How Spaceflight was a Testimony of the Divine

Volume XV, Issue XIV

How Spaceflight was a Testimony
By Bob Kirchman

We often think of the race to the moon in terms of two superpowers striving to control the high ground of space. In doing so, we are of course correct, but we are prone to miss the greater story that unfolds as mankind explored the Cosmos. It was often said that the first man in space, Yuri Gagarin, looked out of his spacecraft and “didn’t see God anywhere.” The atheistic Communists suppressed the church, but their first Cosmonaut was actually a professing Christian. Gagarin was a baptized member of the Russian Orthodox Church even though the government spun the flight as a triumph of the atheistic regime.

General Valentin Petrov, Professor of the Russian Air Force Academy and a personal friend of the cosmonaut says otherwise, “Gagarin was a baptized faithful throughout all his life. He always confessed God whenever he was provoked, no matter where he was.” In a 2007 article titled “Yuri Gagarin, the Christian,” Maria Biniari, wrote that on his birthday in 1964, Gagarin visited a monastery, the Lavra of Saint Serge, and met with the Prior — the monk in charge. There, he had a photo taken of himself, which he told the priest “this is for those who don’t believe.” He signed it “with my best wishes, Yuri Gagarin.” Petrov said ” I always remember that Yuri Gagarin said: “An astronaut cannot be suspended in space and not have God in his mind and his heart.”

So, the first man in space actually gave testimony to the Divine in spite of the regime’s stated hostility to Faith. Still, this was virtually unknown as the space race continued through the 1960s. 1968 America was in great distress. Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated. Presidential candidate Bobby Kennedy was killed. Race riots erupted in our major cities and the ongoing war in Vietnam sapped the soul of her young people. These were dark times. At NASA the Lunar Module was behind schedule it would not be ready to fly until Spring. It looked like the Russians were rolling out one of their enormous N1 rockets for a flight to the moon. NASA made a bold decision. The Command Module, redesigned after the fire that killed the Apollo 1 astronauts, had just been tested in the fall of 1968 in earth orbit. Now it would be sent on the new Saturn V all the way to lunar orbit and return.

Astronauts Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and Bill Anders were given a 50% chance of a safe return by some. So many ‘firsts’ were being attempted in that flight. On December 20th the huge Saturn V lifted off and on Christmas Eve the astronauts made history. Burning their engine to slow into lunar orbit, the three astronauts read aloud from the Creation account in Genesis as the television camera they carried showed the moon they were circling. They read:

William Anders

We are now approaching lunar sunrise, and for all the people back on Earth, the crew of Apollo 8 has a message that we would like to send to you.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

James Lovell

And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.

And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.

And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.

And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.”

Frank Borman

And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.

And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.”

And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas – and God bless all of you, all of you on the good Earth.

And so the first humans to orbit the moon gave witness to the Divine as well. Atheist Madelyn Murray O’Hair filed a suit against NASA in an effort to stop astronauts on duty from practicing religion.

Edwin Eugene Aldrin, Jr.

The command module pilot of Apollo 11, ‘Buzz’ Aldrin was a man of faith and he carried with him the Communion elements, given to him by his Pastor. He radioed earth and asked for a moment of silent contemplation during which he privately took Communion – his first act on the lunar surface! Because of the O’Hair suit, NASA covered this up. It would only become a part of history later as the astronauts were freer to tell their stories.

The real story is that in a period where an atheistic government and a society questioning its Christian roots became engaged in the great race for the moon, God seems to have reached into that whole story to tell His greater story. In the world of test pilots where self-reliance and bravado seem to rule, the great achievements were performed by men willing to acknowledge the overreaching care of the Divine.


Interior of the Lunar Module. NASA Photo.

