Irish America’s other Halloween, the Ragamuffin’s of Thanksgiving

A little monsters geared up for the Ragamuffin's Parade...not Halloween (Photo: NYDailyNews)

I like to joke with my mother about how rough I had it growing up.  The joke is that I know I had it a whole lot easier than she did growing up in Brooklyn and New Jersey, where sometimes her parents and their five children lived in one- or two-bedroom apartments.

But even I was taken aback when my mom once told me her brothers and sister used to go begging door-to-door -- and it wasn’t even on Halloween!

But it turns out the begging my mother was talking about had nothing to do with poverty.  Though it’s not widely remembered these days, there once was a time when Halloween was not the primary day for dressing up and knocking on doors seeking tricks or treats.

In the first half of the 20th century, particularly in heavily Irish neighborhoods, the best day for begging -- not to mention often violent and dangerous behavior -- was actually Thanksgiving morning.

This was the day kids would dress up in sloppy clothes and transform themselves into little Ragamuffins. They would knock on doors and shout “Anything for Thanksgiving!”  The hope was that the kindly homeowner would offer up tasty treats -- just as millions of kids hope for this week on Halloween.

Ragamuffin activities were particularly popular in Irish neighborhoods, and gave kids a chance to -- shall we say -- try on different identities.

Jack O’Leary, for example, was an Irish American mover and shaker in the New York State Conservative Party.  But in his memoir Playing it Well, O’Leary wrote lovingly of wearing his “mother’s face powder, lipstick and rouge” on Ragamuffin Day.

Indeed, it was very common for young boys to wear makeup or dress up in girls’ clothing on Ragamuffin Day.

Meanwhile, in 1995, a New York Times letter writer named Jim Tierney recalled a particularly Irish spin on Ragamuffin Day.

“On Thanksgiving we dressed as Ragamuffins -- three Irish-American kids -- and went from backyard to backyard, pub to pub, looking for handouts. But with a difference. We played Irish traditional music on the fiddle and flute and sang and danced to it. We sometimes earned $45 for the day. The best money was made playing ‘The Stack of Barley’ and singing ‘A Nation Once Again.’”

What could New Yorkers a century ago expect to see on this Halloween that was not really Halloween?

The streets might be filled with bizarrely dressed boys and girls not-so-gently requesting money or gifts, “amateur beggars” deemed “a plague” by The New York Times as far back as 1907.  At night, children as young as five prowled their neighborhoods dressed as Indians with makeup, greasepaint or burnt cork on their faces.

They also lit huge bonfires, which led to a fair share of tragedies.  In 1913, a six-year-old Bronx boy (wearing his sister’s dress) was badly burned as he danced around a bonfire.

Gunfire and gang fights broke out in Brooklyn as packs of Ragamuffins crossed each other’s paths in 1906 and 1907.  Even less explicitly violent behavior created tension.

In the classic novel "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," Betty Smith writes, “Most children brought up in Brooklyn before the First World War remember Thanksgiving Day…children went around ‘Ragamuffin’ or ‘slamming gates’ wearing costumes topped off by a penny mask.”

Smith’s main character Francie Nolan buys a “yellow Chinaman [mask] with a sleazy rope mandarin mustache.”  Her brother Neely wears one of his mother’s old dresses with “stuffed wadded newspapers in the front to make an enormous bust.”

The streets are “jammed with masked and costumed children making a deafening din with their penny tin horns.”  Some storekeepers lock their doors to keep the noisy panhandlers out while others unleash “profane lectures on the evils of begging.”

Police and school officials regularly cracked down on Ragamuffins and begging. The ascension of Halloween and calls for more orderly Thanksgiving celebrations seemed to hasten the demise of the Ragamuffin traditions.

But the tradition has not completely vanished.  Every October, community organizers in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, host a Ragamuffin parade.

(Contact “Sidewalks” at tdeignan.blogspot.com)

Why all Irish Americans are not all white any more

Cuban-American writer Oscar Hijuelos.

Every Saturday I have the privilege to teach a class at the New York City College of Technology in downtown Brooklyn. The students are highly-motivated high school juniors and seniors who are reading, writing and earning college credits when they could, instead, be sleeping in on Saturday morning.

I’ve been teaching this class for a number of years, and while there are many immigrants and children of immigrants, it’s probably no surprise that I have yet to come across anyone from Ireland or even a student with identifiable Irish roots.

