Paul Carr at Techcrunch nails it: why I will never go to Austin in March and pity the fools who do. Brace yourselves for a tidal wave of NMDB tweets. Read this, stay home, and thank your lucky stars.

“Tip One: Don’t go to South by Southwest Interactive.

“I’m serious. It sucked last year, and it’s going to suck again this year. You’re kidding yourself if you think otherwise. The idea that SXSWi is a conference – or even a festival – for people doing interesting and useful things in technology is a fallacy. In reality, it’s just a non-stop orgy of bullshit fanboyism – a chance for people with stickers on their laptops to go and add more stickers to their laptops; an opportunity for sweaty dorks in Diggnation t-shirts to line up for two hours in the hope of getting Alex Albrecht to – I dunno – sign their laptop, I suppose, or maybe give them another freaking sticker…

via SXSW Interactive: Because hell doesn’t have enough promotional stickers.

The oldest synagogue in America is 70 miles from my home, so it was a given that at some point I would make the trip. On Friday night, prodded by the congregation’s website that seemed to indicate that services would end on March 6, I rushed to Newport after work, taking a phone call on the way.

Rhode Island’s reputation for religious tolerance in the face of intense intolerance by the Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay Colonies is renowned – fostered by the liberal attitudes of Rhode Island’s founding governor Roger Williams, who also established the nation’s first Baptist church.  Touro is the only example of a Colonial synagogue, the oldest Jewish structure in America and, as I said, the oldest synagogue. Visiting was a privilege, because if not for this project I doubt I would have had cause or inclination to set foot inside other than to admire the historical furnishings and architecture. As it was, I witnessed a moving, solemn orthodox shabbas service, met my first shabbas goy, and had a good historical experience.

History

The Jeshuat Israel congregation can be traced back to 1658 when Sephardic Jews arrived in Newport (then the capital of Rhode Island) from the Caribbean island of Curacao. Sephardic Jews emigrated — fled is more accurate — Spain and Portugal during the Spanish Inquisition, when Catholic jurists forced the conversion of  or put to death most Jews. An excellent, if exhaustive history on this topic is B. Netanyahu’s Origins of the Inquisition in the 15th Century. Those Jews who pretended to convert to Christianity, but continued to practice Judaism in secret, are referred to as Marranos.

For the first 100 years of their existence, the Newport Sephardim worshipped in private homes until 1750, when a wealthy merchant, Aaron Lopez, son of Portugese marranos, funded the design and construction of the Touro Synagogue (so named for its first cantor, Issac Touro).  Lopez became the wealthiest resident of Newport through his diverse business interests, but most notably his focus on the spermaceti candle industry — spermaceti being the waxy substance found in the head cavity of a sperm whale.

Lopez’ business interests in the whaling industry put him in close proximity with the Quaker whaling merchants of New Bedford and Nantucket, another religious minority subject to persecution by the Puritan/Pilgrim theocracies in Massachusetts. Peter Nichols in his excellent Final Voyage, describes the role the Jewish leadership of Newport played in establishing the state’s reputation for religious tolerance, as well as the profitable cartel Lopez formed with the Howlands of New Bedford and the Coffins of Nantucket.

The synagogue’s architect was Peter Harrison and is considered his best work. Being an architectural moron, I won’t compare the structure to any other examples, but it is distinctive and unlike any other building I’ve seen from the 1750s.

The synagogue made it on the National register of historic places in the 1940s, and has been lovingly restored. It is now part of the  National Trust and National Park Service.

The Service

I drove the 70 miles from Cape Cod and arrived 30 minutes before the 6 pm shabbas service on Friday night. Parking was a bit of a challenge — lots of one-way cow paths abound in that part of the old town — but I nailed one right behind the building and walked around the Loeb visitor center to the entrance on Touro Street. The gate has this strange device carved on it with three Hebrew characters.

I walked up the steps to the entrance and ran into a jovial man who asked me straight up: “Are you Jewish?”

“No. Just visiting, ” I said. “Why?”

“I’m not sure we’ll make a minyan tonight [the quorum of 10 worshippers] but come on in.”

He explained he was the shabbas goy, the non-Jew who performs tasks for the faithful on the sabbath when labor of all kinds — including the turning on of lights — is forbidden. We stepped inside and the room was sublime, a large space with a balcony overhead for female worshippers as the congregation pray segregated by gender, the men on the ground floor, women above. The space was brightly lit by a constellation of chandeliers which hung down from star-shaped sconces on the ceiling high above. The walls were painted a curious green — almost the color of old hospitals — but the effect was very soothing. The balcony was supported by 12 magnificent columns denoting the 12 tribes of Israel  – each topped with a Corinthian capitol, and each carved from a single tree.