1968's True Dark Legacy
How the Radicals Became the Technocrats

Half a century since the mayhem of the Democratic National Convention; since barricades were raised and tires set aflame and paving stones hurled in the Latin Quarter of Paris; since the formation at the Sorbonne of the comité d’action pédérastique révolutionnaire and the only slightly more decent front homosexuel d’action révolutionnaire . . . since Bill Ayers abandoned early-childhood education for terror; since “the youth” took to throwing the epithet “fascist” at their elders, many of whom had fought the real thing; since Stokely Carmichael and Michael Harrington and Tom Hayden and Herbert Marcuse and Huey Newton rode high . . . Half a century later, the long drama of 1968 is finally drawing to a close. (read more)


C. S. Lewis Statue in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

The Fantastic Imagination
Excerpt from A Dish of Orts (scraps)
By George MacDonald

That we have in English no word corresponding to the German Mährchen, drives us to use the word Fairytale, regardless of the fact that the tale may have nothing to do with any sort of fairy. The old use of the word Fairy, by Spenser at least, might, however, well be adduced, were justification or excuse necessary where need must.

Were I asked, what is a fairytale? I should reply, Read Undine: that is a fairytale; then read this and that as well, and you will see what is a fairytale. Were I further begged to describe the fairytale, or define what it is, I would make answer, that I should as soon think of describing the abstract human face, or stating what must go to constitute a human being. A fairytale is just a fairytale, as a face is just a face; and of all fairytales I know, I think Undine the most beautiful.

Many a man, however, who would not attempt to define a man, might venture to say something as to what a man ought to be: even so much I will not in this place venture with regard to the fairytale, for my long past work in that kind might but poorly instance or illustrate my now more matured judgment. I will but say some things helpful to the reading, in right-minded fashion, of such fairytales as I would wish to write, or care to read.

Some thinkers would feel sorely hampered if at liberty to use no forms but such as existed in nature, or to invent nothing save in accordance with the laws of the world of the senses; but it must not therefore be imagined that they desire escape from the region of law. Nothing lawless can show the least reason why it should exist, or could at best have more than an appearance of life.

The natural world has its laws, and no man must interfere with them in the way of presentment any more than in the way of use; but they themselves may suggest laws of other kinds, and man may, if he pleases, invent a little world of his own, with its own laws; for there is that in him which delights in calling up new forms--which is the nearest, perhaps, he can come to creation. When such forms are new embodiments of old truths, we call them products of the Imagination; when they are mere inventions, however lovely, I should call them the work of the Fancy: in either case, Law has been diligently at work.

His world once invented, the highest law that comes next into play is, that there shall be harmony between the laws by which the new world has begun to exist; and in the process of his creation, the inventor must hold by those laws. The moment he forgets one of them, he makes the story, by its own postulates, incredible. To be able to live a moment in an imagined world, we must see the laws of its existence obeyed. Those broken, we fall out of it. The imagination in us, whose exercise is essential to the most temporary submission to the imagination of another, immediately, with the disappearance, of Law, ceases to act. Suppose the gracious creatures of some childlike region of Fairyland talking either cockney or Gascon! Would not the tale, however lovelily begun, sink at once to the level of the Burlesque--of all forms of literature the least worthy? A man's inventions may be stupid or clever, but if he do not hold by the laws of them, or if he make one law jar with another, he contradicts himself as an inventor, he is no artist. He does not rightly consort his instruments, or he tunes them in different keys. The mind of man is the product of live Law; it thinks by law, it dwells in the midst of law, it gathers from law its growth; with law, therefore, can it alone work to any result. Inharmonious, unconsorting ideas will come to a man, but if he try to use one of such, his work will grow dull, and he will drop it from mere lack of interest. Law is the soil in which alone beauty will grow; beauty is the only stuff in which Truth can be clothed; and you may, if you will, call Imagination the tailor that cuts her garments to fit her, and Fancy his journeyman that puts the pieces of them together, or perhaps at most embroiders their button-holes. Obeying law, the maker works like his creator; not obeying law, he is such a fool as heaps a pile of stones and calls it a church.

