Richard L. Fricks

The Southern Baptist Convention’s move to expel Saddleback Church will backfire

Here’s an email I received today from Hemant Mehta. It clearly reveals why I’m thankful I escaped Southern Baptist fundamentalism.

Here’s the link to this article.

The church founded by Rick Warren was kicked out of the SBC for having a woman pastor

The Southern Baptist Convention, which failed to kick out churches that employed sexual predators, has now expelled its most famous church for having a female pastor.

Saddleback Church, founded by Rick Warren, is no longer welcome in the SBC, after the Executive Committee decided it was no longer adhering to the He-Man Woman-Haters Club rule:

The Executive Committee’s motion said that Saddleback “has a faith and practice that does not closely identify with the Convention’s adopted statement of faith, as demonstrated by the church having a female teaching pastor functioning in the office of pastor.”

Saddleback has the right to appeal the decision at the Southern Baptists’ next annual meeting, scheduled for New Orleans in June. It did not respond immediately to requests for comment on the Executive Committee decision.

The decision comes years after Warren ordained three female pastors (for roles not quite at the top of the hierarchy). The problem now is that Stacie Wood, the wife of Andy Wood, the man replacing the now-retired Warren, is serving as a teaching pastor.

Wood told The Associated Press last year that the Bible “teaches that men and women were given spiritual gifts by God.” His wife has served as teaching pastor for Saddleback.

“The church should be a place where both men and women can exercise those spiritual gifts,” Wood said. “My wife has the spiritual gift of teaching and she is really good. People often tell me she’s better than me when it comes to preaching, and I’m really glad to hear that.”

In a normal world, none of this would be controversial. We could argue over the content of the sermons rather than the drama involving the person delivering them. But Southern Baptists aren’t known for taking the rational approach. And they certainly aren’t interested in maintaining camaraderie with a church that threatens their entire business model.

The SBC has sometimes booted churches for sensible reasons like being too racist or harboring sexual predators. They’ve also expelled churches that were too LGBTQ-friendly, which is idiotic but at least in line with conservative Christian bigotry. But it’s a lot harder to justify to potential converts why they’re kicking out one of the largest megachurches in the country for elevating a woman to a position of authority.

Keep in mind that Andy Wood himself is transphobic and was oblivious to the spiritual abuse of self-appointed alpha preachers like Mark Driscoll. There were allegations of his own abusive ways:

Andy Wood also was the subject of a separate inquiry ordered by Saddleback after allegations surfaced of him being an abusive leader at his previous church. In July, the megachurch’s elders announced after investigations by two firms that they determined “there is no systemic or pattern of abuse under Andy’s leadership, nor was there an individual that we felt was abused.”

There are so many good reasons to criticize Wood and the church! A woman preaching isn’t one of them.

This is all coming at a time when the SBC’s public image is in ruins and membership is in steep decline. Back in October, the new SBC president even appeared on 60 Minutes to defend an organization whose member churches are currently being investigated by the Department of Justice for their mishandling of sexual abuse cases.

For all of Rick Warren’s faults—and there are plenty—telling women they’re capable of spreading the Gospel seems to be the sort of thing that would draw in more Christians than it alienates. No wonder the SBC can’t handle it. They’re experts at finding new ways to push people out of the faith.

As sociologist Ryan Burge pointed out, most evangelicals have no problem with a woman preaching:

Ryan Burge @ryanburge

According to survey data from 2020, nearly three quarters of evangelicals support a woman preaching on Sunday morning. It’s honestly hard to find a combination of factors (attendance, age, partisanship) that drive support below 50%. christianitytoday.com/ct/2020/june-w…

Twitter avatar for @RNS

Religion News Service@RNS

Breaking: Saddleback Church, the megachurch long led by Rick Warren, has been ousted from the Southern Baptist Convention for naming a woman to its pastoral team, against SBC teaching. https://t.co/CHqxuKt334

If you belong to an organization that wants to force underage girls to bear their rapists’ babies but can’t handle a grown woman in the pulpit, then you’re part of the problem.

Saddleback should be celebrating their expulsion. Without even really trying, they managed to get rid of the worst aspect of their church: the affiliation with the SBC. The members of Saddleback had no problem with female pastors. It’s not like the megachurch will suffer as a result of yesterday’s decision.

This is just another self-inflicted wound by SBC leaders who care more about defending patriarchal traditions than possibly bringing new members into the fold.

