Paying for Education, continued

I apologize for my previous post.  I hit send before I finished it. In fact, my proposals have already been implemented by our representatives in government.  It's called the lottery.  According to one study referenced by John Goodman, "the poorest third of households buy more than half of the tickets sold in any given week."  Continuing, Goodman reports "African-Americans spend five times more on lottery tickets than white people."  This is the state-sponsored way to help pay for public education.  Whatever the intentions of the politicians, this is the result.  Those who can least afford it are the ones who are spending the most on the lottery.  Slick state-financed advertising campaigns push it.  And these advertising campaigns are exempt from federal truth-in-advertising laws.  Moreover, the bulk of the advertising is deliberately "timed to coincide with the receipt of government benefits, payroll, and Social Security payments."  Gambling pimps in Washington and in the various state capitols are preferentially targeting johns who can least afford it, but it's the johns who are getting screwed.

Paying for Education

Education is something that most people value.  So most people believe it's something we as a society should pay for.  I've been thinking about how to help finance public education and I've come up with two measures that I propose to help raise the necessary money.

First, I propose that the population be divided into three groups based on income.  For simplicity, let's just call them the poor, the middle class, and the rich.  The poor would then be required to pay more than half of the education tax.  The other two groups would be required to pay the rest.

Secondly, I propose that each white person be charged a tax at a certain rate.  Whatever that rate is, each African-American person is required to pay five times more.

Those are my proposals.  I look forward to any comments.

Thank You, God, For My Teachers

     At our Thanksgiving service at church last night, the emphasis was on being thankful for educators.  Members of the congregation were invited to take the microphone and make comments and here is a slightly expanded version of what I said.

     I thank God for Miss Bizzell, who put up with no nonsense in her classroom and read stories out of the Bible and made them come alive.

     I thank God for Mr. Shoaf, who taught me algebra and the value of preparation.  He taught me how to approach and decipher word problems and to actually enjoy them.

     I thank God for Mrs. Wylie, who taught me how to diagram sentences and to pay attention how words go together.  She also read us stories about the rural South that somehow kept a classroom of 4th and 5th graders quiet and still as the school day wound down.  Judging by her choice of stories, I think Jesse Stuart must've been her favorite author.

     I thank God for Mrs. Keefe, who had to have many serious conversations with my mother (I read a book by Tony Danza a few years ago entitled, I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had, and if Mrs Keefe was alive today I'd contact her and apologize for all the aggravation I caused her).  I thank God for her tough questions, high expectations, and also for believing in me and motivating me to do better.

     These grade-school teachers imparted content, but they also trained me by how they taught.

     Finally, I thank God for my patients, who teach me things everyday.  They tell stories and, in a sense, pose word problems.  They expect me to come prepared, and if I don't know the answer to a question, they expect an explanation of how we're going to find the answer.   They expect me to communicate clearly.  Most surprisingly of all, they believe in me and this certainly motivates me to keep trying to do better.

Striving for Nobility

I saw a movie last weekend called Kingsman: The Secret Service.  It had its moments, which means wait for the rental.  One of the main characters spoke a memorable line, quoting Ernest Hemingway.  Trying to motivate and encourage his young apprentice, the sophisticated and highly accomplished spy said, "There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self."  The novice spy was motivated and encouraged, and so was I.  This quote has stewardship, one of my favorite principles, written all over it.

However, I think true nobility is displayed in the effort one expends in the quest to be superior to one's former self.  At a certain point physical prowess declines for everyone, but the determination and perseverance required to be fit are noble character traits that even an old guy like me can aspire to.

As with athletic endeavors, academic performance is improved only through the same determination and perseverance, and that's admirable and noble.  And since there's always more I could learn, this can be a lifetime pursuit.  I just wish I could remember everything I've ever learned.

The same noble determination and perseverance can help me grow as a Christian.  I believe sanctification is a work of God's grace, but by his grace he somehow uses Bible study, prayer, worship with brothers and sisters, work and service, life circumstances, and many other things as means by which I can be "enabled more and more to die unto sin, and live unto righteousness."  Funny thing about Christian growth, though.  I have found out that as I have grown as a Christian, the gulf between my efforts and God's standards seems to grow ever wider.  "Wretched man that I am!  Who will deliver me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