In the moral world it is different: there a man may clothe in new forms, and for this employ his imagination freely, but he must invent nothing. He may not, for any purpose, turn its laws upside down. He must not meddle with the relations of live souls. The laws of the spirit of man must hold, alike in this world and in any world he may invent. It were no offence to suppose a world in which everything repelled instead of attracted the things around it; it would be wicked to write a tale representing a man it called good as always doing bad things, or a man it called bad as always doing good things: the notion itself is absolutely lawless. In physical things a man may invent; in moral things he must obey--and take their laws with him into his invented world as well.

You write as if a fairytale were a thing of importance: must it have a meaning?"

It cannot help having some meaning; if it have proportion and harmony it has vitality, and vitality is truth. The beauty may be plainer in it than the truth, but without the truth the beauty could not be, and the fairytale would give no delight. Everyone, however, who feels the story, will read its meaning after his own nature and development: one man will read one meaning in it, another will read another.

If so, how am I to assure myself that I am not reading my own meaning into it, but yours out of it?"

Why should you be so assured? It may be better that you should read your meaning into it. That may be a higher operation of your intellect than the mere reading of mine out of it: your meaning may be superior to mine.

Suppose my child ask me what the fairytale means, what am I to say?"


Illustration by Kristina Elaine Greer.

If you do not know what it means, what is easier than to say so? If you do see a meaning in it, there it is for you to give him. A genuine work of art must mean many things; the truer its art, the more things it will mean. If my drawing, on the other hand, is so far from being a work of art that it needs THIS IS A HORSE written under it, what can it matter that neither you nor your child should know what it means? It is there not so much to convey a meaning as to wake a meaning. If it do not even wake an interest, throw it aside. A meaning may be there, but it is not for you. If, again, you do not know a horse when you see it, the name written under it will not serve you much. At all events, the business of the painter is not to teach zoology.

But indeed your children are not likely to trouble you about the meaning. They find what they are capable of finding, and more would be too much. For my part, I do not write for children, but for the childlike, whether of five, or fifty, or seventy-five.

A fairytale is not an allegory. There may be allegory in it, but it is not an allegory. He must be an artist indeed who can, in any mode, produce a strict allegory that is not a weariness to the spirit. An allegory must be Mastery or Moorditch.

A fairytale, like a butterfly or a bee, helps itself on all sides, sips at every wholesome flower, and spoils not one. The true fairytale is, to my mind, very like the sonata. We all know that a sonata means something; and where there is the faculty of talking with suitable vagueness, and choosing metaphor sufficiently loose, mind may approach mind, in the interpretation of a sonata, with the result of a more or less contenting consciousness of sympathy. But if two or three men sat down to write each what the sonata meant to him, what approximation to definite idea would be the result? Little enough--and that little more than needful. We should find it had roused related, if not identical, feelings, but probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore failed? Had it undertaken to convey, or ought it to be expected to impart anything defined, anything notionally recognizable?

But words are not music; words at least are meant and fitted to carry a precise meaning!"

It is very seldom indeed that they carry the exact meaning of any user of them! And if they can be so used as to convey definite meaning, it does not follow that they ought never to carry anything else. Words are live things that may be variously employed to various ends. They can convey a scientific fact, or throw a shadow of her child's dream on the heart of a mother. They are things to put together like the pieces of a dissected map, or to arrange like the notes on a stave. Is the music in them to go for nothing? It can hardly help the definiteness of a meaning: is it therefore to be disregarded? They have length, and breadth, and outline: have they nothing to do with depth? Have they only to describe, never to impress? Has nothing any claim to their use but the definite? The cause of a child's tears may be altogether undefinable: has the mother therefore no antidote for his vague misery? That may be strong in colour which has no evident outline. A fairytale, a sonata, a gathering storm, a limitless night, seizes you and sweeps you away: do you begin at once to wrestle with it and ask whence its power over you, whither it is carrying you? The law of each is in the mind of its composer; that law makes one man feel this way, another man feel that way. To one the sonata is a world of odour and beauty, to another of soothing only and sweetness. To one, the cloudy rendezvous is a wild dance, with a terror at its heart; to another, a majestic march of heavenly hosts, with Truth in their centre pointing their course, but as yet restraining her voice. The greatest forces lie in the region of the uncomprehended.

