It often seems like there are only two kinds of people: I call them fortress people and river people.
Fortress people, at their best, are conservative: They seek to preserve values, honor traditions, uphold their end of the Social Contract. They seek (and seek to preserve) formal education, and study a thing carefully in order to do it well. They set standards and think it's important to live up to them. They find peace and are most productive in times of stability. When something new is built, their prime concern is that it is built on a strong foundation, so it will last. They avoid error, respect authority, make long-range plans, keep their word. They like the idea that you can build a strong fortress in life (and not just materially), within which they, their families and their friends can be safe and productive. They want to bequeath that fortress to their children.
River people, by contrast, are (again, at their best) progressive: They value freedom, honor creativity, examine and critique the current social contract. They seek experince (the Great Teacher) and learn by doing, believing that even their mistakes have within them the seeds of wisdom. They know that rules sometimes must be broken if one is to do the right thing. They find purpose and are most effective in times of change. And when something new is built, their desire is that it meet a present need. They avoid rigidity, respect originality, adjust their plans as they go, keep their options open. They like that life is an adventure, that you can go witht he flow of it as if it were a great River (hence the name) and they believe that if they, their families and their friends just get out there in the water, they won't drown. Instead, experiments with a variety of swimming strokes will bring their own rewards and the River itself, somehow, will get them where they need to go. They want to teach their children how to swim ... even if it means swimming against the tide.
Question: Are you a fortress person or a river person?
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Blessings & Cursings, Part II
OK, now I know the computer gods hate me.
Since last post, the computer gremlins followed me to work, and immediately went to work on my brand new Microsoft Word program on my beautiful, almost brand new MacBookPro. Yesterday afternoon and most of this morning, I couldn't key in Greek letter characters.
Who cares, you say?
As it happened, I was editing a magazine article submission written by a math brainiac in our industry who had peppered his written piece with equations. Greek letters all over the place — or at least there shoulda been. But when I opened the document, everywhere there should have been a beta or theta or epsilon, there was, instead, a little square.
Our IT guys, our art director and I spent about five man-hours yesterday and again this morning, searching "Help," restarting, rebooting, installing new fonts, re-installing old fonts, setting and re-setting preferences, re-installing software ... and scratching our heads. Late this morning, we finally came up with a work-around, but the mystery remains: Where the "Symbol" drop down says I should be able to insert a Greek character, I simply can't.
Turns out our art director can't do it on his Word program, either. Everyone else in our office — none of whom have any need whatsoever to insert Greek characters — can insert alphas, gammas and deltas in Word 'til the cows come home. But not us.
Our art director and I are looking for arcane charms and rituals with which to appease the capricious virtual deities. Suggestions welcome.
Since last post, the computer gremlins followed me to work, and immediately went to work on my brand new Microsoft Word program on my beautiful, almost brand new MacBookPro. Yesterday afternoon and most of this morning, I couldn't key in Greek letter characters.
Who cares, you say?
As it happened, I was editing a magazine article submission written by a math brainiac in our industry who had peppered his written piece with equations. Greek letters all over the place — or at least there shoulda been. But when I opened the document, everywhere there should have been a beta or theta or epsilon, there was, instead, a little square.
Our IT guys, our art director and I spent about five man-hours yesterday and again this morning, searching "Help," restarting, rebooting, installing new fonts, re-installing old fonts, setting and re-setting preferences, re-installing software ... and scratching our heads. Late this morning, we finally came up with a work-around, but the mystery remains: Where the "Symbol" drop down says I should be able to insert a Greek character, I simply can't.
Turns out our art director can't do it on his Word program, either. Everyone else in our office — none of whom have any need whatsoever to insert Greek characters — can insert alphas, gammas and deltas in Word 'til the cows come home. But not us.
Our art director and I are looking for arcane charms and rituals with which to appease the capricious virtual deities. Suggestions welcome.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
DSL Modems: Blessings & Cursings
I have a great deal of sympathy for customer service people, because they have to deal with people like me.
Especially the folks who sell and maintain Internet-related services. They are patient, enlessly kind, and willing ot explain things but ... too often, I just don't get it.
I do okay if they can tell me something practical to do ("Okay, Mike, now click on "Preferences" — its up in the upper left hand corner ... that's it. Good. You're doing great!"), I can handle that. But when they try to explain to me how things work (or lately, why things aren't working) I'm clueless. My friend Ted tried to explain to me how the Internet works yesterday, and I nodded along with him, because I understood the words he was saying, but the words did not conjure up an image that I could import into my knowledge file. After all these years, the whole deal is still a mystery to me. And no amount of experience with it nor the many conversations I've had with techies talking about it has improved my lot.