My guide pointed out that there is a trapdoor beneath the bimah and that it may have led to the harbor. Legend hold that is was used by the Underground Railroad during years of the anti-slavery movement. The bimah is the raised dais where the Rabbi presides.

I took some pictures, but the goy told me while it was okay, to make sure I got them in before the service started. More people began to arrive, it appeared a minyan would be achieved. Women were steered to the upstairs balcony, the men — most older than me — seemed to know each other well and took a prayer book from the shelves behind the bimah.

I availed myself of a yarmulke (four-panel loaner, not the coveted six-panel described so well by my friend Glen in the comments to my Cape Cod Synagogue visit). Because of a recent haircut, the skullcap fit fine. I took a seat on the bench along the back wall, behind the bimah, and greeted each with a shalom shabbas.

The Rabbi, Mordechai Eskovitz arrived, wearing a great Borsalino hat. He greeted his congregation, and without much delay started the service.

I won’t go into the details — I took no notes out of respect to the congregation which was small and aware of my presence and non-participation. The Rabbi did most of the chanting, pausing to direct the worshippers to the appropriate page of the Siddur. I followed along, but foolishly forgot my reading glasses and was unable to follow the English translation of the Hebrew. At one point I did realize the congregation was chanting the words to the famous 23rd Psalm — “The Lord if my shepherd, I shall not want …”

During the service the shabbas goy read a detective novel behind a screened off area on the back corner of the temple. At least one woman worshipped from up on the balcony.

The service last only 45 minutes. Several members participated in the readings, and when it was over I made my way out the door and back to my car for the long ride home. I’m very glad I had the chance to visit this treasure of a holy place.

Random Observations

• I wonder if the congregation maintains an Eruv, or virtual holy enclosure, in Newport. The New York Times had a fascinating article on this phenomenon.
• I could spend a lifetime in and around Aquidneck Island — home of Newport — because of the amazing historical role that region played in the early development of the colonies (refuge during the King Philip War) and religious tolerance.
• I would strongly recommend any visitor to Newport to make a special visit to this gem of a  historical building. While the “cottages” of the town are world famous, The Breakers, Marble House, etc. — Touro is amazingly elegant.
• I continue to be impressed by the amazing barrier to comprehension and participation posed by Hebrew.

Next week: thinking Church of Christ Scientist …..

New dock – Cotuit

Originally uploaded by dchurbuck

I saw the marine construction crew out on Saturday putting a new deck on the old town dock. This ought to spare a lot of bare feet from some splinters. The entrance is cordoned off and blocked with a skiff to keep someone from trying to drive out to their doom.

Monday – Raleigh day trip on 3.8
Cotuit balance of the week
Back to Raleigh the following week

There has been a small Finnish community on Cape Cod since the 19th century and I am too lazy to do the research to plausibly explain why in this entry in the 52Church series, but they apparently, according to one local history, had a penchant for drinking and so a temperance society was formed at the turn of the century to quell their dipsomania. That society eventually became a place of worship and since Finns — and many people of the Nordic and Teutonic countries — tend to be Lutheran, so West Barnstable became home to the first Lutheran church on Cape Cod, the Suomi, or Finnish Lutheran synod to be precise. According to Marion Rawson Vuilleumier’s Churches on Cape Cod, services were conducted only in Finnish until 1943, when a second English service was added and the church congregation grew.

According to the church history:

“The Finns, even in the Old Country, were known as quite heavy partakers of strong spirits.  When they immigrated to this country, because of the difficulty in getting acclimated and in response to the weary life of back-breaking work and the uncertainties of nature, drinking became rampant.

The Finns finally decided to do something about it so they formed a Temperance Society and built a building on Plum Street.  Everyone who joined the Society had to take a pledge to stay sober and if at any time they got caught breaking that pledge, they had to pay a fine of 25¢ which represented at least two hours labor at that time.

The Society was disbanded in 1913, having served its purpose but the building continued to be used for many functions including classes in English.  Religious services and Sunday School classes were also held there.

