Merry Christmas, Dr. Manhattan

Pleased as man with man to dwell, Jesus, our Immanuel.

In their 1985 graphic novel Watchmen, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons created the iconic character of Dr. Manhattan. If you’re not familiar with Watchmen, think of Dr. Manhattan as a kind of radioactive Superman: he can fly, teleport, change his size at will, and even manipulate matter on the atomic level.

And I think he has something to teach us about Christmas.

Dr. Manhattan begins his journey in the 1940s, as a young German named John Osterman. A Jewish refugee, John and his parents flee Germany, seeking haven in the United States.

While they succeed in escaping persecution, John’s father fails to re-establish his clockmaking business in this new homeland. In a pivotal scene, he throws his gears and equipment out the window, pleading that his son pursue a career in atomic physics. The way of the future.

John accepts this hard call, attending Princeton and prospering in his doctoral studies–until he finds himself caught in the radioactive crossfire of an on-campus experiment.

As one does.

The radiation immediately disintegrates John, though not forever. Weeks later, his bodily systems appear in random locations, pulsing with newfound and disjointed power. By sheer force of will, John knits his parts together into a new whole. He has a body again, one which glows and floats above the slack-jawed crowds. The man has returned as a god.

For a period, John’s story follows a predictably comic-booky route.  He takes the alias “Dr. Manhattan,” using his near-limitless powers to fight crime alongside other colorful vigilantes. Once a refugee, he now has peers and purpose.

As his abilities grow, however, Dr. Manhattan becomes more detached from these mortal relationships. Girlfriends age past his interest as he remains youthful, glowing, static. He can exist in more places than one, making love in one room while three copies of himself conduct science experiments in another. He even ceases to experience time normally; the future appears as clear to him as the past, as immediate as the present. 

Eventually, his alienation becomes locational: Dr. Manhattan moves to Mars. As the throngs of needy mortals overwhelm him, he abandons the planet on which every human has ever been born. Has ever lived. Has ever died.

I think most of us believe this is roughly how a god-man might act. If we define God by negation, we only examine God’s differences to the ordinary world, ordinary time, and ordinary people. And that categorical separation often leads to a feeling of distance. If Godhood is so different from us, deity must always be moving away into other, better things than we have the mind for.

But the idea of Christmas is this: what if deity, by definition, has a trajectory toward human intimacy? What if God–whatever He is or isn’t–always moves toward the hearts of women and men living ordinary, aging lives?

What if the trajectory of deity is always in and to, not out or away?

And what if divinity does not protect its own purity within the safety of Heaven on Mars, but moves to Earth? Finds its fullest definition as an outcast infant wrapped in rough cloth?

Neither glowing with a yellow halo nor blue radiation, but rather poorly lit, enfleshed, and wet with amniotic fluid. A dull and blotchy red.

What if God moves to Earth for no other reason than to show us He is already here?

Always everywhere.

But here, in this baby, especially.






A Reconstructionist Synagogue Weaves Itself Into Manayunk’s Industrial Fabric

(Published at Hidden City Philadelphia. The original article debuted on August 22, 2019.)

Mishkan Shalom was founded in 1988. The congregation found a permanent home 14 years later inside the former textile mill of A. Flanagan & Bro. in Manayunk. | Photo: Michael Bixler

In 1988, Rabbi Brian Walt was parting ways with his synagogue in Media, Pennsylvania. Rabbi Walt’s criticism of Israel during a Palestinian uprising had put him at odds with his congregation, Beth Israel. Rabbi Walt was leaving, but he was not alone. 30 families came with him and together they founded a new congregation on principles of social activism and interfaith alliance. They named themselves Mishkan Shalom, which means Sanctuary of Peace. For its first 14 years the congregation lacked a permanent residence, meeting everywhere from Quaker schools to Methodist churches, gathering more and more members as they moved from place to place. Finally, in 1998, Mishkan Shalom purchased its permanent home: Freeland Mills, a 137-year-old textile mill built by A. Flanagan & Bro. in Manayunk. The mill’s 30,000 square foot campus had been vacant for over a decade, but soon sprung back to life when the congregation moved in. However, converting a factory into a synagogue was neither quick nor cheap. It took almost six years and $3M before the mill could host worship services.

