it lays eggs in the nests of other birds so it doesn’t have to do the hard work of raising a brood itself. And since the cowbird hatchling is more aggressive than the baby oropendola, it gets more food from the dutiful oropendola parents. This unsolicited adoption at first might strike us the wrong way. But, in fact, there is a benefit to the young oropendola. Cowbird chicks are quite good at eating botfly larvae. In fact they can even snap up an adult fly now and then. When bee swarms are not around to protect oropendola nests from bots, letting cowbird chicks into the nest is the next best strategy. In fact adult oropendolas are known to aggressively keep cowbirds away when bees are around. When they aren’t, they let the cowbirds lay an egg in their nests. This is a surprising level of sophistication for a bird.

It is also an uncommonly good window into the ways of mortality. With parasites and predators all around us, our decisions often revolve around choosing between two evils. Do we let botflies feed on our family or do we agree to pay the mafia boss (cowbird) to protect us from such a scourge?

Or maybe the decision is less obvious. Do we decline an important business dinner or skip our child’s choir performance? Do we go without a car repair or eat beans and rice for a month? Sadly mortality is full of such dually dislikable decisions. And in the end they get the better of us. Mortality always wins Round One (or is it Round Two, or Round Twenty Two?).

To someone who believes in the Created Order the legions of bots and their ilk can leave us wondering about the priorities of Heaven. If the Creator can paint such a beautiful sunset and design the tail of a peacock, what on earth is the reason for parasites?

There haven’t been many good answers to this dilemma. There is, however, an unavoidable conclusion if we are willing to admit it. The experiences of actual life on earth are meant to include suffering and ultimately death. This may seem unreasonable to many of us. After all, we spend so much of our time and resources intentionally mitigating the bad in the world. How can divinity do anything less?

The truth is that such an avuncular deity as our democratic world contrives is not necessarily the same transcendent being that our ancestors worshipped, nor is it the Heavenly Father of our sacred texts. The truth is that there is no necessary conflict between the realities of a divine Creator of beauty and a divinely established decay.

Our wise teachers and leaders have always provided us with challenges to overcome. We acknowledge that there is no royal road to learning. In fact the exams we face often get progressively more difficult as we move from kindergarten up through high school and college. Why should grade earth be without its own challenges?

One solution to all of this is to recognize that part of our earthly curriculum is to be bothered by bots, to be beaten by disease. This is the way mortality is meant to be. I don’t mean that we should resign ourselves, as some belief systems encourage, to the exsanguinating insults of insects. (I, for one, still swat every skeeter that I can.)

But consider for a moment what this suggests: there is amazing beauty in the world in spite of our aches and pains. Surely, then, beauty is possible without them. If death is imposed now, what will life be like when it isn’t? Or maybe more immediately: how can life be improved if we admit to the terms of the test?

For starters, we might realize that humility is the correct approach to a fallen world that we cannot escape. And with an eternal perspective, this humility can develop into gratitude. We can decide to take a hint from the Creation and accept bots for what they are – a possible essay question on a mid-term exam.

References

For a discussion of oropendolas and cowbirds see Don Moser’s Central America Jungles (one of The American Wilderness/Time-Life Books, 1975) starting on page 97.

In Context

The things we learn in context
Are more likely to remain
Than other facts and figures
Weakly tethered to the brain
Then severed from our memory
And never thought again

For not all contexts are the same
And most are not real sure
And so we stop our efforts
To continue anymore
With education that can seem
So futile to explore

We need to chose a reference
That will motivate us now
And then again in future
Will continue to endow
Our minds and hearts with knowledge
That the Heavens might allow

Christ-Like Conversation

Yale University Press recently published an interesting little book by Stephen Miller entitled Conversation, a History of a Declining Art . It starts with a brief discussion of Job and with Plato’s Symposium and proceeds through late antiquity, post-revolutionary Europe, and early America until it arrives at modern times.

It seems there is much to be gained from open polite conversation. Much of our rude and unhappy world could be improved with a bit more of the civility that polished discourse provides. There is a lot in the book to take seriously, and to be enjoyed.

