Weapons at the intersection of horror and fun

Weapons left me grinning. It was satisfying, not just for delivering thrills when bad guys emerge from unexpected places, but for a neat puzzle where all the pieces click together in a way that serves justice. The climactic spectacle is both a surprise and just what you wanted, both horrifying and exhilarating.

No spoiler, here: what's great in the movie is all in the trailer. In the trailer, we hear that children from one teacher's classroom left their homes at 2:17am and that they have not returned in a month. We see children run, arms outstretched, through dark suburban streets. We see one distraught parent (played by James Brolin) trace lines on a map of the neighborhood from each front door to the last location captured by doorbell security cameras, and we can see at a glance that their multiple lines intersect at a single point.

A cool thing about the movie is that multiple storylines also intersect at one point. We go over the same basic period of time from different characters' points of view, all intersecting at the residence of one outlandish character. This approach helps us to be deeply invested in the different characters before the climax. We are especially sympathetic to the teacher, that father, and the young boy left behind.

The extreme violence (some brains, some dismemberment), doesn't feel disturbing, being all part of this puzzle-constructed game. What does disturb is the resonance with real-life school shootings and their aftermath, those makeshift shrines of stuffies and flowers and the raw emotions when parents confront authorities.

Before the movie, we got previews of several upcoming horror movies. It was a dismal warm-up act. None of them generated the curiosity of the puzzle presented in Weapons.

Atlanta exclusive: Being in Atlanta gives me some proximity to film-related activities. So I have this shot of the cake that the cast and crew dug into at the wrap party for Weapons. Viewers of the movie will recognize the cake for its uncanny resemblance to the character Aunt Gladys.

Atlanta Ballet's Rite of Spring reminds teacher of playground

The Atlanta Ballet packed the orchestra and first balcony on Valentine's Day with two pieces that reached me as no other ballet has done.

A piece to music by Bach fascinated me at the time. Bach's music is so abstract and steady: How do you make dance without a dramatic story? Writing this months later, I'm afraid I don't recall more detail than that. But the draw for me that night was the other dance on the bill.

Stravinsky's head-banger The Rite of Spring has pumped up my heart rate since I was a teen. I'd never heard it live, and the arrangement by conductor Jonathan McPhee for a reduced orchestra did not stint on those eerie effects (high bassoon, bird song, sharp contrasts of volume and texture) and the violent ecstasy of those pounding chords and unpredictable jabs.

But the dance that embodied the music affected me strongly -- and everyone speaking excitedly during our exit. The choreographer Claudia Schreier, in a video played before the dance, says that she alluded to other versions in her new version. I wouldn't know: being a word guy myself and no dancer, I've paid little attention to ballet in my 65 years.

But I taught middle school for 40 years, and recognize in this Rite of Spring the energy, neediness, and cruelty of early adolescence. There were runs and leaps, dances in circles, packs of dancers chasing others: typical playground activities.

Like middle school, where the bodies of males and females are not differentiated yet, the differences between the sexes were blurred by diaphonous loose-fitting tunics. Males going with females would suddenly push them away -- so middle school, so cruel.

The most painful moment for me was an almost comical movement. Imagine a playground of children, legs stiff and wide apart, standing in a circle around a girl who has been knocked on the ground. In sync, they all hop a bit closer, then a bit closer.... It was awkward and incongruously menacing.

Despite the energy and athleticism and the power of synchronized movement, there were signs of insecurity and pain. Elbows pinned high at an awkward angle; slouching movements; sudden falling and rising. Some stage images called to mind gang warfare in West Side Story, while others brought to mind the undead in films. Stage fog and vines encroaching from the ceiling added to the zombie effect.

I consulted a review by by Robin Wharton, Arts Atlanta, Feb 12, photos by Shoccara Marcus.

Theology for Breakfast: Forward Day by Day May June July 2025

Every morning I read the scripture assigned by the Episcopal Book of Common prayer, then relax into a short reflection on those readings offered by a different writer every month for the quarterly Forward Day by Day. Every quarter I've culled highlights. See my responses going back to 2013.

May 2025 - Reflections by Fr. Neil Kumar Raman Rector of Grace Church in Haddonfield NJ, Fr. Raman reports that he is a double bassist and that he loves to cook South Indian food.

