I’m a Unitarian Universalist, but I’m more interested in religion as a subject matter than I’m actually religious—or, at least, what most people would describe as religious. I’m certainly not “spiritual.” I’m a non-theist, influenced strongly by Humanism and secular Buddhism. I look for the transcendent (I do!), but I look for it in people and relationships.
But, as I said, I’m fascinated by religion—from what others believe to how cultures shape, and are shaped by, religions. Unsurprisingly, I suppose, one of my favorite radio programs is public radio’s Peabody Award-winning Speaking of Faith. Each week, SOF host Krista Tippett interviews a compelling figure about some interesting topic in religion. In my opinion, it’s usually Tippett who makes the show. She knows her subject matter, and the hour-long radio format gives her the time to explore in depth what her well-chosen guests have to say. Tippett really listens to what her guests say.
This week, I was startled and pleased to see hear that my own little faith, UUism, was getting some of Tippett’s attention. The guest was the Rev. Kate Braestrup, a chaplain for the Maine Game Warden Service. Braestrup’s memoir, Here If You Need Me, was one of my favorite books of 2007. It tells some of the stories of love, life, and death that Braestrup has experienced on (and off) the job. (If you’ve made it this far into this post, you really should read Here If You Need Me. The audio version, read by Braestrup herself, is exquisite, too.) This episode of SOF, “Presence in the Wild,” is one of the best I’ve ever heard, and that’s absolutely saying something. If you’re at all interested in UUism, chaplaincy, practical theology, or, hey, even game wardens, give it a try.
I’m smitten with Krista Tippett, but Kate Braestrup is my intellectual crush of this week.
Well, I’m writing it at the end of this weekend, but here’s what captured my attention this week:
My buddy and I hit the ballpark last night for some more interleague action (that still sounds dirty to me), this time involving the California Anaheim Los Angeles (insert eye roll here) Angels of, ahem, Anaheim. The Phillies had almost no offense. Manager Charlie Manuel finally gave the apparently exhausted Chase Utley a night off, and the rest of the Phillies line-up seemed to have nothing to offer. The Phils lost, 6-2.
In the seventh inning, when there were already two outs, the Phils did manage to score two runs to tie the game. Jayson Werth hit a solo homer. A few minutes later, Pedro Feliz doubled, sending Chris Coste—who had walked—home. Eric Bruntlett, who was subbing for Utley, ended the rally with a baserunning mistake, but it wouldn’t have mattered. The Angels roughed up Phillies starter Brett Myers, as well as reliever Chad Durbin, in the eighth. The fans, disgusted at the fourth straight loss, streamed out. Not me, though! I hung tough, until the final out.
Myers, by the way, pitched fairly well for most of the game. He gave up two solo homers to Vladimir Guerrero early in the game, and I guess I wasn’t absolutely shocked that Manuel sent him out to pitch the eighth. In retrospect, though, that was a mistake. Myers got two outs and then gave up a two-run homer to Erick Aybar (who?). Myers is a real puzzle this season. He’ll be pitching really, really well, and then, suddenly, he gives up a home run. Then he’s back to pitching well..and then, suddenly, well, you know. He’s given up a league-leading 23 homers already this season. Ouch. And that’s our opening day starter, you know? Ouch, again.
But I have to put the blame here pretty squarely on Manuel. With the game tied in the eighth, Myers—whose pitch count was nearing three digits—should’ve come out.
But on to more important things. I got to the game extra early so I could stand in the long, long, long line at Tony Luke’s for a roast pork sandwich. Damn, it was delicious—all moist and meaty. It might’ve been the best thing I’ve eaten all year. It’s certainly the best thing I’ve eaten at the ballpark this year, and that’s high praise because I love those crab fries from Chickie’s and Pete’s.
I don’t have time to do it justice right now, but remind me to go on a real tear sometime about baseball teams that change their names to something silly. Yup, I’m thinking about the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. But I’m also thinking of you, too, Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Bay Rays? That is so dumb.
I think I need another roast pork sandwich right about now.
This week’s collection of what interested me:
On Monday night, I visited the ballpark for a little interleague action (is it just me, or does that sound kinky?) between the Phillies and the Red Sox. It was a weird night. There were storms in the area, and rain—or worse—seemed like a certainty. When I sat down in Section 108, about three seats from the foul line in right field, the wind was whipping around me and stadium detritus was flying everywhere. But as game time approached, the wind settled down some, and the dark clouds that remained never dropped any rain.
