Friday, September 4, 2026

Desert Fathers; Tish Harrison Warren; Jen Hatmaker; Tony 2026 book and movie reviews

 


Desert Fathers; Tish Harrison Warren; Jen Hatmaker; Tony 2026 book and movie reviews 

What Grows in Weary Lands: On Christian Resilience by Anglican priest Tish Harrison Warren was published by Convergent, an imprint of Random House, on May 12, 2026. It is 192 pages long. Warren is 47 years old, married, and the mother of three. For her previous two books, Liturgy of the Ordinary and Prayer in the Night, Warren has won two Christianity Today awards, as well as an Intervarsity Press Readers' Choice award, and an Evangelical Christian Publishers Association Christian Book of the Year award.

 

What Grows in Weary Lands argues that the Desert Fathers and Mothers offer guidance to Christians today. These Fathers and Mothers retreated to monastic desert lives in the Middle East and North Africa beginning in the third century AD. Their wisdom is available to modern readers via a collection titled Sayings of the Desert Fathers. In spite of this title, the collection includes quotes by Desert Mothers as well.

Thursday, August 13, 2026

Questions for Muslim Candidates

 


Questions for Muslim Candidates

No more softball

 

The essay, below, briefly discusses how the Judeo-Christian tradition affected American democracy. It summarizes how Protestant America reacted to Catholic candidates. It ends with questions that should be put to Muslim candidates.

 

Part One: A Brief Look at the Impact of America's Judeo-Christian Foundation.

Thursday, July 23, 2026

I Stand with the Jews. Part Two of Two Parts

 


"I Stand with the Jews"

What does that mean?

Second of two parts

A canopy of oaks and maples rose overhead. Green understory surrounded me: pinxter azaleas and thorny Japanese barberry. Bluets – tiny wildflowers – blossomed underfoot. Up ahead, Marc approached me with his typically hale and hearty, "Hello, Danusha!"

I shoved my rosary in my pocket and removed my headphones. I had been cheating. I should have been focusing, with the binoculars around my neck, on the migrating spring warblers that make Garret Mountain famous among birders. Instead I was listening to Gregorian chant and praying the rosary as I hiked. "Hello, Marc," I said, as I migrated from internal contemplation of the eternal to external society and the ingeniously plumaged sprites zipping around us.

"Look at that color!" Marc exclaimed.

I pointed my binoculars in the direction Marc indicated. He had spotted a purple finch.

"I can see," I said, "Why Roger Tory Peterson called them 'a sparrow dipped in raspberry juice.'"

Marc is, by many estimates, the best birder in the state. Of course we are all, in our own ways, the "best" birdwatcher in compliance with our own needs and desires, but Marc racks up awesome numbers of the species he sees annually.

Marc's surname harkens back to Chelm, a city in Poland once famous among Jews as a site of folkloric fools. My favorite Chelm story: the local wise men declared that if you drop a buttered slice of bread, it will always fall on the buttered side. This conclusion reflects the pessimistic worldview typical of both Jews and non-Jews in Eastern Europe. Of course, eventually, someone dropped a buttered piece of bread and it fell buttered side up. The wise men of Chelm debated this astounding event and determined that the slice had been buttered on the wrong side. Chelm stories arose from a culture that valued scholarship enough that it could spoof scholarly folly.

Mindful of Marc's identity as someone other than our state's best birdwatcher, I wondered if I should say something.

I had told myself, if the opportunity arises, I will say something.

Was this the moment, though, to say something?

I felt timid, but also determined. If we keep waiting for the perfect moment, we never say anything.

"Marc," I ventured. "I want to say something about something other than birds."

"Yes?" Marc said, turning his attention from the purple finch to a streamlet that might be playing host to a Louisiana waterthrush.

"There's been a rise in antisemitism."

"You think?" Marc said, his voice rising, in an atypical, for him, sarcastic comment.

"Yes, and I just want you to know that I'm not Jewish…" said the woman who had been praying the rosary and listening to Gregorian chant. "But I want to be an ally. I'm on your side."

I'm glad I said something. If the moment arises when Marc could use some support from someone like me, he knows I'm here.

Monday, July 13, 2026

I Stand with the Jews / Part One of Two Parts


 "I Stand with the Jews"

 

What does that mean?

 

First of two parts

 

The other day, an antisemitic comment came through my social media feed. I didn't want to debate the poster. People who say abysmally stupid things do not deserve the respect implied by debate, nor do they deserve the attention that debate generates. But I did not want his comment to go unanswered. All I said was, "I stand with the Jews."

 

"What does that mean?" the antisemite challenged.

 

This essay offers my response to his question.

Friday, June 19, 2026

Pressure Movie Review. Yes, we do need another D-Day Movie

 


Pressure 2026

Yes, we do need another D-Day movie

I walk a lot. I check NOAA's forecast five times before heading out. If there's a ten percent chance of rain, I have a Gore-Tex slicker in my daypack. I'm always over-prepared for weather. One day I was walking down Ratzer Road, a road I've walked hundreds of times. I passed wide lawns and suburban McMansions, some of them costing a million dollars. I felt carefree. That did not last.