Suffice it to say, if you come across a Murphy or an O’Neal in my classroom, they look like actor Eddie Murphy or basketball legend Shaquille O’Neal.

So it was a surprise on a recent Saturday when a student — after asking about some of the Irish writing I’ve done — enthusiastically replied that she, too, has Irish roots. You couldn’t tell it by her name or by looking at her.

And yet, to some degree, isn’t that increasingly what it means to be Irish American in the 21st century?

This occurred to me after I read about the untimely passing of the great Cuban-American writer Oscar Hijuelos at the age of 62.  Hijuelos is best known for his novel "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love," which was made into a fine movie starring Antonia Banderas.

But one of Hijuelos’ lesser-knows novels also has one of the great melting pot titles of all time — "The Fourteen Sisters of Emilio Montez O’Brien."

In that 1993 book, Hijuelos took a close look at a Pennsylvania family whose roots lie deep in Cuba as well as Ireland.

Critics praised the sympathy with which Hijuelos explored this family with a split ethnic identity, which you might also more simply call an “American” family.

It should not be surprising to learn that Hijuleos’ own family tree was tinged with green. A great-great grandfather on Hijelous’ father’s side was Irish, hence this Cuban’s fair skin and light hair. (One critic once joked that at Hijuelos readings, attendants expected a suave Ricky Ricardo-type and were shocked to see someone who looked more like nebbishy George Costanza from Seinfeld.)

Of course, there is a temptation to say that Hijuelos isn’t “really” Irish. There is a temptation to say that being so liberal with Irish identity threatens to water it down. That if it can mean anything to be Irish, it might also mean nothing.

This is understandable. One need only look at the much-hyped initiative in Ireland known as The Gathering.

Aimed at the 70 or so million people abroad who claim Irish ancestry, organizers argue that it is a celebration of the Irish diaspora. However, it can also look like the most important shade of green here is the money tourists from all over brought with them to spend on the Emerald Isle.

These are all valid points.  And yet, certain realities are unavoidable, especially when we talk about Irish identity in America.

Assimilation is a fact of life, and as their Irish immigrant roots grow more distant Irish Americans will need to ask themselves what, exactly, it is that makes them Irish? And not just on March 17.

The model offered by Oscar Hijuelos is an important one. Embracing one aspect of your identity need not necessarily mean ignoring all others.

It means understanding what the Irish did when they got here and how they forever changed America — and that includes (I would argue) believing religion, government and continued immigration should play a key role in America’s future.

The future of Irish America, to some degree, depends on Irish Americans willing to (if you will) locate and celebrate their green heritage within a broader, colorful rainbow.

The same week Oscar Hijuelos died, a priest from the Bronx also passed away.

Father John Grange was “a Spanish-speaking son of Irish Americans who helped rebuild the impoverished South Bronx parish where he was raised into a more hospitable and promising place for Hispanic immigrants,” according to The New York Times.

Grange was so immersed in the lives of his immigrant parishioners he once claimed, “I think I’ve lost my Irish identity.”

That’s not what I think. I think he found a new way to express his Irish identity which was a perfect fit for the 21st century.

Read more: Everyday is St Patrick’s Day, what would we be if not Irish

(Contact “Sidewalks” at tdeignan.blogspot.com)

Irish mafia takes another hit with death of JFK aide Ralph Dungan

Ralph Dungan.  Source: jfklibrary.org

On February 17, 1961, Life magazine ran a lengthy article about newly-inaugurated President John F. Kennedy’s new cabinet, entitled “Kennedy’s Best Men Move Into Power.” At one point, Life staff writer Robert Coughlan profiles Kennedy’s inner circle of trusted advisors.

“Lawrence O’Brien, Kenneth O’Donnell and Ralph Dungan are often referred to in Washington as the I.R.A. (Irish Republican Army), a term they don’t think is very funny,” Coughlan writes.

This Hibernian trio (along with Richard “Dick” Donahue and Dave Powers, whose parents were from Cork) were more commonly known as Kennedy’s Irish Mafia -- or “Murphia,” as Jackie Kennedy was known to quip.

With the 50th anniversary of that terrible day in November looming, JFK’s Irish Mafia lost another member this week.

Dungan, a Kennedy aide who specialized in Latin American affairs and later revamped New Jersey’s higher education system, died at the age of 90.

