The Good Bishop Walker

I used to live in the world

he told me

but maybe you don’t know about living in the world, since you’ve always been in the Church.  It’s like those young guys, you know, who hang out on the street corners—I used to be like one of them: cussin, wastin my time, I was in the world.

Some Thoughts on the Primaries

(wrote this last Friday, still think it holds pretty well):

I don’t usually talk explicitly about politics on this blog, but as Super Tuesday approaches, and what with Mitt Romney garnering so much attention, it seems appropriate:

Mitt’s road, incidentally, is uphill and very steep. Mitt is probably the best reincarnation of Ronald Reagan the party will see for a long time–charismatic, affable, down-the-line conservative, good-looking, a clear communicator–but for some reason I don’t quite understand, the country in whole and even the republican party itself does not seem particularly interested in Ronald Reagan. Despite incredible amounts of advertising, an overwhelming financial advantage, incredible tactical superiority, and a dirth of attractive Republican candidates, Romney has been unable to make a real impression. So far, his only wins have come in places where other republicans hardly seriously campaigned. The only exception is Michigan, but even there it seems the other candidates were content enough to let Romney win while they focused on South Carolina and other upcoming states.

A Field at Winter Solstice

For the sullen,

There is, in a wheatfield buried in snow,

Silent coppercold comfort.

As if, with the drowning out of jubilant life

there resides in the Earth empathy deep as frost

wrapped like tentacles around

roots long ago

thrust into the

silent, silent, soil tomb.

 

To the prodigal,

the golden roiling wheatfield’s waves—

now hushed—

whisper life unbegun:

the wintry soil barely suppressing the

trembling seeds,

tremulous life still captive.

 

Death and life,

beneath the Earth:

begetting one another—

each the other’s beginning and end,

each the other’s shadow,

each the other’s

meaning beneath the wintry meadow.

Blog Title

Yes, this really is “Mormon Hippocrates.”

I realized, after a couple of years using the title that title, that, since I’m a medical student writing a Mormon/medical blog, some people may think my blog’s name is an attempt to dub myself Mormonism’s great philosopher or doctor.  That was certainly not my intention, but in an attempt to remove any pretentiousness, I’m going to be trying out new names over the next few weeks.  If you have opinions on the new names, or if you have suggestions, please leave them under this post.

Thanks,

Tyler

Alchemy

One of the dreaded rites of premedical passage is the organic chemistry lab class. Therein, a group of hapless twenty-somethings meets for three hours a week, in their blue jeans and protective goggles, to learn how to isolate, combine, and change chemicals.

It was my worst grade in college.

Unto What End?

I remebered as I listened to Elder Eyring speak today (from a conference a couple of years ago) the importance of our motivation in determining the impact of our actions in the spiritual life.

I witnessed the importance of motivation most dramatically when I returned from my mission. I left for Mexico after a year at BYU. During that year, I had begun to delve into religious philosophy and to fancy myself quite the intellectual. I was asked before I left to speak about the importance of the Atonement . I very much wanted that talk to leave the ward abuzz. Having lived there my whole life, I knew most of the ward members as well as I knew my grandparents. Many had lived in their homes since the time my home was an empty lot and most of them were deeply-rooted Mormon folk who could reach easily back to pioneer ancestors. I wanted to wow them; and wow them I did. I spoke about one of Bertrand Russell’s essays on the nobility of atheism and how my faith in Christ solved the vexing problems Russell posed. It was an articulate and capable treatise and my family and I received cards along the lines of “that was the best Easter sunday meeting we have ever had.”

City on a Hill

During my junior year of college, as I worked toward finishing my B.A. in American Studies, I took “Studies in the American Experience,” the major’s capstone course taught with wit and acumen by Dr. Neil York. About half way through the course, Dr. York explained to us that we were entering a third of the course where we would discuss some troubling aspects of America’s past. Over the next month or so, we discussed a number of mostly glum historical topics such as “America and Blacks,” “America and Asians,” and “America and the Minority.” Dr. York detailed the tragic paradox which weaves itself through American history, starting with a slaveholder who penned “all men are created equal” and working its way right up through the specatcle of Rodney King.

Swallowed Up

I see my will with Thine to meld;

Allow Thy grace to work in me.

I pray Thy love my heart to swell

that through thy pow’r I’ll be like Thee.

For freedom flows from founts that I

would not have thought: in Thy control

I look to see a bluer sky

and corridors of freer souls.

A Few Thoughts on Alma 1

(v. 19-20):  It seems strange that the proud persecute the humble.  But the proud are acutely and naggingly aware of the distance between who they are and who they purport to be and they become convinced they can narrow the gap by continually reinforcing the difference between their supposed selves and the people they make out the humble around them to be.

North

Toward what star or pole does my nature incline?

Is there within, or without, or flung beyond the horizon

some invisible Presence toward which I wander–unled, unheeding, unknown?

What magnetism sways my needle, what force persuades my feet this way or that, what knowledge without articulation guides my soul?

Some constant, surely, some light darkness does not dim..

Yet oft my needle spins, possesed by some lesser power, some subtle mini-magnet convincing South North, just for a day.

Following, I set off, heading toward a destiny unsought and dark, pale and lifeless.

