something that doesn't happen every day

This week my church has been hosting a ministry team from out of town--from Pittsburgh, I think--and they've been leading the congregation in a Holy Spirit revival weekend. Despite being a protestant Christian of a moderately-charismatic persuasion, I tend to be extremely skeptical about anything involving the Holy Spirit. This is the result of (a) the fact that I'm kind of a cerebral person whose bias is to believe that everything that we encounter in our day-to-day can be explained in terms of the non-supernatural, and (b) disappointing experiences I've had in the past when I tried to connect with this enigmatic presence.

It was mostly a sense of obligation that prompted me to sneak into the Sunday night meeting two hours late, after enjoying a pool party in Beverley Hills. I'd told one of the elders in our church that I planned to make it after morning service, and didn't want to let him down. I took a seat in the back, still wearning my sandals and a too-small white v-neck, pleased by how easy it was to slip in more or less unnoticed.

Between songs and praise, our guests would call up members of the congregation to the front and pray over them so all could hear. In these prayers they would give them prophetic words about things God was doing or planned to do in their lives. I've heard these kinds of prophetic words before, and have never been convinced that those who administer them speak with authority or divine insight. I take most prophetic words to be comfy generalities that can apply to most people in some way. After the giving of the words one of the pastors would put their hands on the individuals' forheads, and they would drop to the ground, 'slain in the spirit.'

I wasn't at all convinced, but as I have so often in the past I offered up a short, silent prayer, that went something like 'Lord, if you are in this, if this is real, please affirm your presence by slaying me in the spirit. I dare you to show yourself to me tonight.' Then I sat and absent-mindedly started reading the lettering on the logo T-shirt of the kid in front of me.

Then I looked up and realized that the guest pastor who was leading this time of prophecy was about four feet away, pointing to me and motioning to come with him to the front of the church. 'Yeah, you--you were hard to find all the way here in the back!' Whatever else you want to make of this, I was bewildered right away by what seemed to be an extraordinary coincidence of timing, since I'd issued my challenge to God only 5 or 10 minutes before.

Once we reached the altar, this man stood before me, and in front of a congregation of several hundred people said something like "Man, I don't know what it is that you do, but you have such joy! It's all over you. I see that through your life people are going to come to Christ. Many people are going to hear the Gospel preached." Cool, I thought, I'm familiar with this. I welcome this word, but don't see anything prophetic in it. But then he went on, "And I actually see that you're going to reach a lot of people in the military. The Navy, I think. You're going to end up in San Diego and have a big impact on that community" Now I was paying attention, and a look of bewilderment came over my face. "How do you know all this?" I asked him. Instead of responding he laughed and put the microphone in my face: "How do you know about me?" I asked him, and the whole church started laughing joyfully. "Brother," he said, "the Holy Spirit knows all of us inside and out." He continued, saying that he saw my life reaching young people, as well. Then the woman who had been slaying people in the spirit said "You remind me of my grandson--are you musical?" I told her that I played guitar, and she prophesied an expansion of my ability to play and bless others through music.

Then they laid hands on me and started praying. The woman put her hand on my forehead, and as she prayed I could feel her starting to push on it. This was an interesting dilemma. I was reasonably convinced that I had just been blessed by the giving of an authentic, prophetic word, and yet here I was being pressured to support the kind of church theater that I'm so skeptical of. Stand tall, and resist the peer pressure to fall down, or let the moment take over? I chose the latter, and as I lay there on the ground not really feeling much different for having been 'slain in the spirit,' but still very much moved by the word I'd been given, I tried to pray through the experience.

I'm still wrestling with it, but with a bias toward accepting its overall authenticity. There are very few people who know enough about me in my church, particularly among the leadeship, that could have provided that kind of detail about my aspirations to the speaker. Both of the two that I know of who could seemed genuinely thrilled about the event, apparently believing whole-heartedly that they, too, had witnessed something supernatural. If the speaker had heard about me (because, naturally, I would be a topic of conversation during his short time with the church leadership), it's highly unlikely that he would be able to connect my face with those stories, even if I am one of the few young white guys in my church. It's possible that all the pastors had a meeting beforehand to discuss what they know about which members of the congregation and decide in advance who they will 'prophecy' over. This, however, would require a level of intent to decieve and manipulate that I see absolutely no evidence of in the whole-hearted, joy-filled community that I've found in Pasadena Church. In spite of the hardness of my heart, I feel compelled by the alternative explanation: God told that man some things about me that are true and wonderful, and I should hold on to them.

