*the alluded pursuit

If we are not Jesus, who is? // A Response

2012-01-16T20:44:00.022-07:00

"You Are Not Jesus"

Written by Harvey Turner (as published at http://theresurgence.com/2012/01/15/you-are-not-jesus on 01/15/12)

The gospel is news. News has to be announced, communicated, written, and delivered with words. Think of any major news story or event: the reporter doesn't seek to act it out, but he just delivers the news.

This is why I find it so confusing when I hear people say: "We're just trying to live the gospel" or "We're trying to be the gospel." There is of course the well-known quote attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, "Preach the gospel at all times, and if necessary, use words." I'd argue that it's always necessary to use words, because the gospel is news.

As important as it is to do good works, care for the poor, nobody becomes a Christian and enters into eternal life because we gave somebody a sandwich; They get saved because they hear the preaching of the news of Jesus.

Good works that adorn good news do not only earthly good but also eternal good.

Use Words to Preach the Gospel

Paul told Titus that good works have their proper place when they adorn the gospel: "…but showing all good faith, so that in everything they may adorn the doctrine of God our Savior" (Titus 2:10). But to be clear, neither Paul, Jesus, nor any of the apostles never tells us that good works are the gospel. The gospel is a message that must be preached, proclaimed, and told using words.

I talk to so many people who go to the church where I pastor, and they tell me, "I'm just being really friendly and helpful. They know I am a Christian and when they want to know they will ask me."

I ask two questions "Did you get saved because someone was nice?" and "Did you conclude from their kindness that Jesus is God, you are a sinner, Jesus died for your sin and rose from the dead as King?" The answer is of course no. They will just think you are nice. And then continue to walk in darkness.

You are not the gospel; Jesus Christ is the gospel. You are not Jesus; Jesus is God. Therefore you cannot live or show the gospel: you must proclaim it.

--------------------------------------

The above article/blog entry entitled "You Are Not Jesus" was penned by a pastor in Nevada named Harvey Turner. I don't know much about Turner - actually, I know very little about him except that he is a church planter and contributes content to The Resurgence, a web-based coalition of evangelicals that provides a network and resources to Christian leaders. According to the "About Us" section of their website, "The Resurgence is largely known for its global reach. We host the largest Christian leadership blog, publish a half-dozen books annually, hold conferences around the country, and offer a master's level theological training program for leaders from around the world."

I've heard of The Resurgence movement before reading Turner's blog entry, and they seem pretty solid overall, but I haven't engaged their resources in any way. This is the extent of what I know about Harvey Turner. Perhaps you could say that it's not enough for me to form an opinion about him, but I'd say that it's enough to form some ideas.

So, what about Turner's blog entry has me riled? To put it succinctly, his entry (although sincere) reveals a complex that I have often observed in church leadership and ministry environments. Symptoms of this complex include theological haughtiness, a diminished ability to envision life beyond the proverbial pulpit, and subtle advancements of egotistical doctrine. Turner's article is a great example of this complex because it champions a view of the Christian life that is limited to his position as a pastor and does not, in my opinion, allow room for the broader spectrum of Christian life beyond his setting behind the pulpit of his church. In this instance, the one-sided advocation of using only words to proclaim the gospel deeply disturbs me because I just don't believe it's a healthy perspective to spread, and I'm concerned about the repercussions of such a black and white approach.

I'm troubled to learn that an evangelical pastor would restrict evangelism to such a bounded definition and promote the use of words so far and above actions when expressing the gospel. I've been in too many situations where explaining myself and my beliefs with words would have actually repelled people from Jesus rather than wooed or excited them. The foundation that is set by my actions provides a substructure that validates and strengthens my words.

Turner asks, "Did you get saved because someone was nice?" I have several problems with this question. First, the phrase "get saved" seems sloppy, loaded with spiritual hubris, and can be dangerously misleading. Yes, I certainly believe Jesus saves, but focusing so heavily on the saving aspect skews the relationship we can have with Jesus and can ultimately obstruct spiritual development. Secondly, to the overall question: Did I "get saved" because someone was nice? The question is fundamentally flawed because the answer is limited to only "yes" or "no" and hinges salvation upon the vapidity of someone being "nice." By how this question is set up, a person is almost forced to agree with Turner's overall point that words are the only way to communicate the gospel and thus experience salvation through Christ. This is unfair and disrespectful to the dynamic process of becoming a new person in Christ. In my opinion, salvation can indeed be prompted because someone was "nice," just as it can be provoked by words (and, whether through word or deed, it is ultimately the Holy Spirit who instigates). Actions go where words cannot, but they both work together to build trust and establish a footing upon which people can develop relationships. We ought to be prepared to speak about our faith as well as live it.

To Turner's conclusion that "you cannot live or show the gospel: you must proclaim it," I call balderdash. My experiences simply contradict Turner's verdict, for my actions have led specifically to conversations about Jesus and my life as a Christian. I'm curious to know what Turner does with James 1:19-27, which concludes with these words: "Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world" (1:27 ESV). And, what about Matthew 25:35-36, when Jesus describes how the Father will call all to him who gave food to the hungry, gave drink to the thirsty, welcomed strangers, clothed the naked, and visited the sick? If words are so incredibly important, as Turner suggests, then I am shocked that Jesus didn't include a scenario involving the exchange of words. How can these portraits of proclaiming the gospel be dismissed? Even the Great Commission itself suggests that living and showing the gospel is as important as speaking it.

If I were given the opportunity, I would edit Turner's statement to say something like "When we enter into relationship with Jesus, we become part of the gospel; we become an extension of Jesus himself. Jesus is God, and for that very reason we must utilize both words and actions to communicate the full extent of what occurs in our life as a result of the gospel."

To advocate that speaking is the only way people enter relationship with Jesus is to cheapen how the gospel affects our life, but I will also say that to rely on actions without words to liaise our faith has similar consequences. I agree with Turner and relate to his confusion when I sense that people are concealing their fears of verbal dialogue in the noble and virtuous actions of the Christian life. We should never employ actions to hide our fears of dialogue.

Even so, words speak primarily to the mind, and, by thinking that words alone are how people relate to Jesus, we limit human need to the realm of the mind and neuter the power of Jesus' life, death, and resurrection. The gospel addresses the full matrix of human need and sin, including but not limited to what is contained in our mind. And, whereas working toward a renewed mind is important, we neglect other equally critical aspects of restoration if words are the only mechanism by which to proclaim the gospel of Jesus.

My hope is that people like Harvey Turner, who speak into the lives of hundreds of people in their churches and online, would voice a more balanced perspective. Turner shapes the thoughts of a lot of people, and I am saddened by how incomplete his efforts are. I'm also frustrated because there are dire consequences to reducing our proclamation of the gospel to words only - consequences that will implore people like me to lean heavily on actions to help heal the wounds created by words! If we are not Jesus in both word and deed, I ask who is?

Illogical Affair - Joshua Rosen

2011-10-23T19:13:00.019-06:00

What good is a blog if you never update it? Not good for a whole lot I'm afraid, which is why I'd like to do it now so that this blog maintains some sort of heartbeat, if only faintly. Looking back on my last several posts , I've noticed that I've offered more reviews of things than original thoughts. I didn't realize this until now, but perhaps it's just the season of writing I'm in, and this entry will be no different. I'd like to introduce a musician that I have only lately come across even though his most recent album was released in April. The album is titled "Illogical Affair," and the musician is Joshua Rosen. Take a listen to a couple of his tracks - the first off of the above mentioned album and the second from his first record entitled "Inside My Skin" (May 2010).

Joshua Rosen - If I Only Knew

Joshua Rosen - This Life of Mine

Book Review: With by Skye Jethani

2011-08-21T22:16:00.014-06:00

Jaded by an industry inundated with oversimplified expressions of the Christian life, and being unfamiliar with Jethani’s work, I received With: Reimagining the Way You Relate to God with more than a few hesitations. Contrary to what I thought would be my initial sentiment (that this would be yet another published rendition of a pastor-wanna-be-author's latest preaching series), I was drawn in after only a few paragraphs through which Jethani displays a convincingly thoughtful grasp of the human condition and the philosophy of religion. “Life WITH God” is one of five postures Jethani contends that humans assume when relating to God – life FROM, FOR, UNDER, and OVER God being the other four. In short, Jethani explains that each posture, excepting “with,” is merely an elaborate expression of control, which he describes as humanity’s attempt to displace fear and suffering – two forces that, when combined with control, are the foundations of all human religions, so Jethani poses. Life WITH God, for Jethani, is the only posture that ultimately extricates fear (with love), provides meaning for suffering, and retools control into faith, a combination of experiences that also answers questions regarding our identity.

I thoroughly appreciate Jethani’s ability to write unpretentiously about human behavior as it is influenced and informed by religious experiences. As I did, most readers will see in Jethani’s postures a sobering reflection of themselves and their communities while realizing the wounding potential of displacing God in favor one’s self, natural law, religious principles, or even a divine religious mission as is often the case in many fervent Christian communities. Beyond the thesis of his book, Jethani is an articulate writer, able to engage his audience with respect and humility. He refrains from shtick, his analogies are not overbearing, he is semantically precise and able to stay on track. Overall, With is a well-written and responsible interpretation of the human experience through a Biblical lens – one through which readers are invited to view relationship with God in a way that counteracts our tendencies to scheme against fear and suffering in ways that are controlling and manipulative...and ultimately ineffective.

Recommended for anyone looking for something meatier from the "Christian Living" section.

I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own.

Nature is a Pen, Music is a Highlighter

2011-03-30T20:54:00.003-06:00

Came across this post tonight on a music blog I check pretty regularly called I Am Fuel, You Are Friends, (highly recommended) and I feel compelled to share it. It's for the Doe Bay Fest, held at the Doe Bay Resort on Orcas Island in the San Juans just outside Seattle.

I hope you enjoy it as I did…as I do each time I watch…

Doe Bay Fest 2010 from Decade ii on Vimeo.

The Doorway of Disclosure

2011-03-22T22:06:00.019-06:00

On a recent Friday evening my wife and I entered what has become a normal weekend exchange:

Rob or Leah: "Do you wanna watch a movie tonight?

Rob or Leah: "Sure, what are you thinking of?

Rob or Leah: "Oh, I don't know. What are you in the mood for?"

...at this point, Rob (usually), in an effort to assuage the tension he begins to feel because of the indecisiveness, has already opened his laptop in search of the Red Box website. (Which is what he was doing at this point.)

Leah: *continues to ask Rob what he's in the mood for, thinking he hasn't heard her the first time...

Rob: *not purposely ignoring Leah, responds with silence as he browses the recently-released section on RedBox.com. (Can't she see that he's en route to the next step in the decision-making process?!)

As I mentioned, we were filling these roles quite nicely when I noticed a movie I had never heard of entitled Get Low, starring Robert Duvall and Bill Murray. Similar to my music tastes, I enjoy movies that aren't necessarily found on the top-40 chart of pop-dom. Get Low seemed like a film with a creative and less-touted identity. I was immediately attracted. In addition to my first impressions of the trailer and blurb, Robert Duvall is one of my all-time favorite actors. And so it came to pass that I ended up reserving it, and off our night went…

It turned out to be a great pick. But, before I write about the film, a bit of context should be provided (no spoilers here): The audience enters the story in the 40th year of Mr. Felix Bush's hermitic life, a role played magnificently by Duvall. Bush lives in the Tennessee hills, near a town we never get the name of, on 300 acres of land that has been left to nurture itself, unimpeded by humans. He has constructed with his own hands the cabin in which he lives and the barn that houses his mule, Gracy. Legends float around about Mr. Bush in the nearby town - the types of stories that hang like a fog over any person of mysterous noteriety. After receiving word that a friend has recently passed of old age, Felix gets in his mind the idea of throwing for himself a funeral party that he can attend while he's still alive (apparently this is part of the film that was influenced by a real Tennessee man who wanted the same thing in the early-1900's).

As the story unfolds, the audience is invited by bits and pieces into the real reasons why Felix wants to have this odd funeral party. I can tell you without spoiling anything that he gets his wish for the party (with the help of a former Chicagoan, and owner of the local funeral home, Mr. Quinn, who is played by Bill Murray). Getting to that point is entertaining enough, but it's what Felix says during the party that is most stirring. You'll learn quickly in the movie that Felix has been holding something back for 40 years...and, as seen in the trailer, his live funeral party is his chance to tell what it is.

Get Low trailer

Note: What I write below this point may contain spoiler information.

As I sensed from having watched the trailer, this movie depicted in thoroughly creative ways several angles of the relationship between the human condition and spiritual redemption. Most discernibly, it's the story of a human being longing for forgiveness and absolution, portrayed by Duvall's character, Felix Bush. This is an affect of the film that comes across as a type of commentary on the corrosive effects of dark actions left unconfessed. But we also behold the liberation that is granted via forgiveness - the release from carrying deeply-hidden transgressions. This is figuratively exhibited in one of the final scenes: Duvall's character is watching everyone leave his property after his "big confession," and he muses to himself as he watches them exiting his drive, "My funeral...and everyone's in the hearse but me." He is a man beholding himself as a new man, reflecting the sentiments of a baptism. The words of the Apostle Paul surface in my mind: "We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life." (Romans 6.3) Bush's burden had, after confessing it to the crowd, been absorbed (and dissolved) by the community, and his spiritual death was no longer a shadow over him. His previously unconfessed action was, for the first time in 40 years, fading away down his drive, carried away by the chariot of death itself: a hearse. Or, as it should be put, Bush was finally (cap)able to enjoy the acreage of his land and his life without the millstone of his secret deed. He was set free.