Drafting–Colton and Sandy abduct Mildred and steal her van

Colton awoke Sunday morning at 3:00 AM in a cold sweat. For a minute the dream or whatever it was didn’t stop. The picture in his head was threatening and foreboding. After Mildred had left last night she’d gone straight to Alice’s house across the street. She’d told her everything. Alice had insisted they call the police. Mildred had agreed but wanted to talk with Sandy first; she knew him and believed she had an obligation to Pop to try and protect his only grandson, plus, Sandy had been kind and nice to her. However, the monster named Colton had treated her with disdain. Anyone could tell he was the devil, mean as hell, and therefore should be locked up.

Still in his underwear, Colton went to the bathroom, then the kitchen to make coffee. He had no doubt they had to act today, as soon as possible. Waiting until tomorrow would give Mildred time to slip a noose around their necks. Hopefully, she hadn’t already.

He drank coffee at the dining room table and pondered a hurried plan before waking Sandy. Colton tip-toed into his friend’s bedroom and with a deep and powerful tone meant to imitate a pro-prosecution judge’s voice, announced, “Sanford Brown, I hereby sentence you to life in prison.”

Sandy’s eyes popped open instantly. He plopped up on his elbows. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Reality check my friend. Get up. No time to waste.”

After peeing and slipping on yesterday’s clothes Sandy joined Colton over coffee at the dining room table. “Man, I’d just fell asleep when you shouted in my ear. The thought of killing Mildred is wrong and I can’t be a part of it.”

Colton was the master at manipulating Sandy. Okay, pack your bags and take Pop’s Buick back home to South Farrell Street. And, don’t forget to be at court tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM. Do you want me to give you a wake-up call? Oh, by the way, tell the DA and the judge I said hi.” Sarcasm seemed to always work.

“Shit man, stop that. You know I don’t want to go to jail, but there’s got to be another way.”

“I’m listening. Take your best shot, naming at least one other, workable, alternative.” Colton knew Sandy had no viable idea.

Sandy walked to the kitchen and returned with the near-empty coffee pot. He poured it into Colton’s cup. “I’ll make some more.”

“Thanks.” Against his better judgment, Colton decided to give Sandy some rope. “I tell you what. Why don’t you go see Mildred and be totally honest with her, don’t hold back. Tell her what we’re planning unless she cooperates.”
Sandy interrupted from the kitchen. “Man, that’s not being honest, you said we were going to kill her.”

It was time for some lying. “Okay, I’ll change my mind if you can convince Mildred to fully cooperate. But, just know, the van is going to get awfully small with her tagging along.”

Sandy poured water into the coffee maker, then leaned against the sink. “You’re not pulling my leg are you?”

“Hell no. I’m trying to do everything I can to save our asses.”

“Money, luggage, Alice. What else does Mildred need to do to cooperate?” Sandy started to ask Colton how he planned on withdrawing money at her bank without being video-recorded, but let it slide.

“Don’t worry, I’ve made a list and will explain it to her if you convince her to cooperate. But, here’s the deal, either way, you do not leave Mildred alone. Just send me a text of her decision and I’ll walk over. Again, don’t let her out of your sight. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Sandy said, wishing he’d never met Colton Lee Atwood.

At 6:00 AM Sandy knocked on Mildred’s back door. As expected, she was already up, in the kitchen, washing the breakfast dishes.

She walked to the door. Sandy saw her worried face and forced smile. She didn’t unlock and open the door but stared through the glass panels. “Good morning. What you got?” Sandy had brought a frozen Caramel Apple Creme Pie he’d purchased at Walmart.

“Got you a pie. You can share with Alice if you want.” He didn’t know why he’d brought Alice into the conversation. Maybe as a subtle threat but that was more Colton’s style, not his.

For a minute, Mildred, her face expressionless, didn’t move. However, probably unaware, she mumbled, “uhhhhhhh.”

“Mildred, we need to talk. I promise it’s in your best interest.” An icy wind was wearing on Sandy’s patience. As the wrinkled-faced woman continued staring, he wondered what he would do if she turned and walked away. Return to Pop’s? No, Colton said this was life or death. He had the answer, he’d bust the door down. That would show Colton he was serious.

The dead-bolt clicked and the door opened. “Come in. Have you had breakfast?” Mildred couldn’t resist being nice.

Sandy rejected Mildred’s offer, sat her across from him in the den and played good cop to Colton’s bad cop. Surprisingly, after repeating the offer and highlighting Colton’s propensity to violence, Mildred relented. “I’ll do whatever you ask me to do. I may be old but I’m no idiot, and I’m not ready to die.”