That leaves Richard K. Donahue, currently serving as a vice chairperson of the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, as the last surviving member of Kennedy’s Irish Army.

O’Donnell -- who took the deaths of Jack and Bobby very hard -- died in 1977, when he was just 54 years old.

Powers, meanwhile, became a driving force behind the JFK Library and Museum in Boston and served as curator when it opened in 1979. He died in 1998 at the age of 85.

Finally, O’Brien -- who served as chairman of the Democratic National Committee and later became commissioner of the National Basketball Association -- died in 1990 at the age of 73.

And now Ralph Anthony Dungan is gone. He was born in Philadelphia. His own father (also Ralph) was a lawyer who was a mover and shaker in local political circles.

As JFK also did, Dungan served in the Navy during World War II. Dungan was a pilot and flight instructor, and attended St. Joseph’s College in Philadelphia after the war on the G.I. Bill.

He met his future wife, the former Mary Theresa Rowley, while at St. Joseph’s. The couple would eventually marry and have eight children. (One died in infancy.)

Dungan’s Washington career began in the early 1950s, after he graduated from Princeton with a Master’s Degree in Public Administration. He served as an analyst for the obscure Bureau of the Budget.

However, in 1956, he was tapped to work as a legislative assistant in the office of upstart Senator John F. Kennedy. Not only was JFK headed for a landslide Senate re-election in 1958, but all political insiders knew that Kennedy also had his eyes on the White House in 1960.

Kennedy had already made a run for the Vice Presidential slot in 1956, narrowly losing out to Tennessee Senator Estes Kefauver, who was a household name at the time thanks to his chairmanship of an organized crime commission whose hearings drew huge TV ratings.

So when Dungan joined Kennedy’s office, he must have known he had a shot at making history, joining the first Irish Catholic in the White House. And he did just that.

After working on the campaign, Dungan joined JFK’s staff. As Life magazine described him in February 1961, “Dungan has spent most of his time so far on the talent hunt, and on setting up the White House staff machinery.”

Dungan quickly became a member of Kennedy’s inner circle. His specialties were recruiting talent as well as foreign affairs, particularly in Latin America.

After JFK’s assassination, Dungan stayed on to assist President Johnson’s transition. LBJ later named Dungan as ambassador to Chile, a post he served for three tumultuous years in the mid-1960s.

Things didn’t get any easier for Dungan in the 1970s when he became Chancellor for New Jersey higher education, doing battle with professors and university presidents, radically overhauling education in the Garden State.

Dungan was “a man of integrity and intelligence, a good liberal who was sensitive to the crosscurrents in our relations in Latin America,” presidential historian Robert Dallek told The New York Times this week. “He was a man of consequence to both Kennedy and Johnson.”

And so, as we look somberly to November 22, Camelot’s Irish Mafia is down to its last member.

(Contact “Sidewalks” at tdeignan.blogspot.com)

Irish political machine solution for Washington’s mess

Frank Hague.

They may have been corrupt, cigar-chomping crooks and even -- as one new book calls them -- “dictators.”  But they also knew how to cut deals and compromise and, you know, keep the government functioning.

Who would have guessed we would get to the point where we would look back at notorious Irish American political machines for lessons about good government?  Or at least working government.

“One thing about the political machines of the early 20th century — they were run by pragmatic politicians who understood the importance of consensus,” notes Irish American author Terry Golway, whose new book Machine Made: Tammany Hall and the Creation of American Politics, will be published in March by W.W. Norton.

“Yes, they rammed through legislation on occasion. In fact, famed Republican boss Tom Platt rammed through the consolidation of Greater New York City in the 1890s when the GOP was riding high in the state. But they would never have shut down the government to achieve a legislative or ideological goal.”

Of course, there’s lots of blame to go around for the stalemate in Washington.  Democrats were handed this gift by loony-bin Republicans, yet they keep allowing themselves to get dragged into this debate as if there were...well, something to actually debate.

Last I heard, the time for debate over Obamacare was, you know, before the bill actually passed through Congress and was signed by the president.
These right wing types revere the Constitution, yet they are apparently anxious to fiddle with that document by allotting time to debate a bill after its passage as well as before.

Either way, conservatives seem downright gleeful because they consider the federal government pointless -- at least when it’s not funneling money to military bases in their districts.

