Some of you asked about the homily I presented at Heather and Mark O'Malley-Malovos' wedding.

Here it is:
Mark and Heather selected Saint Paul’s famous exposition on love as one of their readings for today. The thesis of that passage is fairly obvious: when you really get down to it, all that’s left after we get past all the fighting, striving, and posing, is faith, hope, and love, and of those three, the greatest is love.

This is what I like about weddings. They give us all a chance to think about what really keeps the world going. It’s not the stock-markets, or political agendas, or technological innovations that make the world a livable place; it’s faith, hope, and love. Here, this evening, whether you’re single, married, or divorced, whether your single looking to get married, or married looking to get single, or divorced vowing never to marry again, or happily married, or happily single, you can see that what brings us here today is a celebration of faith, hope, and love.

Mark and Heather are committing their lives to each other today because they have faith. Marriage is an affirmation of the fact that for all the evil and struggle in the world, there is a goodness that pervades it. Marriage affirms that we are part of the great Mystery of life and that we are all part of an unbounded network of relationships that brings life and joy to this planet. Religious people call this Mystery, “God,” and see in this unbounded network of relationships God’s hand at work. So Mark and Heather’s vows today remind us all that we have faith: faith in ourselves, in our families, in our friends, and in God.

At weddings we also celebrate hope. Life is hard, but here, today, for this moment, celebrating with Mark and Heather, we are reminded of hope. Marriage vows remind us of the contingency of life: “in sickness and health,” “for richer or poorer,” and the very vague, but comprehensive, “for better or worse.” But in spite of all these contingencies, in beautiful defiance of life’s precarious nature, Mark and Heather are pledging themselves to each other, until death parts them. Weddings are truly moments of pure hope.

But, of course, weddings are also about love. The text Mark and Heather chose doesn’t emphasize the passionate, erotic side of love as much as it emphasizes its devoted, sacrificial side. It emphasizes that side of love that is patient, kind, gentle, and forgiving. It tells us that what sustains us in life, through all of its challenges and changes, is love. This is why it’s the most important of these three virtues. Love hopes all things, believes all things, and endures all things. The greatest thing in all the world is love.

So, Mark and Heather, here is the part of the wedding ceremony where I’m supposed to give a “charge” to the bride and groom. I’m supposed to give you some advice, maybe even, secrets, that will guide you to a happy and healthy marriage. But marriage, because it is, perhaps, the deepest of human relationships, is also, perhaps, the most complicated.

I was thinking about all of this on Monday, the day before my thirteenth wedding anniversary. I came home late that night and found my wife already asleep in bed. I popped open a beer and sat next to her, my gaze tracing those familiar, yet somehow still-strange curves and lines of her body, and I wondered what it had meant for me to become, in the words of today’s second reading, “one flesh” with this woman. I realized that when I first took my wedding vows, thirteen years ago, I really had no idea what I was doing, but I was full of faith, hope and love, and that was more than enough to get me up the aisle. When we made those vows we didn’t know what would lie ahead—the dreams we would sacrifice, the financial challenges we would confront, and the sickness and death we would face together—and we still don’t know what lies ahead, but, watching her lying there--her chest rising and falling, her legs curled up underneath her, this woman who had grown closer to me than I would have thought humanly possible just thirteen years ago—I realized that I had found love.

But I don’t think I’ve learned any secrets or techniques that can lead to a happy, healthy marriage. What I have learned is that every day we are given dozens of choices, and everything, and I do mean everything, depends on making the same choice you are making today: the choice to love, the choice to hope, the choice to have faith in another and the choice to be faithful, the choice to say, “as long as I breathe, no matter what you are going through, you will never be alone.” So all I have to say about marriage, or about life for that matter, is that choosing love is all we can do.

This week a lot of important people did a lot of important things: they bought new homes, found new jobs, and set off on dream vacations. Fortunes were risked, corporate mergers negotiated, wars waged and peace plans proposed. People tried to get ten minutes with Donald Trump, to pitch a screenplay to Harvey Weinstein, and to find new treatments for cancer. But, Mark and Heather, nothing anyone did this week was more important than what you are doing here this evening: choosing to love, because when it’s all said and done, when every empire has fallen, every stock-market crashed, and every masterpiece faded, all that will remain will be faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is, without a doubt, love.

Is a Cigar Just a Cigar?
Today I told my Humanities Core students my secret to idea-generating success: smoking cheap cigars. What I didn’t tell them is that it’s been long time since I’ve smoked a cigar, and I take this lengthy hiatus from stench and social rejection to be symptomatic of a deeper loss of spirit.

This would strike my Plymouth Brethren forbearers as quite odd. Smoking was the second worst thing they could imagine a person doing. Drinking, of course, would be the worst. Having sex would, of course, be the third worst. To smoke a cigarette would be tantamount to admitting that you were not one of God’s elect; i.e., that you were going straight to hell. (You can see this attitude in the story about Bob Jones, founder of Bob Jones University, who, after returning from a trip to England where he had met with C.S. Lewis, supposedly quipped, “well, he drinks and smokes, but I guess he’s a Christian.) So how did those foul things find their way to my lips, the same lips that praised Jesus and kissed my mother?