I will go farther.--The best thing you can do for your fellow, next to rousing his conscience, is--not to give him things to think about, but to wake things up that are in him; or say, to make him think things for himself. The best Nature does for us is to work in us such moods in which thoughts of high import arise. Does any aspect of Nature wake but one thought? Does she ever suggest only one definite thing? Does she make any two men in the same place at the same moment think the same thing? Is she therefore a failure, because she is not definite? Is it nothing that she rouses the something deeper than the understanding--the power that underlies thoughts? Does she not set feeling, and so thinking at work? Would it be better that she did this after one fashion and not after many fashions? Nature is mood-engendering, thought-provoking: such ought the sonata, such ought the fairytale to be.

But a man may then imagine in your work what he pleases, what you never meant!"

Not what he pleases, but what he can. If he be not a true man, he will draw evil out of the best; we need not mind how he treats any work of art! If he be a true man, he will imagine true things; what matter whether I meant them or not? They are there none the less that I cannot claim putting them there! One difference between God's work and man's is, that, while God's work cannot mean more than he meant, man's must mean more than he meant. For in everything that God has made, there is layer upon layer of ascending significance; also he expresses the same thought in higher and higher kinds of that thought: it is God's things, his embodied thoughts, which alone a man has to use, modified and adapted to his own purposes, for the expression of his thoughts; therefore he cannot help his words and figures falling into such combinations in the mind of another as he had himself not foreseen, so many are the thoughts allied to every other thought, so many are the relations involved in every figure, so many the facts hinted in every symbol. A man may well himself discover truth in what he wrote; for he was dealing all the time with things that came from thoughts beyond his own.

But surely you would explain your idea to one who asked you?"

I say again, if I cannot draw a horse, I will not write THIS IS A HORSE under what I foolishly meant for one. Any key to a work of imagination would be nearly, if not quite, as absurd. The tale is there, not to hide, but to show: if it show nothing at your window, do not open your door to it; leave it out in the cold. To ask me to explain, is to say, "Roses! Boil them, or we won't have them!" My tales may not be roses, but I will not boil them.

So long as I think my dog can bark, I will not sit up to bark for him.

If a writer's aim be logical conviction, he must spare no logical pains, not merely to be understood, but to escape being misunderstood; where his object is to move by suggestion, to cause to imagine, then let him assail the soul of his reader as the wind assails an aeolian harp. If there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it. Let fairytale of mine go for a firefly that now flashes, now is dark, but may flash again. Caught in a hand which does not love its kind, it will turn to an insignificant, ugly thing, that can neither flash nor fly.

The best way with music, I imagine, is not to bring the forces of our intellect to bear upon it, but to be still and let it work on that part of us for whose sake it exists. We spoil countless precious things by intellectual greed. He who will be a man, and will not be a child, must--he cannot help himself--become a little man, that is, a dwarf. He will, however, need no consolation, for he is sure to think himself a very large creature indeed.

If any strain of my "broken music" make a child's eyes flash, or his mother's grow for a moment dim, my labour will not have been in vain.

The paper on The Fantastic Imagination had its origin in the repeated request of readers for an explanation of things in certain shorter stories I had written. It forms the preface to an American edition of my so-called Fairy Tales. -- George MacDonald

C. S. Lewis's Timely Message


C. S. Lewis, writer and thinker.

Many of us are quite frustrated as we try to convey the notion that there are greater realities. There are those who stand in solidarity on this and there are those who pretty much see 'truth' as a matter of what they believe about something, saying: "That may be right for you, but what I believe is right for me." Absent from the discussion is the notion that a position might be guided by higher... even DIVINE principles. Might it surprise you that this assault on the notion of 'absolute truth' is not new? What if we find that it influenced the thinkers and textbook writers decades ago... even the work of journalists such as H. L. Mencken, who pretty much eviscerated the victory of William Jennings Bryan in the Scopes Trial.

