Time, Education, and the Liturgical Year

I got back from our church's Easter early-morning (not sunrise at 7:30) service a couple of hours ago. The theme was "Scarred," a carry-over from a sermon series which will continue next week. The service was held in the darkened sanctuary, and the activities, which included liturgical dance (a sinner and the devil) and a sermon on the scars of "Good" Friday, did not end in light (physically in the sanctuary), though the Resurrection was, of course, invoked.

As we exited, Chris pointed out that she would have preferred to have a joyful Easter service on Easter, instead of an amalgam of Good Friday and Easter on Sunday morning. That continued some thoughts that I've had over the past few years concerning the importance of time and rhythm as an element of education. I now understand the importance of the traditional liturgical year in this way as well.

One of the things contemporary American culture seems to value is compression--compression of activities, compression of our awareness into a continuous active present of stimulation (consider Tweeting, Smart Phones, and connectivity in this regard). We've become accustomed to that in our church activities as well: I have not done a survey, but it does seem that fewer churches offer a differentiated round of services during Holy Week (Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday). Instead, we worship as though Easter comes out of nowhere (and, yes, in a sense it does) and has no context in Palm Sunday, Passover, and Good Friday. Certainly our church has moved in that direction over the last couple of years. I miss the rhythm of the liturgical year, which mirrors the rhythm of the natural year that we also tend to ignore.

So what does this have to do with education? I believe we ignore the rhythms of real education in the same way. Over a decade ago, I advanced the idea (at GCU) that there was a rhythm to higher education, which I defined as "knowledge acquisition, knowledge application, and reflection on knowledge." Of these three elements, we concentrate on acquisition, and occasionally on application (in internships), but have given little to no attention to reflection. That pattern has only intensified at the university, and in higher education in general over the last decade. I believe that we miss important elements of the educational experience, and important elements of the rhythm of life when we ignore reflection, especially.

Mesa Canals 4: Eastern Canal, University to Gilbert

This segment connects to the ending segment of the Eastern Canal, that I wrote about in Mesa Canals 2.


On March 13, 2011, I did a quick ride, just to get rid of the cobwebs imposed by three weeks of sickness out of the previous eight, and to try (unsuccessfully) to condition for the MS 150 out in Florence. In the event, I had a great ride in the morning from essentially the intersection of the Eastern Canal at University Avenue to where the canal almost intersects Gilbert Road. In this 3.8-mile segment, the rider can get a sense of the range of canal riding experience in Mesa. The segment ranges from paved path to unimproved right-of-way. One passes the back yards of all kinds of Mesa residences, from upscale subdivisions to historic trailer parks.

From University to 8th Street/Adobe, the canal right-of way is essentially unimproved; just north of University on the west bank of the canal is a small ROPES course for a youth facility. High-tension electrical lines also run along the eastern bank of the canal before turning off at a catchment basin and park south of Adobe.



The picture on the left was taken at the University end of the route. Notice that the 8th Street/Adobe cross street is an excellent paved connector for a number of canals in this area.

Once past 8th/Adobe, the rider can find an SRP reservoir (hidden by high berms) on the west bank, near the property of Central Christian Church. On the east bank are the back yards of an upscale development. At the crossing of Brown Road, both sides of the canal make for good riding through further subdivisions. The canal crosses Lindsey Road just north of Mountain View High School, where the east bank pavement begins. The area north and west from Lindsey gives a great cross-section of Mesa's history--on the southwest bank are new subdivisions, some with horse property. But the real horse property is on the northeast bank. There, as well, are some interesting small ranchettes and trailer parks. I've encountered people fishing the canal on this stretch. Occasionally the canal is not walled off from the surrounding streets. Joggers, dog walkers and bicyclists use this stretch on a regular basis, especially the last stretch, north of McKellips Road. It's a nice ride, and if one continues beyond the Gilbert Road curve, there are some great views of Red Mountain, North Loop 202, the McDowells, and even the Superstitions and Four Peaks.