In 1882, Irish-born Andrew and John Flanagan built their textile mill on Freeland Avenue. Described in a 1905 survey as an “enterprising and prosperous firm,” A. Flanagan & Bro. filled this little enclave of Manayunk with the lively chatter of textile-making. The mill’s feltworks process, although intricate, was not delicate. Its large boiler room hissed steam into a 150-horsepower engine which, in turn, powered huge carding and spinning machines. Anywhere between 40 to 80 employees oversaw the mill as it cleaned, straightened, and spun raw wool into massive bales of carpet padding.


Over 100 years later the congregation of Mishkan Shalom moved in. Some of the building’s needs were immediately clear. The structures, although stable, had been built with machinery, not people, in mind. Each floor was vast and empty, but for cloth-covered wooden support beams. These garbed columns were a source of anxiety for Bob Kauffman, a Mishkan Shalom member and professional contractor. The padding may have protected the wood from damage, but was this old cloth safe to breathe around? “We went, ‘What’s in this stuff? Who knows if it’s toxic?,’” recalled Kauffman. But that initial panic quickly subsided. The cloth was simply wool and hair, likely rejected or surplus material. If you look at the synagogue’s columns today, you can still find the bent and flattened nails that held the covering in place.

Other changes in construction involved the property’s aesthetic. The original boiler room was one of the first things to go. “Our founding rabbi looked at it and said, ‘No way. You can’t have something that looks like Auschwitz… like a crematory,” said Kauffman. With the boiler room demolished, site workers turned the vacant hillside into an amphitheater, placing weighty boulders in seated rows along the sloping grass. All that remains of the original structure is its overgrown brick-and-tin smokestack.

Irish-born brothers Andrew and John Flanagan opened Freeland Mills in 1882. It remained in operation until the 1970s. | Image courtesy of Print and Picture Collection, Free Library of Philadelphia

Overall, the building remains largely unchanged. The wooden floors slope with all the sturdy quirks of old timber. The immense, original windows are nearly impossible to open. And wedged between the interior stonework, thin pieces of ledger board crop out from the walls. They once held posted factory announcements. Now they support yarn lines of decorative paper cranes. Every square inch of the synagogue mingles in this interplay of preservation and innovation, of the mill’s original function and its current lifeblood. “This is home,” said Kauffman. “It’s an active place.”

Mishkan Shalom staff member Gari Julius Weilbacher attributes the congregation’s vitality and growth to its attractive values. Because the congregation is such a progressive community, Weilbacher said, people came from all over when the congregation was first established. And they still do. Much of that activity stems from the ways the congregation acts on its larger values, like social reform. The second floor of the old mill is occupied by C.B. Community School, an education center for students involved in child welfare and juvenile justice systems. Mishkan Shalom’s interfaith commitments, too, remain steadfast. On Saturday mornings, the synagogue’s sanctuary is used for Shabbat services. On Sundays, seating is reconfigured and used by City Light, a Christian church with congregations in both Manayunk and Center City.


What pushed a previously nomadic congregation to a building with such a strong sense of social history? To Rabbi Shawn Zevit, a building is only as important as the connections to its people and environment. “The place that we are in is a living connection to the divine energy and the planet and not just happenstance.”  That connective belief plays into Rabbi Zevit’s passion for community involvement. It also connects him to an older sense of place. Older than A. Flanagan & Bro., older than textiles.

Heavy rains push a powerful current of water beneath the synagogue. Proper allocation of this moisture is the building’s largest structural concern—in other words, Kauffman’s biggest headache.  It is possible the mill workers never heard it over their machines, but in the new quiet of what is now the synagogue’s social hall, the stream resounds. Now that Rabbi Zevit knows it’s not the sound of a leaking pipe, an initial concern, he goes out of his way to listen for the water. “It’s so soothing to hear. That life is still underground,” he said. “The building itself is part of the earth from which we come.”