It was a fun night. The Phillies went ahead early, and they stayed there. The crowd was into it, and there was, of course, some extra the-world-champions-are-here excitement in the air. Ryan Howard was in top form, hitting two homers and a triple(!), and Cole Hamels pitched well for seven innings. The Phils won, 8-2. (Unfortunately, the Sox took last night’s and this afternoon’s games. Ugh.)
As I said, I had a close-up view of the foul line. My seat also put me in a prime position to boo, lustily, Red Sox rightfielder J.D. Drew, who famously dissed Philadelphia when the Phillies drafted him in 1997. The crowd was united in its disdain for Drew, and I felt, well, especially Philadelphian as I booed him, too.
* * *
Last night, I did something completely different: I attended a performance of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town at the Arden Theatre. It was well-acted and well-staged. I was particularly taken with Rebecca Blumhagen and Peterson Townsend as Emily Webb and George Gibbs. And Eric Hissom was delightful as the Stage Manager.
Probably the best part of the evening was Act II, which, of course, climaxes with the wedding of Emily and George. The Arden staged Act II in Philadelphia’s historic Christ Church—right next door. I love Christ Church’s old, rigid, high-backed pews, and I loved having some non-religious and non-touristy excuse to be in one of those pews for awhile.
I love Our Town and its reminder to pay attention and to live life fully. But Act III, “Death,” sure left me in a mood—after what had been a long day of landlord, work, and commuting problems. I suppose, though, that a day like that is a good day to be reminded about what’s important—and what’s not.
A year ago today, I was commemorating Bloomsday—which, of course, celebrates James Joyce and Ulysses, set on June 16, 1904—by participating in one of the world’s most elaborate celebrations, at Philly’s Rosenbach Museum. As I chronicled here (at the old website), I joined 70 or so other Philadelphians, notable and not-so-notable (that’d be me), in reading interesting passages from what is often regarded as the greatest novel of all time.
I spent several months in 2006-07 thinking about Ulysses as a part of a class at the Rosenbach, and I (sort of) grudgingly came to love the novel. I haven’t spent that much time with Ulysses since then, and it looks like I probably won’t even make to the steps of the Rosenbach this year to hear any of this year’s readers. (Scary thought: If I were reading the same passage this year, I’d go on four places after the governor!) But as much as I hate public speaking, and I really, really do, I regret—just a tiny bit—that I’m not at the Rosenbach today reading my passage from Ulysses.
My reading was from Eumaeus, the sixteenth episode of the novel, when protagonist Leopold Bloom and the young Stephen Dedalus are heading home from some scary experiences in “nighttown,” Dublin’s red light district. The passage, especially when read aloud, always makes me smile. I may not be at the Rosenbach today, but it seems fitting to revisit the passage here:
They thereupon stopped. Bloom looked at the head of a horse not worth anything like sixtyfive guineas, suddenly in evidence in the dark quite near so that it seemed new, a different grouping of bones and even flesh because palpably it was a fourwalker, a hipshaker, a blackbuttocker, a taildangler, a headhanger putting his hind foot foremost the while the lord of his creation sat on the perch, busy with his thoughts. But such a good poor brute he was sorry he hadn’t a lump of sugar but, as he wisely reflected, you could scarcely be prepared for every emergency that might crop up. He was just a big foolish nervous noodly kind of a horse, without a second care in the world. But even a dog, he reflected, take that mongrel in Barney Kiernan’s, of the same size, would be a holy horror to face. But it was no animal’s fault in particular if he was built that way like the camel, ship of the desert, distilling grapes into potheen in his hump. Nine tenths of them all could be caged or trained, nothing beyond the art of man barring the bees. Whale with a harpoon hairpin, alligator tickle the small of his back and he sees the joke, chalk a circle for a rooster, tiger my eagle eye. These timely reflections anent the brutes of the field occupied his mind somewhat distracted from Stephen’s words while the ship of the street was manoeuvring and Stephen went on about the highly interesting old.
– What’s this I was saying? Ah, yes! My wife, he intimated, plunging in medias res, would have the greatest of pleasure in making your acquaintance as she is passionately attached to music of any kind.
He looked sideways in a friendly fashion at the sideface of Stephen, image of his mother, which was not quite the same as the usual handsome blackguard type they unquestionably had an insatisable hankering after as he was perhaps not that way built.
Happy Bloomsday!
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