Unfortunately Miller’s book doesn’t end very optimistically. Not only is our civility less than it should be, but we are more and more occupied with gadgets that have effectively reduced whatever time we did take to converse. This trend doesn’t seem to be improving our prospects for improved civility.

Of course, not everybody is up to the high conversational standards that Miller writes about. This seems to have always been the case. Most of us, to be perfectly frank, just don’t have the candlepower of a Samuel Johnson, an Edmund Burke, or a Benjamin Franklin – all paragons in the art of conversation. But this doesn’t mean that we are incapable of enjoying it at all. Neither does it mean that witty and civil conversation is the loftiest goal of language.

There is, after all, one kind of conversation that Miller doesn’t mention in his book. As it turns out, this particular kind of conversation is even rarer than Miller’s other uncommon varieties. Part of the reason for this, undoubtedly, is that very few people have ever given the subject much thought.

The type of conversation that I refer to is Christ-like conversation. I don’t mean to use the word ‘Christ-like’ as a reference to a particular community of saints or to a particular historic tradition. I mean ‘Christ-like’ in the sense of its reference to Christ. Christian conversation is conversation that informs that very probing question, “what would Jesus do?” as it relates to how we communicate with each other.

There is often a difference, though, between how Christ would communicate in any given situation and the way He would want us to. He, after all, is divine. We are mortals. The scriptures give us many examples of Jesus speaking to others. Only some of these, however, would be appropriate for us to imitate. Obviously it wouldn’t be right for us to be going around telling people that their sins are forgiven.

But there are at least a couple of examples of Jesus talking with others that make for epitomes of the Christian art of conversation. In these two cases, we find Jesus conversing with people that didn’t know, at least at first, who He was.

The first example comes from the fourth chapter of the Gospel of John. Jesus and His disciples are passing through Samaria and come to Jacob’s Well near the city of Sychar. Jesus stops for a drink and His disciples go on ahead.

A woman is at the well drawing water and Jesus asks her for a drink. She is a bit surprised that Jesus, being a Jew, would even talk with her, a woman of Samaria. Jesus’ response is both kind and direct. He not only implies that He accepts who she is but He also begins, right off, to talk about eternally important things.

“If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that sayeth to thee, give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water”. (John 4:9).

Perhaps to our ears, this might sound like an abrupt way to strike up a conversation. Maybe it was. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. One thing does seem clear though. The woman was neither overly startled nor intimidated by the statement. On the contrary, she responded with a direct and engaging comment of her own.

“Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep: from whence then hast thou that living water?” (John 4:11).

And so the conversation continues. Miller would certainly see this as a polite conversation. People don’t discuss such politically and religiously charged subjects – especially with those that likely have strongly different opinions – without being skilled conversationalists and very polite.

That’s all very well. Jesus, no doubt, was a good conversationalist. That’s not, however, why this example has so much merit for Christians. To understand this requires looking at how the discussion ends.

The conversation turns to prophets; and the woman, who is well informed on the subject, explains to Jesus her hope of the coming Messiah. Jesus then responds with a statement that is both fully in keeping with the flow of the conversation as well as being very powerful: “I that speak unto thee am he”.

This wonderfully insightful conversation ends with a testimony. Jesus, himself, testifies of the Christ. But testimony for Miller is not a criterion of good conversation. In fact it doesn’t meet the criteria for any kind of secular conversation at all. It certainly is, however, an example of Christ-like conversation.

In fact there are other kinds of conversation that Miller only discusses in passing. Pragmatic conversation, for example, is hardly mentioned at all. This includes the day-to-day exchanges of information we use all the time to get all the things done that we need to. This use of language is not necessarily entertaining and so doesn’t interest him much. It is noteworthy, though, that many great conversationalists, especially women, can make even these mundane exchanges interesting.

Rhetoric, or the attempt to persuade an audience, is another example that is only obliquely mentioned by Miller. He considers it clearly beneath the dignity of a cultured conversationalist, and doesn’t mention the three rhetorical appeals (ethos, pathos, and logos) by name but criticizes them nonetheless.