Raman tells of a visit to a beautiful church in Poland built under USSR's oppressive atheism, one brick at a time over a period of 20 years. Townspeople would each lay a single brick at the end of their day's work. Raman compares this approach to that of a mentor who made a habit of writing a thank-you note every day. Think of a "brick" to offer God each day - "a cup of coffee, a held door, the opportunity to make a left turn at a stop light." He asks, how are you building your life as a disciple, brick by brick?

A different small church embarrassed Raman by "a generous act of giving" (James1.17) making him and his friend the guests of honor. Awkward, yes, and awe-inspiring. "We drove back in silence."

Were it not for Raman, I might have continued to overlook the significance when Jesus says to his disciples, "Let us go to the other side" of the Sea of Galilee. People on the other side were not Jews. This was an invitation to reach out to communities likely hostile to Jesus and his disciples.

At funerals, we take comfort in a line from Romans 14:7-8, "Whether we live or die, we are the Lord's." In context, Raman points out, the emphasis isn't on someone who has died but on the way we LIVE with each other, fearless even of death.

When Jesus says, "Let not your heart be troubled," he still bears the wounds of his Crucifixion ordeal. Faith does not insulate us from pain.

And I'm always grateful for anyone who highlights Luke 12.25, "Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?" Raman even worries that he's worrying. Humor counteracts the toxin of worry.

June 2025 - Reflections by Sarah Shipman Responding on Trinity Sunday to the eighth chapter of Proverbs, Shipman teaches that "wisdom" in ancient Israel was about preserving order. In this chapter where Wisdom is personified as a woman, there's another side to wisdom: "We would do well to be reminded of the beauty and blessing of wonder an imagination, of the joy that comes in waiting for the Spirit to guide us to the truth. May we, like Wisdom, adore all God's marvelous deeds and be ever mindful that we are part of creation and charged with its care."

July 2025 - Reflections by Roger Hutchinson The writer has written elsewhere about his ADHD, anxiety, and bouts of depression. These topics inform his reflections on Scripture, too.

For July 4th, he chose a line from Hebrews 11, "they were strangers and foreigners on the earth...seeking a homeland" (v.13-14). Recalling his transient childhood (11 "homes" in 17 years), he asked what "home" really means. I took that idea to mentor training with Education for Ministry, and the theological reflection took off! He ends with the idea that we must be "home to ourselves."

Reading that "something like scales fell from [Paul's] eyes," Hutchinson is reminded of a lesson learned during a mental health crisis, that passive "looking" is not the same as active "seeing," which is an art to cultivate. The lesson comes up again after Psalm 50.11, "I know every bird in the sky." Hutchinson took walks to get out of the house during COVID, and noticed more birds each day. When he got a better camera, he took photos and learned to appreciate these fascinating creatures. "I took comfort in the psalmist's promise that God knows all the birds of the air... and God knows me."

He admits that he often yawns during a recitation of the Lord's Prayer (Luke 11.1), but "not because it's boring." Rather, these familiar words give him peace. He asks what we remember about learning the Lord's Prayer.

On Johann Sebastian Bach's birthday, the Psalm includes this wonderful line: "Wake up my spirit, awake lute and harp; I myself will waken the dawn." Hutchinson's appreciation of Bach is crowned by the fact that the composer inscribed his work with the phrase, "To God be all the glory." Hutchinson asks how we can praise and honor God through creative work - writing, knitting, designing, woodworking. I'd add, writing poetry and blogs.

The Glow of Transfiguration

Yesterday, the Feast of the Transfiguration, I read Bible stories of Moses and Jesus, their faces glowing after encounters with the Lord. I imagined the glow of Jesus as any boomer would -- an eerie emanation or force field.

Then my little dog Brandy sat beside me, eyes glowing with her gratitude for the home I provide and her anticipation of whatever wonderful thing might happen next.

Later, at the church office, we had visits by some little ones recently baptized at St. James, Wells and Tomas. They, too, looked as if each new sight was a delightful surprise.

I wonder if the glow of Transfiguration has less to do with something that we see in a holy person, and more to do with our reflection of how they see the world with wonder, love, and praise?

[This commentary was first printed in the church newsletter that I edit, The Bells of St. James.]

