Dog Theology, part 9: Missy

It's been far too long since I last visted the subject of Dog Theology. So, please allow me room to ramble as I try to once again connect our furry friends with with our ontological perceptions. If you're unfamiliar with this branch of theology, click the link and get up to speed.

I visited with an elderly gentleman the other day. His wife died about 7 years ago, and ever since it has just been he and Missy. Missy is his 15 year old beagle. He takes care of Missy, and Missy takes care of him.

As he spoke about his departed bride, I could see in his eyes that he daily lived with the grief of losing her. In his lonely words, I could hear the ways in which typical household tasks reminded him of her absence. One of the remaining loves in his life was Missy. She was his pal. Everything they did, they did together. Back when he could still drive, when he went somewhere, so did Missy. She rode in the passenger seat looking out the window. She especially loved days it was snowing. At the grocery store, she rode in the cart inspecting for quality assurance purposes each item he placed in the buggy.

Missy's bedtime was always at 8:30. And she would let him know. She'd leave him and go try and lie down for sleep, but find herself unable to sleep without her evening cleaning. So, it wouldn't be long before she would trot back into the living room to get her master's attention. Each night, he warms a wet wash cloth and dabbed Missy's eyes. He rubbed her face and wiped down her coat to remove the day's dirt. Missy had to have her nightly bath, you know. She holds out her paws to have them inspected and wags her tail really fast when she's clean.

She curls up in her bed each night. But, before she can sleep, her daddy folds up a special little blue blanket beside her bed. On this blanket Missy rests her head, finally ready and able to nod off to sleep. The blue blanket belonged to Missy's mom, his late wife.

In theological language, you'll often hear talk of the Incarnation. Referring to Jesus, the incarnation is when God became a man, came in the flesh, or as one author said it, "put skin on to show us what love looks like." But in incarnational theology, incarnation happens in other ways as well. As we live out, or enact the compassion that Jesus talked about, we are incarnating God. Giving a meal to someone who doesn't have one is incarnating God. Providing a healing touch, by surgeon or therapist, is enacting God's justice. And, staving away loneliness, like Job's friends when they quietly sat with him, or like a little beagle who is a faithful companion, incarnates the reality of God's presence.

I keep a picture of my dogs at my desk. When I look at those two puppies, I think about how happy they always are to see me. I know that I am loved. I smile. My theology has come to a place where I no longer hear the judgmental or condemning voices of my childhood theology (you are a sinner! you must accept God's forgiveness or else!). Rather, I hear the accepting voice of God coming through loud and clear, "You are loved. I delight in you, as in all people, Christian or Muslim or Atheist, no matter what."

There's a remarkable similarity in the peacefulness I get from thinking about being loved by my dogs and being love by God. I think of the man I visited, who undoubtedly experiences God's love and acceptance as Missy incarnates that love.

If even dogs can be bearers of God's love, surely we can too.

Finding Our Way Again, by Brian McLaren

I think by the fact that this is the 3rd McLaren book I've read in a short amount of time you are beginning to see that I like this author. Finding Our Way Again: A Return of the Ancient Practices is the introduction to a series of books on the Ancient Practices of spirituality. Following this book, there will be a book (written by different authors) on each practice: fixed hour prayer, fasting, Sabbath, the sacred meal, pilgrimage, observance of sacred seasons, and giving.

I got this book for free from BookSneeze.com on a promise that I would write a review on it. Honestly, I wasn't too thrilled by the thought of reading a whole book which is supposed to be an introduction. However, my apprehension was quickly turned to enjoyment as I ruffled through these pages more quickly than the author intended.

McLaren's basic motive in Finding Our Way Again is to re-introduce, re-orient, and re-energize readers toward the idea of ancient spiritual practices. These practices are not about ascribing more rigidly to a religious code, doctrine or philisophical camp. And they're not about just praying harder and longer so you'll feel closer to God. According to McLaren, they're about reconnecting with life, waking up daily with a freshness that inclines us toward life rather than a dullness that struggles not to be completely drained by the day's tasks.