What left it's mark on me most powerfully, though, was Bush's confession itself...and the final words of it: "I would like forgiveness now, if possible. And then I don't mind dying for real next time, but please forgive me." Wrapped up into these words is a host of symbolism regarding the human condition. They describe what every person craves but at the same time fears...very similar to Duvall's character. All he wanted was an opportunity and venue to confess, but the reality of getting it scared the life out of him. This is, I think, one of the deepest and most profound of human struggles: the tug-of-war between the image of God in us - that mysteriously-nestled yearning for salvation and redemption - and our nature to chase god-like images that shovel us ever deeper into the grave of self-absorption and false preservation.

In the movie, Mr. Bush (Duvall) is an altogether honorable man whose mistake was wooing a married woman in his young age, which caused a series of irreversible events that left him with a heavily-burdened soul in need of forgiveness. Any wound needs cleansing in order for healing to begin, and a long-uncared-for injury to the spiritual self requires nothing less than the mending prowess of grace. The severity of the wound will indicate the amount of grace required for healing. As the Apostle Paul wrote: "Where sin increased, grace increased all the more..." (Romans 5.20)

Ultimately, Bush found the words to say, and we can only assume the community honored his confession and request for forgiveness. But we are also left to assume (or believe) that God did as well. I think everyone craves grace enough for confession, and yet we tend to withdraw at the idea of such disclosure even though unveiling ourselves in this manner is the final doorway beyond which lies our absolution and healing...our freedom. To see that the path to healing begins at the doorway of disclosure involves a bit of providence in and of itself. But I am reminded by stories like Get Low that God's grace takes many forms, and, should we cross that threshold - the doorway of disclosure - escorted by faith, it is indeed the very thing that would meet us step for step along the path beyond.

A Prairie Confession

2011-01-27T19:37:00.024-07:00

…from the mouth of a prairie confessor:

There are vast stretches of land within us all – dry prairies of dusty, wind-blown relationships; mountain ranges of summit successes and valleys of hardship; fields of innocent days when we bent with the breeze right along with the prairie grass. As I reflect on the blended topography that trills the years of my life like the metal face of a washboard, I have been compelled to make a way through the haze that has settled on me and to clarify all that has come together to form it, as if authenticating my existence somehow justifies it. I’ve not much except my horse and a bit of holy faith I managed to catch from a traveling preacher who gushed a contagious sort of speaking. But it don’t seem to have gott’n me in any sort of certain way.

Some folks might not think it right for a man to give more of his affection to an animal than to a faith. But rather than wait to see what it is folks prefer of me, I choose to post allegiance toward the one of the two that shows its presence to me more often than not and at a consistency I can count on. And if someone might like to offer up to me what they do think, I'd consider it a jolly event for me to let them know that the name of my steed is Moze – a cut-off title for the good name of Moses – and I hope they'd leave me at that. Whatever fragrance of the Christ there was about me when I came into possession of the bronc wouldn’t allow me to change it away from such a figure-headed name. Then I think of the irony: my horse, named for a liberator of biblical proportions, is as bound a beast as there ever was, for my friend is a life-long chauffeur.

But I think I’ll keep his name to what it is, cuz I hope that one day he’ll make proper on it and ride me thru a dry aisle in a river or a lake, as a sort of Red Sea crossing out of my own bondage, and then make it wet again right on top of all that chases me, just like the ancient story. If that’s likely to happen at all, I figure my chances are best if his name kept on as Moses. I’ll keep calling him Moze, though; I can’t be letting my loyalties mingle entirely.

There is no cliché or metaphor I can slip into. There is no simile to camouflage me from my own circumstances. There’s only a fierce ache in my chest where they say a soul should be, from where life rises in all other men. I’m not sure if it’s that I can’t muster it, that I don’t want to, or that I just won’t, but not much of a feeling runs through me. I do sense a void. There is loneliness in that hole, and it has a go at me now and again – mostly on the darkest nights; the ones that are noisy with stars and the crackling of my fire and the phantom voices of people I have prematurely distanced from or who I have out-lived. The stewy mix of darkness, firelight, and stars teases life out from me, and the past jumps out from the present. I have never understood how or why remembering the people who populated my life evokes such a forlorn emptiness and not a bright hope or sense of satisfaction. I've heard it spoke that you don't know what's with you till it's not anymore. Maybe that's the truth, but I'd amend that thinking and re-barb it's sting with the thought that you can still feel the effect of a thing even tho it was never had. And maybe the bite is just as crippling with both, but I will only know the one.

The grass grows high and free around me where I am just now. The trees stretch their spines into the sky and their fingers into the dirt – both ends grabbing at something very different. Everything of nature that is plain to the eye is upward bound, but only inasmuch as the unseen end digs downward. It is an accurate mockery of man’s plight: how we yearn for the heavens but seem to be embedded in the earthly dirt, living out the old divine curse of toil. It seems we must be dug in and bent over in order to rise properly.

A great many people have bled dead for their vision of what our lives are purposed toward. Voices have risen and tongues've become sharp trying to provide answers to such a bedeviled equation. And a noble equation it is, too, though the nobler would be to ask how it is to be lived. I suppose no shortage of blood has been spilt or tasted, or voices raised and tongues sharpened over the proposed conclusion to that query either. We live out an unfair trade – a one-sided negotiation that took place long before any of our ancestors were likened to've been thought of. Life it seems is a barter that I reckon we’ll all mishandle at some point or another. But we must do with it what we can – what we ought to in times that call for ought-ness, which is most times I guess. It seems that we more often blunder, missing opportunities to act out what is right and what is good. I sure to the Lord know I have, and am almost just as positive it has been the pattern in others I've known.

It’s the way a man handles his past that makes me suspect at how he might approach the future. But maybe that’s just a self assessment – a personal statement of warning, so to speak, to anyone who might be thinking toward becoming friendly with me, which, I suppose, includes even myself. With friendship comes trust, and I don’t want anyone being more disappointed with me than I might have already caused some to be. Trust is a mighty sacred entity, a fragile investment; one not to be assumed less weighted than it is in actual. And, if I were a confessor, I’d have to declare my fear of trust and friendship. And yet, as it stands, I do want both.

I have successfully constructed a tasteful distraction from the campfire ghosts with this monologue to Moze. It is a sensitive memoir I cast into the night. I feel safe, though. Perhaps, Moze, you are making true to your full-length name by helping me carve this dry path through the messy swamp of my heart. I thank you and will ride you tomorrow into new country as if it were the very Promised Land – over that pass that looms in the darkness out yonder in that landscape of mountains we neither of us can see right now but know is there. We will blanket our eyes with a land of milk and honey.

And, now the confession from a self-proclaimed non-confessor: Can I enter into this new land, Lord!? My sins are plenty, and I’m a hellish scab of a man. Will I see angels tonight, like Jacob? Come down, come down, sweet divinity, upon my shoulders and wash a new man into these boots. Renew the mind underneath this here hat so that I can believe death is more than the period at the end of my life, and so that I can believe that life is more than bloodshot eyes. And, if none of this comes in the morning, I believe I will ask it again sure enough to come on the next.

There is a lariat around my heart, and I can feel it’s pull. Tonight, I think I am sure who’s at the tugging end, and peace will follow. I know it certain.

Providential Repose

2011-01-06T21:59:00.036-07:00

Angle of Repose, written by Wallace Stegner, had been at my bedside for nearly two years. Shortly after purchasing it, I realized that I was more intrigued by the idea of reading it (or by the front cover) more than anything else. I had purchased it right after finishing Crossing to Safety, another of Stegner's novels, which I liked very much, but the combination turned out to be overkill. Ultimately, I was drawn to another book and never developed a rhythm with Repose…until a few months ago.

"Who is Wallace Stegner?" you might be asking. In short order, Stegner (1909-1993) was a novelist, short story writer, historian, and environmentalist. According to his biographical information, he taught at the University of Wisconsin, Harvard, and Stanford, where he founded the creative writing department. His students include Sandra Day O'Connor, Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove), and Wendell Berry, among others. I've read two of Stegner's most iconic books and can testify that his writing is thick with high language, and he seems to be criticized most often for including more detail than readers care to read. I would not withhold this critique from Angle of Repose, a 500+ page behemoth of a novel, which is one more reason it remained at my bedside for so long.

Stegner is credited as being one of America's most iconic writers of the 20th century, albeit a rarely-heard-of writer beyond American Lit. circles. Much of his writing focuses on his characters' geographies and how their relationships develop over time in their different locations (primarily the American west). Having earned him the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1972, Angle of Repose is, perhaps, his trophy. It is a story about Lyman Ward, a 58 year-old former history professor, who is impaired by a bone disease. From his wheelchair, Lyman recounts the story of his grandparents' 19th century westward migration. And so there are two stories within the novel: that of Oliver and Susan Ward, and of their biographical hound and grandson, Lyman Ward.

The grandparents, Susan and Oliver, couldn't be more different. Susan is east coast high society and flaunts aspirations of wealth and acclaim. Oliver, an engineer by trade, subscribes to a simpler, more utilitarian perspective of life. Susan is into the arts, and is, in fact, an artist herself. She enjoys conversation and is, at the heart of her personage, a thoroughly Victorian woman. A determined laborer, Oliver is quiet. At his core he is a conformed westerner, uninterested in society's constructs of etiquette even though he is polite, upstanding, and conscientious.

As Lyman narrates their history, mainly through the lens of his Victorian grandmother, the reader is taken from one place to another as Oliver chases engineering success…to no avail. After three children and failure after failure, Susan and Oliver's marriage grows dry and they grow increasingly distant from each other. They never divorce but do spend extended amounts of time separated from each other. Although Lyman hesitates to explain in plain terms all of the events that contributed to their relational vacuum, the reader is led to believe that Susan, in a moment of desperate longing for her life to be what she hoped it could, engaged in an unfaithful act with one of Oliver's co-laborers and long-time family friend. Supposedly, while Susan and her admirer convene one day, the Ward's youngest child is neglected long enough for her to wonder alone to the nearby river, into which she falls and drowns. Again, Lyman is only guessing at these events based on letters, newspaper clippings, and what he observed of his grandparents when he was a child; he never saw them kiss each other, hug, or even touch. The research he's done alludes to a seminal event that was the tipping point for Oliver and Susan, and perhaps it was the drowning. The reader is led to believe that Oliver knew or found out about the ill-fated rendezvous, and yet he stayed true to his nature of quiet loyalty. Remarkably, they remained married, though they never again enjoyed the kind of relationship they had during their first few years of marriage…before all the failures and years of frustration.

We find out between the narrations that Lyman has been wounded. As a result, he has followed trails of bitterness and solitude and has feasted on the illusion that they heal the hurt. At the time he was diagnosed with his debilitating bone disease, his wife Ellen abandoned him. When he most needed her, she ran out.

In the end, Angle of Repose is a hard read, not because of it's length or Stegner's language, but because of the let-down and the unfulfilled expectations of such promising lives and loves. Throughout the book I wondered how the story would end. It's not a mystery or an edge-of-your-seat thrill ride. Rather, it's a story that develops slowly, truly reflective of how a human story unfolds. Our lives do not happen in one day, or even a year. They do, however, happen over the course of 500+ pages…or 80+ years. Our stories sometimes meander and sit for a while in one spot. Most often, when they move forward, they do so at a carriage pace as if being pulled west by a couple of ponies. And so it is with this story, revealing that Stegner is a true student of humanity…and teacher also.

One wonders, too, about the title: Angle of Repose. Where can it be found in the story? What, if anything, does it have to say about the pages beyond the cover? I found myself wondering these things and learned that it is an engineering term used (in this case) to describe the angle at which rocks and pebbles stop their sliding descent down a hill or mountainside after being extracted from a mining shaft. And, in this way, it is true to the story, as the characters relate to each other at just an angle so as to not continue tumbling away from each other. Their is just enough traction, just enough love or loyalty or commitment to counter the hurt, frustration, bitterness, and anger.

As the story unfolds, we discover that Lyman has always held his grandfather, Oliver, in high esteem and confesses that his grandfather always made him feel safe as a youngster. Lyman surely observed hurt in his grandfather, never understanding it's source. But, at the same time, he also saw a rugged determinism and quiet strength - a man who toed the delicate line of chasing his dreams while remaining loyal to his marriage vows. In the end, however, Lyman realizes, after unearthing the true drama of his grandparent's lives, that it is because of his grandfather's staunch unwillingness to forgive his grandmother during her weakest moment that they existed at that angel of repose, neither falling away nor coming together. Lyman is disturbed by his discovery and Stegner beautifully brings his character to a point where the process of redemption might begin: Lyman believes he may have it in him to be a bigger man than his grandfather, meaning that he may be able to forgive Ellen. The reader is left to hope that Lyman can indeed overcome the inherited angle of repose in his own life and find a way to forgive the woman to whom he tips his hat as the cause of his emotional degradation.