Sandy sent Colton a text: “she’s agreed to help.”

Colton immediately responded. “Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll be there in fifteen to twenty minutes. I’m packing and bringing the van.”

Sandy and Mildred were sitting at the kitchen table when Colton walked in. After removing his jacket, he didn’t waste any time. “We need all your cash. Where is it?”

The old woman stared at the table weighing her options. None were good.
“Damn it, look at me.” The pistol stuck inside Colton’s belt caught her eye. Mildred complied. “That’s your one and only break. From now on, when I ask you something, if you hesitate, I’ll punish you.”

“Come on man, she’s agreed to help.” Sandy stood and faced Colton, but knew better. “Hey man, did you bring my electric toothbrush?”

Colton ignored Sandy’s question and inched forward toward Mildred, removing his Sig Sauer P226. “This is your last chance old lady, where’s your cash?” Colton was confident Mildred would have hidden some amount of legal tender, probably in two or three places.

This time, Mildred stood. “I’ll show you. Follow me.” Colton complied.

Three thousand dollars was in her late husband’s shaving bag hidden behind a dozen pairs of shoes at the bottom of her closet. Sixteen hundred dollars was stuffed inside a Raggedy Ann doll sitting at the center of her chest-of-drawers. A thousand dollars was in a zip-lock bag floating inside the toilet tank in the hall bathroom. The mother load was ten thousand dollars Mildred had ignored until Colton had bored his dark eyes into and asked if she had a safe.

Cash wasn’t the only thing she kept locked in the old Mosler floor safe hidden behind a row of long dresses in the master bedroom’s walk-in-closet. Colton ignored Mildred’s last will and testament, two deeds, and a burial policy. What caught his attention was the folder containing copies of twenty-eight Certificates of Deposit. They were purchased from three local banks: First American Bank, Palatine Bank & Trust, and Ben Franklin Bank of Illinois. Colton used his phone’s calculator to add the face values of the twenty-eight CDs: seven hundred twenty nine thousand dollars. None had the same maturity date. The closest was February 15th, the longest was July 1st, 2024.

“We can go tomorrow and I’ll cash them in. But, there’ll be an early withdrawal penalty on each of them.” Mildred said, standing in the closet doorway. To Colton, the old lady was being too cooperative. She knows if we let her inside a bank she’ll be able to signal for help. Yet, three-quarters of a million dollars was tempting. Colton made a mental note to work on a plan to steal this money.

“Sandy, help Mildred pack two suitcases. I’ll be at the kitchen table writing out a script.” Both men believed it necessary for her to call Alice and tell her she’d had enough of the snow and cold and was going on a trip, probably to Florida.

To Sandy and Colton’s surprise, the old woman was convincing, both on the phone and when Alice came to say goodbye. With the men hiding in the pantry, Mildred had calmly resisted her friend’s attempt to come in for a short visit and a cup of coffee. “Dear, you know I’d like to but Rev. Mahonge has agreed to meet me for confession at 7:00, and I’ve still got a ton of things to do.” Alice would know the reverend since both women were members of St. Colette Parish.

“I understand. Now, you be careful. Call me at least once a week, and know I love postcards.” Colton thought Mildred was bolting when she opened the back door. Instead, she gave the obese, half-bald Alice a long hug. Hopefully, she hadn’t whispered something in her ear.

Mildred did equally well on three short audio recordings. When Alice requested the weekly calls, Sandy had whispered, “use voice memos to record Mildred calling Alice and leaving a message.” Colton had liked the idea, which, to him, meant Sandy assumed Alice wouldn’t be alive to make the calls.

Sandy shut off the lights, locked the back door, and loaded two suitcases in the rear of the van while directing Mildred to buckle-up in one of the two couches.

After stashing the bag of cash in an overhead compartment, Colton steered the van onto Ruskin Drive, wondering how in Hell he’d gotten into such a fucking mess.

Mental Meanderings—A Look-Back at Yesterday (Tuesday–022123)

While biking I normally listen to either a novel or a podcast. Yesterday was the tenth session inside Lawrence Sanders’ book, The Third Deadly Sin. Sanders is a magnificient writer, and puts me to absolute shame. Another thing is clear, listening to a book isn’t nearly as good as reading the book.