He writes, "Spiritual practices are pretty earthy, and they're not strictly about spirituality as it is often defined; they're about humanity." He also emphasizes the idea that spiritual practices help to grow us into the people we're going to be; "What kind of person will you become in the math and aftermath of all the fecality life slings at you between diapers and Depends?...Our bodies grow fatter, we're all on diets, and our souls, meanwhile, go wispy and anorexic." Spiritual practices are like food for our souls. Or, if you don't prefer spiritual-like language (e.g. "soul"), these practices are meant to feed our human parts.

In advocating for spiritual awareness and practicing, the author states early and often that the last thing he aims to do is to tack on spiritual practices to a person's ever growing to-do list. Instead of trying to remember to pray or fast, or making time on the calendar to observe sacred seasons, he offers spirituality as a way of life rather than a code of religious arms or a set of theological propositions.

I'm summarzing, but McLaren submits a new idea for how to view Christianity. When one joins Weight Watchers in order to lose weight and improve health, the mantra is that this is not a diet, it's a different way of life. Similarly, McLaren suggests that we view Christianity as a way of life rather than a set of beliefs. This has profound implications when we chew on it. If you ask many Christians what is required to be called a 'Christian,' they will respond with, "A Christian is someone who beleives that Jesus is the son of God and died on the cross in order to satisfy the blood debt for our sins." With this as the only requirement of Christianity, McLaren laments that some people are Christians who do not follow Jesus, and some people follow Jesus who are not Christians. His point: Christianity (to be a 'little Christ') should be seen as a way of life that strives to follow and live like Jesus.

However, I'm digressing from the main theme of this book, which is, practicing the presence of God. Practicing is emphasized as well, "Practices are not for know-it-alls. Practices are for those who feel the need for change, growth, development, learning. Practices are for disciples." And that's his point. Once a person has stopped growing and changing and learning, she has become static, stagnant, she begins to rot, dry out, fester and ultimately move against God's intended flow of life.

The writting is typical of Brian McLaren: informal, anecdotal, smooth and to the point. Each chapter ends with a set of spiritual exercises. And generally, when books end with little sections of what-to-do-nows or how-to-go-deeper, they're typically poorly thought out and uninteresting. However, as I read over the suggested exercises (though I admit I didn't try a one of them) I thought that they were well thought out and would be very helpful if chapters were taken one at a time, say, in a group setting.

The closing message: keep practicing and developing your faith and serving those around you. If you claim no faith, then keep practicing that which feeds your human parts, gives energy to your innards, inspires you toward the good of humanity.

Valentine's Day

If you've read my blog for very long you know that being a hospital chaplain is a very unique kind of job. It's unique because 99% of what chaplains do is intangible, unquantifiable and almost always unseen by all save those we are serving. This last part is probably why most people don't actually know what chaplains are up to.

This post is yet another attempt to demonstrate just how one-of-a-kind this job can be. As I visited a number patients throughout my day, the fact that today is Valentine's Day was brought up more than once. I encountered a number of couples in the hospital. A husband in the patient bed with his wife by his side looking a little brighter than usual as she did her best to be festive in an unusual place. I met a patient with her husband at the bedside, both looking a little dull as their V-day plans had been cancelled due to a midnight run to the ER and subsequent stay in Cardiovascular Recovery Unit.

These kinds of visits are within the bounds of what I might call normal, even though each room I step into contains a different person with a whole new life story. But on to the reason for this post. I had a very interesting hour this evening, during which I had three very different encounters.