Ethos, or the appeal to the character and authority of the speaker, should have nothing to do with the quality of the discussion at hand. Quality conversation should rest solely on the verbal abilities of the parties involved. Pathos, or the appeal to the emotions, should also be out of the question. Good conversation should be fundamentally a mental effort that leads to enjoyment and even merriment. Emotion is too self-disclosing and limits one’s ability to discuss conflicting positions with charm and humor. Logos, or the appeal to reason and logic, might seem appropriate to good conversation but its use as a rhetorical tool is burdened by the same failing apparent in ethos and pathos. They are all appeals. They are used to convince and not to converse. Miller sees all of these as distractions; or even worse, as partisanship.

One type of rhetoric that is particularly galling to him is the kind that manipulates. It’s bad enough when people pretend to be who they’re not, but when they elevate hypocrisy to a conversational art, they have clearly gone too far.

The classic motivational book in this vein is Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People . Here we learn to smile more often and listen better - obvious virtues to acquire. In fact, we are told that our future has unlimited potential if we can learn to master the nuances of interpersonal relationships, including conversation.

Carnegie’s conversation is clearly tendentious. We engage in it to get ahead in life. Miller, of course, disagrees with this motivation. To him, conversation should be its own reward. If our only reason for conversing is to influence others, then everything is business and not pleasure or art.

And for that matter, Carnegie’s criteria are not necessarily Christ-like either. Certainly smiling, listening, and many of the traits he lists are, in fact, Christian virtues, but the motivation is all wrong.

Jesus’ message for the woman of Samaria is not selfishly motivated. He does listen and more than likely He smiled too. But Jesus is not selling anything. He wants to bring others to Him, to teach them the truth, to testify of the truth. There is nothing of the polite understatement and flattery so common in our corporate world and so publicized in self-help books today.

This doesn’t mean that self-help books are not Christian or discuss Christian themes. It does mean that they are not necessary to the goals of Christ-like conversation.

As with the case with the woman at the well, Christ-like conversation strengthens testimony and otherwise builds others up. To Lyman Sherman, the command was given from the Savior to “strengthen your brethren in all your conversations” (Doctrine and Covenants 108:7). We are also told not to worry so much about what sorts of things to talk about. If we really are on the Lord’s errand, He will help us along.

"For it shall be given you in the very hour, yea, in the very moment, what ye shall say. But a commandment I give unto you, that ye shall declare whatsoever thing ye declare in my name, in solemnity of heart, in the spirit of meekness, in all things. And I give unto you this promise, that inasmuch as ye do this the Holy Ghost shall be shed forth in bearing record unto all things whatsoever ye shall say" (Doctrine and Covenants 100: 6-8).

It is interesting that there are no qualifications made for this promise. It seems to be available to all who are serving the Lord, and clearly emphasizes the importance of the spirit in Christ-like conversation.

It is also interesting that there seems to be no particular emphasis on technique, at least not directly. There is, however, one conversational technique that Jesus used quite often. And He was quite good at it. It is the use of parables.

This method, incidentally, is often used by the world’s finest conversationalists. Most New Testament exegetes claim that these parables are used to teach those who are ready for Christ’s doctrines, while keeping them hidden from others. They are also used to teach in terms His listeners could more easily understand. And no doubt this is true.

But double-entendres also stimulate ideas and help jump-start pithy discussion. They’re an offer to enter into conversation. They also have another important characteristic. When they’re understood correctly, they carry a hefty punch. The mental breakthrough of understanding the hidden meaning of a parable carries with it a confirmation that is quite a bit more powerful than an otherwise simple explanation.

Perhaps more important than even this, however, is that the understanding of symbolic language can be culminated with a testimony for maximum effect. The example of the woman at Jacob’s Well is just such a case.

Language itself is symbolic. Yet when we use parables we are adding another element of symbolism to our conversation. In some ways this doubling of effect lends itself to higher spiritual understanding.

Poetry also relies on this enhanced symbolism to express itself. In fact poetry without it can hardly be imagined at all. This poem by Emily Dickinson is just a single example of multitudes:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops-at all -

Must of us tend to think of parables as teaching tools. By so doing we emphasize the elements of hidden meanings and customized messages that they carry. If we think of parables as tools of conversation, however, we find very different elements. Not only do they lend themselves to the witty discussions so loved by Miller, but also to the higher Christian virtue of spiritual understanding.