And yet I know from the engineered slaying that not all aspects of the experience were from the Holy Spirit, and a seed of doubt lingers. Even something that feels like it should be so clear requires an act of faith to believe. An encounter with God's divine pressence is mixed with the theatrical and artificial.

the world passes overhead

Every so often at the Al Wooten Center I have a conversation with a kid that reminds how different their young world is from the one I grew up in.

The girls met my sister when she came to visit me a few months ago, and haven't stopped asking about her since: "Where's Bethany," Natalie asks, "is she ever coming back?" "She'd like to," I said, "but she's all the way over in Chicago. And you know what? This summer she's actually going to India!" Natalie's mouth opens and her eyes get big--clearly this bit of information is interesting to her. "You mean she gunna get on a airplane?! Oh my God, I would die!!" and she turns with Elia to join the rest of the girls in their game of wall ball.

I laugh softly to myself--without meaning to be, the kids are often hilarious and completely endearing as they verbalize whatever comes to their mind. I don't think anything more about that short conversation until after most of our kids had trickled out of the center and I was left alone on the playground, shooting three attempts in the pleasantly muggy late afternoon. As I stand there enjoying the relative quiet, I suddenly become aware of another sound, one that's always there and therefore just part of the normal, unnoticed background noise in South Central. Initially it sounds far-off, but then gets closer, until it's right overhead--the vaguely eerie rumble of jet airplanes passing overhead as they fly in and out of nearby LAX.

I look up at the plane, and think of Natalie. I'm suddenly aware for the first time of how the sky is actually crisscrossed with planes. I think of the enormous bustle of people, cargo, and ideas that move in and out of LAX every hour, brought in by those planes from across the United States and the world. If you look hard enough you can almost see the invisible arteries that connect LA to the rest of America and the global economy.

But if you're Natalie what you see is this massive aluminum rocket that you would be terrified to sit in. You see this because for you the act of getting on a plane and going somewhere is likely as foreign as the world beyond South Central, and we humans are naturally hesitant when encountering the unknown.

The big wide world flows like a river in the sky over the heads of the kids. I wonder how many of them will learn to reach up and touch it.

getting after it, day to day

On Thursdays I meet up with a couple Navy recruiters and a group of aspiring enlisted guys looking to join EOD, SWCC, Air Rescue, Dive or SEALS. Before running hill sprints and going for a trail run we gathered up in a large dirt clearing for some 'beat down.' This is a colloquial term they use in the Navy to describe group PT sessions that are typically very intense, with lots of repetitions, little rest, and long static holds in various uncomfortable positions. I don't run into that many other officer candidates in the recruiting pipeline that I'm in, and this group is no exception. Out of eleven or so enlisted candidates I am the only officer candidate, and this means that the recruiters running our training often expect me to step up into a leadership role.

Halfway into the beat down, and shortly after completing 50 pushups and holding the position for two or three minutes a lot of us were starting to fail. I could feel myself losing strength in my core. That's when Petty Officer Quinteros calls me to front of the company, facing the rest of the group: "Alright, Polhamus, mountain climbers. 25. Go." As the leader it's my job to yell out the four-count rhythm, making the exercise doubly-tiring. "1-2-3, ONE! 1-2-3, TWO!".... In the midst of the pain a voice inside asks why I'm here in the dirt suffering like this, but I keep the tempo moving. We finish the mountain climbers, chests burning, but are kept in the pushup position for close to another minute before we are allowed to drop to the dirt.

Five seconds of rest and then: "On your backs! Flutter kicks. 50. Go!" I begin the count again: "1-2-3, ONE! 1-2-3, TWO!".... We're getting pretty damn tired. We finish the count and are told to keep our feet six inches of the ground. The recruiters, along with a retired former SEAL who's joined us, wander through the crowd, loudly castigating anyone who's slacking or falling behind. "Alright, once all those feet are six inches off the ground I'll start the count down!" the SEAL says. Some guys are really hurting. We get from 10 to 6 before one guy drops his feet. Officer Quinteros didn't miss it, though: "Get 'em back up! Start again!" 10... 9... 8... I can hear the labored breathing of a bunch of suffering dudes, and my hip flexors and abs are burning. Then something clicks inside. I realize that we're all at our limit, but that it falls to me as the aspiring officer to set the tone. "KEEP EM UP! COME ON!" I yell at the guys. 7... 6... 5... "COME ON! DON'T DROP!" 4... 3.. 2... 1... and done.