5:45pm - I was called to the ER to speak with a lady who had requested the chaplain. Upon arrival, I notice she's wearing the hospital gown as a shirt, regular pants and huge black combat-like snow boots. I greet her gently and inquire as to what is on her mind. She looks at me suspiciously. "I just can't....and..th....these people....," she mutters to me or to nobody. She's lying on the bed, I sit next to her and ask what happened that she wound up in the ER. Silence. I maintain eye contact. Nothing. She looks away and then back at me. This time she has a suspiciously defensive and apprehensive look on her face. I am perplexed.

All of the sudden she convulses. Her arms and feet jet into the air, and I braced for impact as I expected her boot to connect with my face. My adrenaline kicked in, and I remember getting that hair raising defensive feeling like my dog when the fur on her back and tail suddenly stand up. She blurts out, "Oh, hell, you know what's wrong and cain't do sh#* 'bout it! I don't think so!"As she's talking she's quickly getting to her feet, as am I, and begins pacing around the room. Her words become hostile, and more explicit, toward my inability to solve her problem, and I don't even know what it is yet. "I can't get it out," she says through her grinding teeth and she shoots me warning glances with her head down and squinted eyes looking past raised eyebrows. "It feels like my insides are gonna just burst out," she says again, this time walking out of the room and into the hallway. I keep my distance as I half expected her to slap me one of the times she paced back and forth past me.

It turns out, she had taken methamphetamines which induced psychosis in her. And this isn't her first trip to the ER for this. She felt possessed (though she didn't use that word) and wanted me, a minister (she thought I was a priest), to exorcise (also not her word) it out of her. In the mean time, I'll be honest, I was scared. Eventually, she became almost livid with me and wanted me gone; however, she did kindly ask that I get a real priest. I said I would and got the h#!! out of there.

6:05 - "The family in room 928 wants to speak with you," said the nurse on the phone. I make my way to the palliative care (where people prepare to die) wing and enter a room with dimmed lights and three large people in tears. The patient is unconscious on the bed and slowly breathing. Three adult children were gathered around their mother's death bed (literally) holding vigil, counting her inhales and exhales until the ceased.

One son, holding he hand tightly looked up at me, "Was wondering if you could say a prayer for us? Sometimes it's hard to us to..." Before praying we talked a bit about their mom, the kind of ornery lady, tender-hearted and goal oriented person she was. It was very sweet. I prayed, doing my best to voice to God what I'd heard them say and what I witnessed in the room. (For some reason, when I sense that people are crying more during my prayers, I want to pray longer, to make them cry more. But it feels like I'm hitting the right spot when I make them cry. Is that wrong?)

Afterwards (or should I say, afterwords), I quietly exited, thanking them for letting me be there and share in their grief. They seemed appreciative and heartfelt as they greeted me goodbye.

6:30pm - My wife sends me a txt msg of one word, "Here." I walked up to the front entrance of the hospital to greet her as she carried in a bag of food from TGI Friday's (recommended as one of Anchorage's best restaurants). Dinner time. Today, she worked the day shift, and I am working the night. No time for V-day celebrating, so she was bringing me dinner. What a nice surprise. We walked down the stairs to the cafeteria (a most romantic setting) and she asked, "Where would you like to sit?" I gestured toward a single table standing out as the only one with two pink roses set up in a vase and suggested we sit there. She found a small note in the flowers written to her from her valentine (who purchased roses in the hospital gift shop). We had a lovely dinner date together, talking about our days and how lovely they'd been.

It was during dinner that I realized what a weird last hour I'd had. It began with a psychotic woman angry with me for not exorcising the bad stuff out of her. I spent time with a broken family saddened over the immanent passing of their momma. And I ended it sharing a delightful meal with the love of my life sitting at a dirty table and walking on grease covered flooring. I couldn't have been happier.

Happy Valentine's Day!

BIRTHDAY!

I know it has been almost two weeks since my actual birthday (Jan. 30), but here are some cool pictures of what we did.

Heather arranged for a guide to take us Nordic (cross-country) skiing. The guide was necessary since we've never done this before. She told me on my birthday, but I had to wait all week befor our trek.