The Joy of Spider-man: Poet's second take on Miles Morales

In 2023, poet / author Jason Reynolds published his second Spider-man novel Miles Morales: SUSPENDED and I didn't wait to buy and read it. But I've waited until now to write about it. I've re-read it, and have decided to accentuate what I love and to keep my reservations in reserve.

As a boomer, I was surprised this century to learn that the Marvel Universe had expanded. The Spider-man I grew up with was a white teen named Peter Parker who gained super-powers from a radioactive spider's bite. Now we learn about parallel universes where other young men and women have that same experience. In 2016, I read the YA novel by Jason Reynolds, Miles Morales: Spider-man about a 15-year-old boy in Harlem whose father is African-American and whose mother is Puerto Rican. He's a scholarship student in a mostly-white private academy in Manhattan. The novel, which I read in ten-minute intervals during my 7th graders' "drop everything and read" period, inspired one of my best blogposts ever.

In Miles Morales Suspended, Reynolds continues the story. Miles is suspended from class for participating in a protest against the white supremacist version of American history being taught in their class. With an assortment of classmates, including his crush and a nerdy library assistant (secretly possessed by a supernatural entity), he's stuck in a classroom with two proctors and a pile of work to do. Each teacher has sent him an assignment to make the young man reflect on his own character through subject-appropriate metaphor. For example, reminding Miles how brown bananas emit ethylene that turns nearby yellow bananas brown, the Chemistry teacher asks Miles to reflect on times he may have been a yellow banana or a brown one.

While this set-up locks the action into one classroom and one school day broken into one-hour periods, it also gives Miles (and Reynolds) lots of opportunities to take flight in verse. Miles discovered poetry in that first novel. In this one, most of the action is interior, and a lot of the lines in this book don't reach the end of the page.

Still, my favorite part of the book takes place during the night before the day of his punishment. When his jovial roommate Ganke is fast asleep, Miles suits up and goes to the window. Pausing to look at the skyline, he imagines "all the stars that were supposed to be there had fallen, and now sparkled much closer to the ground" (44). A deep breath, and then he jumps -- into some of my favorite poetry in the book:

AIR begins "When I'm in / the air / I feel // free. Like something / someone / has // let go of." By the end of the poem, the lines have led Miles to wonder at himself: "I feel / like I can / let go."

In the next moment, he literally lets go, free-falling before he shoots a web. For an exhilarating paragraph, we experience Spider-man's web-slinging from the inside, as he leaps from building to building, soon landing at the top cables of the Brooklyn Bridge. He sees the lights of Times Square from a distance, and there follow some memories of that place, including an incident when he chased down a pickpocket to retrieve an old man's wallet -- and left the desperate pickpocket with money from Miles's own pocket.

That section is so vivid and joyful that I've remembered all its details since the book was new.

I reopened the book this week because I heard Jason Reynolds on NPR. The format of the interview show is to ask famous people a personal question drawn from a deck of cards. I didn't catch the question, but the answer endeared Reynolds to me. He is taking care of his elderly mother these days, "bathing the only Creator i have ever touched, the vessel who gave me everything I have become." He is determined to "maintain her dignity and comfort." He says to her, "I'm going to help you transition ... after you taught me to be bold."

His Miles Morales, too, expresses love and gratitude for family as he struggles to be as good as they want him to be.

There's probably a psalm for that

(This article appeared in this week's issue of The Bells of St. James, the newsletter that I edit for my church St. James Episcopal, Marietta.)

We appreciate a note that Betty Berry sent this week about the 10:30 service Sunday. She writes, "The choir sang of murmuring doves. Meanwhile in a bush near our sanctuary window, a nest full of doves rejoiced in their own way: lively and loudly. Quite special." (For the words, see #513 in the 1982 hymnal.)

A verse that we sang on Sunday also connected to a member of our parish choir, Dr. Walter Ligon. We sang Psalm 16, which contains this line, from verse 6: Indeed, I have a goodly heritage. That verse is inscribed in Latin on a medallion that Walter obtained during a visit to the chapel of St. Leonard in his ancestral place of origin, Newland in the district of Malvern, Worcestershire, England. He polished the medallion Monday and brought it by the office. His ancestors left there during the Civil War -- not the American one, but the one with Cromwell in the 1640s. He would love to sit and tell you the story!