Boom. In the time it took me to type the word "boom," everything changed. The sky turned black. Forty-foot evergreens swayed so drunkenly I feared they'd lash me like the tail of a lunging tiger. Pelting hail obscured my vision. With every step I pushed against a locked door – the wind was that determined to prevent me from moving. I recognized that this is the kind of weather that kills. I frantically sought a nook where I could take shelter in this, not my neighborhood, and, again, that fast, it was all over. The sky was suddenly dove-gray. The hail relaxed to a light drizzle. The Apocalypse was canceled.

My best guess is that I was stuck in a dangerous phenomenon called a "microburst." Microbursts damage structures, cause car accidents and plane crashes, and they do kill. Ultimately, though, what it was, was weather.

In Indiana, after a tornado, I heard of a grandfather trying to hold back his grandson, to no avail. The tornado pulled the tyke out the window. In 2011, in Paterson, NJ, I was evacuated during Hurricane Irene. The Passaic River was coming up through the floorboards. Within hours the entire neighborhood, for a mile around, was under water. In 2012, after Hurricane Sandy, for most of two weeks, we had no electricity and substandard tap water. In 2021, thirty New Jerseyans died during Hurricane Ida. One victim drowned on the very non-aquatic Lackawanna Avenue, near a Best Buy and a Barnes and Noble. Two people tried to rescue her, but these Good Samaritans had to themselves be rescued by fire department crews. Her body was never found.

Weather.

We humans have dominated much of nature. We have extended average lifespans, conquered smallpox, and manipulated the landscape to our whim. But we are still mere playthings in the hands of weather. A new film, Pressure, examines the impact of weather on a history-making event: D-Day.

Perhaps no human accomplishment supersedes D-Day as an expression of humanity's power. D-Day was the largest seaborne invasion in history. On June 6, 1944, almost 160,000 Allied troops landed on Normandy's beaches. These included troops from the United Kingdom, Canada, and twelve other Allied nations. Over 7,000 naval vessels and 12,000 aircraft participated. An estimated 100,000 French resistance fighters coordinated, via coded messages, with overseas planners and carried out crucial and meticulous preparatory operations behind enemy lines. For example, the French derailed Nazi supply trains inside tunnels. Repairing a train derailment inside a tunnel is much harder than doing so in an open field. By the end of June, Allies had delivered 570,000 tons of supplies. By the end of August, two million Allied troops were in France.

Thursday, May 28, 2026

The Left Demonizes the Name of a Duck: The Oldsquaw

 


The Left Demonizes the Name of a Duck

A word becomes a thought crime

 

Part I: Why Birdwatching, Beauty, Words, & History Matter

 

My mother was a foreigner and at the drop of a hat she and my dad would speak with totally different words. The Italians across the street, the Ukrainians across from them, the Spaniards next door to them, the Filipinos down the block – our town was crowded with words and the worlds that came with those words. I understood, young, that words are as diverse as the people who speak them. I felt an overwhelming craving to master all these words, and these various worlds.

 

We ate oskvarky. We visited with tetka. When swimming in the river, we had to resist the hastrman, lest he drag us down and drown us. My mother had words in English, Slovak, Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Yiddish, and German. When neighbors commented on how smart my mother was – and they did and still do so – I feel proud. This immigrant woman who had to work to support her five siblings and therefore could not go to school commanded words and the worlds that came with those words.

 

One day I was five – maybe – maybe four, or even three. The age when you have imaginary friends. When you talk to the family dog and understand his replies. My mom and I were kneeling on a bed and looking out a window facing east and the green hills that were a minute's barefoot walk from our front door. I gazed at pink, purple, and white blobs that I'd recently learned to name, or would soon learn to name: rose-of-Sharon, bridal veil, Oswego tea, peach blossom, mountain laurel. How did my mother fit all those fruits and flowers into our tiny plot? With her strong hands she worked her dreams-deferred of streets-paved-with-gold into dirt crowded with flowers.

 

Brown blobs scattered before us.

 

"Sparrows," my mother said.

 

I knew the word "bird." She knew the word "sparrow." She could take a big general class of things – "birds," – and divide it into a more specific sub-class – "sparrows." I resolved to master magical power like hers.

 

"Sparrow:" the sound fed me. The sibilant "s" sliding sensuously into the earthbound, explosive "p;" "arrow" providing a liquid-vowel soft place to land. "Sparrow:" sensuous and yet authoritative. "Sparrow," according to one online source, comes from a Proto-Germanic word meaning "flutterer." In Slovak, "vrabec" is onomatopoetic, that is, an attempt to imitate the sound sparrows make when they chatter together. Germans saw sparrows. Slavs heard them.

 

I know so little about my Slavic ancestors. Peasants and serfs don't leave much in the way of written records. To know that they named sparrows vrabec in an attempt to recapitulate the bird's sound touches me deeply. I get a hint of how they made sense of their world.