Earlier this morning, I opened this book in Kindle and started to reread part of what I’d listened to yesterday. I began in Chapter 10. Here’s the first few paragraphs (all description):

THURSDAY, JUNE 5TH …
“All right,” Sergeant Abner Boone said, flipping through his notebook, “here’s what we’ve got.”
Standing and sitting around the splintered table in Midtown Precinct North. All of them smoking: cigarettes, cigars, and Lieutenant Crane chewing on a pipe. Emptied cardboard coffee cups on the table. The detritus of gulped sandwiches, containers of chop suey, a pizza box, wrappers and bags of junk food.
Air murky with smoke, barely stirred by the air conditioner. Sweat and disinfectant. No one commented or even noticed. They had all smelled worse odors. And battered rooms like this were home, familiar and comfortable.
Sanders, Lawrence. The Third Deadly Sin (The Edward X. Delaney Series) (p. 312). Open Road Media. Kindle Edition.

My thoughts, but first I’ll state my conclusion: You and I may not be a Lawrence Sanders, but that doesn’t mean we cannot write SOMETHING. Here’s the kicker, if we want to, and try, simply “do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” Note, many attribute my quote to Theodore Roosevelt. Whoever said it, it is good, meaningful, always appropriate.

Back to my thoughts on Sanders’ writing. He is detailed (often, I think too detailed).

Boone speaks, “All right, … here’s what we’ve got.” Then, Sanders launches into description. He wants us to form a mental image. Why? To bring us there. For us to sense the very room in which a scene will take place.

Notice, the first sentence of his descriptive paragraph: “Standing and sitting around the splintered table in Midtown Precinct North.” What jumps out at you? For me, this is not a grammatically correct sentence. There’s no subject. The not-present subject is not acting. But, there are verbs, standing and sitting. However, the sentence is good. We can assume there are others present. If not, why would Boone say, “here’s what we’ve got.”

That non-subject sentence makes more sense when we combine it with the next. “Standing and sitting around the splintered table in Midtown Precinct North. All of them smoking: cigarettes, cigars, and Lieutenant Crane chewing on a pipe.”

The last sentence here deals with smoking. Notice, this is a simple sentence. In fact they all are. You and I can write a sentence like this. “Bill, George, and Tommy were seated around the dented table. All except George were smoking cigars. He was chewing on the stem of his pipe.”

Let me say one more thing about the above passage. If you don’t know a word, then look it up. I was familiar with “detritus” but wanted a refresher. Here’s where/how Sanders used it: “The detritus of gulped sandwiches, containers of chop suey, a pizza box, wrappers and bags of junk food.” And, here’s the definition: “Noun–the remains of something that has been destroyed or broken up; loose material (stone fragments and silt etc) that is worn away from rocks.”

Ask yourself, “what is my mind seeing?” One thing’s for sure, the tabletop is messy. And, what is chop suey? “chop suey, noun, a dish prepared chiefly from bean sprouts, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, onions, mushrooms, and meat or fish and served with rice and soy sauce.” I’m not sure I want a dish of chop suey.

Here’s the last paragraph from above: “Air murky with smoke, barely stirred by the air conditioner. Sweat and disinfectant. No one commented or even noticed. They had all smelled worse odors. And battered rooms like this were home, familiar and comfortable.”

I can see it, sense it with my nose, my eyes, even my ears (the room is silent for now, except for the drone of the A/C). The air is foggy with smoke. One or more of those present has been sweating or is sweating. Maybe this insinuates BO. Maybe someone, Boone (?) has sprayed the room with Lysol.

The room is anything but inviting. Take note of the first sentence. I’d probably have written: “The air was murky with smoke, the air conditioner couldn’t keep up [or, the air conditioner failing to do its job].” Too wordy, not nearly as taut as Sanders’ writing. Notice no “was” in, “Air murky with smoke….”

I like Sanders’ final sentence in this focal passage. “And battered rooms like this were home, familiar and comfortable.” No doubt “battered” is a familiar word, but let’s look closer, just as a reminder.

Definitions for battered: “Adjective” 1. damaged by blows or hard usage; Examples: a battered old car; the beaten-up old Ford; 2. damaged especially by hard usage; Example: his battered old hat.

One final thought/question. Sanders often uses his description of settings to establish mood, and to be a predictor of what’s about to happen. If you haven’t read this book you might not have an opinion, but here, is Sanders implying the murder investigation is tired, the detectives are desperate, and they’ve been battered by all their hard-tiresome work to date? I think the answer is yes.

In sum, I might have been frustrated yesterday. Dang, I was frustrated with my listening while biking, feeling my writing was so poor. However, this morning, looking at the words, contemplating the words, gives me a little hope.

I simply have to, “do what I can, with what I have, where I’m at.”

And, so do you.