This was my first visit to a Lutheran church. I went in with some stereotypes and pre-conceptions about German protestantism, the church of the northern Midwest, of immigrant Nordic farmers who enjoyed lutefisk dinners. This was the religion of Updike’s Rabbit Angstrom, a severe Teutonic faith of austere churches, bleak landscapes, and all the humor of a religion born at the Diet of Worms. My friend and advisor Paul Noonan told me I would enjoy the Pastor, Rev. Jonathan Ahnquist, and so, on a grey Lenten Sunday, I drove across the Cape on Route 149, took a right at the Rooster Church onto Church Street, and made the 8:30 communion service with ten minutes to spare. The church is a handsome shingle style building, unpainted and weathered a silverish grey. The steeple was low and also shingled with cedar. The parking lot in the rear of the church backed onto what may have been the parsonage and beyond that a pond, newly freed of ice but flat in the calm morning air.

I entered, wearing a bowtie, and was immediately greeted by the pastor who complimented me on my cravat. Bowties nearly always elicit expressions of surprise when first sighted, especially anywhere other than the summer lawns of Cotuit and yacht club cocktail parties where they are abundant. I spoke to the Pastor, (erroneously addressed him as Father) explained my mission, and he welcomed me to his “table” as all were permitted to take Communion. He asked if I would introduce myself to the congregation, but I plead shyness. I took a starboard side pew, middle of the church, put on my reading glasses, and waited for things to begin.

The Service

As my friend Noonan explained one night this week, there are liturgical churches and there are non-liturgical churches. Essentially, the liturgy is the ceremony and the rites, or order of prayers, hymns, gospel, creed, collection of donations, communion, etc.. Communion is technically called the Eucharist, and the denominations that regularly offer a Eucharist service are the Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, Orthodox and Lutherans (my devout friends are rolling their eyes, exclaiming, “Durrrrr,” but this is new stuff to me). Other faiths may perform a communion service once a month, quarterly, but Lutherans are part of the Big Four when it comes to that aspect of the liturgy.

The Pastor, dressed in a floor length white robe, commenced with some brief announcements delivered from a raised, octagonal altar. This altar was ringed with a railing for kneeling communicants. In the center was a large, carved wooden table draped with a purple cloth. Behind the altar, the apse consisted of two flanking green and blue stained glass windows and a row of chairs. The choir was adjacent on the port side of the nave.  The pews were very full at this, the first of two morning services.

A prayer of confession and forgiveness was given by the Pastor and people together: “Have mercy on us and turn us from our sinful ways.”

He retreated to the narthex and a girl entered as a procession of one with a staff topped with a flame. She lighted the two candles on the altar table. A hymn was sung: The church has a good organ and a good organist to play it. The pastor has a fine, ringing voice that filled the church. I am further convinced that the preeminent talent for becoming a minister, pastor, reverend, imam, rabbi or priest is a fine singing voice. Without it one is doomed. With it one definitely leads a flock.

The hymn ended and the pastor greeted the congregation with a prayer, followed by the singing of the Kyrie — that ancient Greek plea to God to have mercy.

The liturgy was very formal and formulaic – meaning it had multiple components and took up eight pages of program to describe. The first reading, given by a woman sitting to the right of the lectern, was from the first book of the old Testament, Genesis 15:1-12 about  Abram having a discussion with God about being childless. God told Abram to get a cow, a goat, a ram, a dove and a pigeon. Abram sacrificed the animals (cutting them in half except the birds), drove the vultures away from the carcasses, and then the verse gets pretty bleak(er):

“…and a deep and terrifying darkness descended upon him. When the sun had gone down and it was dark, a smoking fire pot and flaming torch passed between these pieces [of dead animals, ed.]“

Powerful stuff. The second reading was was Philippians 3:17-4:1. The dark, Francis Bacon-image from the first reading didn’t leave my mind, and puzzled me until the “Good News 101″ portion when the children in the congregation was called forward and talked to by Lynn Tozier, the associate pastor. She explained two things: she said things tend to get a little bleak this time of year in Christianity — it’s Lent and people are doing without, fasting, getting prepared for the holy days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Good Friday. She then described the origin of the pretzel — when a German baker prayed with crossed arms andwas inspired to invent the twisted snack .

The Gospel according to Luke 13:21-35 was read — about Christ being warned to feel Jerusalem because Herod wanted to hill him.

Pastor Ahnquist delivered a strong sermon that made me reflect and feel glad and comfortable with the visit. Here I need to admit that some sermons are either boring … and I either nod off or daydream; or they are obscure to the point of being nearly mystical; and others are too “familiar” or anecdotal for my taste. Ahnquist’s was none of the above and ranks among the better of the one’s heard to date.