Lanie Baxter shared this photo she took during her recent travels of an ancient replica of the still more ancient Book of Kells. The replica is preserved under glass.

The "illumination" of the gospels by the beautiful images calls to mind Psalm 119.30, The unfolding of your words gives light.

Sue Hannan, away visiting family, sent photos from where she's staying in the Finger Lakes region of central New York state. One scene calls to mind Psalm 65.8, You make the dawn appear on the earth and the sunset shout for joy.

Another book of songs in the Hebrew scriptures gives an apt response to Sue's second photo (inset), Flowers appear on the earth and the season of singing has begun (Song of Songs, 2.12).

Mother Mariclair took the selfie below when she visited the Altar Guild's coffee last Saturday. Showing up hours and even days before a service, they prepare for regular Sunday worship and special occasions, such as Wednesday's funeral for Billy Akins. Psalm 122.1 comes to mind, I was glad when they said to me "Let us go to the house of the Lord."

Did you know that your phone can play all of Psalms in a 30-day cycle at the Forward Day by Day website? The magazine's director says that he has been listening to the whole collection every month for a couple of years, now, and it's made a big difference in his life. I'm giving it a try, listening to psalms and the other readings for the day while I go about my morning routine.

Pray like Wolves

Right now, in time zones around the world, there are Episcopalians with prayer books open to morning prayer, or services for noonday and evening. They're in church, or they may be in small groups, or they may be at home alone, perhaps with a dog at their feet.

Some Christian traditions don't value prayers from a book. They believe prayer should be spontaneous.

But I'm comforted, even awed, by the thought that fellow Episcopalians in all their circumstances, pray the same words, silently or aloud. At communion, I sometimes think how my kneeling, my holding up of my hands, and my sipping the wine, join me to churches across the country, across the sea, and even across centuries.

Can prayer be spontaneous and come from within? We know that it can. Can such prayers meander and become a kind of personal performance? We know that it can. Our church gives us carefully prepared prayers and also makes room for spontaneity.

For me, our ritual prayers call to mind, not a flock of sheep and a shepherd (root meanings of congregation and episcopal), but wolves.

In the Bible, wolves are vicious and fearsome, except for that wolf in Isaiah that lies down with the lamb. Jesus warns his disciples that they go into the world as sheep among wolves, and he says to beware false prophets who are "wolves in sheep's clothing."

Our culture has a different outlook on wolves. Because we hunted wolves almost to extinction, they have official protection. Except where they prey on domesticated animals, wolves have our sympathy, too. They've become symbols of strength, self-reliance, and pack solidarity. We've made wolves into team mascots and namesakes for super-heroes.

Wolves' baying at night may sound mournful to us, but no study has conclusive answers to why they do it. The wolves may be expressing belonging or psyching themselves up for the hunt. Maybe they're expressing hunger. Whatever they express, they're like my little terrier mix when she barks with the neighbor's Pomeranian at twilight, having a great time.

It's remarkable that wolves match each other's pitch and rhythm. Whether they're with the pack or alone far away, they're on the same page.

The nightly ritual of the wolves came to mind during a theological reflection in my Education for Ministry seminar (EfM). A participant shared her story of how a beloved member of her close-knit summer camp cohort had committed suicide during the past year. The young woman relating the story told us that the old friends gathered in silence, finding no words for their feelings. It just felt right, she said, to hike to the camp's waterfall, as they had done many times before. Arriving at the place, they still said nothing. Then, spontaneously, they re-enacted a ritual familiar to Episcopalians from Holy Week: They washed each other's feet.

Like the wolves, they were each in their own place, inside their own thoughts and feelings, and yet together in this ritual.

The young woman, looking back, says there was mournfulness in this, and loss, but also a shared knowledge that they were serving each other in a way that goes back 2000 years. This shared action, though wordless, was instructive, and transformative.

Church should be more than a place to learn lessons, a place to meet like-minded people, or even a place to ensure our own salvation. Whatever the wolves are doing, raising their voices as one from their distant places, we also are doing as we kneel, hold hands up in supplication, confess together, and pray together -- from the same page.