A Place With a Reputation for Hopelessness

In the late 1800s, no one really knew what it was like at the North Pole.  No one had ever been there.  Various expeditions had tried and failed.  The most prominent scientists of the day believed that the ice pack that was found each time a ship headed north was just a ring of ice and that if a ship could just get through that ring, beyond it there would be open sea all the way to the North Pole and that it might even be warm up there.  On 8 July 1879, after month’s of planning, the USS Jeannette set sail from San Francisco, its destination being the North Pole.  It sailed through the Bering Strait and by 7 September the Jeannette was stuck in the ice of the Arctic Ocean.  Getting stuck was part of the plan.  The ship was specially constructed so that it could withstand the pressure of the ice.  And though they didn’t know what was beyond the ice pack, scientists knew the ice migrated and they figured a ship stuck in the ice would eventually migrate through to what they thought was the open polar sea.  The crew of the Jeannette fell victim to this erroneous, though widely held, scientific theory.  On 11th June 1881, twenty-one months after getting stuck in the ice, the ice around the ship melted enough so that she once again floated on open water.  For the first time in almost two years, the crew experienced again what it was like to be aboard a ship at sea.  However, the very next day, on 12 June 1881, the ice pack began to shift and move and then it converged on the ship and, despite the special construction of the ship, this time the ice crushed the USS Jeanette and it sank, stranding 33 men and 40 sled dogs on the ice.  They were 700 miles from the North Pole but they knew if they wanted to survive, they had to head south.  The nearest land was the arctic coast of Central Siberia, almost 1000 miles away.  The crew, of course, had heard of Siberia and knew it to be a frozen wasteland.  It was a place of exile, a place where people were sent to die.  In order to survive, they had to get to a place where most people didn’t survive.  In his book about the voyage of the Jeannette, Hampton Sides said this about Siberia, “Their only hope was a place with a reputation for hopelessness.”  Their only hope was a place with a reputation for hopelessness.   When I read that sentence I thought about the cross.  The cross was certainly a place with a reputation for hopelessness.  Crucifixion as a way of execution was highly reliable.  No one attached to a cross came out of it alive.  This was also true of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and when he died on the cross his disciples mourned and went into hiding, thinking it was all over.  It really isn’t surprising that they should have behaved like this.  Their teacher, their leader, the one Peter had described as “the Christ, the son of the living God,” was dead and buried.  But, of course, three days later Jesus rose from the dead and eventually appeared in the flesh to his disciples and many other followers.  With the help of the Holy Spirit, the apostles came to understand not just the meaning of the cross, but the absolute necessity of it.  “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”  Each of us deserves to suffer the wrath of God.  We can only be “justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."  Our only hope is the cross, a place with a reputation for hopelessness.  

God's presence and sovereignty in hell

I've just finished reading two books about prisoners' experiences as American POWs in the Hanoi Hilton during the Vietnam war.  The first was entitled Surviving Hell, by Leo Thorsness (who grew up in Walnut Grove, MN, home at one time to Laura Ingalls Wilder) and the second was entitled When Hell Was in Session, by Jeremiah Denton (who went on to become a senator from Alabama).  Both included graphic descriptions of the way they were treated and so were at times difficult to read.  But both were also inspiring.  Faith in God was part of what sustained both these men during their ordeals and God's presence and help were real to these men (and many of their fellow POWs).  One of the incidents described by Jeremiah Denton was especially moving and the following paragraphs are from his book, starting on page 140.  As background, please note that the POWs were for the most part forbidden to communicate with each other and, for the umpteenth time, Jeremiah Denton was suspected of having broken that rule.  The rear cuffs refer to cuffs around his wrists, which are behind his back, and the traveling irons are around his ankles.  Flesher is one of his fellow POWs.

"They wanted me to confess what I had actually talked about, and I was put in rear cuffs and a double set of traveling irons and taken to the latrine-bathhouse, where I was told to kneel in the hot sun.  The bathhouse was concrete and uncovered, and the four walls reflected the rays of the burning sun.  I guessed that the temperature was 120 degrees or more.  As I knelt and sweated under the noonday sun, I could hear Flesher somewhere nearby, screaming and moaning.  I closed my eyes and said the rosary.

My physical condition was poor, and as the hours went on I would fall over.  The guard would come and drag me around the rough concrete by my leg irons until I managed to get on my knees again.  I weakened rapidly, and to make matters worse, I had to move my bowels.  It is peculiar the way the mind works under certain circumstances.  It was not relief from the sun that I wanted most right then.  It was not food, or water, or even removal of the cuffs or traveling irons.  What I wanted was toilet paper.

I was already so filthy and uncomfortable that I didn't feel I could stand one more discomfort, that of defecating without the luxury of toilet paper.  And there was no way the silent, sullen guard outside would provide that amenity.

As the long minutes passed, my need became more pronounced.  So as I kneeled in the sun, my head bowed, fever raging through my body, I once again turned to my source of strength.  I prayed, almost apologetically, for a small favor.

When I had completed my request, I threw my head back and peeped under my blindfold at the sky.  As I looked up, I saw a large leaf, swirling and fluttering in the heavy air and heading my way.

I watched fascinated as it took a sudden dive and landed practically at my feet.  It was large, about 9 inches long and 6 inches wide, and pleasantly furry on one side.  Perfect!

I twisted my body and picked the leaf up with my cuffed hands, tore it into four pieces, and worked my way to the nearby bucket, where I put the pieces to use."

I highly recommend both these books.  I finished Leo Thorsness' book while riding the bus to work one morning and I had to fight back tears as I read about his return to America.

At Bats and Possessions

I can't multitask.  Can anyone?  I think women can.  Not me.  In fact, I'm trying to stop trying.  It turns out that a lot of the time when I'm tempted to multitask, it comes down to trying to carry on some interpersonal communication with a real person vs. carry on some task with a thing (especially the computer).  Usually the person gets the short end of the stick.  So now, if there's some action that needs my attention while I'm interacting with another person, I apologize for interrupting the interaction, admit that I can't multitask, take care of the action, and then direct my attention once again to the person.  I've found that there's a peace that comes with the confession that I can't multitask.  Maybe it's the peace that comes with speaking the truth.  

Earlier this year, I read a book by former UNC basketball coach Dean Smith, and one of things he was always trying to get his players to do was to focus on "this possession."  "Win this possession."  A basketball player trying to win a particular possession can't be multitasking.  Neither can a guy trying to hit a baseball.  I wonder if that's why I was never very good at hitting a baseball.  Some lessons are learned too late.