Following along in the service. Another hymn was sung, the Creed was recited, and then prayers of intercession were delivered.

The basket was passed for the offering, the choir sang an interesting offertory song called Lonesome Valley, and another hymn was sung. The pastor prayed over the offering, and then a series of sung-spoken chants were delivered: a “dialogue” that went like this: “The Lord be with you.” And the congregation said “And also with you.” Another chant – Holy, Holy, Holy – was sung. Then the Lord’s Prayer was recited. And again, there was a special Lutheran twist to the familiar words:

“Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us/Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil.”

(note to self, compile variations on the Lord’s Prayer)

Now, communion. I don’t take communion ordinarily. I view it as the main expression of faith and since I am agnostic, I think my personal participation would be hypocritical. Thus I sit back except in admittedly impulsive situations such as the opportunity to kiss the Patriarch’s ring in Istanbul at the Feast of the Three Hierarchs. I decided to take communion with the Lutherans for the simple reason that the Pastor made a firm point of inviting me to when I arrived. I’m glad I did, as I’m not familiar with the process.

Please excuse the digression into transubstantion and the sacrament, but it is a very interesting rite, definitely the climax of the liturgy, and for the devout, a real, immediate, and tactile connection with the faith where the words and music and sights become very tactile and real — after all what is more “earthy” than eating and drinking? Particularly when one is either believing they are literally consuming the body and blood of their Saviour or, participating in the symbolism of the Last Supper.

Two golden brass trays were brought forward by the deacons and placed on the altar table. The pastor stood behind the table and uncovered a bright red goblet or chalice which had been covered by a perfectly draped purple cloth. What followed is the mystery part — the preparation of the sacrament, the blessing, and the point where the ordinary communion wafers and wine are “turned into” the host. The brass trays were brought to the head of the pews and were filled with small shot glasses of wine. When the pastor was ready to give communion the deacons shepherded a group of about two dozen parishioners out of the pews and forward where they knelt around the octagonal railing surrounding the altar table. The communicants took a shot glass from the rack, brought it with them to the railing, and waited, on their knees, hands ready to receive the wafer from the pastor. The pastor placed a wafer in their hands, saying “The body of Christ” and he was followed by the associate with another cup of wine with a drip cloth neatly wrapped around it.

When it was my pew’s turn to go forward I sort of shrugged, followed the lady next to me, took a little container of wine with me, and knelt down and waited for the wafer. Along it came, I put it in my mouth, it was more like a slice of edible foam than bread, and I drank down the wine. Paused, then stood and followed the people next to me back around the long way, depositing the empty cup in a rack and taking my spot.

All in all it was a little bewildering and somewhat disingenuous to participate, but I’m glad I did as it gave me cause to think about the significance of the rite.

Once communion ended the service wrapped up with a prayer,a blessing, a final hymn, and the Dismissal:

“Go in Peace. Serve the Lord. Thanks be to God.”

I stood, I left, I thanked the Pastor and his offer of coffee and cakes, and drove off.

Random Observations

• The “Aalto” architectural influence of the Nordic design gestalt was evident on the interior of the church. A little stark and very Scandinavian.
• I need to find the time to read the Bible as this project goes along (same for Torah and Koran) especially given my ignorance of who was writing what and to whom. I’ve read it in the context of its literary impact on English poetry (pre-Romantics like Milton, Spenser, etc.) but not in terms of the liturgical ritual.
• Close to half way and I am becoming humbled by the diversity I’m finding from one weekend to the next. I think a lot about the common points between the churches — not just Christian, but Jewish and Muslim — and the commonalities are very interesting anthropologically. More on that later, but patterns are emerging.
• I noticed a lot of Finnish names in the congregation like “Aalto” and “Toivo” — Finns prefer adjacent vowels.
• BMWs in the parking lot which is fitting for a Teutonic faith

This weekend: I need to head to Newport before Touro suspended orthodox services for the spring/summer season.

My father accidentally introduced me to Barry Hannah in the mid-70s when he bought Hannah’s first novel, the Faulkner award winning Geronimo Rex. For some random reason I read it — we never discussed the book, my father never recommended it or even mentioned it, it just appeared on a shelf in the bookcase and I read it.

It is one of a few books which makes me laugh out loud, a book I push on people to read over and over as one of the most wickedly funny examples of Southern American writing ever penned.  A tale of coming of age in 1960s Mississippi, it actually more like Animal House on paper — a very sophomoric story of three misfits rooming together off campus at Ole Miss.