Hillsdale College in Michigan presents a fascinating series of lectures on the work and vision of C. S. Lewis. All of us who wish to speak of deeper realities into our culture need to avail ourselves of this great resource!



Dr. Larry Arrn, President of Hillsdale College, begins the series with a talk on two of Lewis's works, The Abolition of Man and That Hideous Strength.





Sunrise over the the railroad tracks, September 27, 2017. 
Photo by Sandra Barlow Powell.

Seeing Things in 'Living Color'

I need a mathematician that can look beyond the numbers, a math that doesn't yet exist..."
-- Al Harrison in Hidden Figures

My colleague and I just were part of a very interesting discussion of 'lucid dreaming.' It seems there was a study some years ago where participants 'taught' themselves to dream lucidly using sound waves called binural beats. Supposedly the medical students who were the subjects of this study achieved higher grades because they were 'practicing surgeries/outcomes in their sleep.' While this would be hard to substantiate, it does open the fascinating discussion on the place of the human imagination in achieving outcomes.

In my youth, there was an idea floating around that 'sleep learning' would be the wave of the future as lessons would be fed to students as they slumbered. Nothing much ever came out of this.

But the training and use of vivid imagination, however, may indeed be the 'wave of the future.' To find it, however, may require a journey to the past. I recently watched the movie: Hidden Figures, and was fascinated as mathematician Katherine Johnson and her colleagues at NASA are stymied by the problem of calculating a transition from elliptical orbit to a parabolic descent. No modern mathematics would adequately calculate it. Katherine was a mathematical savant however and she dug deep into some antiquated equations to find the answer. She was a mathematician with imagination!

Industrialist R. G. LeTourneau once hit a roadblock, along with his team of engineers as they tried to design a machine to lift airplanes. He left the workgroup one Wednesday evening to go to a prayer meeting. His colleagues protested, reminding him that they had a deadline to meet. Walking home from the prayer meeting, LeTourneau says that he 'saw' the needed design in his mind!

And so we arrive at the wonderful consideration of the place of vivid imagination as an instructor. C. S. Lewis found inspiration in the world of wonder opened to him by a rather lucid observation of nature and the works of Scottish fantasy writer: George MacDonald. Although MacDonald has fallen from favor with some scholars, there is renewed interest in his work, much of which is now in the public domain and so can be here presented. (h/t Kristina Elaine Greer)
(to be continued)


Photo by Bob Kirchman

Phantasies
By George MacDonald, Chapter 1

A spirit

The undulating and silent well,
And rippling rivulet, and evening gloom,
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming,
Held commune with him; as if he and it
Were all that was."
~Shelley.

I awoke one morning with the usual perplexity of mind which accompanies the return of consciousness. As I lay and looked through the eastern window of my room, a faint streak of peach-colour, dividing a cloud that just rose above the low swell of the horizon, announced the approach of the sun. As my thoughts, which a deep and apparently dreamless sleep had dissolved, began again to assume crystalline forms, the strange events of the foregoing night presented themselves anew to my wondering consciousness. The day before had been my one-and-twentieth birthday. Among other ceremonies investing me with my legal rights, the keys of an old secretary, in which my father had kept his private papers, had been delivered up to me. As soon as I was left alone, I ordered lights in the chamber where the secretary stood, the first lights that had been there for many a year; for, since my father's death, the room had been left undisturbed. But, as if the darkness had been too long an inmate to be easily expelled, and had dyed with blackness the walls to which, bat-like, it had clung, these tapers served but ill to light up the gloomy hangings, and seemed to throw yet darker shadows into the hollows of the deep-wrought cornice. All the further portions of the room lay shrouded in a mystery whose deepest folds were gathered around the dark oak cabinet which I now approached with a strange mingling of reverence and curiosity. Perhaps, like a geologist, I was about to turn up to the light some of the buried strata of the human world, with its fossil remains charred by passion and petrified by tears. Perhaps I was to learn how my father, whose personal history was unknown to me, had woven his web of story; how he had found the world, and how the world had left him. Perhaps I was to find only the records of lands and moneys, how gotten and how secured; coming down from strange men, and through troublous times, to me, who knew little or nothing of them all. To solve my speculations, and to dispel the awe which was fast gathering around me as if the dead were drawing near, I approached the secretary; and having found the key that fitted the upper portion, I opened it with some difficulty, drew near it a heavy high-backed chair, and sat down before a multitude of little drawers and slides and pigeon-holes. But the door of a little cupboard in the centre especially attracted my interest, as if there lay the secret of this long-hidden world. Its key I found.