We drove down to Girdwood, AK, which is also where Alyeska Ski Mountain is located. Girdwood has a large and intricate trail system where people do all kinds of things, skiing, walking dogs, snow-mobiling, snow-shoeing, hiking, etc.

For about 16 years I've been a downhill skier. And I must say, I'm not bad. I was never formally trained, but my family often took trips to nearby ski mountains which was training enough. I can ski down double black diamonds, moguls and do some nearly fancy jumps. So, you have to understand how perplexed I was when, after not 5 minutes on the cross-country skis, I was on my back with legs and arms flailing like a flipped turtle. We hadn't even gone down a hill. Just over a little bumpy thingy and, whfoo-bam, Nathan goes down! It was the first of three glorious close encounters with the ground.

Heather got all too much enjoyment out of seeing me prostrated on the ground, humbled and in painful respect for this new sport.

The guide took us out for about 3.5 hours. We went on groomed trails, then off trail in some meadows, then into the woods. He said this was extreme nordic skiing, because we were going up hills, across thin ice (where Heather's ski went in the water), and at one point we had to take them off and hike.

It was a blast, and the scenery was serenely beautiful and calming. It won't be our last time doing nordic skiing, that's for sure. I had to chuckle at one point when Heather asked our guide (because we were in the woods) if he was packin', and he just smirked and said, "Well..."

 Hope you enjoy the pics. Adios!

A New Kind of Christian, by Brian McLaren

It was during my earlier years in seminary when I remember hearing one of the more seasoned students remark something like this: "If I hear one more professor go off on Postmodernism I think I'm gonne lose it."

I had only recently been introduced to the concept and term of "Postmodernism," but apparently this guy had had too much. I would not recommend he read Brian McLaren's first novel, A New Kind of Christian, because this book is a treatise, packaged in fictional form, on modernity, post-modernity and how the Christian story is wiggling through from one to the other.

In one sense, this book is, like the subtitle says, a tale of two friends on a spiritual journey. However, that is hardly what the book is about. The story line of the protagonist, Dan, and his new found friend Neo, is by itself rather dull. Here's the plot line: Dan, a burnt out pastor considering leaving the church and teaching high school, finds a friend and inspiring mentor in Neo, a wise theologian in disguise, Ph, D., and high school science teacher. Neo and Dan strike up an ongoing theological discussion which takes place over coffee, walks in the woods, at soccer games and via email. This conversation not only begins to transform Dan's Modernist theology but also revitalizes his faith, giving him the fuel he needed to stick with his church.

By itslef, that's not very interesting. But like I said, the story, plot line, or fictional part of this book is just the vehicle for McLaren's thoughts on the current, ongoing shift from the modern age to the age of Postmodernism.

Here's a very basic summary. The age of modernity dawned somewhere around, near or between the 16th and 17th centuries. With the innovation of the printing press and the beginnings of industrialism, modernity was born in the wake of the Medeival Period. It came into full swing sometime during or after the Great Awakening. Capitalism, industrialism, and an intellectual culture concerned mostly with facts, data, theses, lists and hard-and-fast categories are all offspring of this phenomenon. Modernity has influenced the church and it's theology far beyond what we might think, and it is to that topic which McLaren dedicates this ~200 book.

McLaren, through his character Neo, gives these 10 descriptors of Modernity:
1. A time of conquest and control
2. An age of the machine
3. An age of analysis
4. The dawning of secular science 
5. An age aspiring to absolute objectivity
6. A critical age
7. A timeo of modern nation-state and organization
8. An age of individualism
9. An age of Protestantism and institutional religion
10. An age of consumerism


A student of history will easily see that these social and cultural characteristic are markedly different than those most dominant in the medieval period. Also, the astute will notice that these descriptors are easily seen swimming in the undercurrent of the river of modern day Christendom. Evangelical Christians often emphasize one's "personal relationship" with God and Jesus. This is highly individualistic thinking which only came about in the last few hundred years; a result of modernity. Similarly, it's not difficult to see others in this list influencing the church: consumerism (churches now must advertise like a business), critical age and analysis (seminarians are taught historic and textual criticism of the Bible), and control (there's a pervasive mindset that churches must regulate and ration theology to their parishioners).

