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Friday, November 19, 2004 posted by R.C. 4:15 PM link |
You’ve Got a Friend in Pennsylvania Those of us who love the Constitution love it, I presume, as a means to an end. What we love is that it was designed to protect something we love far more, freedom. It is that same love of freedom, however, that mitigates our love of the Constitution, not because it fails to protect freedom, but because it failed to protect itself. We live under tyranny because the Constitution, while looking out for us, didn’t look out for itself. Many have argued that the hole in the zipper that allowed Leviathan to poke its nose into the tent is the general welfare clause. The tenth amendment, before it was repealed by the fourteenth amendment (well, it was repealed by the War of Northern Aggression. The fourteenth amendment merely made it legal, in a loose way of speaking.), limited the federal government to its enumerated powers. Sadly, one of those “enumerated powers” was “to promote the general welfare.” Of course to take this broad language from the preamble and use it to defenestrate the plain language of limitations on the federal power was downright dishonest. Instead, the bigger loophole in the Constitution is the interstate commerce clause. Here, plain as day, and in response to the folly of mercantilism practiced by the several states under the Articles of Confederation, the feds were given the authority to regulate trade among the states. It should surprise us then that the feds have learned to frame virtually all activity in its relationship to interstate commerce. As I pointed out in my book Biblical Economics, this is how far this can be stretched. There was a farmer in Ohio. He grew corn on his farm for three purposes. First, he and his family, residents of Ohio, ate of the corn. Second, he fed his cattle, also residents of Ohio, with the corn that he raised. In fact, he ate the cattle in Ohio. Third, he took his seed corn for the next crop from the corn that he grew. When the federal government argued that he was growing more corn than the federal department of agriculture had allotted him, he wisely argued on jurisdictional grounds. None of the corn ever left the state, so why should the federal government have the right to tell him, a citizen of Ohio, how much corn he could grow? The case reached the Supreme Court which gave this Orwellian ruling. If the farmer didn’t grow his own grain, in the state in which it was consumed, he might purchase grain from another state. Therefore, because he might do so if he weren’t doing what he was doing, then what he was doing constituted interstate trade. In short, if you aren’t doing interstate trade, but could be, then you are. I raise all this, however, not to talk of the reach of the federal government, but to puzzle over something else. As I write I am flying over the state of Mississippi. I took off from Texas, and will land in Georgia. Along the way I ate a brownie, made by the Love and Quiches company of New York. Sounds like a job of the feds, doesn’t it? Why then does the wrapper tell me that this brownie is regulated by the Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture. Have you seen these words before, on potato chip bags, on fruit bar wrappers, on eighteen wheelers carrying processed food across the fruited plain, “Reg. by Penna. Dept. of Agr.” As a native Pennsylvanian, I’m all for civic pride, but just how did we get this job? Are there people on this plane who first looked at their brownie with skepticism, but upon seeing that the Keystone state was on the job, were able to eat in peace? Does this mean that I hail from the Brownie capital of the world? If I should stop at Popeyes in the Atlanta airport, will I see there the imprimatur of the great state of Louisiana? If I choose Wendy’s, will Idaho certify my Biggie Fries? There is nothing so officious as a state official, whether he works for the States, or one of the states. There is none so convinced of the holiness of their cause than a bureaucrat with a rubber stamp. May God be pleased to set us free, to, without the nebby nose of any bureaucrat getting in our way, let us eat cake. [comments] |
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Monday, November 15, 2004 posted by R.C. 8:57 PM link |
What I Saw There I am now flying home from the first San Antonio Independent Christian Film festival. I was honored not only to speak at the event, but to serve as one of the judges of the films. I come home anything but disappointed. Three times now I have had the opportunity to partner with my friend Doug Phillips in teaching the body. Twice I have spoken at Uniting Church and Home conferences, and now the film festival. There are any number of observations I could make about the film festival that might prove helpful. Instead, however, I’d like to make some observations about Doug Phillips. First, the world, including the Christian world, is full of great ideas, and dreamers. How often have you heard it said by a Christian with a view to the future, “Wouldn’t it be great if someone…” and then this breathing monument to Rodin is content to take a powder? “I have contributed the fruit of my brain, and now lesser mortals must put forth the sweat of their brows.” Not so with Doug. Doug is a not just a dreamer but a doer. Lots of us wish there were more family-integrated churches. Doug, twice, has gathered together six hundred such people to learn how and why it is done. Lots of us think science is cool, but it is Doug who has not only organized dinosaur digs, not only dug up dinosaurs, but captured it all in a movie. Lots of us grumble about the state of the arts out in the world, and in turn that no one supports the arts in the church. Doug created a Christian film festival. Second, Doug not only does, but does well and wisely. The world is full of movers and shakers who know not where or why they are moving, who are merely all shook up. These kinetic machines mistake getting down with busy-ness with getting down to business. He spoke this weekend of his strategy. It isn’t simply that we would infiltrate Hollywood, that if we would create enough Christian key-grips and best-boys, eventually we’d be in charge. Instead he wants us to make films to the glory of God. We can do it without them. Third, Doug was misnamed. Had his parents been sufficiently prescient, they would have named him Barnabas. Doug is a quiet man, but every time he opens his mouth it is with words of encouragement, or appreciation. He speaks entirely too kindly of me, and the only thing that comforts me is the thought that this is just the way he is, and the hope that one day I might be like him. He encourages his children, and the children of others. He encourages the young men who work with him, each a credit to his model. He encourages those who work alongside him, like the speakers who gathered together this weekend. Of course, with the exception of me, he has shown impeccable taste in his friends, working with old friends of mine like George Grant, and new ones like Scott Brown and Geoff Bodkin. Fourth, and this may drive them all, Doug Phillips is earnest. He knows no cool detachment. He doesn’t crave the laurel of “sophistication.” Rather he earns the highest praise there is, servant of the Lord most high. He loves his wife, and isn’t afraid to show it. He loves his children, and delights to show it. He loves his earthly father, and speaks of him with evident pride. He loves his convictions, and allows no ironic distance. Doug, in short, is what a man becomes when he fears no man, and fears God. [comments] |