Podcast #124–In Search of Reality–The Best of Making Sense with Sam Harris

I encourage you to listen to these two brilliant men. Prepare to be humbled by your level of knowledge, but by paying close attention, pausing when needed, you will learn.

Sam Harris speaks with Sean Carroll about our understanding of reality. They discuss consciousness, quantum mechanics, the arrow of time, free will, facts and values, and other topics.

Sean Carroll is a theoretical physicist at CalTech. He received his PhD from Harvard University. He has worked on the foundations of quantum mechanics, the arrow of time, and the emergence of complexity. Carroll has been awarded prizes and fellowships by the National Science Foundation, NASA, the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation, the David and Lucile Packard Foundation, the American Physical Society, the American Institute of Physics, and the Royal Society of London. He frequently serves as a science consultant for film and television. He is the author of The Biggest Ideas in the Universe: Time, Space, and Motion.

Twitter: @seanmcarroll

Here’s a link to this podcast on Spotify. To listen to the entire episode requires a subscription.

Writing Journal—Wednesday writing prompt

Your character is enjoying Chinese food with friends, and when the fortune cookies are opened, the predictions seem to have specific meaning to each person. Within twenty-four hours, each prediction comes to pass. Write the scene as your character’s paper future becomes reality.

One Stop for Writers

Guidance & Tips

Write the scene of discovery (i.e., tell a story), or brainstorm and create a list of related ideas.

Here’s five story elements to consider:

Character
Setting
Plot
Conflict
Resolution

Never forget, writing is a process. The first draft is always a mess.

The first draft of anything is shit.
Ernest Hemingway

02/21/23 Biking & Listening

Biking is something else I both love and hate. It takes a lot of effort but does provide good exercise and most days over an hour to listen to a good book or podcast. I especially like having ridden.

Here’s my bike, a Rockhopper by Specialized. I purchased it November 2021 from Venture Out in Guntersville; Mike is top notch! So is the bike, and the ‘old’ man seat I salvaged from an old Walmart bike.

Here’s a link to today’s bike ride. This is my pistol ride.

Here’s a few photos taken along my route:

Here’s what I’m currently listening to: The Third Deadly Sin, by Lawrence Sanders

Sanders was a tremendously talented writer.

Amazon abstract:

New York Times Bestseller: A retired cop hunts for a female serial killer no one would suspect in this “first-rate thriller . . . as good as you can get” (The New York Times).

By day, she’s a middle-aged secretary no one would look at twice. But by night, dressed in a midnight-black wig, a skin-tight dress, and spike heels, she’s hard to miss. Inside her leather shoulder bag are keys, cash, mace, and a Swiss Army knife. She prowls smoky hotel bars for prey. The first victim—a convention guest at an upscale Manhattan hotel—is found with multiple stab wounds to the neck and genitals. By the time retired police detective chief Edward Delaney hears about the case from an old colleague, the Hotel Ripper has already struck twice. Unable to resist the puzzle, Delaney follows the clues and soon realizes he’s looking for a woman. As the grisly slayings continue, seizing the city in a chokehold of panic, Delaney must stop the madwoman before she kills again.

A Sample Five Star Review

M. G Watson

VINE VOICE

5.0 out of 5 stars Third Time’s the Charm

Reviewed in the United States on May 15, 2015

Verified Purchase

It is arguable that Lawrence Sanders never rose to greater heights as a prose stylist, suspense-writer or storyteller than he did with THE THIRD DEADLY SIN, the penultimate novel in his “deadly sin” series of books and the fourth of five to feature crusty, sandwich-obsessed Edward X. Delaney as a protagonist. Though once referred to as “Mr. Bestseller” and nearly as prolific in his day as Stephen King, Sanders seems to be forgotten now, except for his “McNally” series which was hardly representative of his best work; but at his best he was both compulsively readable and immensely satisfying, and this novel is both.

Zoe Kohler is the world’s most boring woman. Hailing from a small town somewhere in the Midwest, divorced from a husband who treated her like she was invisible, virtually friendless, and stuck in a mindless, dead-end job in the security office of an old hotel in Manhattan, she worries incessantly about her health and indulges in only one hobby: murder. Sexing herself up every Friday night, Zoe picks up unsuspecting businessmen attending conventions in different hotels around town, and delivers to each the same grisly fate: a Swiss Army knife, first to the throat and then to the jewels. But because nobody ever notices the world’s most boring woman, nobody suspects her, leaving Zoe free to indulge her hobby — over and over and over again.