The main character, Dan, is finding himself with thoughts and questions that are now inadequately addressed by Modern thinking. As a pastor, this is causing him a great deal of turmoil. Dan begins asking himself things like, "What if God's main concern for humans is not simply just getting them into heaven? What if having a theology too fixed on getting our passport stamped for heaven is to miss the point Jesus was making when he said, 'The kingdom of God is now'?" Dan and Neo discuss what might be God's attitude toward people of other religions who are earnestly seeking God. They kick around different theories on how to interpret the Bible (completely literally, metaphorically, somewhere in between?).

It is through these discussion that Dan slowly begins to find new life. He still struggles with how to live and preach as, what they have begun to call, A New Kind of Christian, but he finds a way to live out the struggle day by day.

I have to say that, honestly, the early part of the book had me thinking that I might never want to be a pastor. Reading what Dan was dealing with was quite disheartening. But, by the end of the book, like Dan's, even my inclination toward one day trying on the pastor shoes was renewed. Whew! Like I was riding the roller coaster with Dan.

This is the second McLaren book I've read, and I'm already halfway through another of his (look for review soon). However, this one was written about 10 years prior to the first one, and the theology presented in this one compared to his latest (read the review here) is proof that theologians, authors and pastors are all in process. Their writings are results of where they are in their own individual journeys. Of course, McLaren is a gifted and smooth writer. He has a way with illustrative anecdotes that makes his points crystal clear.

I give the book a strong thumbs up. It would be a solid introduction to McLaren as an author, and a way for those who can't stand reading theology to get a little exposure in novel form.

This is the third book I've read on my Nook, and I've learned that I'm going to have to quit reading books on my Nook that I want to write in, underline and make notes. Oh well. 

Connection

This evening, just after my wife and I had finished our spaghetti, watched the end of the 1st Indiana Jones, and before I could even wipe the red spag-sauce off my mouth and out of my beard, there was a subtle knock at my door. Instantly, our doorbell rang. Not the "ding-dong" sound as if had someone pressed the button next to the door handle. No, it was our other doorbell...Dakota, barking and howling! Not really a door "bell," she's more like a door-"gong", loud as crap, annoying and goes on forever.

There were two young men around my age standing ready to meet me as I unlatched and opened up. Each was wearing a black suit, tasteful blue tie and a pressed white shirt underneath, with a shoulder bag casually but carefully slung over their frame. Mormons. I was instantly reminded of a corny joke I once made: "What is the opposite of a Mormon? Give up? A "less-man!" (palming forehead in embarrassment)

Now, a formerly conservative, Baptist minister from the Bible-belt South, where we proudly tote bumper stickers that read, "The Bible says it, I believe it, That settles it," I could possibly be more than a hassle for these two mildly-trained-in-theology yet eager missionaries. Why not, the culture I came up in tells me to greet these two gentlemen with theological hostility, claiming that their beliefs are wacko opposed to mine, which come directly from God of course and are completely right and on target (which is after all, the point?).

However, I was feelings generous. I engaged them slightly, telling them during our conversation I was a minister and chaplain with a less than informed position toward The Church of LDS. Upon hearing I was a chaplain they inquired, "So, are you, then, a religious person?" And I have to say, with all the baggage that now comes with the term "religious," I honestly hate that question. My response, "Something like that."

I am aware of the dangers, as a vocational minister, in promoting the institution of religion over and above all else. Religion is too often used as a way of dividing one another (e.g. What religion are you?), labeling and enhancing differences. Focusing on religion creates in-groups, out-groups, clubs of exclusivity that work against what I see as the gospel.