Of course, I wouldn’t dare mention food stamps.  Republicans, apparently, never go hungry. (Even though, as The Atlantic recently noted, “When most House Republicans talk about cutting food stamps, they’re saying that they’re okay with the idea that at least one out of every 10 households in their district will have a tougher time putting food on the table, and will have less money to spend on local businesses.”)

Anyway, what we are missing, at this point, are solutions.  That’s where Irish American machine politicians come in.

For all of their flaws, today’s Washington politicians could learn a thing of two from these Hibernian denizens of smoke-filled backrooms.

Steven Hart, a New Jersey-based author, has just released a new book called American Dictators: Frank Hague, Nucky Johnson and the Perfection of the Urban Political Machine (Rivergate).

Johnson is the basis for Steve Buscemi’s character on Boardwalk Empire.  Hague, meanwhile, was born in Jersey City in 1876.

He was one of eight children born to immigrants from Cavan. This put the Hagues in the minority, since their section of Jersey City’s Second Ward was often referred to as “Cork Row.”

Hague served an astonishing 30 years as Jersey City mayor and was a powerhouse in regional as well as national Democratic circles.  He was also not shy about wielding his power.  He was known for proclaiming “I am the law.”

You may not have liked what Hague got done.  You may not have liked how Hague got things done.  But he did get things done.

“One of Frank Hague’s most striking qualities as a political boss was his ability to wield power and achieve his goals even though, as a Democratic Party leader, he was officially persona non grata with the Republican-dominated legislature,” Steven Hart told me this week.

“His ability to cut deals with cooperative Republicans, and even throw elections to Republican candidates he thought he could work with, was a constant source of frustration to the GOP leadership, who denounced ‘Hagueism’ as a blotch on civic life.  One of the sternest critics of Hagueism was Walter Edge, who benefited from Hagueism to win his first term as governor, then denounced it to win his second.”

It may be a stretch to say the machines resided over the good old days.  But at least they presided over something.

(Contact “Sidewalks” at tdeignan.blogspot.com)

Why BBC America’s New York Irish 'Copper' will be missed (VIDEO)

The cast of BBC America's "Copper."

Copper was not a perfect television show.  Let’s start with the obvious — the BBC is not exactly the ideal company to produce an epic drama of the Irish.

So, when news broke last week that Copper had been cancelled despite being one of its network’s highest-rated shows, it was a little more than tempting to see the Union Jack maneuvering to sink the green, white and gold yet again.

But to give credit where credit is due, there were more than a few explicit denunciations of the Brits on the show.  Irish characters regularly laid blame for the Great Hunger, and for centuries of oppression, at the feet of the Brits.

Oh sure, there were still critics.  Some were aghast that the lead character was played by a Brit/Welshman, Tom Weston-Jones.  Others objected to the show’s depictions of the Irish.

As I noted in a column last summer, a sign hanging in the window of the Old Town bar on East 18th Street read, “As usual, BBC depicts the New York Irish as a collection of tramps, idlers and thieves.”

Nevertheless, the (flawed) hero of the show was an Irish immigrant, even if his accent tended to shift like the breeze off of the Atlantic in downtown Manhattan, not far from the Five Points neighborhood where the show was set.

If you want to tell the story of the Famine Irish without confronting crime and drink, well, good luck with that.

Meanwhile, though Tammany corruption was central to the show (especially in the just-completed season two), the most corrupt characters on the show were native-born Americans, many of whom were clearly anti-Irish and anti-Catholic.

Ultimately, Copper was a solid drama.  It never rose to the elite heights of cable drama occupied by the likes of Breaking Bad and Mad Men.  Copper tended to lack the psychological depth and complexity which made these shows so compelling.

That all being said, Copper was a damn fine show.  And an important one.

As we continue to stumble our way through immigration reform, too many people still believe America has only had to confront issues of immigration and assimilation since around 1960 or so.
Copper challenged that misconception.  TV generally shies away from dense, complicated, historical realism.  Bravo to Copper for informing, as well as entertaining.

Copper boldly drew comparisons between our past and present, and contained important lessons for people who consider themselves both liberal and conservative on the issue of immigration.

Here’s what liberals could learn from Copper — the Irish were discriminated against, probably much more virulently than anything today’s immigrants face.  And religion was central to their ability to lift themselves up from abject poverty.

Here’s what conservatives could learn from Copper — government (even when it’s as corrupt as Tammany) can help those in need.

Furthermore, if rural Irish Catholics could (eventually) assimilate in 19th century New York, then today’s immigrants will probably have no problem doing the same.