This story is a reminder of the devastating consequences of non-forgiveness and the liberating potential of reconciliation. It stands as a model chronicle of the human dilemma of relationship and how reclaiming circumstances from the dark hands of self-loathing, caused by failure or fraction, can lead to redemption. Sometimes it's good to have a brick of a book to give notice to these messages. Sometimes we receive them via a "lighter" medium. It goes to show that eternal truth is often found in unlikely places and we can be reposed by its providential effects.

Having a New Job [and Petitioning Partitioning]

2010-12-04T20:57:00.020-07:00

Here it is: my new logo. Well, it's not MY new logo, but it's the logo of my new place of employment. Yes, that's right: for the first time in six years my day-to-day life will not be associated with A Christian Ministry in the National Parks (ACMNP). On Monday, December 6, the transition will be made complete as I get in my car and go to work at Denver Seminary as their new "Community Life Coordinator." It doesn't feel real yet, and I'm sure it won't fully kick in until much later. Right now, it feels more like I'm preparing to go on a long work trip for ACMNP.

Anyway, one of the things I'd been doing to prepare for my departure was to transfer all of my personal documents to an external hard drive I purchased this summer along with the MacBook on which I'm currently typing away. The totality of the files consisted of documents, music, photos, publications, memoirs, and research papers spanning twelve years. Yesterday, just before I was to turn in my work computer, I completed the transfer of all my professional files. I was set. My plan was to sit down at the Mac that night and begin organizing those files and transferring them to my Apple. Even though I've had my Mac for several months, this was to be a ceremonial gesture to inaugurate it as my "everyday" taskmaster.

All was good until I realized that my external hard drive wouldn't allow me to create new folders or merge one folder into another within its drive. I tried and tried with all my might to no avail. Well, I'm a resourceful guy and have a major lean toward solving problems, so I went to Google to search for a solution. I finally found one I felt I could understand and began following the directions. The reason I felt comfortable even doing this is because I've usually been able to fool around with a computer enough to figure things out and not make any irreversible changes.

The directions guided me into a process within the external hard drive called "partitioning." From what I read, this would solve my problem, so I followed the directions: I partitioned the drive once and hit "apply." You know how you can sense something bigger and more critical happening than what you actually see happening. Well, that's the sensation I got. Not much happened on the screen, but I could feel that there was more to my clicking the "apply" button than met my eye.

Sure enough, I double-clicked on the external hard drive and...yep, nothing there. Just a blank open window like if you put your face right up against a freshly painted white wall in a bright room. My heart sank. I felt sick, in fact, and I'm sure my pupils dilated a bit. I immediately reversed my action and still there was nothing. My next step was to go back to Google and begin searching "data recovery" for anything out there that might help figure out what I'd done. I soon learned that there is indeed software out there but that I lack the necessary acumen to operate it. I decided the only option left was to go to bed...frustrated, angry at myself, sick at what I had done, and thinking of ways to blame everything on faulty software that didn't give me any sort of warning about what I was about to do (or on the guy who wrote the incomplete instructions, stopping short of saying something like, oh, I don't know "make sure you don't click 'apply' if you already have data on your hard drive or it will erase it all." Maybe something like that.

So, I went to bed and slept surprisingly soundly. I think sleeping is a way I cope with stress, sadness, and/or fear. The more intense any of those are, the more intensely I sleep. My dear wife, on the other hand, woke up every 15 minutes as her body stirred with empathy and problem-solving urges.

And now I am 24-hours removed from my mistake. I have found a guy who's working on recovering the files and who has given me hope that they can in fact be recovered...for a pretty penny, of course. Lesson to me and to you: think twice before partitioning a drive on your computer. Also: maybe the old ways of storing things (in desk files and photo albums) isn't all that bad.

Just Two Questions

2010-11-21T23:10:00.016-07:00

Jumping on the coattails of my last post, I've been listening to more of Neulore's album, Apple's & Eve. To recap: their seven songs are written to Eve from Adam's perspective, and two questions posed within the lyrics of song #5, entitled "Grow," continue to grab my attention. The questions are, I assume, being asked by Adam to either Eve or God, or possibly even to himself, and they seem to be existential questions of spiritual predicament:

1. "Where did we go wrong?"

2. "Where do we belong?"

I wonder what would happen if we began asking these two questions of ourselves, for within them lay potent redemptive energy. Asking "Where did we go wrong?" is more than a question; it is at the same time an admission. It's an observation as much as it is anything else - a deduction of reality - and it presumes a "right," a "good," a "true" in contrast to "wrong."

Admission of wrongdoing isn't within itself a unique phenomena in our world (we all hear and bare witness to accusations of maleficence each day). No, it's the self-involvement that draws this question into the process of redemption. Where did WE go wrong? The nature of the quesiton is communal, meaning that I am involved just as you are involved. We are, all of us, in this together. Something has happened that causes us to step on each other, to hate, to judge, to be gods unto ourselves, setting the dogs of our heart onto the lusts of our eyes.

The notion of "wrong," however, is sometimes more than what we often limit it to, which is the darker side of the two ways...the other being "right." "Wrong" can be a loaded sentiment - as I believe it is in this question - containing broader aspects of behavior: wisdom/foolishness, love/unlove (or hate and apathy), honesty/deceit, humility/arrogance, etc. Taken solely the way the question is posited - from Adam to Eve - one might think the question is one of love/lust: a man observing his love slipping away as she creates emotional and physical bonds with something or someone else. The pain of this situation would most definitely merit a question like "Where did we go wrong?" But what if the object slipping away from Adam was even more sublime than the bonded relationship between man and woman? What if it was the bonded relationship between human(ity) and God?

The second question brings resolve to the first: "Where do we belong?" It alludes to the fact that, although something went awry and we all contribute to this predicament of decay, there is hope...there is a place where we do indeed belong, even if that place isn't very clear now (eternity takes no shape when viewed with finite lenses). Some people like to think that if something cannot be proven to exist, then it doesn't. I, however, like to believe that sometimes something exists because it is being hoped for, and therefore becomes alive amidst the pursuit of its existence.

Asking the question, even without an answer or a set direction, is a first step to belonging somewhere. And, as the first question is as much an admission as it is a question, this second question (as I interpret it) is a directive...in a sense, a rhetorical question asked, in this case by Adam to Eve, with the end in mind. I like to think that Adam asked this question to his partner, Eve (or to God or himself), in lamentation, knowing that, because they had just ousted themselves from where they did belong, they were homeless and yet just within heart's reach of where they knew they did belong. In another sense, the question is a remembrance, a simple eulogy even, of home...of the place that provides wholeness and healing...

Where we belong seems to be in that bonded relationship with God, where we will be right again - healed and whole.

Two simple-sounding questions, the depths of which, when plumbed, unveil a profound process of identity and hope.

Neulore: A Review

2010-10-31T22:34:00.025-06:00

According to my records, the last time I posted was nearly six months ago, on May 7. I've sat down several times to write between then and now and simply haven't had either the focus, energy, time, or words...or combination. I don't know if I have any of those things now, but...well, it's time.

Six months is a long time, and a lot can happen in 180 days. In summary, I'm older than I was since my last post and probably have a few more gray hairs on my head (wisdom, my friends...wisdom). I've read three or four books and climbed equally as many 14k-foot mountains (but didn't do the two things at the same time). I've been within 40 yards of a Montana grizzly bear and even closer to the Colorado River at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I spent time in the Black Hills and in the mountain range named "Snow" (Sierra Nevada), and I've stood on the highest point in the Rocky Mountains. My hair grew long and my stay as an employee at A Christian Ministry in the National Parks (ACMNP) grew shorter. I took a vacation with my wife and drove over 2k miles to go hiking. Ironically, each day I head to work to lounge in a chair and work on a computer (what some people consider relaxation). I've listened to a lot of music, but always seem to return to the same small handful of musicians who stimulate my brain and heart simultaneously.

Speaking of music, and skipping ahead to now, I'd like to introduce you to a band I recently came across called Neulore. Why do I like them? It's not only for the music they create (although, I do enjoy their interplay of soul and folk with keyboard, banjo, string, and synth), and it's not the way I think the lead singer uses his voice as an instrument in the mix (which is something that has increasingly become a must for me, or else I deem the whole thing boring). No, for me, it's truly the philosophy behind their (first) album Apples & Eve. And for that philosophy, I will simply cut and paste it here from their own stock of thought:

Something happened when Eve accepted the fruit from the serpent. Something more than the proverbial fall, something more than the rift between God & man. The bliss of the garden spiraled into accusation, desire, and heartbreak. Written to Eve from Adam's perspective, the seven songs that make up Neulore's "Apples & Eve" explore that fractured space between the original man and woman.

Or, how about this, from their Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/Neulore):

There is no greater story than the one between creator and its creation. It is the epic love story, and it's a story few can tell. Even fewer have the passion to seek the understanding and wisdom it takes to shape this story into real art. Neulore have pushed the limits of their own creativity to tell a story filled with beauty, love, pain and passion. They have fashioned sound and spirit, wood and string, current and wire to bring lyric to life. The result is a collection of songs that have become as beautiful as the story they seek to share. Neulore are servants of the story, interpreters of an ancient tradition. The timeless story, told in modern tones.

As someone who listens to a lot of music (or at least tries to), I rarely come across musicians or bands who can (or who are even willing to) make such a distinct and concretely intentional claim about their music...and still retain the integrity of their art/craft. I naturally gravitate toward artists who use their media to unpack topics of humanity, spirituality, and theology without compromising creativity. When artists are able to accomplish this mad balance it speaks to their internal wiring - what they feel is their calling - rather than an effort to comply with a certain brand of personage. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I respect/value authenticity and am sensitive to disingenuous behaviour.

I don't know the guys who make up Neulore, but I've found that the majority of musicians who mix Biblical themes into their music usually subscribe to the somewhat dull and unimaginative "Christian music industry" and seem to sound annoyingly similar to each other. Indeed, most music does sound like something else - often one's influences - but the guys in Neulore have struck a unique chord by offering an richly textured sound while exploring territory often left to musicians who tend to do less creating and more forcing mediocre music to mediocre sermons. I applaud the efforts of Neulore, just as I applaud others' efforts who do good jobs at exploring God topics in ways that are attractive beyond the standard faith-focused communities but that are still accessible to people in those communities who have minds that are open to fresh expressions of their faith.

Give these guys a free listen at their BandCamp site: http://neulore.bandcamp.com/

Digital Shepherds - Part 2

2010-05-07T22:49:00.012-06:00

To give context to this entry, in "Digital Shepherds - Part 1," I introduced my observations regarding the evolution of the role of "pastor" in our era of digital media and wide scale social networking. I made the point that technological advancements over the last 50 years or so have made unequivocal amounts of information unprecedentedly accessible to the general public, which has caused certain traditional socio-relational boundaries to crumble like the Berlin Wall. Concepts like "friend," "acquaintance," "enemy," etc., have maintained their "traditional" existences in few contexts, which has produced an altogether new reality of functioning that history has never before witnessed. Additionally, I wondered how this new reality (of e-relationships and digital connectivity) effects "the church," how people understand and express their faith, what "community" has become, and (especially) how the roles of pastor and parishioner have morphed as a result.

There are consequential issues that we cannot ignore, that we must engage, such as: What, then, is community? Who are our neighbors? What is the "local church?" How does the accessibility of information (brought to us via ever quickening technological advancements) effect one's interpretation of Christ and of following the way of Christ? Are pastors neglecting their local congregations in favor of pursuing the spoils of a mass digital audience? (Hence the term "digital shepherds.")

What brought all this to my attention, and caused me to want to unpack it further, was a recent stroll through a bookstore. Over the years I've noticed a trend particularly within the "Christian Living" and "Religion" sections of bookstores: many of the books are written by pastors who claim a local church as their ministry expression, whether that local church be in Seattle, St. Louis, San Francisco, or somewhere in South Carolina. More than that, the ubiquity of iTunes, with its podcast capabilities, and the technology of mp3's creates a whole new audience for pastors to engage and influence (one that is multiple times larger and more extensive than ever before).

When I compare what I've observed about our culture, and the era in which we live, with what I understand to be the role of a pastor, I grow increasingly skeptical of the faces I see on the books and of the voices behind the sermons and podcasts. Are they pastors or savvy self-help gurus? Shepherds or charismatic public speakers who know how to caress the religious stage?

[I must insert this disclaimer here: I graduated from a small liberal arts Christian university that was (and is still) home to many aspiring pastors and preachers. Even then, my antenna were out, and I developed a propensity for skepticism regarding religious enthusiasm. Once, at a spiritual tipping point, I approached my father, who is an administrator at this school, about the fervor with which these aspiring clergy (a.k.a. "religion majors") hyped their agenda while seeming to casually dismiss and/or criticize my chosen field - the Humanities. His response was interestingly humorous, as he said that there really weren't that many religion majors at the school; they were simply louder than everyone else. Take that however you want, but it caused me to inspect my own judgements. A small portion can often be confused for the whole simply because they scream louder. It's important to know that I have this lesson in mind while writing through these observations. I know not every single pastor can or should be contained under the umbrella I am creating. A good portion are, though, and a little critical observation has never hurt anyone.]