If South is North my endurance is worthless, I trek toward nothing.

Yet South is never North, me compass notwithstanding.

I cannot change the ageless planes which orient forces forever.

Beneath more visible swayers are powers too deep for feeble understanding.

One such dwells deeply within the fabric woven through us all and therein my compass find knowledge and this sure:

It is the bright and morning star.

Through a Glass Darkly

Fluid glass, flowing like molten lava. But the vision inside would grab my attention even more. I wondered today what it would be like if I could peer into each person’s soul during fast and tesimony meeting. For a testimony, like any public expression, is part artifice–though, at least in this case, it is also part conviction. Still, most who speak in our meetings tell some part of what they think we want to hear. There is less of doubt and more of certainty than resides, I think, in their hearts. This is not to say they decieve us intentionally, but only that there is a judicial distance between the thoughts and feelings of my heart and what I will say from the pulpit. Would I have it be otherwise?

Gravity (5 of 5)

Alive with new spiritual splendor, Teresa immersed herself in the Gospel. Active in her Denver ward, she found special joy serving in the House of Lord during the Denver Temple dedication—she attended every dedicatory session, savoring the succor she found. One morning, as a session ended, she called my Father in tears and said: “Kimball, I heard Papa—you remember his tenor voice?—singing in the choir.”

Gravity (4 of 5)

In an attempt to establish a new life, Teresa enrolled in a self-realization program. There, her new spiritual advisor directed her to “face her childhood values” by attending, just once, an LDS sacrament meeting. And so, for the first time in many, many years, Teresa showed up at a ward in Denver, Colorado intending a short, perfunctory visit. The Bishop, however, invited her to talk. The gentle conversation that followed ended: “Teresa, you’ve done nothing for which you can’t be forgiven–please come back.”

Gravity (3 of 5)

The next few days pulsed with surreal happenings. My Father, barely off the airplane, attended his mother’s funeral the Friday after returning home and watched from the stand as the throng filled the chapel, then the gym, and then spilt into classrooms and hallways. My Mother, then just a friend, showed up at my Father’s doorstep with a casserole and time to talk. Letters came from the First Presidency, the Missionary Executive committee, and from President Jensen, who said, in part:

Gravity (2 0f 5)

When my Father finally arrived in Denver, Teresa was not at the terminal to greet him. Confused, my Father claimed his luggage and waited a few minutes before he was paged. When he found her, Teresa was in hysterics; she grabbed him and, looking at him through streaming tears said, pleadingly, as if he might fix whatever was wrong, “Kimball, mom and dad are missing.�? My beleaguered and bewildered Father spent the night comforting his sister, even as he fought his own doubts and sorrow. The next morning, an entourage including family, friends, and a general authority were waiting at the airport in Salt Lake—but my grandparents were not there.

Gravity (1 of 5)

My Father has never been one to speak much of himself; he is almost painfully shy about being honored, even in private. Not surprisingly, then, I have only ever heard snippets of his life story. Still, I have become acutely interested of late in better understanding my heritage generally and my Father’s story specifically. This summer, with his begrudging permission, I read through his old journals and letters, marveled as I watched his story come to life, and tasted—though distantly—the deep sorrow and joy that run like rivers through his history.

Daily Discipleship

In her thoughtful and enlightening book Leaving Eden, Amber Esplin tells the story of a young girl named Judith. Near the end of the novel, Judith’s brother dies and she confronts the chasm that opens in his absence. Though Judith must at first face the bitter sadness that inevitably accompanies death, she finds some catharsis in the Gospel and eventually settles into a tenuous peace. She finds, in fact, that her brother’s death gives substance to the spiritual forms that had formerly seemed, to her, quite unreal. This epiphany grants Judith a new perspective on life; in the novel’s closing pages, Esplin gives voice to some of Judith’s resulting thoughts:

Over-Achievers Anonymous

Hi, my name is Tyler and I’m addicted to achievement.

I want the best grades, the best comments, the best school, the best residency, and the best job. Whatever I achieve, it is not enough. However far I go, the horizon will continue to stretch before me, beckoning me to distant excellence. My pace will always be breathless because I do not stop to rest, life is both a sprint and a marathon—the race goes neither to the fast nor the steady but to he who is both.

Gone Fishin’

Life’s finest moments acknowledge no past and require no future. They halt time in its thoughtless linearity and bend it into encircling, enveloping infinity. And do not think they are all happy, either; a moment’s meaning lies not only in its content but in its presence, in its immediate reality. If we choose to become alive to the vitality around us, we will find even sorrow is woven of its own deep sweetness—not to mention beauty, love, nature, and being. Heroes teach me that it is I, not savage or gentle circumstance, who may rob my life of meaning. Some few luminous souls have even infused neglect, torture, ridicule, and death with the life of spiritual light—hence when Thomas Becket dies we notice not so much his passing but what all that happened means.

Spiritual Presence

In October 2000, Elder Oaks spoke to the Church about the difference between doing and becoming. He said many Church members treat progress in the Church as a spiritual checklist with the goal being to mark off each spiritual task in succession. His address was, for me, anyway, enlightening—it changed the way I live the Gospel. Specifically, it changed the way I view my day-to-day activity in the Church.