Tolkien and Borders

On September second, 1973, the day J.R.R. Tolkien died, I was "sitting here on a mountain top in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I can hear the wind sighing through the trees, sounding like the distant ocean as it breaks upon a sandy beach. The clouds are red with the light of the sun, which has not risen above them yet, and the carpet of green trees spreads out in a rolling expanse that looks like an endless sea of forest. The light fog has lifted just enough to show the blue streak of distant mountains on the southwestern horizon. This lichen-covered rock on a half-bluff rising from the Ontonagon River is part of a large grey rock face that stretches brokenly from east to west. The ferns, grasses and delicate purple blossoms wave gently in the breeze, giving the impression of the last wavelets of a breaking sea of forest foliage which has dashed itself against this lonely outcropping of rock. I feel insignificant here, but I feel good."

I was beginning my freshman year of college, on the seventh day of an ultimately-16-day Outward Bound style experience. I'd been introduced to The Hobbit as a fourth-grader, when an otherwise-hated teacher read the story aloud; I must have been taken with the story, since my mother has saved a picture I drew at the time, of the dwarves and hobbit being led in chains by goblins. In 1970, a friend introduced 9th-grade me to The Lord of the Rings. By the time of this program, I'd probably read the trilogy through four times, en route to the more than 20 times I must have read it through now. Eight or nine years later (1980 or 81, I can't remember which), I taught Tolkien to undergraduates for the first time, as a teaching assistant in a large class led by a linguistics professor at the University of Michigan. In it I met people more immersed in Tolkien than I was--I received essays written in Elvish, and got a glimpse into the (then new) world of Dungeons and Dragons.

In the meantime, during my undergraduate experience, I would meet Clyde Kilby, who had attempted to help Tolkien arrange his Silmarillion material close to the end of his life, and who would help establish the Wade Collection at Wheaton College.

I'm not sure where this is going, except to say that I'm teaching the works of Tolkien again, and am now reading up on Tolkien and the Inklings, having just finished Colin Duriez's Tolkien and C.S. Lewis: The Gift of Friendship. It's a nice, readable piece of popular literary history and criticism, with some interesting insights about influence and the importance of literary groups. It's also got me thinking about my connections (indirect) with Tolkien the human being.

I remember when we hiked out of the woods after 16 days away from any media but print and handwriting. At some point almost immediately upon reaching civilization, I heard of Tolkien's death. I (with apparently every other hippie in the world) had been eagerly awaiting the Silmarillion. Now it would never appear (I thought). The disappointment of that realization is one that has been mirrored a number of times since, in much the same way--whenever one hears of the death of a favorite author (one that a person reads over more than once), the first thought is--"Now there's no more about . . ." (The death of Tony Hillerman also hit me this way.) But I reckoned not with Christopher Tolkien, and now we have a plethora of continuing Tolkien material. The flow has almost stopped now, 10 volumes into the history of Middle earth, and The Children of Hurin later. This will be a literary conundrum for the next century: how to deal with this close posthumous collaboration of father and son.

Also today (and somewhat related), in the Arizona Republic, Laura Trujillo published a poignant look back at Borders Bookstore, most locations of which are closing soon. She remembers it as a gathering place, though a huge chain. During my time in Arizona, I also remember it this way (Chris and I being the bookworms we are), but I remember it as something more.

When I moved to Ann Arbor, Michigan in 1979, Borders had maybe three total locations in the Detroit metro area, the flagship being on State Street in Ann Arbor. At the time, it was unique--a spacious bookstore, with a good booklist inventory in almost every area, and benches. At the time, expresso drinks were just catching on (Cafe Expresso was just opening [early 1980s] on State Street just south of Borders), and I remember thinking that the pairing of books and coffee would be perfect--prescience without action. But I'm certain to have spent several thousand graduate-student dollars and weeks of hours in that store, just perusing books over lunch hours, and in the intervals between and after classes. When I got to Tempe, AZ in 1990, Changing Hands bookstore was still on Mill Avenue, and still collecting bookmarks from specialty bookstores, which they mounted on their walls. There was an Ann Arbor Borders one up.