Copper also helped undermine misconceptions peddled by smart folks who should know better.
Michael Barone, a fellow at the American Enterprise Institute, has a new book out this week called Shaping Our Nation: How Surges of Migration Transformed America and Its Politics (Crown Forum).

Barone has some interesting insights on the Irish.  But then he offers this up.

“The Irish also had a knack for politics. They made their way upward in the nascent urban political machines, just as their more verbally skilled men and women made their way upward through the hierarchy of the Catholic Church.”

A “knack”?  As in, it just came naturally?

As Copper made very clear, the Irish turned to politics because they’d had every other door slammed in their face.  And this “knack” for politics was developed only after years of great struggle against nativists.

So, will Copper be missed?  Perhaps not. As Deadline.com reported this week, Copper “may get a second life on the big screen.... (C)o-creator/executive producer Tom Fontana and fellow (producers) Barry Levinson and Tom Kelly are considering a movie version.”

TV is really the ideal forum for a long-form immigrant saga.  But, as the Irish in Copper know all too well, you have to take what you can get.

(Contact “Sidewalks” at tdeignan.blogspot.com)

Here's the trailer for Season 2:

The shocking views Orson Welles had about the Irish

Orson Welles. Source: Google Images

There was a kerfuffle recently in the race to become the next governor of Virginia.  Apparently Democratic candidate Terry McAuliffe – always proud of his Irish roots -- made a joke about how he’d use the persuasive power of drink to prod folks who might disagree with him.

Republican candidate Ken Cuccinelli accused McAuliffe of dabbling in stereotypes.

“Terry McAuliffe insults Irish Americans,” Cuccinelli campaign adviser Chris LaCivita said via Twitter.

You could argue people are being a bit sensitive when it comes to all this.  Because if you really want to hear some nasty things about the Irish, you should book a lunch with legendary filmmaker Orson Welles.

Welles, of course, is dead.  But a new book, My Lunches with Orson, by Henry Jaglom, based on taped conversations, presents Welles’ views on anything and everything.

And boy, did this talented gasbag have a lot to say about the Irish.

Considering that Ireland played a central role in young Orson’s formation, perhaps it would have been better if the Citizen Kane director and famed shill for Paul Masson wine had just politely said, “Thank you.”

Famed actor Spencer Tracy? Welles dismissed him as “one of those bitchy Irishmen.”

Another time Welles added, “Look, I love Ireland, I love Irish literature, I love everything they do.  But the Irish Americans have invented an imitation Ireland which is unspeakable. The wearin’ o’ the green. Oh my God! To vomit!”

Irish Americans, he said, were “a new and terrible race.”

And if there are Irish-born folks out there feeling all superior to Irish Americans, well, Welles had some nasty things to say about you too.
His sociological take on Ireland amounted to an impoverished land in which the women were sexually frustrated and the men simply liked to slug it out.

“It was a culture,” said Welles, “where nobody got married until they were 35 because they were always dreaming of emigrating, and they didn’t want to be stuck with the kids, financially. So all these poor virgin ladies sat around waiting to get married, and the guys are all swinging at each other, reverting to the bestiality of the male.”

And guess who was always there to entertain these frustrated Irish lasses?  You guessed it, suave old Orson.

“I could hardly draw a breath when I visited the Aran Islands,” Welles said. “And these great, marvelous girls in their white petticoats, they’d grab me. Off the petticoats would go. It was as close to male rape as you could imagine.”

Welles even claimed that the women then ran to their local priests to confess.

“I had another confession this morning. When are you leaving?” an exasperated priest once supposedly said to Welles.  “He was protecting the virtue of his flock,” Welles added.

Overall, centuries of colonialism and repression left the Irish with a “passive meanness and cunning,” said Welles.

How did Welles come to, uh, learn so much about Ireland?

He was actually taken there at the ripe old age of 16, with his mind set on becoming a painter.  Never lacking confidence, Welles liked to say he swiftly duped the directors of Dublin’s Gate Theatre into believing he was actually a seasoned American actor.

Welles is also said to have later wooed Wicklow-born Hollywood star Geraldine Fitzgerald, and even fathered her child, Michael Lindsay-Hogg.

One of Welles’ biographers even thinks that Ireland was so important to Welles that he proposed making it the inspiration for Citizen Kane, if a movie were ever to be made about Welles’ life.