Edward X. Delaney used to be a cop — and not just any cop, but the NYPD’s Chief of Detectives. Now, of course, he’s just a bored retiree, living in a Manhattan brownstone with this second wife. So when his former “rabbi” in the Department, Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen, asks him to help investigate a series of baffling murders being committed in hotels around the city, Delaney agrees, but has little idea what he’s getting into: a search for a faceless, motiveless “repeater” (1970s slang for serial killer) whose vicious talents with a short-bladed knife are wreaking havoc with New York’s once-thriving convention trade. Acting as an unofficial adviser to the “Hotel Ripper” task force, Delaney begins to suspect that male prejudices, including his own, may be blinding his fellow detectives to the possibility of that the Ripper may not be a man. But he has no suspects, no witnesses, no fingerprints, and no hard evidence. Only instincts. And a growing pile of victims.

THE THIRD DEADLY SIN is a very attractive suspense novel for many reasons. Aside from Sanders prose style, which is beautiful, memorable and incredibly evocative, it works on multiple levels. Firstly, the character of Zoe Kohler. She is at once both a pitiable loser, struggling with health problems and sexist attitudes at work a burgeoning relationship with a sweet and unsuspecting man…and a remorseless, relentless killer, who hunts men for the sheer thrill of it. Second, Edward X. Delaney. This crusty, hard-nosed, sandwich-obsessed detective is neither sexy, flashy, nor gifted with any great deductive genius: he’s simply like a boulder that, starting slowly, gathers investigative momentum until he crushes just about everyone in his path, yet at the same time possesses a sensitivity — largely through his wife’s softening influence — that allows him more nuances than a typical, cigar-chewing, old school detective. And this leads me to the books third major strength, which is its examination of sexual attitudes, gender roles and (unintentionally) police procedure during the period it was written — about 35 years ago. At that time the pathology of serial killers was scarcely understood, forensic science still in its infancy, and the idea of gender equality more of a punchline than a serious idea. Delaney, an aging Irish cop with flat feet, is both brimming with cheauvanistic, patronizing, old-school attitudes and open to the possibility that those attitudes may be wrong.

No novel is perfect, of course, and this one is no exception. Sanders sometimes makes small but basic errors in matters of police procedure, slang and etiquette; the sort of mistakes which are the result of never having been a cop himself. Occasionally he tries too hard to make characters colorful, giving them a contrived rather than a naturalistic feel; and sometimes his dialogue and description betray his overwhelming love of the English language and end up sounding pretentious or, coming out of the mouths of certain characters, simply unrealistic. (This also leads him to over-write scenes with minor characters, such as Zoe’s doctor.) Most of the criticisms I can mount a this book, however, fall in the “nitpicking” category, and even when taken in the aggregate fail to outweigh all of its many pleasures.

THE THIRD DEADLY SIN may or may not have been Sanders’ best book (you could make a case for THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT or THE SECOND DEADLY SIN or THE ANDERSON TAPES or various others). It may not even be his best suspense novel. But for my money it is not merely a good read but equally satisfying upon each subsequent reading, which is about the highest praise I can give to an author’s work. So: buy it, make yourself a sandwich, and sit down to this half-forgotten but deservedly remembered author. Murder and mayhem have never been so fun.

The Creative Accident: Visionary Ceramicist Edith Heath on Serendipity, the Antidote to Obsolescence, and the Five Pillars of Timelessness

Here’s the link to his article.

On aligning the things we make with basic human values for an enduring world.

BY MARIA POPOVA

The Creative Accident: Visionary Ceramicist Edith Heath on Serendipity, the Antidote to Obsolescence, and the Five Pillars of Timelessness

“No one is fated or doomed to love anyone,” the philosopher-poet Adrienne Rich wrote, “the accidents happen.”

What is true of interpersonal love is also true of our labors of love — creative accidents are a mighty instrument of art, often steering entire trajectories of expression and endeavor in directions we could not have willed.

That is what the visionary ceramicist Edith Heath (May 24, 1911–December 27, 2005) explores in a previously unpublished lecture titled “The Creative Accident.”

Edith Heath at the wheel, 1960. (UC Berkeley Environmental Design Archives.)

Heath discovered art while studying to become a schoolteacher, then fell in love with the particular creative potential of clay. Largely self-taught, she spent WWII foraging materials from defunct clay pits closed during the war — brick clay from the Bay Area, talc from Southern California, fire clays from the Sierra Nevada foothills. In the final years of the war, she learned ceramic chemistry from an émigré physicist, then went on to revolutionize pottery with her alchemical approach to clay and glaze, becoming ceramicist and chemist, designer and inventor, idealist and entrepreneur, using the principles of science to place everyday beauty within reach of the working class. She lived nearly a century as an unstoppable creative force, touching millions of lives with her work that endures as the iconic Heath Ceramics.