A SEAL I greatly respect recently told me that to lead lions you have to be one. As I aspire to that privilege I find myself becoming a stronger man and hungering for more. That's why I spent the morning in the dirt at Eaton Canyon.

a longer road ahead

It's been since July 2010 that I've been pursuing officer training with Naval Special Warfare in earnest. This road's been fraught with more adversity than I expected--the rigors of physical training, challenges navigating the military bureaucracy, and an unforeseen curve ball regarding my medical eligibility have all tested my resolve. I posted a good physical screening test (PST) score two weeks ago, re-wrote my essays, and submitted my application packet ahead of schedule. After a few months of intense training and fighting illness I looked forward to a couple months of lifting weights and letting my cardio fitness sag.

No such luck, though. For the first time ever in the NSW OCS application process the selection boards are going to be interviewing candidates, and part of this involves taking a PST the day-of. Since I've been on this path I've had the constant experience of the rules of the game changing just as I'm getting to know them. I'd hoped this would be a season to rest my body a bit and focus on building strength and muscle mass that I tend to lose in the pool and on the track. As it is, it's time to put my head down and focus on getting faster, stronger, and tougher than ever before. When I see that board in August, I will destroy my current best posted score. This is an important part of the test. There is no room for self-sympathy here. Mental and physical preparation for combat and to lead men under the harshest of circumstances is an ongoing work. Rest has its place, but the kind of discipline I have to subject myself to now pales in comparison to what will be required of me in BUD/S and the training evolutions to follow should I be successful in reaching my goal.

Upon reflection, what at first had the disheartening impact of a shifting goal post looks like a blessing. I don't have the luxury of complacence--a luxury that so frequently has a toxic affect on our sharpness of the mind, softness of the heart, and strength of spirit.

--

On a completely different note, here are links to two topics that have been getting me thinking recently. The lesson? Whether in economics or physics, always question your paradigm.

http://www.nationaljournal.com/magazine/neo-voodoo-economics-why-can-t-washington-get-its-act-together--20110519

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqIubmnzckY

White house correspondents' dinner

Whatever your political bias, these are good for a few laughs. The first is President Obama's address at the White House Correspondent's dinner, and the second is from the keynote speaker, Seth Meyers. My friend, Ire, and I were marveling at the fact that the President manages to be just as, if not more, funny/charismatic than the guy who's paid to do this for a living.

President Obama: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9mzJhvC-8E.

Meyers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YGITlxfT6s

When in England I found myself wishing that we had an equivalent of Prime Minister's Questions back home. It's encouraging to see that the state of our Democracy is such that an event like the Correspondent's Dinner can take place each year. We're a bit less off-the-cuff here in the States than our British counterparts, but the effect is nonetheless similar--to promote a climate of openness political discourse where, post-theatrics, real conversations about policy can occur. We're quickly approaching a season when we will need this kind of conversation as much as we ever have before.

starting this up again

I've been surfing around online looking into literature for young adults that I might use to engage the college prep class I teach at the Al Wooten Jr Heritage Center in South Central every Tuesday. The kids are bored out of their minds with my current program of mini online research projects and math homework assignments... I was discouraged to the point of throwing in the towel last week after a particularly fruitless session. Yet I realized after last Thursday's fundraising dinner in honor of the center's founder, Ms Faye Rumph, that the kids and staff are too much a part of my new LA family to just walk away. If I'm going to stay, then, a change of strategy is called for. Thus my research into good material for a potential book reading.

After a few hours of fruitless searching for something that would connect directly to the experiences of South Central kids while at the same being an interesting, easy read, I paused to think about stories that moved me at that age. The top two I came up with were 'Outsiders' by S.E. Hinton and the memoir 'This Boy's Life' by Tobias Wolff. Wolff's account of his own coming of age, much of which takes place in the backwoods town of Concrete, WA (less than an hour from my hometown), resonated with me in a particularly deep way. It's become easier with time to look at myself more in terms of who I am without at the same time ruminating on the road that led me here. Just thinking of the book, though--about what it meant to me as a freshman at Options High School and what I hope it could mean to my kids, opened up the floodgate of carefully contained memories and emotions.