“On the wild west coast of Ireland, (Welles) meets a glorious Irish girl -- his first true love,” David Thomson once wrote. “He is tempted to stay there, and she is likely pregnant. But she urges him to continue with his travels -- be all he can be. If there is a child, she says, she will name it Rosebud, after his pretty mouth.”

Thomson further describes the imaginary movie, “(T)he Irish love affair should hang over the whole thing -- along with the notion that he may have left a child there. I think there could even be a return to Ireland, in an attempt to find them -- but the girl has vanished, and thus the sense of loss inspires him in coming towards Citizen Kane and its theme of lost childhood.”

All I can say, Orson, is: “You’re welcome.”

(Contact “Sidewalks” at tdeignan.blogspot.com)

Writing about the contemporary Catholic Church the right way

Archbishop Diarmuid Martin. Source: Politicsdaily.com

J.F. Powers is often referred to -- if anyone still refers to him, that is -- as a “Catholic writer.”

This is understandable.  His short stories, as well as his highly-praised novels Wheat that Springeth Green (1988) and Morte D’Urban (which won 1963’s National Book Award, are about priests as well as the rewards and challenges of a spiritual life.

But there is much more to Powers’ Catholicism than his meticulous descriptions of parish life in the Midwest.

Powers, whose grandfather came to the U.S. from Waterford, refused to serve in the American military during World War II and spent over a year in prison.

Powers had been drawn to a strain of pacifist Catholicism known as “Detachment.”  He “approved of...its criticism of American materialism and militarism, and its rebuke to complacent middle-class Catholics, who, for all their manifest religiosity, put ‘business sense’ first,” writes Katherine A. Powers (J.F.’s daughter) in a new book called Suitable Accommodations: An Autobiographical Story of Family Life: The Letters of J.F. Powers, 1942-1963.

I thought of Powers when I read that Irish Archbishop Diarmuid Martin leveled some criticism at Catholic writers last weekend at a conference in Kilkenny.

Martin was more concerned with what he called the "growing tendency" towards “tabloidism” in sectors of the Catholic media.

Still, such criticism does raise broader, important questions about what -- if anything -- it means to be a Catholic writer in the 21st century.

Lord knows it’s a good time if you love reading writers who explore Catholic life.  The great Alice McDermott has a new novel out entitled Someone. From Colum McCann and Colm Toibin to Junot Diaz, there are some great Catholic reads out there.

But such a diverse array of writers makes it tempting to say that there really is no point identifying what it is that makes a writer Catholic, since their styles and attitudes vary so widely.

But that’s a bit of a cop out.  To be raised Catholic and write about Catholicism means you are standing up and saying something about the church.  And it need not always be positive.

Nor, however, should a Catholic writer be relentlessly negative, a tempting apple most of us have sampled from time to time.

Consider the great Chicago Irish American writer James T. Farrell.  He is arguably the greatest chronicler of pre-World War II Irish America, particularly in his mammoth Studs Lonigan trilogy.

Too often, however, Farrell (who renounced his own faith) depicts the world of Catholicism as so oppressive and grim that it sometimes undermines his powerful observations.

The best Catholic writers understand that the church and its people and traditions should be explored with subtlety and mystery.

Are there times and issues that demand sharp criticism?  Of course.

As the editor of the Irish Catholic newspaper Michael Kelly told the Irish Independent, "I think many church leaders struggle to understand the role of an independent Catholic press –- loyal to the church while unafraid to point out and highlight what is wrong."

I would add that -- even in the wake of the sex abuse horrors and the insistence that women remain second class citizens within the church hierarchy -- the Catholic Church can remain inspiring for independent-minded writers in the 21st century.

First and foremost, though often offered up as a pillar of conformity, the church, in many ways, remains a countercultural institution.

Let’s return to J.F. Powers.  You may not agree with his pacifism -- in fact, mainstream church leaders didn’t.  Nevertheless, the strength of his convictions is admirable.

More broadly, then and now, it is hard to find voices in America arguing that in the rush to collect material goodies, something deep and profound is lost.  As breathtaking narcissism becomes increasingly normal, how many institutions remain deeply committed to others, to uplifting the down and out?
The church’s own leaders often make it difficult to concentrate on this aspect of the church’s mission.

Perhaps it’s up to the writers to spread the word.

(Contact “Sidewalks” at tdeignan.blogspot.com)