One of the rusty hinges cracked and broke as I opened the door: it revealed a number of small pigeon-holes. These, however, being but shallow compared with the depth of those around the little cupboard, the outer ones reaching to the back of the desk, I concluded that there must be some accessible space behind; and found, indeed, that they were formed in a separate framework, which admitted of the whole being pulled out in one piece. Behind, I found a sort of flexible portcullis of small bars of wood laid close together horizontally. After long search, and trying many ways to move it, I discovered at last a scarcely projecting point of steel on one side. I pressed this repeatedly and hard with the point of an old tool that was lying near, till at length it yielded inwards; and the little slide, flying up suddenly, disclosed a chamber--empty, except that in one corner lay a little heap of withered rose-leaves, whose long-lived scent had long since departed; and, in another, a small packet of papers, tied with a bit of ribbon, whose colour had gone with the rose-scent. Almost fearing to touch them, they witnessed so mutely to the law of oblivion, I leaned back in my chair, and regarded them for a moment; when suddenly there stood on the threshold of the little chamber, as though she had just emerged from its depth, a tiny woman-form, as perfect in shape as if she had been a small Greek statuette roused to life and motion. Her dress was of a kind that could never grow old-fashioned, because it was simply natural: a robe plaited in a band around the neck, and confined by a belt about the waist, descended to her feet. It was only afterwards, however, that I took notice of her dress, although my surprise was by no means of so overpowering a degree as such an apparition might naturally be expected to excite. Seeing, however, as I suppose, some astonishment in my countenance, she came forward within a yard of me, and said, in a voice that strangely recalled a sensation of twilight, and reedy river banks, and a low wind, even in this deathly room:--

Anodos, you never saw such a little creature before, did you?"

No," said I; "and indeed I hardly believe I do now."

Ah! that is always the way with you men; you believe nothing the first time; and it is foolish enough to let mere repetition convince you of what you consider in itself unbelievable. I am not going to argue with you, however, but to grant you a wish."

Here I could not help interrupting her with the foolish speech, of which, however, I had no cause to repent--

How can such a very little creature as you grant or refuse anything?"

Is that all the philosophy you have gained in one-and-twenty years?" said she. "Form is much, but size is nothing. It is a mere matter of relation. I suppose your six-foot lordship does not feel altogether insignificant, though to others you do look small beside your old Uncle Ralph, who rises above you a great half-foot at least. But size is of so little consequence with old me, that I may as well accommodate myself to your foolish prejudices." So saying, she leapt from the desk upon the floor, where she stood a tall, gracious lady, with pale face and large blue eyes. Her dark hair flowed behind, wavy but uncurled, down to her waist, and against it her form stood clear in its robe of white.

Now," said she, "you will believe me."

Overcome with the presence of a beauty which I could now perceive, and drawn towards her by an attraction irresistible as incomprehensible, I suppose I stretched out my arms towards her, for she drew back a step or two, and said--

Foolish boy, if you could touch me, I should hurt you. Besides, I was two hundred and thirty-seven years old, last Midsummer eve; and a man must not fall in love with his grandmother, you know."

But you are not my grandmother," said I.