Today was no exception. This afternoon, I was trying to find out why I could receive e-mail, but couldn't send it. I installed my new DSL Modem Friday night and was initiated into the world of high-speed access with the help of a very nice fellow from Qwest who talked me through it like a pro (he was the pro, not me). We got everything all hooked up and — WOW — everything seemed to work. And gloriosky, was it fast! While he was on the line with me, I opened my browser and quickly found a couple of my favorite spots. I opened my e-mail program and right away, several e-mails dowloaded. Ah, that works, too! Delighted, I thanked the tech guy, hung up and whiled away a couple of hours traveling the world on Google Earth.
Woke up yesterday, nothing worked. I ended up having to restart my computer and then unplug and then replug the DSL Modem to get things going again. Once it was up, everything seemed to work. I decided to post on my blog again after a long absense, in part because I wouldn't have to wait so #$%&@ long for the old dial-up access to work. So I happily composed a post, put it up and composed an e-mail to everyone I know saying "I"m back" and ... I couldn't send the e-mail. It wouldn't go. It tried, then told me it couldn't do it.
After a long talk with the a techie at Qwest and then a techie at my ISP (a weekender, who couldn't figure it out and will have to have one of the regular 9-to-5 techies call me Monday) I was told I could send e-mail from ny ISP's WebMail feature. I, of course, did not know my ISP had a WebMail feature. So she graciously introduced me to it, and I was finally able to get off an announcement that you could find me here again.
I do feel a little better: Today, neither of the techies I talked to could figure out why it wasn't working. It shoulda. It coulda. I just didn't. And they can't tell me why. So I don't feel quite so dumb.
But I am getting a little niggling bit of paranoia. So far, the only things me and my techie phone pals could figure out to do about my DSL problems has been restart or unplug/replug. In fact, when you call in to talk to a techie on the DSL service line, they even have a recorded announcment suggesting that you unplug your modem and the plug it back in before you talk to the techie, with the assurance that "many times, this takes care of the problem." They don't even know what your problem is yet. Just unplug, replug. It all starts to sound like some strange ritual, performed to appease a capricious virtual god.
Maybe I don't want to know how the thing works, yo?
Especially the folks who sell and maintain Internet-related services. They are patient, enlessly kind, and willing ot explain things but ... too often, I just don't get it.
I do okay if they can tell me something practical to do ("Okay, Mike, now click on "Preferences" — its up in the upper left hand corner ... that's it. Good. You're doing great!"), I can handle that. But when they try to explain to me how things work (or lately, why things aren't working) I'm clueless. My friend Ted tried to explain to me how the Internet works yesterday, and I nodded along with him, because I understood the words he was saying, but the words did not conjure up an image that I could import into my knowledge file. After all these years, the whole deal is still a mystery to me. And no amount of experience with it nor the many conversations I've had with techies talking about it has improved my lot.
Today was no exception. This afternoon, I was trying to find out why I could receive e-mail, but couldn't send it. I installed my new DSL Modem Friday night and was initiated into the world of high-speed access with the help of a very nice fellow from Qwest who talked me through it like a pro (he was the pro, not me). We got everything all hooked up and — WOW — everything seemed to work. And gloriosky, was it fast! While he was on the line with me, I opened my browser and quickly found a couple of my favorite spots. I opened my e-mail program and right away, several e-mails dowloaded. Ah, that works, too! Delighted, I thanked the tech guy, hung up and whiled away a couple of hours traveling the world on Google Earth.
Woke up yesterday, nothing worked. I ended up having to restart my computer and then unplug and then replug the DSL Modem to get things going again. Once it was up, everything seemed to work. I decided to post on my blog again after a long absense, in part because I wouldn't have to wait so #$%&@ long for the old dial-up access to work. So I happily composed a post, put it up and composed an e-mail to everyone I know saying "I"m back" and ... I couldn't send the e-mail. It wouldn't go. It tried, then told me it couldn't do it.
After a long talk with the a techie at Qwest and then a techie at my ISP (a weekender, who couldn't figure it out and will have to have one of the regular 9-to-5 techies call me Monday) I was told I could send e-mail from ny ISP's WebMail feature. I, of course, did not know my ISP had a WebMail feature. So she graciously introduced me to it, and I was finally able to get off an announcement that you could find me here again.
I do feel a little better: Today, neither of the techies I talked to could figure out why it wasn't working. It shoulda. It coulda. I just didn't. And they can't tell me why. So I don't feel quite so dumb.