With that, consider the following quotes regarding the "local church," the role of pastor, and our ever-evolving perspective of community as a precursor to the third and final portion of Digital Shepherds:

"Community...is an indispensable term in any discussion of the connection between people and land" (Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community, from the essay "Conservation and Local Economy," p. 15)

"When one works beyond the reach of one's love for the place one is working in and for the things and creatures one is working with and among, then destruction inevitably results. An adequate local culture, among other things, keeps work within the reach of love." (Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community, from the essay "Out of Your Car, Off Your Horse," p. 24)

"...community is a locally understood interdependence of local people, local culture, local economy, and local nature. (Community, of course, is an idea that can extend itself beyond the local, but it does so metaphorically. The idea of a national or global community is meaningless apart from the realization of local communities.)" (Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community, from the essay "Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community," p.120)

"A community cannot be made or preserved apart from the loyalty and affection of its members and the respect and goodwill of the people outside it. And for a long time, these conditions have not been met. As the technological, economic, and political means of exploitation have expanded, communities have been more and more victimized by opportunists outside themselves. And as the salesmen, saleswomen, advertisers, and propagandists of the industrial economy have become more ubiquitous and more adept at seduction, communities have lost the loyalty and affection of their members." (Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community, from the essay "Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community," p. 121)

"A culture capable of preserving land and people can be made only within a relatively stable and enduring relationship between a local people and its place." (Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community, from the essay "Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community," p. 171)

"...an authentic community is made less in reference to who we are than to where we are." (Wendell Berry, Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community, from the essay "Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community," p.172)

"...the modern clergy system is a religious artifact that has no biblical basis. This system has allowed the body of Christ to lapse into an audience due to its heavy reliance on a single leader. It has turned church into the place where Christians watch professionals perform. It has transformed the holy assembly into a center for professional pulpiteerism supported by lay-spectators." (Frank Viola, Reimagining Church, p. 160)

"In short, the clergy profession is little more than a one-size-fits-all blending of administration, psychology, and oratory that's packaged into one position for religious consumption. As such, the sociological role of clergy, as practiced in the West, has few points of contact with anything or anyone in the New Testament." (Frank Viola, Reimagining Church, p. 161)

"...the New Testament church knew nothing of a resident, hired clergy. Because they were simply brothers, the elders didn't stand over the flock. Nor did they stand apart from it. Instead, they served the church as those who were among the flock." (Frank Viola, Reimagining Church, p. 181)

"Much Christian leadership is exercised by people who do not know how to develop healthy, intimate relationships and have opted for power and control instead." (Henri Nouwen, as quoted by Frank Viola, Reimagining Church, p. 201)

"The blogging revolution also represents signs of a shift in the location of authority. In postmodern fashion, authority has been decentralized from the handful of experts who hold the truth, to include anyone who wants to participate in the conversation. This is the conclusion of one well-respected blogger as she evaluates the various blog forms: 'Each is evidence of a staggering shift from an age of carefully controlled information provided by sanctioned authorities (and artists), to an unprecedented opportunity for individual expression on a worldwide scale.' Blogging, then, is a statement about epistemology. To the question, 'Who holds the truth?' bloggers answer: 'We do - all of us.'" (Everyday Theology, from the essay "Welcome to the Blogosphere," by Justin Bailey, p. 180-181)

"If authority is being taken from the hands of the 'sanctioned authorities' and placed in the hands of the public, could this mean that the authority structure of the church is changing as well? For [Tim Bednar, founder of e-Church.com], that is exactly what it means. He recently posted a paper with the most serious theological evaluation of the blogosphere to date. The title of his manifesto? "We Know More Than Our Pastors.' Similar to the way a networking of journalism blogs tries to bring collective intelligence to bear on the news, Bednar believes that a networking of spiritual blogs exceeds the reach of any single pastor. He writes that bloggers value the medium because 'they can participate without being filtered by church structures, denominational restrictions or even doctrinal impurity.'" (Everyday Theology, from the essay "Welcome to the Blogosphere," by Justin Bailey, p. 183)

"The prevalence of online diary communities is an indication that people are longing for fellowship and need a place for honest confession." (Everyday Theology, from the essay "Welcome to the Blogosphere," by Justin Bailey, p. 183)

"It is a tragic testimony to the state of our churches that many people experience virtual community as more real than that of the offline world. People need embodied relationships and real space to build true intimacy. Without this intimacy, concentrated disembodied interaction breeds emotional promiscuity." (Everyday Theology, from the essay "Welcome to the Blogosphere," by Justin Bailey, p. 184)

"We need to evaluate seriously the organizational architecture of our churches and ask if they are filtering our congregations apart instead of fostering true community and conversation. Do our church structures distance people in the congregation from one another? Do our recruiting drives, step-by-step discipleship programs, and Sunday school curricular encourage passivity or participation? Are we fostering intellectual self-discovery with vigor equal to that of the blogging community?" (Everyday Theology, from the essay "Welcome to the Blogosphere," by Justin Bailey, p. 185)

"...John [the Apostle] reminds us that the incarnation, as well as incarnational relationships, is rooted in physicality: the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Embodied fellowship, as one Christian philosopher writes, 'is an irreducible and incomparable quality that cannot be adequately translated into any other form of communication, cyberspace or otherwise. ...When the flesh becomes data it fails to dwell among us." (Everyday Theology, from the essay "Welcome to the Blogosphere," by Justin Bailey, p. 188)

"Authentic connection is described as the core of psychological wellbeing and is the essential quality of growth-fostering and healing relationships. In moments of deep connection in relationship, we break out of isolation and contraction into a more whole and spacious state of mind and heart." (Janet L. Surrey as quoted by Jesse Rice in The Church of Facebook, p. 28)

"...connection is not just 'what causes happiness.' It is also our most basic need." (Jesse Rice, The Church of Facebook, p. 34)

...end of Part 2

Digital Shepherds - Part 1

2010-05-04T23:42:00.011-06:00

I love books, and I love bookstores. I don't care if they're large or small, corporate or local, I love 'em all (although I would rather support a local shop over a corporate conglomerate). Generally speaking, though, the more books I'm around the merrier I am. But, I've noticed that my fetish for books and bookstores is accompanied by an equally intense obsession with aesthetics. I gravitate toward artistic design, creative expression, and inventive symbolism. You know how they say "Don't judge a book by its cover"? Yeah, well, that doesn't work for me. I'm a sucker for a good label when it comes to books, wine, beer, music, and pretty much anything else that has room for a picture. If it doesn't look good to me, it's probably not going to be the first thing I pick up. I know - that sounds so shallow. Read it again, though - I never said that if something doesn't look good to me that I will never pick it up. Just that it probably won't be the first. I do realize that labels and looks often have very little to do with the quality of what's on the inside.

I digress. So, because I'm obsessive-compulsive when it comes to the way things look (in this particular case, books), I keep an I eye out for not only what I like but also for what I really don't like. I believe that in order to form a compulsion toward something, it's reasonable to also know what one is repulsed from. Thus, I like to look around for the corny-est, least artistic, most uninovative book covers (and, in this way, I enter the outer rungs of schadenfreude - a great German word that means to derive satisfaction or pleasure from someone else's misfortune). You know those books I'm talking about - the ones where the author is gleefully posed on the front with one arm angled upward, with a fist under the chin. There's the huge grin, the $15,000 smile-set-in-stone, or the "I-can't-help-but-look-this-conceited" one eyebrow, half smile pose. Interestingly, these books are most often present in the "Self-Help" and "Christian Living" sections of most bookstores. Well, if you haven't noticed them yet...you will now.

So these folks want to paste their face all over their book. That's fine. I'm not judging them or their book. Just their really unimaginative, dull, and somewhat narcissistic cover. Noticing all these books (especially in the "Christian" section, where I do often browse) has caused me to ask myself a few critical questions. And, I'm going to narrow this blog entry down here...down to the authors who write books that are filed particularly under "Christianity" or "Religion," for it is with these authors that I am most interested at the moment.

I've noticed that a great many of the books in the sections I mentioned above are written by pastors. If you were to look at the back of one of these books, or on one of the inside sleeves of the jacket, there is usually a short bio that includes their church's attendance statistics and how many conferences at which this particular "author" is now being asked to make speaking appearances. Phrases like "A highly sought after conference speaker," and "a leading voice in proclaiming the Gospel around the world..." abound on the backs of these books. One bio I recently read even boasted that the author is the senior pastor of a "vibrant, dynamic, and fast-growing church...which has a congregation of more than 19,000 members."

The word "pastor" has apparently come a long way from its original connection with "shepherd" or "herdsman." Yeah, people will still give credence to the connection between pastor and shepherd - it sounds nice on Sundays - but the reality is that many of today's pastors seem to aspire more toward rock-star-ism than shepherdism. I've noticed that the role of today's pastor attracts people who enjoy the spotlight, who are entrepreneurial and visionary, and who share many of the same characteristics, qualities, and mannerisms (for better or worse) of a Fortune 500 company CEO. Churches have changed names and have remodeled their buildings in an attempt to "be something different." The Internet, with its plethora ways of connecting people and advertising, has become a focus for many churches. Slogans, like this one I saw the other day, abound on these websites: "We are church for people who don't like church." Furthermore, the words superchurch and megachurch are now official dictionary entries, with gigachurch not too far behind.

Really?

Unpacking this a step further, consider that the Stone Age lasted (disputably) anywhere between 4,000 and 45,000 years; the Bronze Age lasted about 2,000 years; the Renaissance lasted for approximately 350 years; and the Industrial Revolution went on for about 250 years (this is all a rough sketch, of course). It's said that sometime in the mid-1600's, Modernism began to take shape. 300 years later, we have already moved into the Postmodern era, and some scholars have even started to toss around an all-new, provocative claim that we have entered the Hypermodern era (Whatever that means. To define it would be so...so "modern"...meh). The point is that we live in an world that moves quicker than it ever has before. Trends last for nano-seconds and baseline cultural narratives shift with each day. Much good has emerged as a result, but the speed, ultra-connectivity, and media-indulgences has also deeply wounded humanity.

Humans, it seems, will always be involved in some sort of evolution. For example, I was born in 1980. DVRs did not exist when I was born, but now they are a normal part of an 8-year-old's reality. It's obvious that we have evolved, or (more safely, for some) "adapted," to new realities. Within our current reality, people can connect (again, for better or worse) with the click of a button. This blog is a good example: at some point I will click the "publish post" button, and what I'm writing will be available to someone in Denver, Colorado, as much as it will be available to someone in Amsterdam, or China. Boundaries have been shattered and continue to desintegrate: those of neighbor, community, friend, enemy, acquaintance, etc. Who belongs to which group? The temptation is to belong to all and none at once, to maintain a degree of autonomy and anonymity within the foggy boundaries of a global identity. Where does micro give way to macro...and vice-versa?

So what does any of this have to do with books and pastors? The quick answer is that, as I recently paroused the "Christian Living" section at a nearby Borders and began to notice (for the thousandth time) the gross overload of books written by pastors, as well as the multiple books with terribly rediculous photos of the humble author on the cover, I realized that this might be something worth investigating. The other answer is more involved, and it incorporates the temptations that pastors must be facing in this hyper-connected age of ours, which is the same temptation with which most all of us grapple: to be everywhere at once...at least everywhere that technology, consumerism, and our American way will allow. Pastors, however, live with the "vocational conviction" of their divine message. Pastors are called to preach, are they not? And this adds a cherry to the top of the already tasty temptation to engage, submit their voice and perspective, and to comment in as many places as physically and digitally possible. And I ask, how does this effect one's interpretation of Christ and of following Christ? Should we dare to challenge the age of the digitized shepherd?

...end of part 1

Tilling the Truth: It Makes Too Much Sense

2010-03-21T21:01:00.013-06:00

I've recently started reading a second book of essays by Mr. Wendell Berry, an author who is fast becoming one of my very favorites. What is it about Berry's writing that would cause him to climb the book ladder in my humble library? First of all, he is not only a great essayist, but he is also a farmer and published novelist & poet - an accute observer, critic, and participant of his environment (all qualities I value, admire, and to which I aspire). Secondly, his writing focuses on subjects revolving around community, faith, freedom, sex, and economy (in fact, one of his book of essays is entitled Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community), and those issues pique my interest magnanimously. Thirdly, he just makes too much sense. What do I mean by that, and why does it appeal? Allow me to explain...

As a sophomore in college (18/19 yrs. old) I began to critique the world in which I "lived and moved and had my being." I couldn't help it. It was what I did, it was what I was drawn to do. The focus of my critiques and observations was (more often than not) the protestant church in the south, for the south was where I lived and the southern evangelical church was the community in which I was raised. Furthermore, the church is where individual peoples' faith culminates into a type of group-think that can have a definite and visible affect on the "everyday life" of a community. It certainly had (and still has) an impact on mine, for it was where I unpacked my faith as a child, and then as a youth, and now as an adult. By the time I was a sophomore in college, as the world was opening itself up to my criticism, I was naturally drawn to investigate this primary source of influence in my life and in others' lives.

I wanted to know how people were interpreting "God's will" for the community of which I was part. Interestingly enough, I was forming my own interpretations...and they were often different, if not subtly contrary, to those of the church communities I observed and their parishioners. Subsequently, I began to feel like a fish out of water, or at least a fish swimming against the current. I felt alone and very un-understood, so I hunted other fish, so to speak, with which to swim.