But that counter-cultural graduate school version of literary bliss was gone by 1995, after Borders went corporate. That booklist and inventory-shipping system served them well for as long as distribution remained physical, but I heard the death knell when I bought my first book on Amazon in the late 1990s. Amazon always had any book in stock, and even had a rare and used volume search. My book-buying habits changed. Now, my reading and buying habits look to change again--as soon as there's a color screen I can read in daylight (and there is--Pixel Qi) on a tablet, I'm reading electronically. But there are still yards and yards of bookshelves in my home.

Mesa Canals 3: Hohokam Stadium to Park of the Canals

Well, it's taken long enough. I've ridden the route from Hohokam Park (Center Street just north of Brown) to Horne and Park of the Canals often. It's one of my favorite rides. So these are pictures of the ride I took on February 17. Now, this is one of my favorite rides, but I haven't been on my bike (for various reasons) since the middle of December. So, this was just enough.


A quick description of the marked stretch in the map below: it's 1.5 miles long, and begins on a paved path next to Hohokam Park. After a bit over a mile (crossing Mesa Drive), the Crosscut Canal intersects with the Consolidated Canal. At that point, I take the dirt verge of the canal (on either side) northeast. The canal path passes the Park of the Canals, a real unsung Mesa gem. It's an archeological park, in that it has the remains of Hohokam canal excavations still visible, and if you look hard enough in various places in the park, you can find potsherds. There's also a great cactus garden, and what look like some modern and some historic outbuildings.

Be careful, however. I still see signs of people sleeping the night and partying in the park. But this is a great ride, flat on top of the actual mesa of Mesa, with some great views (the one at the top is the McDowells in the distance). It's impossible to fully convey the effect of morning light. As you ride or walk farther, you face more east, and can see Red Mountain, and Four Peaks.

NCTE and Disney Hell: The Happiest Bloody Place on Earth

I haven’t seen a Starbucks in three days. I’m sitting here on the floor in a hall at the Coronado Springs Hotel, bereft of Internet access, jacked into a hallway plug for power. First, a message to NCTE—DO IT BETTER NEXT YEAR! Let me elaborate, in structured paragraphs.

First—Internet access. Supposedly we are at a conference for 21st century educators. Not everyone, however, has the money to have the 4G data plan up and running, either on smartphone or netbook. This would not be too much of a problem, were a) everyone staying at the conference hotel, getting $10-20 per day tacked onto their fees (though I hate that, too, when I can stay at a Comfort Inn in Flagstaff Arizona and get free Wi-Fi with my inexpensive room), or b) if Wi-Fi were transferable between Disney Resort Hotels, the problems would be solved as well, since Disney owns everything within 8 square miles, or c) if the conference had arranged consistent, free, wi-fi. But they didn’t. Apparently (and I’m just guessing here), there are times of sponsorship by companies that give the fleeting illusion of decent wi-fi access. However, these times come and go without warning, or instruction for that matter. To try to hold a convention with educators used to ubiquitous access is nuts, if you don’t have the very tech tools you exhort them to use.

Second—Choose a better place. The Disney World experience is beyond the scope of this particular paragraph (more later), but, simply put, the hotels are too far apart and too difficult to get around between. When I found out that the route to my residential hotel (Disney’s Caribbean Beach) would be shut down for two hours in the mid-afternoon, I checked to see if it was possible to walk back. The two-word answer, “Not safely.” The other possibility was taking the Disney Resort shuttle service, which would whisk (or chug) me to a theme park, from which I could grab a connector back to my resort. I decided to wait until 4:30 and grade essays. Even the two convention hotels are a couple of miles away from each other. Disney World is so structured that one almost must take motorized transport (preferably a Disney shuttle) to get between any amenities.

As an addendum to the previous paragraph—I hope you got a SMOKIN’ deal on the venues, NCTE, because otherwise it’s not worth it. Disney’s certainly got a lot of the attendees’ money to boost the corporate bottom line, so I hope the organization benefited as well.