That we are even capable of so much symbolism is worth noticing. It is certainly unique to humans. Many intelligent animals are capable of communicating with gestures and simple sounds. We do the same ourselves. In fact it is often through non-verbal gestures that we communicate most effectively, at least most honestly. When we start using words, and especially when we start stringing them together into a sentence, we start down the road to abstraction. Often, even when our intentions are good, this abstraction gets confusing. Not only do we often misunderstand what others are saying, but we often have difficulty putting our own thoughts and feelings into accurate language.

Even the basics of grammar can be quite a formidable challenge all by themselves. Why then do we even bother with yet another layer of symbolism? Wouldn’t this just compound the difficulty of effectively communicating?

Surprisingly, the answer is no. The reason for this is that the two kinds of symbolisms are quite different. Words, that are symbolic of things in our lives (among other things) appeal to our minds, whereas spiritual and poetic symbolisms appeal to our spirits.

If the lining up of words on a sheet of paper can make us think of things we’ve never considered before, the telling of a symbolic story can help us understand at a deeper emotional and spiritual level than we’ve ever known before. It adds meaning to our knowledge. It is the instruction of the soul.

It is possible to engage in Christ-like conversation without wit, charm, or other typical forms of conversational talent. And the very basic principle of listening is different. Christ-like conversationalists listen with the heart and seek understanding and empathy. There is no need to worry about what to say next. After all, sometimes what is needed is just a smile, a chuckle, or a tear.

There is also a distinct lack of pride in Christ-like conversation. In fact pride, if present, can only lessen its effect. This doesn’t mean that Jesus never used a witticism. In fact it’s hard to imagine that His enjoyment of parables was the only way He utilized language creatively. However He used it, though, His conversational talent was not used to show off. Ultimately Jesus wanted His listeners to learn spiritual things by means of the spirit.

Christ-like conversation is, after all, communication by the spirit. It can use many of the methods used by conversationalists and motivators but its own motivation is different. Witty, entertaining, or even friendly conversations are not the goal. Certainly making a business deal is not either. Bringing others to Christ, certainly is.

This is particularly clear in the 2nd scriptural account of a conversation including the unrecognized Jesus. In this case, the men that were with Him were traveling from Jerusalem to Emmaus. Here Jesus asks informed questions, listens, builds confidence, and teaches. As in His other conversations, He talks about His gospel. The journey takes several hours but the two men seem blind to who their companion is. It isn’t until after He leaves that they realize that they had been talking with the risen Lord.

"Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures?" (Luke 24:32).

Christ-like conversation is simply this: to talk about the Savior’s gospel in a way that invites His spirit. And with all due respect to Miller and his interesting story, this type of conversational history still needs to be written.

Compost Potatoes

A few months ago (back in February) Michael and I were planting a handful of early crops. We were even bold enough to put out some seed potatoes, since spring in Fresno (California) comes pretty early. At the time, blossoms were already out on the almond trees throughout the valley.

Since we have a fairly small garden spot, we had left-over potato pieces after planting. Michael, as an afterthought, just tossed the extra pieces in the compost pile. Neither one of us thought much about it until a few days later when I noticed young potato leaves coming up – not from the planted potatoes, but from the discarded ones in the compost.

It seems that the small seed potatoes had fallen heavy enough to move into the compost heap by a few inches. It was deep enough that the warmth of the old decomposing leaves and lawn clippings encouraged them to grow – even at a time (in the middle of a mild winter) when we were still experiencing occasional frosts.  

I watched the potatoes grow. They didn’t seem to be bothered by the few freezing nights that we had, nor were they bothered by the lack of direct sunlight (my compost pile is in an area that is shaded all of the time in the winter). They grew rapidly and were obviously very happy where they were.

Last week, I needed some of the compost and had to pull up one of the plants. To my pleasant surprise, I found three nice potatoes – about the size of lemons. This is definitely the earliest I have ever harvested potatoes before – its only mid May, mind you!

Next year I plan on repeating the experiment – maybe even plant the things in January. I’m beginning to wonder if potatoes might yield two crops a year if managed half the time in compost. Michael is quite pleased by all this. He’s claiming that it was his discovery. I guess maybe it was.