Prior to this time in my life, I didn't do much "recreational" reading. I read what I had to for school, and that's about it. Reading didn't appeal to me, nor did I yet recognize the craft that goes into writing. This all shifted as I was led to a few particular word-artists who helped guide what God was apparently doing with me. I consider these authors to be my literary Sherpas - guides who helped me climb mountainous terrain of my faith. They made sense when I could find sense nowhere else.

And this is how Wendell Berry's writing has come to me...10 years later: making sense when sense is what I desperately need (inasmuch as sense can contribute to faith, which requires a level of senselessness).

I've always believed that reading a book is as much about timing as anything else. The books I've enjoyed reading the most have been such because they addressed something particular through which I was navigating at the time. Regarding fiction, perhaps the storyline paralleled my own or I saw myself (or others I knew) in the characters. Berry's essays could have slid across my plate 5, or even 2 years ago, and I probably would have ignored them. It wouldn't have been time. Now, at 29 years old, they have crept into my path, and they are at once challenging and affirming...sense-making.

In the introduction to the particular book I've started, entitled The Art of the Commonplace, Norman Wirzba, Research Professor of Theology, Ecology and Rural Life at Duke Divinity School, warms the reader up to Berry's "agrarian essays" that follow by citing a portion of Berry's book The Hidden Wound, regarding the damaging effects of urban life:

"People had begun to live lives of a purely theoretical reality, daydreams based on the economics of success. It was as if they had risen off the earth in to the purely hypothetical air of their ambition and greed. They were rushing around in the clouds, 'getting nowhere,' while their native ground, the only meaningful destination, if not the only possible one, lay far below them, abandoned and forgotten, colonized by machines."

Wirzba articulately expounds on this subject of how rural life has faded in favor of urban migration: "...when migration is propelled by the fancies of a disembodied mind or desire - of a mind, for instance, that is focused on an abstract goal such as money (what constitutes 'enough' cannot be determined or predicted) - then it is inevitable that 'success' would require 'the pragmatization of feeling,' the forsaking of profitless pleasures and joys, the eclipse of meaningful leisure, the denigration of unuseful knowledge, and the denial of mystery."

As I indulge myself in Berry's essays, I come to a tension in my life that has, for as long as I can remember, tread upon the surface waters of my identity (as I suppose it has tread upon the surface waters of many people's identity): the question of "Who do I want to be?" or "Who am I?" In some regards, the answer to this question is out of our hands...and, in many regards, it is the wrong question to ask altogether, for we have no business outside of the question "Who does God want me to be?" I guess my first question assumes the latter into it. Not that "I" am God, but, as someone who seeks communion with God, and who claims discipleship by Christ, the "I" is also God who grants me the "I". Berry's thoughts and insights emphasize the consequences of the ways we as a society have answered that question (Who do we want to be?), and he unpacks what will continue to happen if we continue to answer the question the same ways. He proposes alternatives and, although he offers explanations for why things are the way they are, he doesn't allow the reader any excuses.

My point in all of this is that truth - the kind of penetrating truth that people seem to avoid or ignore because it's uncomfortable and disorienting (albeit, only for a short while) - often seems to come from unexpected places. Recently, I've felt it being tilled in my life by a 75 year-old Kentucky farmer, who happens to also write.

Mumford & Sons: Sigh No More

2010-03-01T21:58:00.017-07:00

Two music-related posts in a row - I'm on a roll here. I would like to introduce you to one of the better bands I've heard in a very long time: Mumford & Sons.

This British foursome of twenty-somethings have created an album, Sigh No More (Oct, 2009), that is at once ruckus with foot-stomping banjo accompaniments, reflectively subdued, and profoundly insightful. With tight harmonies and superb lyrics, Sigh No More has quickly made its way to the top of my 6,534-song iTunes music library.

If you want to give them a listen, visit their website (http://www.mumfordandsons.com/) and/or their MySpace (http://www.myspace.com/mumfordandsons) ...or just scroll to the bottom of this post and listen to the video.

From the band's "Bio" section on their website: They bonded over their love of country, bluegrass and folk, and decided to make music that sounded loud, proud and live - taking music that could often be pretty and delicate, and fill it with enthusiasm, courage and confidence.

Weaving through the lyrics of Mumford & Sons' songs is a common thread of hope...or, rather, hope hoped for. If one looks for it, he can find a distinct scent of twenty-somethings singing stories about people (maybe themselves) reconciling the tension between the romantic idealism of youth and the stark reality of "getting older." Incidentally, a very similar thread runs through the Avett Brothers' songs.

As a 29-year old myself, I can't help but to be entranced by these kinds of songs as I, too, seek an identity in "the real world." Peppered throughout Sigh No More are puddles of very dark poetry (as in "Timshel") along with a personal wake-up call that is the cry of many twenty-somethings as we move into a very weird and foreign land: our 30's (as in "Awake My Soul").

Overall, and I don't know if Mumford & Sons intends this or not, there are allusions to Divinity. On a few of the songs, you get the feeling that they think, if they play their instruments hard enough and sing the lyrics strong enough, that the division between the physical realm and the heavenly realm will thin itself into an almost tangible boundary, where one can peer into the other. To say the least, their music is honest, and - paired with their lyrics - one gets the sense that it is undoubtedly not concocted or forced. ...which, in my opinion, is a good thing.

What more can I say. Give them a listen and form your own opinion. If you think you'd enjoy listening to four West Londoners' interpretation of folk-grass, with banjo, guitar, upright bass,a dash of accordion, and a swirl of passionate lyricism (that is at once vague and transparent), then you'll probably really like Mumford & Sons.

Video below: "Roll Away Your Stone" (for some reason, only three of the band members play)

Roll away your stone, I'll roll away mine
Together we can see what we will find
Don't leave me alone at this time
For I'm afraid of what I will discover inside.

You told me that I wouldn't find a home
Beneath the fragile substance of my soul
And I have filled this void with things unreal
And all the while my character it steals

Darkness is a harsh term don't you think
Yet it dominates the things I see

It seems that all my bridges have been burned
But you say "That's exactly how this grace thing works"
It's not the long walk home that will change this heart
But the welcome I receive with the restart

Darkness is a harsh term don't you think
And yet it dominates the things I see

Stars hide your fires
For these here are my desires
And I won't give them up to you this time around
And so I will be found
With my stake stuck in the ground
Marking the territory of the newly impassioned soul

And you, you've gone too far this time
You have neither reason nor rhyme
With which to take this sould that is so rightfully mine.

Live No More Undercover

2010-02-27T21:50:00.011-07:00

Every once in a while you find yourself actually listening to a song - to the whole picture of it: the words & music; each instrument; each lyric; how the song fits into the album as a whole; how the album fits into the larger scheme of things. Maybe it's one of those what I call "parachute songs" - a song that takes a little longer than the others to "drop in" on you. These songs are hidden secrets (whether because of lyrics or musicianship) that you didn't bank on, but that you're glad are included. You often don't connect with these songs until way down the road somewhere, long after you've acquainted yourself with the album - when your ears are ready for the more nuanced subtleties of the "parachute song." This is when it usually drops in...

Surely you know what I'm talking about.

I had this experience just today with a song by a female artist to whom I've listened off-and-on for the last four years or so. Her name is Katie Herzig, and, admittedly, she is just a tad outside my normal musical connoisseurship. Her sound has a bit more "pop" to it than I usually like. But I was recently guided to a web site (http://www.noisetrade.com/) where her album Weightless can be downloaded for free (among many other artists' albums). So, of course, I followed directions and soon found myself listening to Weightless, one of Herzigs earlier albums (2006).

This was on Thursday, and I had put the album on "repeat" on my iTunes throughout the day at the office. I was drawn in by the "folk-ish" side of her "pop," and also by the atmospheric ambiance on several of her tracks. It made for nice background work music.

The same play list was streaming in my car this weekend, and during a short drive today my ears and Herzig's lyrics made that once-in-a-while connection that songs and ears make when, as I've already said, you actually pay attention and listen. I turned up the volume to catch her song "Crazy," and this is what I heard:

What have they done to the birds and the bees
The cradle was robbed the nest make believe
And they’re selling their souls for the purpose of losing it all

What have they done to the cracks in the walls
The world has been painted to cover it all
Now everyone’s afraid to admit that they’re getting old

What have they done to the revolution
They call it a war and claimed it was useless
The voice of the ages will never be heard quite the same

What have they done to the innocent mind
Spoiled it and twisted the truth into lies
Now all of the peace lovers are having to draw up their swords

What have they done to Jesus’ life
They’re making it cruel, say it’s a lie
But they still ask for his peace ‘cause they feel it inside

And what have they done with the two thousand years
Made history in to a faithful fear
But the cracks don’t expire just ‘cause the surface is dry

If I’m going crazy, then crazy is just my desire
If I’m going crazy, crazy is just what I’ve seen
If I’m going crazy then crazy is just in between

I haven't heard a summary of "the true America" as good as this in a long time: "What have they done to Jesus’ life / They’re making it cruel, say it’s a lie / But they still ask for his peace ‘cause they feel it inside." ...or "What have they done to the cracks in the walls / The world has been painted to cover it all / Now everyone's afraid to admit that they're getting old."

There's just something ridiculously refreshing to me when I hear or read such prophetic wisps of canny insight. Although not necessarily mind-bending writing (we've all heard/read things like this before), but it was enough to catch my ears today. It was a timing issue: I was ready to hear it. I needed to know someone else enjoys the "cracks" that are so casually being painted over in favor of a veneer of "new." I needed to know that somebody else has born witness to the whole "crazy" mess of such contradictions and scams as are emitted so blatantly by our countrymen and women.

I don't even know who the "they" is in Herzig's song. But that's what I enjoy about art - it lets you insert whomever you feel should be inserted, and it offers a reference point for your own actions...or apathy. You hear lyrics like these and you begin to question whether or not you are the "they" being sung about. You begin asking yourself if you have contributed to twisting truths into lies, of painting over cracks and denying the natural-ness of age and unmitigated wisdom that time can create in one’s life. These kinds of songs ask us to reckon with the hard facts of our habits, prejudices, and tendencies toward self-interest and manipulation.

As I've plowed through my twenties, some of the rough edges of my youth have been smoothed by a combination of time, experience, renewed focus, and energy (or lack thereof). But one thing has, up to this point, remained constant: my passion to cut the bull and speak honestly about life. I often wish I could do so more eloquently, respectfully, and sensitively. But, in this vein, I champion Ms. Herzig for her song, which even 4 years after its release still puts the mirror in front of the listeners' eyes and asks us to consider (re)evaluating the loaded notions of Truth and unTruth, of reality and of the false realities which vie for our followship each day.

In his essay “Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community,” writer/farmer/social critic Wendell Berry asserts that art moves us. Whether toward truth and freedom, or toward deceits, is something perhaps not even the artist can predict or control. We ingest large doses of film, literature, music, and their various forms, because we undoubtedly want to be “moved” toward something. On the day I connected with Herzig’s song, I didn’t expect much except a background soundtrack to my drive. But, alas, I was moved to consider what it is my life represents in the larger mix of things. Maybe, by reading this, it will do the same to you. Maybe not. Regardless, my hope is that we will be moved toward cutting through all the bull and uncover the fissures and fractures of our lives, not so that they can be painted over, but in order for them to be the arrows they truly are – arrows that point to the Creator, who welcomes us despite our splintered selves.

Ain't No Home Like the Saints Make Home

2010-02-07T22:05:00.009-07:00

When I was in elementary school my friend, Greg, once asked me what I thought life would be like in 20 years. We were both ten years old and in the 4th grade at now defunct Jean Gordon Elementary School in New Orleans. For ten-year-olds – for anyone really – twenty years is like an unfathomable black hole of time. How can a ten-year-old boy really even know where to begin summoning an answer to that query?

Greg and I found a starting point with what was most tangible (and "controllable") to us at that time: what kind of jobs we would have. All “grown-ups” had jobs. A job was, in fact, what defined “adult” for us. In our predictions, neither of us really spent much time at whatever we said our jobs were, and yet we both somehow had a lot of money to spend. Go figure. After that, our conversation turned pointedly to what we thought was ultimate fantasy: we wondered if the New Orleans Saints, our beloved hometown team, would be good by the time we were 30. We weren’t imagining them winning the Super Bowl as much as simply speculating as to their future measure in the National Football League.

Incidentally, just around this time, the Saints put together a few pretty good years with the “dome patrol" – the nickname for the defensive unit of those teams. But they never could get over the proverbial hump and into the playoffs. I remember this fact being a poisoned thorn in the side of many a Saints fan.

Back to elementary school: each morning at Jean Gordon was initiated with an assembly at which announcements and other important goings-on were relayed to students and teachers before we all headed to class for the day. Everyone stood in lines according to grades, and then according to our specific classes within our grades (this was where Greg and I had our pseudo-prophetic conversation).

During football season, our principal, Mr. Riedlinger, would close these assemblies in a very specific way: he would tell us that just before a particular morning’s assembly he had received a phone call from Joe Montana (which he, of course, never really did). Montana was the storied quarterback of the San Francisco 49ers, a team that was very good at the time and that were in the same division as the Saints, which meant that the two teams often played twice a year – games marked with particular importance. Mr. Riedlinger would tell us things that Joe Montana said to him - things that did not shine much of a bright light on our Saints. After all of this, Mr. Riedlinger would have all the students face toward the Superdome in downtown New Orleans and yell, as loudly as we could, "Go! Saints! Go!" We would sometimes do it two or three times, depending on if Mr. Riedlinger wanted the Saints to hear it 15 miles away in downtown, or if he wanted Joe Montana and his 49ers to hear it as well, all the way in San Francisco.