And this is ironic considering the origin of the word religion. The exact origin is a little unclear; however, one strong possibility is that our word religion comes from the Latin word, ligare, which means "connect or bind." Adding the prefix "re-," it means "to re-connect." At it's core, religion is an attempt to reconnect ourselves, to reconnect with God, reconnect with nature, with ourselves and with other people. Religion is meant to bring us together in communion with the dance of life.

But, back to the Mormons. After the pleasantries, my two friends, like an uncontrollable impulse, had to shove the conversation awkwardly to their canned 20-second presentation of the gospel. And they did everything right. They maintained good eye contact, spoke clearly, spoke from the personal (e.g. "I believe; I've experienced), and they had all the right, pleasant, safe and approved words, which might invite me to ask further questions. They offered me a free copy of The Book of Mormon, opened it to a page they were referencing, showed it to me steadily, and held it out for me to take without pushing it on me. A flawless performance! Bravo, they took their training well.

But, what they didn't take into account is that they were talking to a hospital chaplain. I spend my days, meeting strangers and finding ways to connect personally with them in a relatively short amount of time. This is an art form, at which I humbly confess I am a novice. People are typically very good at spotting facades. If I am disingenuous, patients tend to realize and back away from me in conversation. And when these two fellows began telling me their beliefs, I did just that. Their vocal patterns changed from individual person to mechanically rehearsed sales pitch made to sound falsely sincere. I immediately disconnected from them. This, too, is ironic as they were attempting to share their religion, their reconnection.

I will admit. I have not done any old fashion "faith sharing" in quite some time. This is due partially to a drastic change in my theology and thoughts on evangelism, and partially due to the fact that I just don't think it's that worth while anymore. If you want to know my beliefs, my faith, look at my life, engage me in honest conversation without a secret motive. Befriend me and let's talk about all subjects ranging from basketball, homeless people, God, ping-pong, my deepest fears, favorite foods and my love for my bride. Let's go to restaurants, walks along nature trails, to movies and my apartment. Share as much of yourself as you want from me. Let's laugh together and be sad together. I think you will learn far more about my personal beliefs and theology (and I'll learn about yours), and there will be no question as to what is genuine or scripted. Let's connect, debate, discuss, argue, reconnect and learn to see the world, and learn to see God, through one another's perspective. That is my religion.

Be blessed.

Saying hello, saying goodbye...

I was called to the 8th floor to visit with a patient and his wife. The patient had terminal cancer in his abdomen and there was nothing else the doctors could do to treat. There were no illusions about how this was going to end. Pain management and comfort care was now the highest goal.

As I entered, I noticed the patient, sitting in the bedside chair, covered in cheap hospital blankets hiccuping every second. Like clockwork, he hiccuped and took shallow breaths as he could. His wife sat on the bed edge holding his hand with the resolution of never letting go, as if she were holding her own source of life.

The patient could hardly speak. Somewhere between a whisper and a scratchy growl, his words came out faint and sincere. "I woke up this morning, and said to myself, 'I'm ready to go.'" I sat with them and listened. He expressed no qualms about death. "I'm ready to die. Not tomorrow, not in 10 minutes, now," he said while his wife could hardly keep a dry tissue for all her tears.

He was ready to say "hello" to God.

Turning to her, we discussed how difficult it is for her to be in that room. Watching her husband, suffering from unrelenting torturous hiccups, stomach pain from the cancer, and his body deteriorating, she also expressed that she wouldn't be anywhere else.

They talked about their life together and their journey through medical diagnoses and cancer treatments. She, always by his side, understood his readiness to pass from this life into death but could not ignore her own desire to keep her husband with her just a little longer. "I'm ready for it,....I'm just not ready...you know?" she said to me, with tear-filled eyes shimmering under florescent lights.

She was saying "goodbye."