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Wednesday, November 10, 2004 posted by R.C. 6:35 AM link |
The Ghosts That Haunt Me Now I am a graduate of Grove City College, which was twenty years ago, and may yet be, the most conservative PCUSA college in the world. Such, of course, is rather like being the most modestly made up woman at the Pentecostal Pastor’s Wives convention. I have never been sure whether my relative obscurity when I was there was a factor of the student body’s relative indifference to the Reformed faith, or the relative obscurity of my father at the time. Since that time, my father has become virtually universally recognized among those who claim to be Reformed. That means in turn that I, because I share his name, am “recognized.” Of course the first thing I hear from the Reformed is usually, “I didn’t know R.C. had a son.” My current reflected glory, combined with my alma mater’s comparative orthodoxy causes me, when I am away from home at a conference, to wonder if I might run into former Grovers. As I write I am on my way home from a conference in Albany. The host pastor mentioned that apple farming was a big deal in the area, and I wondered if Kathy Sharp might show up. Kathy was my first date as a Grover. The sad news is that she didn’t really mean it. There I was at some freshman mixer dancing along, and this beautiful young lady approaches me to comment on the smoothness of my dance moves. Alarms should have gone off. Safety engineers hundreds of miles away at Three Mile Island should have noted that something wasn’t quite right. Instead I indulged myself in pride. It wasn’t until I was home over Christmas break that I realized that this young lady approached me just as finals were approaching, and that she was in two of my classes, both of which I earned A’s in. We spent more time studying than dating. She didn’t show up this weekend, but, miracle of miracles, another Grover did. Though I’m sorry to report that I didn’t remember her, we had plenty of friends in common. One of those friends, in a strange providence, had written me the day before, after a decade of non-contact. This wasn’t merely a fellow alum, but a member of my own personal inner-circle. I don’t know what it means, I have no insight on it, but growing up has brought an unexpected sea change into my life. When I was in college, my life revolved around a circle of friends. I was defined by, and no doubt in turn defined Tim and Niles, Bruce and Hans, and the girls that they not only brought to the party, but who drove us all home there from. There are many people in my life that I admire and respect, my fellow Basement Tapers among them. Many of these in turn I can’t help but enjoy. But, despite it being a cliché, there is but one person with whom I am as close as I was to my college friends, and that is my dear wife. I am now defined by her, and the children that we raise together. As I have been writing back to this long, lost friend, I keep thinking, “Wouldn’t it be great if she could meet Denise and our kids?” This is who I am. They really are something. They apparently are rather comfortable growing up as the grandchildren of a great man. Trouble is, they don’t know that such is the source of their fame. A few years ago three generations of Sprouls were walking together down Main Street in Abingdon. Some friends drove by in their top-down Jeep, and shouted out a greeting, “Hey Sprouls!” The children, not recognizing the friends, casually explained to my parents, “They must be readers of Every Thought Captive.” When I begin to feel my age, when my gout acts up, or the blinding glare comes not from reflected glory, but the clean space on the top of my head, when the nostalgia bug bites, they are my cure. Because I am old, I have Denise, and six wonderful children. As I grow older, I will get grandchildren. Eventually those grandchildren too will grow old, and will speak to each other, “Remember that time when Grandpa…” I will be the ghost that haunts them. [comments] |
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Monday, November 01, 2004 posted by R.C. 9:25 PM link |
How Do I Love Thee? Chicks dig French. At least, that was how I, when in the junior high, justified investing time in learning a language, and learning one a bit light in the loafers at that. What teenage girl wouldn’t squeal with delight if you whispered in her ear, Je t’aime. Or is it Je vous aime? It was through learning something of the French language that I first came across this bit of linguistic arcania—some languages have not only a second person, but two of them. Je t’aime is the more familiar form of “I love you” while “Je vous aime” is the more formal, and the form that you would use were you professing your love for someone from a higher station than you. The French language recognizes class in its very form. It is only recently that I learned that English once did the same. (Imagine that a day is coming, a sad day, when children won’t really know that “he” can mean “she.”) Thee and thou weren’t simply fancier versions of the word you, that have since fallen into disuse. Rather they were alternate forms for alternate circumstances. I even learned, I pray correctly, that ironically you is the more formal version, for use when talking to older and more honored personages, while thee, that stuffy old pronoun, was actually the more folksy version. Which brings me to my question. Isn’t it just possible that we are drowning in egalitarian stew, because Bible translators, wanting to make the Bible more accessible, tore down the wall between thee and you? My objection to gender neutral language is simple enough, I believe in the verbal inspiration of the Bible. If the Greek or Hebrew gives us a masculine pronoun, then so should the English. And in like manner, if the Greek or Hebrew gives us sometimes a highbrow you, and sometimes a commoner thee, then so should the English. [comments] |