Unpacking Damien Davis’s ‘Color Cargo’

(This article has been republished with permission from Broad Street Review.  The original article was published on July 1, 2019.)

Photo by John Carlano.

Icons always simplify. Whether it’s the Apple logo or a winking emoji, these shapes serve as visual shorthand for larger ideas. Thoughtlessly consumed and universally understood, their meaning is one-to-one.

But what happens when people with vastly different lives encounter the same shapes? Can visual universality withstand the diversity of experience?

That question, and how it pertains to racial politics, resounds through Damien Davis’s Color Cargo at the Center For Art in Wood. The exhibition’s deceptively smooth icons—from masks and lips to school buses and on/off symbols—communicate a different meaning each time they appear in this brightly colored, tightly arranged exhibition of collage and sculpture.

Nothing is universal

Says Davis, “There’s no such thing as a universality when it comes to experiencing art… Any sort of system or structure that’s trying to assert that everything can be experienced in some kind of default, universal way I see as wrong or problematic.”

One role of Color Cargo, he says, is to create opportunities for “slippage,” intentional muddying of the viewers’ basic understandings of image, language, and race.

Take, for example, the moor head.

This simple neck-up profile of a Black male is perhaps the most present shape in Color Cargo. Taken from the flag of the Italian isle of Sardinia, the facial outline has historically served as an aesthetic flourish on many European family crests.

“In the same way that someone might have a horse or a tiger on their family crest, they’ll have, like, the head of a Black person,” Davis shares with unsurprised bemusement.

A less familiar image in the United States, the head plays a variety of roles in Color Cargo: sometimes wearing a football helmet or mask, sometimes bare, sometimes leading a procession of darker-colored heads across the collage.

What’s on your mind?

The exhibition explores visual dehumanization beyond these historically animal treatments. Other images carry messages of objectification—loose teeth, anuses, and disembodied female torsos address the reduction of Blackness to commercial, sexual, and emotional currency.

This dwindling of Black humanity to its parts continues in the brightly crafted crates that scatter the floor of Color Cargo. Dedicated in part to Henry “Box” Brown—a man who achieved freedom from slavery by literally mailing himself to Philadelphia—these colorful boxes of varied shape appear at first playful; Davis even calls them “candy.” Their context, however, invites the viewer to imagine how the human form might contort into these bright containers.

Racial iconography’s slippery nature strongly informs the shapes Davis works with. Some icons are too obvious, others nearly too personal. He was particularly reluctant to use the pattern of a basketball, which appears on only two of his collages.

“I have a really complicated relationship with that shape,” he says. Growing up larger than most children his age, Davis’s size and race resulted in constant social pressure to play sports. This push to physical performance, Davis says, overlooked his childhood intellect, interests, and artistic talent.

“[People were] constantly telling me that the only thing I’ll ever be good for is bouncing a ball around,” Davis says. “My life’s mission became to prove everyone wrong.”

This lifelong zeal for subverting expectations of Blackness also informs Davis’s methods. The shapes in Color Cargo are all computer-rendered with mathematical precision. They intentionally shatter stereotypes of Black artistry as primal, raw, or primitive—descriptions Davis found all too typical during his time in art school.

“It’s important for me to signal a way of working or making work that… can occupy all these spaces that Black people historically have been told that they aren’t supposed to go,” he says.


Ice-Scrapers and Lightsabers: A True Story


ERIC is sitting in a warm chair, dressed in black, watching YouTube.  His shoes are off.  He is comfortable.  Hearing someone fiddling with the door, he looks up from his laptop.  

Enter SCOTTY.  He has just come in from the snow.  The hem of his pants is damp.  He is panting for breath and carrying a winter coat, a scarf, a Cairn sweatshirt, a diabetic briefcase, and a plastic lightsaber.  He is only wearing a gray t-shirt. His eyes are wild, his face flushed, his hair curled from now-evaporated sweat.