At the heart of Heath’s creative practice was the element of fire, reminding her always of a time when “the Earth was a red-hot molten mass of chemicals and minerals,” primordial and uncontrollable. Seeing in fire a parallel of the creative force itself, Heath argues that at the center of art lies a kind of “acceptance of the accidental” that is counter to the basic human instinct for controlling chaos. The artist then emerges as a kind of shaman of the accidental, dancing between its acceptance and its control.

She writes:

Perhaps the artist has been trying to do both — accept the accident through finding meaning in it. And in finding meaning in it, it is no longer accidental and disquieting, but rather presents a state of equilibrium. This equilibrium manifests in the controlled accident of a work of art may be symbolic of all the controlled accidents that non-artists accept every day.

In sentiments epochs ahead of her time, Heath holds capitalism accountable for its tacit acceptance of practices that foment economic inequality and environmental collapse. While on the other edge of the landmass Rachel Carson was insisting that “the real wealth of the Nation lies in the resources of the earth — soil, water, forests, minerals, and wildlife,” Heath writes:

We accept the accidents of economics that necessitates (designing for obsolescence in order to maintain high employment and high standard of living). We accept the accident of over-production of food stuff in this country — setting a ceiling on what can be grown — while millions of people go hungry in other countries. We accept the accident that more natural resources are wasted in the United States than almost anywhere else in the world and proceed to waste them with no guilty conscience… We accept the accident that some people are born with dark skin, or are born to wealth of poverty, with high or low IQs.

By “accident,” of course, she means outcomes beyond the reach of our individual control — functions of a confluence of chance and choice on behalf of forces far larger than us, operating on time scales far beyond our individual lifetimes. She observes:

We can safely refer to these happenstances as accidents, for certainly no one would say they were “planned”. Certainly an error in judgment in diplomacy is not intentional. Planned obsolescence is intentional but it is nevertheless a negative solution to the unpredictability of economic forces. The farmer did not know he would be growing too much food. Our forefathers did not know this land would be filled with natural resources. Since nature bestowed them upon us, why shouldn’t we exploit them? Race, color, creed, intelligence and national pride too are accidents of heritage over which the individual had no control.

Heath Ceramics buffet service pieces, 1955 (UC Berkeley Environmental Design Archives)

Heath was far ahead of her time in her understanding of cultural dynamics and civilizational urgencies. Observing that, historically, creative breakthroughs have come far more frequently from individuals than from groups, she presages that a great impending calamity — atomic destruction in her day, climate catastrophe in ours — has the power of fomenting extraordinary collective creativity:

Because we are teetering on the probability of the most terrible accident in history… it may force more individuals to become creative as a group. In other words, terrible accidents motivate group actions toward creative solution. Potential accident is not a good motivating force, just as capital punishment does not deter crime. Real accidents, however, do in time motivate a group.

An epoch before the term “sustainability” came to bear its ecological connotations, and long before the world awoke to the hazard of climate change, Heath — whose working ethos was to “use the Earth to save the Earth” — adds:

Design for obsolescence as well as depletion of natural resources are real accidents of history that do exist today, which are beginning to compel creative people to design for more basic human values than superficial “styling.” The designer sees in these two accidents of economy a new potential for genuine development in… our whole way of life around the world.

With the depletion of natural resources, we will begin to make and build things to last. Since they must last longer, they must… take on a timeless quality.

This timeless quality, she argues, must be cultivated in all creative works — “whether a painting, a house, a piece of music, a car, or a piece of pottery.” With an eye to her own field, she offers five pillars of timelessness that a maker must follow:

TRUTH — to materials, method, use. Materials not faked to look like something else. Respect material and let it state its unique esthetic… Method of production should not simulate or be imitative of another process — respect the handmade — respect the machine-made — each has its own beauty.

USE — does it function well? Does it please the senses as well as the mind?

SENSE OF EVOLUTION — does it reflect a concept of evolution? In other words, does it give one a sense of well-being because it has evolved through man’s search for new understanding of materials, processes, and a good way of life?

SPIRIT — does it make you feel snobbish or superior or does it excite and exalt you to the point where you want to share the experience with others? In other words, does it ignoble or demean or does it bring dignity and pleasure to you and your fellow-man?