I was introduced to cigars while a student at Northern Arizona University. No, my fraternity brothers did not get me started on the brown-wrappered chimneys. I went to college in the 80’s when cocaine and casual sex were the rage in all the fraternities and there was no time for cigars, what with all the cocaine-snorting Tri-Delts running around.

I was introduced to cigars by my Campus Crusade for Christ brothers. “Garship,” they called it: a term formed by combining elements of “cigar” and “fellowship.” Apparently, all the Campus Crusade guys in the southwestern states regularly smoked cigars when they got together. This was revealed to me only in my senior year when I was rooming with Dave, our single Campus Crusade staff guy who happened to be from Colorado, home of Garship. Dave and I were living in a “mobile home” by the railroad tracks and we decided to host a “Men’s Night” for the guys in our local Campus Crusade group. This night would feature poker, played for beans, literally, and Garship. NO GIRLS ALLOWED.

I’ll have to admit this really tested my limits. I was now breaking two of the most important rules of my religion. Want to know what was fourth on the list of horrible, terrible, soul-damning sins in my family? You guessed it: card-playing. The worst whipping of my childhood was savagely delivered to me after I agreed to play Old Maid with some kids from school.

It was brutal, but that whipping saved my soul, at least until I got to college and got involved with those Campus Crusade “liberals” and started smoking and playing cards. But I couldn’t resist them. No, I don’t mean the cards and the cigars. I couldn’t resist those guys. They were change-the-world-go-hard-or-go-home-fun-loving-but-Bible-thumping-men. They still believed in God above, the Devil below, Heaven waiting for us and Hell waiting for them--you know, all the important stuff--but they also embraced life.

That was just the transition I needed. And you know what? I liked cigars. I liked them. The sharp, but somehow sweet taste, the smoke stinging your nose, throat, and eyes, and that subtle little buzz, all combine to make it an experience like no other. I was smoking cigars way before it was hip. I was doing it when it was disgusting—i.e., before the Governor of California had special cigar-smoking area on the patio outside his office—and I’ll still do it after the fashion fades (completely).

And I think Brecht was right: smoking does improve concentration. But cigars, because you can’t, or at least shouldn’t, chain smoke them, and because they don’t have the same addictive properties as cigarettes, seem a little safer, at least if you only smoke a ten or so a year. (You can mock me when I get throat cancer.) Smoking cigars helped me relax and think those thoughts you usually can’t think because you’re running around, or the radio is on, or the project has to be done yesterday.

Even after I got married, and my wife told me she would not kiss me if she could taste any tobacco in my mouth, I would still smoke at least two cigars a year: one the day before my birthday and the other when visiting my friend, Dave Stephens (not the Campus Crusade guy). I would smoke one on my birthday as a kind of reflective ritual. I would go off by myself and smoke a stogy, and think about where the last year has taken me. (I gave this up five years ago because my life has become so thoroughly depressing that I can’t bear to think about it. Socrates, with his unexamined life thing, was full of shit. I’m guessing he never had to examine a life as crappy as mine.)

My friend Dave and I, whom I would meet in Phoenix every year around Christmastime, would go off and smoke a cigar together as a kind of bonding ritual—probably an-at-some-level-at-least-misogynistic ritual. But this came to an end when his wife, an otherwise charming woman, but kibosh on it (for religious, not feminist reasons).

So now I’m on my own and I haven’t been smoking cigars much at all. It’s been two years since I’ve smoked one, but I bought a pack of cheap--and I do mean cheap and nasty--Swisher Sweets Perfectos a few days ago. Why now?

Well, first of all, I think I’ve reached that point in my marriage where I realize most of the good sex is behind me. Oh, my wife still loves me, but we’ve got four kids, two of which are in diapers, and one of those is nursing, and, well, there is not a lot of energy for Daddy right now. Plus, let’s face it, I’m not the sexy guy she married. I’m balding, a bit swollen, and, well, a loser. I’m not conquering any worlds. I will not be famous, or get an endowed chair, or change the world. My confidence has been replaced by self-loathing, and, apparently, that’s not sexy. So why not smoke a cigar? At least I can enjoy some rich symbolic (phallic) displacement . . . you know, make myself feel like a man again.

But I don’t plan on letting myself go completely, do I? I don’t think so. I’ll still try to dress decently . . . most of the time. And I’m not going to get fat. I couldn’t stand that. I can’t stand the way all my neighbors just let those bellies of theirs grow and grow. I mean they don’t even seem to care that they can rest their beers on their stomachs. I don’t think that’s why they’re called beer-bellies.

No, the Perfectos in my dresser are not a sign of my further deterioration. No, but their long absence from my life may be a symptom of the shallow state of my soul. I’ve been working so hard these last five years. I work all the time. All the poetry, song, and silence have been forced out of my life. (Do you know how hard it is to make $90,000 every year when you have no talent, skills, or abilities? No? Well take my word for it: it’s pretty fucking hard.) I need to find my groove. I need to find my soul again, and I think a cigar might help.