SCOTTY: You’re gonna want to hear this.

ERIC: (bemused) Yeah, it…looks like you’ve been on an adventure.

SCOTTY: I was. (still panting, sets down his items one-by-one, trying to collect his thoughts)  I was.

ERIC: Let’s hear it.

SCOTTY: So, as you know, I parked my minivan on campus last night.

ERIC: Your, uh, Mercury…

SCOTTY: …Mercury Villager Mini-Van Sport ™.  1999.  Yes.

ERIC: Hot ride.

SCOTTY: Right.  So today I walked up to campus for lunch.  I only took my medicine and my lightsaber.

ERIC: Why?

SCOTTY: I need to take insulin to eat.  Diabetes, remember?

ERIC: No, why the lightsaber?

SCOTTY: Oh, I figured there would be snow on my van and I don’t have a shovel. Better than using my arm.

ERIC: Gotcha.

SCOTTY: Turns out there wasn’t any snow on it, but there was a considerable wall between the back of the van and the road behind it.

ERIC: Where was this?

SCOTTY: Behind Stillman, to the far right of the dumpster.

ERIC: Okay.

SCOTTY: Adam, thank God, is also out there, and he has shovels.

ERIC: Adam…

SCOTTY: Tennis Adam?

ERIC: Oh THAT guy.

SCOTTY: Super nice. Once he’s done with his car, we start working on mine.  In a couple of minutes, we’ve made a nice, wide path behind the van.  So I get in and begin to back out.

ERIC: Right…

SCOTTY: (pacing about the room) It goes for a bit and then, suddenly, stops.  A bit frustrated, Adam and I resume our shoveling, scraping away some of the more base-level snow around the tires.

ERIC: How long is this story?

SCOTTY: But the car will not move.  The tires continue to spin.  We shovel more, this time bringing out our ice scrapers, chipping any frozen bits we can off the ground.  When  I try to move the car, I smell burning rubber from my front-right tire.

ERIC: What the…?

SCOTTY: AND STILL IT WILL NOT MOVE.  Adam and I return to our knees with a new determination, pulling off our outermost layers to ward off heat exhaustion as we kneel in the snow, hacking at the solid ice with the strength and precision of ancient artisans, banging down on the ice with our shovels like those first ancestors of man.  Asphalt flew up with ice in our fervor, as we nearly broke through to what seems like the earth’s mantle with our four- and seven-dollar ice scrapers.

ERIC: No lightsaber?

SCOTTY: What? No, I put that in the van.

ERIC: (disappointed) Aww…

SCOTTY: We spent half an hour or more shoveling, scraping, driving, and pushing.  Our arms and lungs grew tired, but we cracked jokes to keep our spirits up, refusing to quit til the van had at last been freed.

ERIC: And…?

SCOTTY: We eventually got it out of the parking space, but couldn’t drive it any further.  So I got in my van and…called my parents.

ERIC: Ooh.  Rough.

SCOTTY: But then, as I’m talking to my Mom I glance down at the dashboard, and…

ERIC: The parking brake was on.

SCOTTY: Yeah. (beat) Wait…yeah.  How did you know?

ERIC: I guessed pretty early on.

SCOTTY: (deflated) Well.  That’s my story.  That’s it.

ERIC: What’s the moral?

SCOTTY: That, in college, you can go from feeling like a man to a boy really quickly.

ERIC: Nice.  Want some tea?

SCOTTY: (collapsing on the couch) Please.


I Need You to Stay

We drove home late from the concert–

brother and sister

–into a dark quiet rippled only by streetlights

and our excited talk.


Half-past midnight, you strongly contended

one of the songs was a cry to God,

but I felt you’d overthought the lyrics.


To me, the words

referred to nothing

more than a girlfriend


–both of us fixating,

I realize now,

on whatever ideas

felt furthest away at the time.