PERSPECTIVE — does it recognize relevance, relationship? Does it exist harmoniously in relationship to other things? Is it too dominant, too weak, too trite, or does it function genuinely, lively, appropriately?

Couple “The Creative Accident” with artist Ann Hamilton’s lovely notion of “making not knowing,” then revisit the poetic physicist Alan Lightman’s The Accidental Universe.

Special thanks to Sarah C. Rich at Heath Ceramics and Jennifer Volland at the UC Berkeley Environmental Design Archives for granting me access to Edith Heath’s unpublished manuscripts.

Mental Meanderings—A Look-Back at Yesterday (Monday–022023)

Between 10:00 and 12:00 AM yesterday, Jonathan, Donna, and I applied a first coat of sealer to the roof of Jeremy’s travel trailer. During this time, while I moved ladders and rolled on the thick white substance, my mind just up and left. Without asking for permission or saying a word of explanation, he got in his car and rode away. I was washing out paint brushes, rollers, and trays when he returned. Again, no word of apology or what he’d been doing for over two hours. The only hint I had came later when I found an empty McDonald’s sack in the floorboard of the Nissan Sentra.

This act of defiance made me mad so later in the afternoon I thought, “old boy, you’re not the only one who can pull that trick.” So, I got on my bicycle and left my mind at home. During the next hour I pedaled as hard as I could, burned at least a thousand calories, and obviously didn’t listen to my Lawrence Sanders book since my mind was elsewhere.

Well, by now, you’ve sensed something’s wrong about my little story, about what happened to me/with me yesterday. I’ll go ahead and admit, I made it up, everything except the roof sealer activity.

What’s my point? You know, our minds and bodies are connected, physically, but that doesn’t mean one or both don’t occasionally disappear into the forest. Most times, some of us, maybe most of us, are lost in thought. Our minds have wandered off, not physically, but mentally, into some wasteland.

What I need to do, what I want to do, what I’m trying to do is learn the art of paying attention. Some call this the art of choice. You’ve heard the following: Bill attended the meeting but he wasn’t really there. Or, Cindy’s father arrived late for her fifth birthday party, but it was as though he was in another world. Choices. Bill and Cindy’s father were physically in one place but mentally somewhere else, maybe half-way around the world.

No doubt, we live in our minds. No matter whether we’re alone or with family or friends, one person, two persons, or a crowd, we’re alone with our minds. We cannot escape it. Well, we can but I don’t like that option. We might as well conclude we are all alone to choose what to pay attention to.

Yesterday, during my 80-90 minute bike ride I listened, via Audible, to Lawrence Sanders’ The Third Deadly Sin. However, don’t assume I listened perfectly, because I didn’t. Often, a thought would appear: “I wonder what the man who lives in that older house does for a living? I only see his car there on the weekends; “Here’s where I first saw that poor stray dog. I should have rescued it,” or “why didn’t I play basketball in high school?” Of course, there were worse thoughts!

Here’s a question I’m asking myself: is attention my true source of wealth? If so, I need to ‘spend’ it wisely, and not squander it on worthless drivel.

Paying attention is a call to Bill, Cindy’s father, myself, and you, to being present, right now, right here and paying close attention to what someday we’ll clearly realize was most important. Let’s keep in mind there will be a last time for a hike in the woods with family or friends, a last time for reading, for biking, for moving ladders and rolling sealer, for slow-smoking ribs, and for every thing else we choose to do.

Choose wisely, and pay attention.

Writing Journal—Tuesday writing prompt

Your gamer protagonist discovers that the person he’s been talking to in a chat room is a murderer. Worse, the person seems to know his real name. Write the exchange and your protagonist’s reactions and thoughts.

One Stop for Writers

Guidance & Tips

Write the scene of discovery (i.e., tell a story), or brainstorm and create a list of related ideas.

Here’s five story elements to consider:

Character
Setting
Plot
Conflict
Resolution

Never forget, writing is a process. The first draft is always a mess.

The first draft of anything is shit.
Ernest Hemingway

Faith vs. Fact, by Jerry Coyne. Reading Session #4 (continuing Chapter 1, The Problem)

This is a great book. Eye-opening, especially to those who’ve never considered the incompatibility of science and religion.

I encourage you to watch my computer screen, listen, and think as I read aloud the words written by the brilliant evolutionary biologist Jerry Coyne.

Click the link below to begin Reading Session #4. It begins at Kindle Page 21, Location 385.

Reading Session #3, 2, and 1 can be found here, here, and here.

https://screencast-o-matic.com/watch/c0nY37Vy38g