I moved away from New Orleans in 1998, when I was 17 years old. Since then, I've reflected a good bit about the idea of "home," because, since moving from New Orleans, I haven't really had one. I've certainly had places to live and a roof over my head. There is truly significance in referring to that kind of supplication as a home, but what I'm meaning here is something much more reverent and symbolic. My heart proposes to me that home is the unique combo of place and people that lets you know that you're comfortable in your own skin - it forms those essential definitions that lay the foundation for how we understand things.

My wife is from a very small town in the north woods of Wisconsin. When we go to visit her family, she returns to that small town, and to the house in which she was reared, and she is comfortable in a profoundly intangible way. Her family has never moved from that house and many of her relatives live nearby, as well as numerous long-time friends and their families. There is stability there, and familiarity. This fact about her life, coupled with the fact that I moved away from my home when I was 17 - just before my final year of high school - has sometimes been the root of many misunderstandings between us. For instance, my family's move developed within me a complacent attitude toward change - in fact, I have often desired and initiated changes in my environment. My wife, on the other hand, is disinclined to initiate change. My conclusion is that if a home is taken from a person, the stakes are high that he or she will chase the memory of it into far corners, finding some of it here and some there but never again the whole as it was once established. It may certainly be formed in a new way. In fact, it is almost inevitable that it will. But once removed, it is hardly passable that "home" will resurrect itself in the same way ever again.

And I have chased this idea...not to its absolute ends, but certainly to select physical and spiritual (and probably psychological) degrees, for it is an essential of life - this connection to the cultural and social womb that formed us.

Tonight, in the Super Bowl, the Saints were finally "good," as Greg and I had so contemplated from the acuity of twenty years. Turns out, all of our yelling in those morning assemblies was finally absorbed and manifested into a Super Bowl win. As a long-time fan, watching the victory unfold was at once exhausting, nerve wrecking, thrilling, and satisfying. But is wasn't from this perspective that I was most jolted. As a human being, who shares with most every other human being in this world the desire to belong somewhere, to something, and to someone, I was reminded about what "home" is to me. I was brought from behind the shadowcast of time and my heart felt once more the flickering fibers of my early life, the warm flames of a juvenile’s impression: those 13 malleable years that I was a citizen of New Orleans, the place that forged and made clear for me certain gratuities such as Friend, Family, and Faith.

I never thought a Super Bowl could be much more than a bedazzled sporting event. And, as a fan, yes, I am glad the team I was rooting for emerged victorious. But that is truly an aside. The Saints football team, with its black & gold and fleur de lis, represents a town from which I was once uprooted and a home that will forever remain in my condition. Go. Saints. Go.

New Year's (Re)Solutions

2010-01-07T17:02:00.009-07:00

We’re off to a fresh start. A new year, a new beginning. I wonder how many of us have committed afresh to eating healthy, to exercising regularly, to watching less TV…to breaking whatever unhealthy cycles have rooted degenerative rhythms in our lives?

Each January, most of us think about resolutions...or re-solutions...or new solutions. We reflect on what needs to stop happening in our lives and give serious consideration to what we should begin doing. It’s good to re-assess the lay of the land, so to speak. Maybe it's that we should read more. Perhaps we could be better listeners, exercising our eardrums more than our mouth-drums. Whatever it is, we resolve that the next 12 months will be different (in a positive way) from the last, that, in a sense, we will create a new reality for ourselves, a new solution for our problem.

These resolutions are great – they often lead us into healthier and more aware lifestyles. But if my short life has taught me one thing, it’s that I don’t function like a CD player (remember those?), meaning I cannot just press “eject,” insert a new disc, and expect to hear a new soundtrack. No, for new music to emanate from the speakers of my life, the change needs to occur much deeper in my circuitry.

Christ said, “Seek the kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need” (matt. 6:33). When I think about those words in light of my “(re)solutions” to improve what comprises my reality, I am struck with the notion that I’m beginning in the wrong spot.

With the fresh start of this year, by simply kneeling our mind, our heart, or our real knees before God, perhaps a better place to start is by asking the Lord what he wants to resolve in us.

I’ve been trying to do this (even praying for the ability to do so), and I may have set my nose to the right scent when I read the following words from author David James Duncan in the afterword of his book entitled The River Why:

“And knowing justice is inescapable, and not in human hands,
I want to ask finally, Why judge? Why hate or rage? Why not just serve, wherever
and however and for as long and as gratefully as we can, step by step, heart to
heart, move by intricate move?”

As Clear As Midnight

2009-12-17T15:28:00.006-07:00

During this time of year, some unique songs begin resonating from the speakers – songs that are much different than those we hear during any other time of the year. From “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” to “Silent Night”, Christmas carols and seasonal hymns are all over the airwaves, in our CD players, and on our iPod playlists. You have your favorites (and I’m sure you have those that you love to hate), but all of them say something about our cultural perspective on Christmas and/or the actual story of Christ’s entrance into this world.

One song that’s really sticking out to me this year is “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” It’s not the music of this carol that has stirred my attention but its poignant lyrics that capture the tense beauty of Christ’s birth, both then and now. Wherever you might be on the Scale of December’s Chaos/Stress, I hope you will take a minute to meditate on the words of this poem-carol, “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” and hear the angels’ song afresh:

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth,

To touch their harps of gold:

"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,

From heaven's all-gracious King."
The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains,
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its
Babel soundsThe blessèd angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!

For lo!, the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever-circling years
Comes round the age of gold
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.

Advent

2009-12-04T13:57:00.010-07:00

By now we know the story well: shepherds, angels, a manger in a stable, and a young (and probably scared) couple awaiting the arrival of their first child. We are 2,000 years removed from the scene. How do we participate in and celebrate the Christmas season properly in this day and age when iPods and Nintendo Wiis vie for the attention and affection of our hearts?

Advent provides a way for us to focus. Advent simply means “arrival” or “coming,” and it describes the celebration of Christ’s first arrival into the world as well as the anticipation of Christ’s return in the Second Advent. According to the Christian calendar, Advent Season is comprised of the four Sundays prior to Christmas.

You may be very familiar with the Advent Season because you are part of communities that follow the Christian calendar. However, if you’re like me, you’ve learned about these things on the go.

As much as I can, I invite you into the richness of the Advent Season, and I encourage you to read more about Advent at http://www.crivoice.org/cyadvent.html (provided by The Christian Resource Institute – “a global and ecumenical ministry dedicated to providing biblical and theological resources for growing Christians.”)

Thanksgiving From the Perspective of a Thermometer

2009-11-19T20:58:00.012-07:00

Thanksgiving is almost here, and, in my opinion, this time of the year accents the contrast between warm and cold more so than any other. We are a country of many climates, so the days may still be warm in many places. But in many other places (including Denver) the evenings bring a distinct crispness. In contrast to the white and grays that have begun to dominate the natural landscape, we start wearing a combination of warm hues from brown, red, yellow, and orange foundations. Coffee options expand to include Pumpkin Spice and Gingerbread Lattes as alternatives to fight the chill. An evening drive through your neighborhood will underscore my point: the light radiating from some of the houses is cordial and inviting compared to the empty, swift-setting darkness outside.

Whether by wrapping our bodies with a sweater or joining our friends for a hot cup of Joe, we respond to the seasonal chill by creating contexts of warmth. When it gets cold outside, we realize how harsh (or uncomfortable) the elements can be and we naturally seek refuges of warmth.

But what I’m describing that happens on a physical level also happens on a deeper-than-physical level, too - perhaps, within the spiritual layer of our humanity. Who among us has not sought a “warm refuge” when the elements of life have born down upon us? Who hasn’t tried to “wrap themselves” in the most convenient warm thing in an effort to feel comforted from the chill of everyday living? The truth is that we all have in various ways, and the warmth we often choose is not really warmth at all; it's more of an illusory sensation of warmth.

Although a delight to taste buds nationwide, Thanksgiving is more than yams and turkey and cranberries. It is a time to remember and give thanks to God for his promise of rest if we go to him (matthew 11.28). It’s a time when the attention of our hearts is reoriented to the true warmth of the tremendous grace, inexplicable love, and very wise provision of God.
After draining a nice grande cafe pumpkin-ginger spice latte Americano (or something like that), we are again prepared to step back into the chilly atmosphere. Similarly, spending time in the warm setting of a presence as real as God readies us to step back into the everyday flow of life with a renewed hope and a vision of direction.

This Thanksgiving, as we gather in warm places to eat, watch football, play games, and catch up with friends, may we be stirred into a moment of perspective in which we allow ourselves to be loved truly and out of which we can extend love to others, creating space for the "warmth" of God to be truly felt.

Skewed By Our Own Good Intentions

2009-11-08T17:43:00.021-07:00

This evening my thoughts are busy with the ideas from a book I just finished entitled Reimagining Church: Pursuing the Dream of Organic Christianity, by Frank Viola (2008). I've forgotten just how I came across the book, but when you become interested in something, you naturally find yourself collecting things that increase the interest you already have. This is most likely how Viola's book found itself on my shelf - I probably thought it would be a good addition to the collection of things that contribute to my interest in movements within the Christian Church.

At any rate, I finished the book just yesterday, and I'd like to process some thoughts and responses here.

Over the last ten years or so, a ton of books about reimagining the Protestant Church in America have been penned. I have to admit, I'm a sucker for these kinds of books, because reimagining almost anything is appealing to me. In most cases, I can't stand status quo. My Meyers-Briggs warns that working within a structured system is difficult for me. I like to challenge, critique, and (re)create, often to the chagrin of people with personalities heavy in the opposite spectrum from mine.

But I have a healthy respect for orthodoxy, too (a.k.a. established practices). Developing a sound sense of respect for past customs, traditions, behaviors, movements, and practices is important, but it does not (and should not) lend itself to blind followship. Knowing and respecting what was important to those who came before us doesn't mean that those very same things have to be important to us also. I would contend, though, that they should inform the decisions we make about what is important to us. Each generation should investigate these things for itself, as should each person individually. It's possible that we may arrive at the same conclusions as prior generations, and it's probable that we arrive at very different ones.

I digress. With all these books "out there" on the shelves, one can get sucked into some sucky ideas and read some sucky writing. Writing a book is difficult, time consuming, energy-draining, and should reflect something out of the heart of the author. At least, that's how I think a book should be written. And for those sacrifices, I salute authors. But a lot of what I see on the shelves is repetitive, poorly-written, and seems to serve more as an amplifier for the author's ego. (Point of insight: more often than not, if the author's face is plastered from corner to corner on the front cover, that's your first clue that the whole project has more to do with massaging the author's ego than anything else.)

Now, I'm writing about Christian authors in particular. And too few of them are courageous enough to simply be honest...with themselves and with their readers. I know I'm being savagely critical, but perusing the "Christian" section at my local bookstore (and actually picking a few off the shelf for a perfunctory read) is similar to watching those first few episodes of American Idol. So many of those ridiculous auditioners on Idol were "encouraged" by their family or friends to get on the stage and give it a go, and they end up getting told harshly in public (by Simon) what they should have been told gently in private: that they're not great singers and they should concentrate on succeeding in another area. It seems like many authors (again, particularly within the "Christian/religious" genre) have been encouraged to do something they should have been honestly and gently pursuaded not to endeavor. I'm a huge advocate of following one's dreams, yet a little honesty (used properly) can go a long way. And this is where I come back to Frank Viola's book.

Very rarely is someone able to accurately identify the core issue of a problem. What's even more uncommon is for someone to then offer an honest, well thought out and accurate alternative solution to consider. More often, we identify and try to remedy symptoms that masquerade as the problem. Being the skeptic that I am, I wonder sometimes if "leaders" in the Christian subculture enjoy their status and stature as a big fish in the proverbial pond. Being honest can get you thrown out of the pond. So, fear and pride trump honesty and humility. In this way, I found Viola's honesty refreshing! Take this quote as an example.

"I believe it's time that we honestly examined the structural integrity of the modern church system. I strongly believe that the clergy system, which includes the modern pastoral office, is what needs to be abandoned. It's the system that's one of the main culprits, not the people, the motives, or the intentions. (p 269)

Viola precedes the above paragraph with a whole book of reasons why he believes the "structural integrity" of the modern church system is unhealthy (read it to find out), and I think an important question to ask is, "Is he right?" Does the modern clergy system and pastoral office need to be deconstructed? Note that Viola differentiates between the system and the people, the system and the motives. Systems are logical responses to chaos, and they are helpful (and even necessary) in many cases, and it often makes sense to institute systems to remedy inefficiency. Unfortunately, systems do damage to our humanity, to the messy nature of our existence.

So, there's still a question that's left to be asked. It's an honest question that deserves our honest attention. It's a question that could be interpreted as a threat to many people I know. It's a question that strikes at the heart of my own training and education. And it's a question that's only the tip of a larger iceberg of questions. The question is this: Is the modern clergy system and/or pastoral office that leads churches today an unbiblical presence?