So, what color is the sky in Disney World? Totally other. Walt Disney’s vision of an integrated amusement center has come true over the last almost 40 years, and it’s a brave new world. Most of this world’s elements relate to the complaints I’ve voiced. But where shall we start?

It’s impossible to walk anywhere safely except inside the demarcated areas of the resorts and attractions. All the broad boulevards and freeways are bordered by pine woods (probably planted), with that difficult-to-penetrate thorny undergrowth and hanging moss characteristic of Southern forests. But there are no sidewalks or trails, either beside the roads, or into the woods. The only choice is to walk on the pavement or the relatively narrow grass verge.

However, all is pristine—no trash along the roadways, no billboards, few advertisements, and, interestingly, not that much traffic. I assume the ubiquitous buses on their routes are responsible for that lack of clutter. This does come at a cost; if the bus doesn’t come, you’re stranded, as I was for an hour and a half this afternoon.

And, by the way—pristine? It’s too pristine. The colors are there, the music is there (as in Aruba, the Holiday Inn-like complex where I’m staying), the beach is there, the water [no actual swimming in it] is there, but the life . . .? Here is the Caribbean, inhabited by Americans, Canadians, Japanese—an international set of consumers. The slums, the dive bars are nowhere to be seen. This is the Disney vision; a sanitized version of culture.

But it’s all good. I’ve just never been into the amusement park experience, and this is certainly the ultimate amusement park experience. What’s intriguing, though, is the way reality is screened from view in a place like this. As one rides the shuttle buses, one becomes aware that, half-glimpsed behind a screen of trees, are maintenance yards and commercial parking lots, lots that hold all the garbage trucks that haul the trash to keep the parks pristine.

And I’m conscious of a certain irony—Starbucks is an international chain, so why do I have a problem with Disney? (But I actually like Starbucks coffee, and the less tasty Disney version costs more.) I remember being impressed by places like Browns or Loch Fyne in Britain, until Nathan told me they were chains. But—again—I like their food or fish. So what does this mean? Do I just want choice in my patronization of conglomerates? But there is something more, something real. I see it in Mexico, at J.J.’s and Xoltis, in the Mazatzals and elsewhere. But, enough. At the top is a picture of my hotel, from across the lake, below, a picture of some flamingo-like birds that congregate like gulls around the resort, and, in the middle, the resort central restaurant and store where I do most of my eating.

Historic Churches in Scotland

Well, standing at John Knox's house in Edinburgh is an interesting experience. Knox--Scottish reformer, friend of John Calvin, revolutionary, political activist, founder of the Presbyterian Church--is one of the pivotal figures in the history of the Protestant Reformation. He steered the Scottish church (the Kirk) away from Anglicanism, though he got some strategic support from reformers in England under Elizabeth I. But he had written a misogynist attack against Mary of Guise and her daughter Mary, Queen of Scots, "The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women," that offended Elizabeth I. He took intransigent and sometimes contradictory political positions, depending on the situation in which he found himself.

That may explain the difference I saw between historic churches in Scotland and those in Britain, though I really don't have enough evidence to pronounce anything definitively. In Britain, as my video blog shows, churches still have standing as places of worship, and the interpretive material connected with them really makes their devotional purpose explicit. In the Scottish historic churches I visited, there is really no attempt to describe or explain the reformation in Scotland. One gets little sense of the history or development of Protestant Christianity.

I am at a loss to explain this. Reform in Scotland was a messier, yet more theological, process than in Britain. Yet, from all I see, Scotland is a more secular place even than Britain, one of the most secular societies in Europe. But then again, I didn't go to Saint Andrews, and didn't visit any Highland churches.

Video Blog for August 2, 2010

Here is the video blog on my GCU Facebook site, for last week. Over the next few days, I'll have more to say about historic churches and religion in Britain and Scotland. I'll also be talking about the Highland moors and the Scottish outdoors.