But I am getting a little niggling bit of paranoia. So far, the only things me and my techie phone pals could figure out to do about my DSL problems has been restart or unplug/replug. In fact, when you call in to talk to a techie on the DSL service line, they even have a recorded announcment suggesting that you unplug your modem and the plug it back in before you talk to the techie, with the assurance that "many times, this takes care of the problem." They don't even know what your problem is yet. Just unplug, replug. It all starts to sound like some strange ritual, performed to appease a capricious virtual god.
Maybe I don't want to know how the thing works, yo?
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Emerging from the Monastery
That's a metaphor. I haven't been wearing a robe and shaving a bald spot on the back of my head.
But I have emerged from a somewhat monastic sabbatical from "public" life. My retreat was imposed, in part, by several circumstances of my private life. But I found the exile useful and continued in it for a time by choice when life circumstances no longer required it.
Why the retreat?
First, blogging had become a burden. Too much "look at me" had crept in. I don't for one minute think I've escaped that. But now I think I let it scare me away from something I was meant to do: write. The looky-me serpent is always going to be there, looking to derail and sidetrack me. But now I'm thinking: Better to stare it down, and get on.
Second, I worried that I had nothing to add, really, to the conversation (in the blogosphere or anywhere else, for that matter). And when that wasn't niggling in my brain, I worried that I would add my two cents only to find myself suddenly out of step with people who I'd very much like to walk alongside. Both of these worries persist, but neither justifies silence. Again, better to stare it down, and get on.
Third, despite the insupportable motivations for escaping, I found leave-taking a refreshing experience. I not only stopped blogging, I backed away from several other activities (church-related and otherwise), declined to accept several invitations to participate in several others, and those few in which I continued, I cut back, so they occupied less of my time.
For the first time in years, I spent many hours at a stretch in solitary activities: One was mourning. Old losses and new. An important task I had been putting off. Another was learning to truly enjoy my own company. I walked. I read. I indulged my for movies, I even began experimental cooking again (something I've rarely time and inclination for). I also spent time thinking without feeling the need the need to talk about it or explain it or blog it and worry whether or not I was making an idiot of myself. I really needed that. And I got to where I really liked the quiet and solitude.
As a result, my stress level (which I hadn't thought was so high) abated significantly, and in the calm, I realized it had been quite high indeed.
It wasn't all peace and contentment, however. Since my last post, I have been hospitalized (Thanksgiving Day!) with blood clots on the lungs, a condition from which I am recovering. That was a shocker. On the other hand the three days I spent in the hospital after the inital shock were among the most freeing — and healing — of my sabbatical period. I had no computer, no responsibilities, nowhere to go and had the best excuse in the world to opt out altogether for a long weekend and let others take care of the world! I think it was a God thing.
Sometimes we just need to stop, if only to figure out where we are, where we've been and where God might be leading. So I did.
In the last couple of weeks, I've found myself writing post-like comments in e-mails to others and on other's blogs. I realized that it was time to emerge from exile and start again.
But I have emerged from a somewhat monastic sabbatical from "public" life. My retreat was imposed, in part, by several circumstances of my private life. But I found the exile useful and continued in it for a time by choice when life circumstances no longer required it.
Why the retreat?
First, blogging had become a burden. Too much "look at me" had crept in. I don't for one minute think I've escaped that. But now I think I let it scare me away from something I was meant to do: write. The looky-me serpent is always going to be there, looking to derail and sidetrack me. But now I'm thinking: Better to stare it down, and get on.
Second, I worried that I had nothing to add, really, to the conversation (in the blogosphere or anywhere else, for that matter). And when that wasn't niggling in my brain, I worried that I would add my two cents only to find myself suddenly out of step with people who I'd very much like to walk alongside. Both of these worries persist, but neither justifies silence. Again, better to stare it down, and get on.
Third, despite the insupportable motivations for escaping, I found leave-taking a refreshing experience. I not only stopped blogging, I backed away from several other activities (church-related and otherwise), declined to accept several invitations to participate in several others, and those few in which I continued, I cut back, so they occupied less of my time.
For the first time in years, I spent many hours at a stretch in solitary activities: One was mourning. Old losses and new. An important task I had been putting off. Another was learning to truly enjoy my own company. I walked. I read. I indulged my for movies, I even began experimental cooking again (something I've rarely time and inclination for). I also spent time thinking without feeling the need the need to talk about it or explain it or blog it and worry whether or not I was making an idiot of myself. I really needed that. And I got to where I really liked the quiet and solitude.