It's a question that sounds bad. We're not supposed to challenge these kinds of things. But systems can ingrain themselves so deeply into our reality that they become the reality around which we create everything else. Might our perception of "the church" be skewed by our own good intentions?

Remembering How To Believe

2009-10-23T20:54:00.038-06:00

Here's my confession: I neglect my blog and should be reprimanded...

Now that that's out of the way, I'll get on to some other things - like who I think blogs work best for: pastors, entertainers, and humorists. These people either have something real to say or have a followship of people who are anxious to listen. I'm very comfortable with the fact that I am none of those, have no followship, and therefore have nothing to worry about if I let my blog go for almost four months without an update. I did have one friend who encouraged me to update, which was incredibly nice. You know, if even only for one person; here we go...

Anyway, a lot has happened since I last posted in June (duh - four months worth of stuff). I think I was venting about some lost baggage back then. I've since reconnected with that bag, and all that trouble has passed. It sure was fun to write about, though. And the whole experience led to several pleasant and unexpected encounters with people who ended up being object lessons of love in the midst of my luggage hissy-fit. But, that's how most lessons are learned, right? We achieve a certain level of self-loathing and/or pretentiousness, we have an encounter that lends us a hunk of perspective, and realignment is initiated.

I'd like to write about all the things that happened over the past four months, but I won't indulge myself that immensely (or expect you to be that interested). My wife and I did move again. We've been married for just about two-and-a-half years now, and we've rented five different places (that's an average of like 7 months in each place!). This past move was local, though - only about a 12 mile difference. We were living just outside of Denver proper, in the suburbs. Now we're actually in Denver (zip 80210), in a neighborhood closer to the city where we can function as part of a local community and be patrons of local businesses. Suburbs leave little to the imagination and, in my opinion, lack a cultural texture that's necessary for living richly. We're incredibly happy about the change.

But enough with the personal updates. Maybe some of those encounters I had on the road back in June will come out in succeeding posts. Que sera sera, no?

This blog is about ideas and thoughts, good literature and lyrics, the human condition and other things that may make us think or laugh...or do both at the same time (yes, that would be amazing). So, I have a couple of those kinds of things to jot down here. As a junior in college (2001) my roommate introduced me to David Gray's music. His album White Ladder had come out the previous spring, and his single "Babylon" was playing daily on the indie/jam band/cool music radio station we listened to in Mobile, AL. There were a couple of songs on that album with which I connected almost instantly either for their beat or lyrics, or both: "Sail Away," "Silver Lining," "Say Hello Wave Goodbye" (which Gray covered from the UK group Soft Cell), and the title track, "White Ladder."

More importantly, being turned on to White Ladder led me to investigate the rest of Gray's catalogue of music at that time. What I encountered was a swath of songs that immediately reached out to me as a Humanities major studying the cocktail of ephemeral subjects that don't help you even half-way land a job after graduation. One of Gray's albums remained in my CD player longer than any other, and one track on that album played significantly more than the rest.

The album is Lost Songs, and the track is the first: "Flame Turns Blue." I mention it now because, as I've had the apartment to myself over the last few days while my wife is elk hunting with her father (yes, that's right: my wife is elk hunting, and I'm at home blogging about existentialism), I've been playing/listening to Gray's DVD, Live at the Point (2001) which has a great live version of "Flame Turns Blue."

As the smell of freshly cut grass can take a guy back in time to when, as a kid, he stood on the baseball diamond with dreams of playing in the majors, hearing Gray sing the opening lines of "Flame Turns Blue" takes me immediately back to a sweet time in my life - a time when, as a student, I was absorbing a mixture of information academically, spiritually, emotionally, socially, and physically that set the course for my life and pointed me toward who I have met along the way; a time when I was aggressively pursuing belief.

Here are a few lines from the song:

I went looking for someone I left behind,
Yeah, but no one, just a stranger did I find...

Different places, yeah but they all look much the same,
Dreams of faces in the streets devoured by names,
I'm in collision with every stone I ever threw,
And blind ambition where the flame turns blue...

Words dismantled, hey and all the books unbound
Conversations, though we utter not a sound...

Over the years I've read different suggestions for what this song means: heartache, separated lovers, hope of reconnection, etc. I guess I'm no longer as curious about the songs meaning as much as how the lyrics describe an almost universal experience: a search.

It's a search for identity and, yes, love. It's a search to connect what we've learned and experienced to something meaningful, to something that has value beyond ourselves. A search even to believe in such things as goodness, truth, justice, love, kindness.

The older I get (I'm 29 - old and young all at the same time), the more difficult it has become to exercise the search that Gray's lyrics describe. But, if we cease exploring the ideals of life, then we forfeit an important aspect of hope - hope that things may actually become what they should, that good would prevail over evil, and that, even though we may feel hit by every stone we ever threw, there is grace enough for us all to get up after the beating...and a purpose that's strong enough to compel us to stand up once again and continue moving forward.

Lost Songs is the album onto which Gray decided to record his song, "Flame Turns Blue." This is prophetic in a sense, because the search that his song causes me to think of often gets lost in the clutter of life. I don't know what might broaden your perspective these days - maybe a smell, maybe a song - but perhaps we can all believe afresh, like when we first became aware of believing. For me, this means actively and meditatively remembering the Way of Christ, the way of humble truth, the way of unprovoked love, the way of remarkable grace. Remembering how to believe is something we can never forget to do.

until next time...

When It Pours, We Get Wet

2009-06-12T08:59:00.019-06:00

"When it rains, it pours..." - quoted by anyone who has ever travelled.

Since taking up my current job a few years back, I go on some pretty cool work trips during the summer. I work for a ministry that sends volunteers into national parks across the country to lead Christian worship services on Sundays. So for about two weeks in the summer I get to travel to many of these parks (places like Grand Teton National Park, the Grand Canyon, Glacier National Park, Yosemite, etc.) and meet our volunteers, offering them encouragement and also supervising the ministry programs in the area. Pretty cool work...

Yesterday, I embarked on what I'll call National Park Tour '09, which has me going into Appalachia country: Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, several locations along the Blue Ridge National Parkway, and then into Great Smoky Mtn National Park just outside of Gatlinburg, TN. After having lived in Denver for about three-fourths of a year, I was excited to return to my pseudo Southern roots for a little while - if only for my skin to experience humidity again. Most people know that there's a special colloquialism to the south (particularly in the Blue Ridge Mtns) that one hardly finds elsewhere. People speak with the draw of a slow-played fiddle, and the tempo of life is almost audibly unhurried - like someone riding the breaks of their car. The air is thick and sticky like family...everybody complains about it, but they wouldn't know what to do if it weren't there. I was peacefully happy knowing that I'd be spending two weeks in the Blue Ridge.

The proverbial rain started coming down as I was waiting for my bag at the luggage turnstile at the airport in Greensboro, NC. We've all been there, conjuring Providence, hopeful that our luggage emerges from the dragon's lair of luggage chaos. Alas, mine did not (shocker!). Okay...so I, along with the three other butts of this god-forsaken joke, lined up to make our claims. I don't know why we do this, because it seems like even if Moses himself were to etch our claim into stone for the airline...with a photo of the luggage...with an arrow pointing at the thing with our name and headshot next to it, there'd still be confusion. Well, I knew that I'd mix things up for John, our up-beat claims man; you see, I didn't have an address or phone number where I'd be staying the night. First of all, I still had about a 5 hr drive ahead of me and was staying at a Motel 6 for the night before moving along to various locations for the next 12 nights. This was way too much for John, who advised me to just call "the number" at the bottom of my claims form to "update" the address when I had one.

Okay. Fair enough. So, I took the claims form and went to get my rental car (an awesome, shiny, two-door Chevy Cobalt!) It's got a spoiler on the back...you know, just to keep it on the road at high speeds ;) So I hit the road and am on my way from Greensboro, NC, to Harrisonburg, VA - as I mentioned, about a 5 hr drive. The first thing I do is try calling "the number" to update my address. Of course, this particular airline outsources their customer service, so I'm patched in to a person with an accent/dialect that I absolutely cannot understand...and I really tried to understand by asking over and over again, "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?..." and "I apologize, I didn't catch that. Would you mind repeating what you just said?..." After a mutual Hooked on Phonics lesson, we finally connected on the idea that I was calling to give him an address where the airline could deliver my bag. "Ooooohhhh," said he. "You will need to wait at least four more hours before calling back with the address." Huh? Apparently, the technology they use is slower than the rapture.

I did get an explanation (which I will spare you here), and continued on my way to Harrisonburg, via NC/Virginia back roads to Roanoke. About halfway to Roanoke, I realized that my cell phone and Garmin GPS (which would come in handy, I thought, on the many rural Blue Ridge back roads I was going to take) were both on their last legs of battery. No problem! I packed car chargers for each (And, by the way, was proud that I had remembered to do so!). So I searched for the Cobalt charger outlets. Found one! No juice...for either chargers. Hey there's one more in the console. Again, not a flicker...for either chargers. Sigh (a.k.a. are you kidding me!?).

So I called the rental counter at the Greensboro airport, told them what the problem was, explained to them that I was way too far now to turn around and get a different car, and explained to them that this was an important expectation of my rental experience! They were helpful and transferred me to a sister location in Roanoke, VA, where I'd be passing through within the hour. They advised me to explain the situation to them and thought they might be able to switch cars with me. After getting cut-off twice from the Roanoke rental counter (remember, I'm on back roads), I finally learned that they have no cars. But what was just a little agitating was that the guy helping me had about as much of an idea of Virginia geography as I did. He advised me to "find a large metropolitan area and search for a Budget rental service location..." and said that I might be able to find something in D.C. (as in Washington D.C.), which wasn't anywhere near where I explained to him I'd be. No luck. If he couldn't help, the car was a moot point - I'd just have to navigate the old fashioned way...although I had no map/atlas with me.

As a last ditch, I decided to go ahead and purchase an atlas. At least, then I'd have a visual of where I was (although I recognize that I should have packed my atlas to begin with). Ah, there's a Walmart! Can you believe they had not one atlas in that store...not a one. By this time, things were closing down, as it was getting late in Appalachia. My next search would be the local gas station. Apparently, this town didn't believe in atlases; they had none either. Well, I decided I'd return, then, to the whole luggage situation and called "the number" once more. Again, I was connected to international service and had to, again, find a common vocabulary. I was finally able to update my address and was assured my bag would find its way to my motel by dawn. I called my wife to say goodnight and the phone died... I make it to the motel with the last bit of juice left on the Garmin, check in, and enter dreamland almost immediately - a land where I have my luggage and a comfy rental car in which all the outlets work as they should.

Morning: I'm dying to know if my bag made it, so I call the front desk. "Hi - good morning. I'm the poor sap whose bag is being toyed with by the big, mean airport people. Has it arrived yet?"...or something like that. "I'm sorry, sir, nothing's come in from any airport." (sigh 2.0) So, I called "the number" one more time, just to get some sort of idea when to expect my luggage. 1:40pm is when they told me it would be landing at Shenandoah Valley Regional Airport. Ah, at least I had a time & destination. Even though check-out was at 12noon, the motel attendants took pity on me and said I could still use their address as a drop-off location. Success! All I have to do now is wait until about 2pm, get my bag, and head on to my next destination (which is actually up in Shenandoah Nat'l Park - about 1 twisty mountain hour-drive away; a place with no address - just a milepost marker on the Blue Ridge Parkway). So I take care of some work-related errands. 3pm rolls around, and I have received no notification of any kind. You're tired of me saying it, but I called "the number" once more to inquire. They tell me that my bag was "scanned in at Washington Dulles Internat'l Airport in Washington D.C." and is not scheduled to go anywhere.

What!? My bag is sitting at the airport in D.C.? Why? How? I was speechless, for my vocal intentions were being pulled in so many directions. Somebody help...please! Well, I simmer my steam and call back with a plan to drive the 2hrs to Dulles, pick up my bag AND exchange the car (the ole' kill two birds scheme). I'm told, "Sorry Mr. Folly (that's how he insisted on pronouncing my name) but your bag is not at the luggage retention center."

Folly explodes.

"I can sense your frustration, Mr. Folly, but Dulles is a very large airport."

Nuclear explosion.

Well, Mr. Folly, your bag is already scheduled to leave Dulles [not sure when] and it's not an easy process to get it to the retention center."

Folly: "I thought you said it wasn't scheduled to go anywhere. Whatever; can't you unschedule it!? - I'm willing to just go pick it up!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Folly, I'd have to speak with an administrator at baggage claim for that."

Folly: "Okay. So, let's call."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Folly, I do not have access to that number. You can give me the address of where you'll be tonight and we can deliver your bag promptly."

Folly: "There is no address - just a mile post. By the way, what's 'promptly?'"

"Well, Mr. Folly, I am unable to tell you what flight your bag will be on to Shenandoah Valley Airport; there's a flight scheduled to land at 7:40pm tonight, and a second scheduled to land at 10:30pm." ...

So, I figure my reasonable options are all exhausted at this point. I am now at a Panera Bread Company eschewing the whole situation with as much fortitude as I have. In the Shenandoah Valley there are a lot of churches, most of them Baptist. It reminds me of my early days growing up in First Baptist Church of New Orleans, and I am calmed by the memory of good people who handled life with a serenity that I know did not come gratis. Their serenity becomes my serenity. I anchor the tempo of my speech to that of a slow-played fiddle, ride the squeally breaks of existence, and hope that as beautiful a sound can emerge from my life as the ones I've heard emanate from the people who smile at me from my past.