I sat, and I witnessed this heart breaking and beautiful scene. Both were present with each other and at the same time present with themselves. He was in pain and wanted it to end, the only way left to him was to die. He also hurt in the thought of leaving behind his bride. She was terrified for her husband to be gone from her sight, and yet understood that his only release from suffering would come in the form of death.

It was a tender moment. My heart goes out to them both as they each make this transition, together and separately. One saying, "hello," the other saying, "goodbye."

The Three Muskateers, by Alexander Dumass

I can't help but think of that scene in the movie The Shawshank Redemption between three prison inmates who were sorting books for their new library. Here's, more or less, how it goes:

Red picks up a book and reads the title; it's about crafts and wood working.

"It goes under Educational," put it over there, says Andy.

Haywood, reading the spine of another book, says "The Count....of Monte.....Crrr..isto, by Alexandree........dumbass! Hmmm....Dumbass, what a name?" His friends laugh in the background.

Andy replies, "Dumas (pronounced 'dume-ah'). It's pronounced, Dumas. It's French. You should read it; it's a story about a prison break.

Red quips, "We should file that under Educational too, don't you think?" as they all chuckle together.

After several weeks of labouring through it's old language and French names and expressions, I recently finished reading the famed story by Alexander Dumas, The Three Musketeers.

The Three Musketeers has become part of my cultural formation. It is referenced as one of those stories that everyone has read and carries great fame. The motto, "All for one, and one for all," was part of the rhetoric in which I grew up. People would mention the Three Muskateers in the same way they would reference Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, Eggo Waffles, Hemingway, Martin Luther King, Jr., the Ninja Turtles, the Holocaust, and Hot Pockets. It was one of those things/stories/events/people that everyone seemed to know about and could make reference to without having to explain.

Somehow, I never actually knew the story of The Three Muskateers as a kid, and when I first watched Slumdog Millionaire I felt as if I was the only person in the theater who didn't know the answer to Jamal Malik's million dollar question: "What was the name of the third muskateer?" Well, now I do!

I read this book on my Nook, and it cost only $1 to buy. However, I would recommend paying for the $3 or $4 dollar version, because my version was lacking. It was a very old translation, so the old English took a while to get used to. Occasionally, I wondered if some foreign word was actually just a miss-type by the computer program transferring it from a scanned copy to a digital copy.

The Three Muskateers is the story of D'Artangan, a young Gascon swordsman with plenty courage, ambition and luck. He befriends Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, three respected swordsmen among the muskateers whose purpose is to guard the kind of France. D'artangan wastes no time getting into local trouble as well as trouble with the powers that be, most importantly the Cardinal.

The pages are filled with dozens of sword fights, mysteries, false alliances, political power struggles, love stories and triangles, unbreakable friendships, sadness and sorrow, ethical dilemmas, heart break, and lots of that feel good stuff that happens when you get real attached to characters.

The famed motto, "All for one and one for all," which I grew up hearing and even making reference to myself, was given a much smaller emphasis than I'd anticipated, because it is only ever spoken once by a character. However, the heart of that motto is surely lived out time and time again by our four main characters. When D'Artangan is separated from his friends during a dangerous excursion, he, once all has settled, packs up and goes looking for them. He finds them and gives them whatever money he has so that they may return. And when D'Artangan's heart is broken and his anger raging, mighty Athos tends to him like noble brother offering both council for what to do next and a shoulder to cry upon.

The writing is fairly good. For 549 pages, Dumas keeps the pace of the book moving so that the reader does not get bored. The plot is far more intricate than I would have guessed, with double crosses, closed door conversations and surprises that I didn't see coming. As far as I could tell, Dumas has written a bit of historical fiction, as many of the political figures were actually real as well as one of the great battles covered in the book.

The Three Muskateers is indeed very worthy of a read by just about anyone who cares for a good story. I can see why this book etched its way into the modern day zeitgeist. It promotes selflessness, friendship, true love, and it shows the ugly side of selfish ambition, conceit, and hatred.

I give it a thumbs up.