How do you know that?" she retorted. "I dare say you know something of your great-grandfathers a good deal further back than that; but you know very little about your great-grandmothers on either side. Now, to the point. Your little sister was reading a fairy-tale to you last night."

She was."

When she had finished, she said, as she closed the book, 'Is there a fairy-country, brother?' You replied with a sigh, 'I suppose there is, if one could find the way into it.'"

I did; but I meant something quite different from what you seem to think."

Never mind what I seem to think. You shall find the way into Fairy Land to-morrow. Now look in my eyes."

Eagerly I did so. They filled me with an unknown longing. I remembered somehow that my mother died when I was a baby. I looked deeper and deeper, till they spread around me like seas, and I sank in their waters. I forgot all the rest, till I found myself at the window, whose gloomy curtains were withdrawn, and where I stood gazing on a whole heaven of stars, small and sparkling in the moonlight. Below lay a sea, still as death and hoary in the moon, sweeping into bays and around capes and islands, away, away, I knew not whither. Alas! it was no sea, but a low bog burnished by the moon. "Surely there is such a sea somewhere!" said I to myself. A low sweet voice beside me replied--

In Fairy Land, Anodos."

I turned, but saw no one. I closed the secretary, and went to my own room, and to bed.

All this I recalled as I lay with half-closed eyes. I was soon to find the truth of the lady's promise, that this day I should discover the road into Fairy Land.
(to be continued)

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
The Stories in the Story

The Movie, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington [click to view], was made by Frank Capra in 1939. Capra's film contains some interesting snapshots of how the common man, operating in concert with the principles laid down by our founders, can truly change the course of history as he works to preserve freedom. Early in the story, a "lost" Mr. Smith finds himself in the Lincoln Memorial. Here he sees what must be an immigrant grandfather teaching his grandson the meaning of the great inscriptions that define freedom. Then the gentleman pictured below walks into the great edifice and deliberately removes his hat in reverence for the principles enshrined there.


Jimmy Stewart enters the Memorial...


...and sees this gentleman remove his hat, in reverence for...


...the freedom that was hard won through a time of great sacrifice.


The little four page paper of Jeff's father has become 'Boy Stuff' and a wonderful group of boys put it together.


"Bring on the paper!" this young man shouts as they print a special edition to vindicate Jeff as the Taylor Machine attempts to control the big papers.


Here they pull page proofs.


"Jeff Tells Truth!"

It would be a little over two decades before Dr. Martin Luther King would stand at that SAME Memorial to share his "I Have a Dream Speech," but it is clear from the stills above, that Capra is in on the dream. To an America mired in a reality of apartheid, he presents the great truth of IMAGO DEI, through the three characters alongside Smith in the Memorial. The staff of 'Boy Stuff' also presents a group where the dream lives. Though some students of the film have trouble with the "pigeons and the porters" in the scene where Smith arrives in Washington, one must remember that the film was made in the 1930's and also that the porters leave the politicians "holding the pigeons."

In the end, Capra makes a film that is entertaining as it gives us glimpses of that "bright shining city on a hill." Though Capra's Senate Chamber is a movie set, the truth he depicts there is something every American needs to see for themselves.

Sharp Top in Peaks of Otter
Once Thought to be Virginia's Highest


When the Washington Monument was built, it was believed that Sharp Top was the highest point in Virginia, so the stone for Virginia's remembrance was taken from the mountain.






Summit of Sharp Top. Photos by Bob Kirchman.


Dicentra Eximia, Wild Bleeding Heart on Sharp Top Mountain in Virginia. Photo by Bob Kirchman.


Argiope Aurantia on Sharp Top Mountain in Virginia. 
Photo by Bob Kirchman.

Beauty in a World of Ugliness
A Lecture by Sir Roger Scruton

Sir Roger Scruton is a profound and prolific author, having written over forty books on philosophy, religion, art, sex, and politics. Often provocative and always insightful, Sir Roger brings clarity amidst confusion to the most vital topics of our time. This event is free and open to the public, so please invite your friends, family, colleagues, and students.