The Alluded Pursuit

2009-05-25T07:07:00.029-06:00

A blog is an account of one's perspective, and I feel like it should have a strong title and description that, like a compass, points to something beyond itself. With that, I'd like to explain what I mean by "the alluded pursuit."

I first learned about the word allusion in high school while studying one of Shakespeare's plays. I've since forgotten all about the play (even which one it was), but the poetic device, lyrical tool, or literary maneuver (whatever you want to call it) of allusion made a nest in the tree of my mind. I remember privately teeming with intrigue about this remarkable way of speaking and writing, for it acknowledged and confirmed deeper veins of Truth that I was beginning to observe beneath the surface of things.

Later on, as the liberal arts education I was receiving in college began its good work, I quickly realized that Shakespeare didn't have exclusive rights to allusion, and I enjoyed learning how different poets and authors utilized this appliance of communication. Eventually, I made what was for me a very crucial observation: that our very lives are allusions (not to be confused with illusions) indirectly referencing something beyond the level of our existence. Our very humanity is an often blunt gesture toward a deeper layer of reality - one that functions with the senses but also beyond them; transcendent yet palpable, lucid yet ambiguous.

In the movie Garden State, there is a vulnerable and pivotal scene in which the main character, Andrew Largeman (played by Zach Braff), declares to his father, “This is my life, Dad, this is it. I spent 26 years waiting for something else to start. …I see now it's all of it. …let's just allow ourselves to be whatever it is we are and that will be better.” Although he was struggling to rid himself of medicines that distanced and numbed him, perhaps what resonates is how Andrew Largeman, symbolic of many twenty-something year-olds, verbalizes his desire to pursue the alluded life: a niche, a confirmed identity, an unclouded purpose.

As I slowly continue to creep out of my twenties, the sensation of sliding into new territory of “growing up” becomes stronger; the idealism and zeal of my early twenties is being refined as I adopt characteristics I always attributed to my parents as they dealt with issues of finance, deadlines, marital communication, and time distribution. The deterioration that happens to hair and skin and toenails are slowly happening to mine. It is clear that I am now living the life I was always learning would be lived, and I can only suppose that you have sensed this to some degree in your own lives, too. The peculiar issue that surrounds me now is the concept of niche, or lving into the existence to which my life alludes.

In a recent interview with the Denver Post, a local folk musician explained his trade this way: "I do what I do because I have to." To some, his response may seem a bit soppy with idealism and intoned with the Romanticism of an aloof artist. To me, however, his rejoinder is an affirmation of a deeply perceptive statement written by Eugene Peterson in his book Under the Unpredictable Plant: when one finds himself doing what he has been called to do he is like a “poet in the making of a poem.”

Our lives are, indeed, allusive gestures of an indelible pursuit for that which answers the question mark of our soul and initiates a Holy, ambrosial poem for the poet in us all. Jesus once said to his disciples, "Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it" (matthew 16.25). We live in a miluie of becoming what we should not by trying to find life by not letting go of it. This is the alluded pursuit: that we would become what we should with, in, and for Christ.

Let us pursue eagerly and with patience, mindful that it is often in the pursuit that the allusion is grasped.

Fitting Rooms & Bathroom Stalls

2009-05-23T08:02:00.015-06:00

So, after only three postings, I decided the ole' blog needed a bit of a face lift. Tada...

Now, on to more pressing issues. I don't know about you, but when I go into certain places such as fitting rooms or, let's say, public bathroom stalls, I don't expect to have any company. It's not a social event. There's no party going on. Well, two recent encounters have caused me to wonder if the tides are not turning on these once private endeavors.

Encounter #1:
Leah and I went to the mall the other night, as I was hunting khaki pants for work. Even though I'm only 28 years old, walking into some certain stores (ahem...American Eagle) makes me suddenly feel like I'm chaperoning a high school prom. But I'm just not ready to start buying Roundtree & Yorke at Dillard's quite yet. So, despite the aforementioned sensation of old-ness that overcomes my psyche in such aforementioned stores, we entered American Eagle in hot pursuit of said khaki pants.

I located the "khaki pants area" (in between the mega-graphed t-shirts & shotgun-holed jeans), targeted my size, sign-languaged to my wife (over the rave music) that I'd be in the fitting room, and made the often awkward trek back to those tiny cubicle change stations. This is always fun because what independence you have worked to obtain and whatever level of self-reliance you have acquired become irrelevant here. For starters, the doors are often locked. You must search for someone who looks like they're a stage manager at a Jonas Bros. concert to grant you access "backstage." Secondly, these rooms offer no sense of security; you put your exposed no-no zones in the hands of someone with whom you really wouldn't even ride around town. By default, you get the sensation that you are reluctantly becoming a citizen of this store, a patron, if you will. It's a vulnerable place, these "fitting rooms." They're not for the weak of heart.

So, I finally get into my little room and start the changing process when, lo, there's a knock at my door! It's the "fitting room attendant" (a.k.a. female high school teen) who is trying to find an empty room for another customer, and who apparently has already forgotten that she "granted me access" into the room upon which she's currently knocking only a minute before. I realized that the power-of-access lay in her hands (I had no lock!) and responded with what I soon thereafter realized was too faint a cry: "Occupied!" The door swung open, and I was caught in mid-dress, my boxer shorts (a.k.a. underwear) broadcasting their paisley design unto all four foreign eyeballs.

In these situations it often takes just a second to process what's going on and how to properly react. I think my timing was relatively good; only about two lifetimes passed before I stiff-armed the door shut again and tried to figure out how to dig myself out of the store instead of having to walk the plank back past the "attendant" on my way out. Well, of course, I didn't (couldn't) dig my way out (I had no shovel), so I was forced back through the funnel of that tiny fitting room entrance/exit doorway where, sure enough, the attendant was folding clothes. We didn't look at each other as I walked by. There was no, "How did those work for you?" for I believe she had seen with her own eyes that I needed a different size. I laid the pants there on her table in stride to the safety of the food court, where everybody had their clothes on. In retrospect, I realize it would have been the perfect moment to cut the awkwardness with something like, "Why did you leave so soon?" But, I'm not clever enough I guess, so I slid on by as if our lives were covered in grease.

Encounter #2:
Leah had to work late last night, so I decided to spend a quiet evening by myself at one of my favorite bookstores. As I pulled into the parking lot I realized that my bladder was pushing pretty hard, which was fine because I knew the bookstore had bathrooms. So, I went in and made my way back to the restrooms area. No one else was in the men's room when I entered (and I like that; it makes for a relatively peaceful experience). About mid-way through my process, however, the door opened and a second party entered (and that's fine, too, because I realize the restroom is a public amenity). I hear a man's voice, but I also hear a voice that could only belong to a little girl. Apparently, I thought to myself, a father is fulfilling his parental bathroom duty and has brought his young daughter into the men's room so that she (or just he) can "go."

This happens all the time. I remember my mother taking me into women's restrooms when I was young, and when my father wasn't around. Since this is an acceptable practice, and since they had moved into the adjacent stall and had commenced taking care of their business, I didn't think anything more about. Meantime, I was finishing up and was doing the whole turn-while-zipping-up thing when, lo!, I look up from my zipper to see a little girl with long red hair, freckles, and yellow shorts standing at my stall door staring at me. Apparently, the sheep had strayed from the shepherd! I froze and immediately replayed my most recent actions in my head, trying to figure out what this little girl might have seen from her eye-level vantage point. I decided I actually didn't want to think about it, and the situation was too complex for comedy relief, so I walked past my tiny audience, over to the sink and commenced to washing my hands still trying to figure out how long she had been watching me. I don't think the little girl saw anything (except the backside of an adult man urinating!!).

I once read that "the word God speaks to us is always an incarnate word - a word spelled out to us not alphabetically, in syllables, but enigmatically, in events... ." I now wonder what exactly God is/was trying to convey to me via these most recent (potentially traumatic) events. What lessons lay in the midst of these unexpected, albeit uninvited, guests? Maybe it's as simple as "Speak louder" and "Lock all stall doors!"

To Dream Again

2009-05-18T21:29:00.018-06:00

They said we could be anything we wanted. "Shoot for the sky," said they with knowledge and insight. Did they mean it? Could it have been true?...

We were too young, too naive to think it was anything but a promise, and we put it in our secret place where we dream and love. We lived sky high and a mile out, unaware that we might not catch all the breaks, that we might cry some, that we might be the butt of Love's joke, that our imaginations might not carry us through. We didn't comprehend that skin could feel so uncomfortable, that reverie could be stifled by our own bodies. We weren't enemies of anyone then; we hadn't learned how to hate.

We were explorers, ready to slay dragons and find treasures, to make wise decisions and weep when good people were treated unjustly. We could fly with outstretched arms and save the world with a clap. We noticed little things like roley-polies and cocoons and cracks in sidelwalks. Weight was not yet something we carried on our shoulders. We had favorite colors, lucky coins, and hiding places where we carved our initials and felt invisible. We didn't know hunger, and we couldn't fathom that money drives people mad. We thought marriage was about love more than anything else and that it was eternal, just as we believed of life itself.

Stories trumped facts and put dynamite in our souls. We believed in Good and thought it could be found in a blue sky, in a friend's laugh, in our parents' voices. We believed the world was kind and that music played in everyone's ears. We believed in the power of touch and that hugs brought healing. We believed what they told us: that we could be anything we wanted. We believed that angels protected us and that prayers became answered realities. We believed things that are true without scientific proof, and we thought things that were good because good was good enough. We believed... We believed...

It is good to be a child, to let the wind hit our faces and believe and dream...

The Spoils of Music Hunting

2009-05-16T10:47:00.041-06:00

For my second post, I thought it only fitting to let you know about a concert I attended last night. Gregory Alan Isakov has been a favorite singer-songwriter of mine for quite sometime, and his home base just happens to be in nearby Boulder, CO. Isakov has released 4 albums (pictured to the right, from top to bottom): Rust Colored Stones, Songs for October, That Sea The Gambler, and his newest, This Empty Northern Hemisphere. I only discovered him after album #2, Songs for October - a set of seven dusty songs led by Isakov's tattered guitar sound & willowy voice.

In a society that consistently drools over uber-produced bubblegum music, I was instantly hooked on Isakov's simple, authentic lyrics and supple vocals. The truest beauty in life often lay in places that are difficult to reach; we've got to want to get to them - like the top of a mountain, a secluded lake, or the vulnerable freedom of reciprocated love. Isakov's music is similar. You've got to intentionally step into it, having been led perhaps by exploring genres to which his music is connected. Not that his is the most intricately arranged music out there, but you've got to work to find it. Plainly put, I wouldn't expect to hear his tunes at the neighborhood BBQ. Isakov's music calls for more than the perfunctory eardrum, for it gently nudges the listener to consider delicately observed landscapes of the human experience.

Last night, Isakov, along with his band, The Freight, held a CD-release concert for his newest album, This Empty Northern Hemisphere (pictured to the right; very bottom). It was everything I expected from a musician who takes his craft seriously yet unpretentiously. The instruments in the band, including banjo, fiddle, cello, upright bass, acoustic guitar, harmonica, and pedal steel, are rarely played concurrently, yet each musician seamlessly threads his or her instrument and voice into the album to create an idyllic community of music that moves fluidly within the folk genre. Not to mention, Brandi Carlile adds some nice harmony on several tracks.

If, like me, you enjoy (a.k.a. humbly admire yourself for...) discovering unnoticed bands & anonymous troubadours of tunage, then perhaps you owe it to yourself to give Mr. Isakov a moment of your time. There are few others who make music as authentically. Well played, Isakov. Get an earful at his myspace page

(http://www.myspace.com/gregoryalanisakov) For fans of: Bob Dylan, Ryan Adams, Joshua Radin, The Be Good Tanyas, Emmylou Harris, Brandi Carlile, Leonard Cohen, Damien Rice

Obligatory Intro

2009-05-09T07:57:00.019-06:00

I believe that some of us need blogs at different points in our lives; like when we feel we aren't getting enough human interaction, or when we think we're cool enough to write things that people want to read. Sometimes it's more about just having an outlet to speak/write into. Could be that we just want to have some fun. It's a lot like recess in elementary school; remember when you and your friends wanted to play tag with the pretty girls or the cute boys? When you were able to convince them to play, a lot of territory was covered (proverbially speaking, many birds were killed with that one stone) - you got to show off (if you were athletic), have a pretty girl (or cute boy) pay attention to you, and play all at the same time. Like the playground scene I just described, my newest venture into blogland is a combo of several things - an attempt to "kill several birds with one stone," as it were.

As this is only my first post, I can't say with any level of confidence what kinds of things will be in/on this blog quite yet. But I do know that I like to think about some things, listen to some music, read a few books, and laugh sometimes...so, maybe these things - or things associated with them - will make their ways through my fingertips and onto the screen. Actually, I'm pretty confident that this will be a place where I unpack ideas related to conversations and media I ingest & observations I make. Regardless of what happens (and I know we're sweating with anticipation), I appreciate you stopping by.