In 1977 I was accepted into a writing class taught by Gordon Lish, fiction editor at Knopf and short story editor at Esquire. He championed the new wave of post-modern writers like Don DeLillo, Raymond Carver, and Hannah. In one of the first classes he handed out copies of Hannah’s amazing short story anthology, Airships and read out loud the extremely short story, “Coming Close to Donna.” I was captivated.

Barry Hannah never broke out as a best selling author, nor did he go on to achieve great things like others of his generation. But he did write beautifully, crafting his sentences with the precision of a Haiku. He was earthy, his humor was located south of his belt, but he was entertaining as could be. I loved his writing.

Monday 3.1 – Cotuit to Raleigh
Tuesday 3.2-Thursday 3.4 – Raleigh
Friday 3.5- Sunday 3.7 – Cotuit

Back to Raleigh to present budgets and proposals, back to Cotuit where spring is arriving and boat work beckons. A return to Raleigh the following week — very quick flipturn visit — then the balance in Cotuit.

No international stuff looming. Passport is getting a Brazilian visa, but nothing is on the books. I’ve confirmed vacation for the last two weeks of May to fetch daughter from her term in Italy.

Pretty pissed at Flickr (for a WHOLE lot of reasons I will not go into here) and their HP-enabled photo printing service Snapfish.

I ordered a poster-sized print of Paul Rifkin’s aerial shot of Cotuit Bay and the Kettleers playing at Lowell Park and got back a crap piece of work — colors off register (looked like it was whipped off on a crap ink jet printer) and most woefully, cropped with an axe losing the most interesting elements of the photo — the island at the top of the scene.

An utter waste of money. Serves me right for being lazy and not walking a local photoshop and getting it done right the first time. Avoid Snapfish.

update: Snapfish refunded me my cash via PayPal with no phone call required. Bravo to them for that.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Atlantic white cedar is the perfect wood for boat building and is difficult to find these days with the price to prove it. I have four enourmous planks in the old sail loft behind my bedroom, leftover from the days when my grandfather Chat built Cotuit Skiffs in the boat shop. The wood is all but rot-proof.

On Sunday I took my son and the dogs for a walk around one of the best examples of a cedar swamp on Cape Cod, the Almy Cedar Swamp in Cotuit off of Old Post Road. There aren’t many left and winter is the best time to explore. Here’s a link to a site with some good background information. Interestingly, they aren’t technically “cedar” but cypress swamps.

Cedar swamps are unique biotropes found along the east coast from Maine to Georgia. They are true swamps that support a species of tree that is more related to the cypress than the cedar.  Chamaecyparis thyoides is a pretty tree, a definite break for the eye after the typical scrub oak and pines that carpet Cape Cod. The habitat and growing conditions are so unique that I went most of my life without ever seeing a cedar swamp. A few years ago the Barnstable Land Trust and some local conservationists pulled out the stops to preserve a big tract of open space in Cotuit around Cordwood Landing. Included in the parcel was the Almy Cedar Swamp. This is what it looks like from the air — note the definite difference in the foliage.

The swamp isn’t easy to find. One walks north on a dirt road across from the Cordwood Landing way to water, across Old Post Road, and north towards Eagle Pond. A half mile in, on the right, is a hidden path down to the swamp. Winter is the best time to explore because the swamp is frozen and one can actually poke around among the trees. In the barreness of winter it is is strange to step into such a green and verdant space.  The silence is amazing and the woods are cathedral-like.

Click here to view the embedded video.

The trees are very tall and seem, gauging from their girth, to be a few hundred years old. According to one scholarly paper, the Cape’s cedar swamps are less than 4,000 years old.

Walking around the swamp is very cool. The ice makes it easy to poke around the frozen peat and see the moss knobs around each trunk.

These were valuable trees back in the day, but some have survived because they are so difficult to extract from the swamps. It goes without saying the swamps are endangered, filled in, converted to cranberry bogs, or just dammed up and drowned. The largest is on the outer Cape near the Marconi station — it is 11.8 acres. I have no idea how big the Almy Cedar Swamp is — but know of at least two other smaller ones hidden around Cotuit.

While it’s tempting to wonder if anyone would care if I dragged a piece of deadfall out of the swamp to turn into a new skiff, I guess I should first check the condition of the planks in the sailloft. Cool to think the boat that defines Cotuit is made from wood logged from Cotuit’s swamps.