Here’s my plan. In about ten minutes I will go in and watch an episode of “Sex and the City” with my wife. (We love that show.) When it’s over, I will kiss her “goodnight” with my clean, tobacco-free mouth, and I’ll go outside with my nasty stogy in one hand, and a beer, an ultra-light beer (a Michelob, apparently the “Queen of Carbs” to Budweiser), in the other, and Sylvia Plath under my arm, and I with each puff I will try to draw in a bit of my soul back inside my body.

Surfer Diary:

11:00 a.m. 2-4 footers at Scotchman's. Lots of fun. A small, active, but relatively friendly crowd. The sun was out, the waves were clean, and the water is warming up.

Superfun. My kind of day . . . no need to risk my life.

Surfer Diary:

8:00 a.m. Scotchman's-- lots of sloppy 2-3 footers with some 4-6 ft sets rolling in. I forgot to grab a new leash, so lots of perfect duck-diving required today. The wind was putting a lot of texture on the waves, but it wasn't blown out. I spent twenty-minutes doing laps on three-footers, going right and left, until I decided to wait for a real set.

Sitting there waiting my mind kept flashing images of those sharks they've been spotting off of Will Rogers State Beach. I comfort myself with the thought that the sharks probably hate bumping into the reef just as much as I do and so they probably stay well outside, if not in the channel, at least on the deeper parts of the shelf.

A "real" set comes in and I paddle for the horizon. I scratch my way over three head-high waves and then turn around for the fourth . . . I wimp out and pull back at the last minute . . . I suck.

Then I sit on my board and scan the horizon. A ten-foot fountain of spray breaks the surface just thirty yards from me. I watch as two humpback whales lumber past me. I've never been this close to them before. This also seems to trouble my thesis about the reef protecting me from those eight-foot gentlemen in gray-flannel suits. A big tail breaks the surface. It doesn't even look real. Pretty cool.

Why Do I Support Howard Stern?
Protecting Howard Stern’s right to interview strippers and discuss flatulence may not seem like an important political project, but it is. The Bush Administration's attempt to fine and otherwise harass Stern constitutes a serious threat to our democracy.

First of all, it is impossible to give a clear definition of “indecency.” We can provide lists of “dirty” words (a rather lame and provincial solution that just leads broadcasters to say “f” and “c-sucker” and to partially “bleep” words in songs), but that doesn’t seem to satisfy the Speech Police. They claim to want to restrict all “indecent” speech, but I defy them to clarify their position in a way that would censor Howard Stern while still allowing for a free-exchange of ideas on topics related to health, sex, and relationships.

Besides, why should we censor Howard Stern? The argument is that we need to protect children, but isn’t that the job of parents? Furthermore, do we really need to protect children from public speech? Michael Powell wants to protect them from words (or in Stern’s case, words and sound effects), but do we really need to protect children from speech, or should we give them the critical skills they need to analyze, evaluate, and respond to what they hear, including the dribble, half-truths, and all-out lies for which the Bush Administration itself is now famous? As a parent, I choose to monitor what my children view on television and listen to on the radio, but I also choose to engage them in serious discussions about what they see and hear. Janet Jackson’s so-called “wardrobe malfunction” gave me an opportunity to discuss with my two oldest children (ages 8 & 11) the role of nudity in artistic expression. (They’ve also seen this same issue discussed in a very good episode on “The Simpsons.”)

But the central issue in Stern’s case is that we can never know the real reason why the FCC is persecuting him. There is no doubt that the pursuit of Stern represents an example of selective enforcement. Not only are our public airways filled with Stern imitators, but many radio and television programs (on PBS, Oprah, Nightline, etc.) are “guilty” of the same infractions for which Stern is being fined. This tends to bolster his claim (see www.howardstern.com) that he was fired from six Clear-Channel stations because he withdrew his support for President Bush and began voicing his support for Kerry (eventually). Stern claims Clear Channel President Lowry Mays’ close relationship with George W. Bush was behind the decision, and I think he's right.

Certainly a media organization has the right to fire its talent . . . for any reason, but the problem is that we cannot know why Stern was fired. If he was fired because of his political views, might Stern's political views also explain Michael Powell’s decision to pursue Stern and ignore other offenders (like Oprah)? Perhaps, and that is the problem. The vague nature of “indecency” definitions, the selective enforcement of these vague policies, and the chilling effect of the fines levied by the FCC (and proposed by new legislation) represent a serious challenge to free speech.

Sure, Stern is a comic and he may seem frivolous, but these days, the only mainstream media opposition to the Bush administration is coming from comedians. If we begin targeting them for indecency we will be silencing an important voice of dissent. This is waht the Bush Administration wants--to silence dissent--and their persecution of Stern illustrates the disturbing totalitarian impulse of this regime. One of the first acts of the Nazis was to purge the country of “degenerate art.” This was a first step on their journey to silence dissent. If “indecent media” is silenced by the Bush Administration, where will their second step take them?

Surfer Journal: 8:00 a.m. Surfed Scotchman's. Lot's of 2-3 ft. with occassional 4+ set. The high tide made the set waves jack on the inside.

My leash broke on the first set-wave of the day, leaving me with a long soupy swim. Other than that . . . lots of high-tide, quick-footed fun.