When Robert LaRiviere assigned us that book I devoured it. A screwed up, sad, confused kid with little sense of direction, at the time I fooled myself into thinking that my life was riddled with a comparable amount of adversity to young Tobias'. It would take me until well into college to begin to disabuse myself of that self-sympathetic notion, but the fact was that I identified in a profound way with his sense of displacement, yearning for identity, and a way out. Wolff's description of the grey, rainy days in the backwaters of Skagit county, in a small town hidden in the middle of a rolling, evergreen forest hit me right in the heart. Some people like the peace and quiet, but I had a sense since I was a little boy that lives get lost out there. Beautiful as it is, I sometimes felt those forests were full of ghosts lamenting what could have been but never was. That I looked out of the window in Robert's portable classroom at the same grey sky, felt the same misty cool rain slowly work its way into my coat sleeves on the walk to the downtown bus station, and heard the same rustle of the pines on a windy day as young Tobias would have connected me that much more intimately to his story. Wolff's bruising, haphazard, relentless struggle out of an abusive home and the gloom of Concrete planted something deep inside my heart that would sustain and drive me in the years to come.

And I only fully realized this just now, sitting at my computer on a lazy Sunday night, wondering how on earth I can grab the attention of a group of kids full of such boundless promise but confronted with such difficult circumstances. That restless, 14 year-old me made his way to Stanford eventually, and it changed everything. That's also where Mr Wolf is currently a professor, though for absolutely no good reason at all I've never met that great man. It was totally improbable that either of us would ever make it there, but that deep restlessness that 'This Boy's Life' helped stir up in my first year of high school made me willing to try. Hunched over my desk at the SAT testing center as a sophomore at Western Washington University, rain dripping off the pines outside, I felt worlds apart from that incredible campus to which I was seeking to transfer. I threw the dice, though, and hit a pair of sixes. In life sometime all your tenacity, all your carefully planned energies, hinge on factors beyond your control. But you've got to play to win, to dare to say 'this can be, and will do all that I can do bring it about.' I pray that at least one of my kids will do the same.

Thanks Prof Wolff.

so that's where this craziness began...

As I'm approaching my sixth late night of writing up stats reports in LaTex for this take home exam that's due tomorrow afternoon I ask myself "why am I doing this, again? A stats degree doesn't make me a scientist anyhow, and those kids in Comparative Social Policy have way more free time than I do..."

So it occurred to me tonight, as I was biking home from watching a panel of a Muslim, a Jew, and a Christian talk about religion in the public square, that my dad would frequently share a bit of thinly-veiled statistical wisdom with me as a boy. "Aaron, what's the probability that if you flip a coin 10 times and it comes up heads every time, that the next flip will be tails?" "Mmmmmmm, I don't know," I would say, as kids who aren't quite sure where their parents are "going with this" do. "Exactly the same!" my dad would say with a gleam in his eye and that little boy's grin that he still has today when he gets excited about something (probability theory?!). How incredible that, in spite of all that past baggage, all those failed attempts to be tails, an evenly-weighted coin had a clean slate, a 50% CHANCE, to be tails at each new trial.

"Wait a minute," I thought, "something about this seems fishy..." But of course I was still learning to do things that I still struggle with today, like basic arithmetic, multiplication by 11, and spelling, so I just let that sense of unease percolate in the back of my brain. Day, after day, after day. And only now, after stomping off on this wild goose chase of a degree, am I able to frame the issue more clearly. You see, it's a very simple question of joint versus individual trials involving an outcome that can only take one of two values. As it turns out, the probability of flipping a coin 11 times and only observing tails on the 11th flip is (almost) exactly 1/2048, even if the probability of each individual flip attaining that outcome is constant at 1/2. Remember that, guys: joint trials of independent events tend to be less probable than the aggregated individual outcomes of which they are composed. There's some real life-directing wisdom in this, so use your imagination and reach for it.

But where I was going with all this is to say that it's your fault, dad, that the muddled fascination (or perhaps confusion) with mathematical quantification of uncertainty that you planted in my brain 17-odd years ago drove me into this masochistic choice of degree here at Oxford. Which is, of course, my back-handed way of saying that I am in awe of your fascination with the world and deeply grateful for all that your sense of wonderment, especially in things as simple as a coin flip, has contributed to the odd character I am today.

Thinking of coins and campfires as I write time series models and wrestle with spatial statistics tonight,
Aaron