As a result, my stress level (which I hadn't thought was so high) abated significantly, and in the calm, I realized it had been quite high indeed.
It wasn't all peace and contentment, however. Since my last post, I have been hospitalized (Thanksgiving Day!) with blood clots on the lungs, a condition from which I am recovering. That was a shocker. On the other hand the three days I spent in the hospital after the inital shock were among the most freeing — and healing — of my sabbatical period. I had no computer, no responsibilities, nowhere to go and had the best excuse in the world to opt out altogether for a long weekend and let others take care of the world! I think it was a God thing.
Sometimes we just need to stop, if only to figure out where we are, where we've been and where God might be leading. So I did.
In the last couple of weeks, I've found myself writing post-like comments in e-mails to others and on other's blogs. I realized that it was time to emerge from exile and start again.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Isms, Ologies & Tertium Quid
Until this afternoon, I had no idea what tertium quid means. A friend of mine who is a philosophy student at the local seminary used the term in a blog post the other day, and it's been knocking around in my brain ever since. (I have two friends in seminary, and a lot of words get thrown around these days that sail right over my head. I spend a lot of time saying, "Huh?")
So I looked it up. According to my beat-up copy of Webster's from my college days (oh, so long ago), it's a late Latin phrase that translates literally as "third something." It has two definitions: (1) something that escapes a division into two groups supposed to be exhaustive; (2) a third party of ambiguous status.
Definition #2 is a pretty good description of me these days. In most of the discussions going on in the little corner of the blogosphere I frequent, I'm a third party of ambiguous status. Definition #1 decribes my view of the sometimes not-so-cordial conversation between Christian egalitarians and complimentarians.
Hardcore complimentarians like to portray egalitarianism as a radical stance that blurs or worse, denies, the distinctions based on gender, under the influence of "radical feminists." On the other side, I've heard hardcore Egalitarians portray complimentarianism as a mask for patriarchy, a pose of those who wish to preserve their hierarchical hegemony and flat-out misogyny. While I'm certain that there is, in some extreme cases, some truth to both of these extreme portrayals, neither is particularly fair or insightful about the majority of people who subscribe to either position. When it comes to these and other opposed sets of "isms," much of the public dialogue tends to be dominated by the loudest and most radical adherents, while more thoughtful voices (they're out there) tend to get out-shouted or ignored.
Tangent: (Sorry, this is the way I think. Stuff just bubbles up. It takes me hours to sort out all the weird stuff that pops up in my mind and arrange it into nice, neat essays — one reason I haven't been blogging much lately. I'm not a linear thinker. So you'll just have to wade through it. Sorry.) In the blogging economy, the number of posts one attracts — and therefore, the level of potential influence one has — is often proportional to the author's willingness to make a statement that will elicit an emotional response. This is the systemic downside of blogging: the medium can, just like other forms of media, be ill-used and manipulated. Unlike some, however, I don't propose that we abandon the medium because some give in, unconsciously or consciously, to the temptation to become blog celebrities and/or indulge in insulting, demeaning or outright picking fights with those with whom they disagree.
Tangent II: Such has been suggested about the medium of television. Some insist that Christians should avoid watching it altogether. But I wonder if the fact that Christians by and large have avoided involvement in television production is at least partly to blame for why it's gotten so far out of hand?
Back to E vs. C: Both sides claim their positions on theological grounds, with some appeals to philosophy, sociology, psychology. That brings me to -ologies. People involved in these disciplines, people far more well-read and more intellectually disciplined in their thinking than I am, disagree. That's all I have to say about that.
Tangent III: For some, that will label me as an anti-intellectual. For the record, I'm not (not that my denial will make any difference). But I also don't believe that being an intellectual (whatever that really means) has any intrinsic value. Intellectualism all-too-easily can become (has become?) just another banner over another stall in the already overcrowded religious marketplace.
Back to E vs. C: What all this has to do with egalitarianism vs. complimentarianism is this: I think the issue is tertium quid. It's become an either/or, the opposite sides of which both subscribe to the notion that they, together, constitute the only possible options, yet the issue really cannot be contained by these positions. I've pored over the biblical record (and literature writen about it) myself and I don't see where that record clearly and unequivocally defines the roles of men and women in the home, church or society. If it did, we wouldn't be arguing about what it said (though I dare say there would still be conflict). But what that says to me, anyway, is that a position that adequately addresses the issue must address the ambiguity of the record. For some time now I've thought that I'd like there to be a third option. I'm not sure what it would be. The truly Christian stance must acknowledge the ambiguity, give up its right to define and know (which is motivated as much by our desire for control and the comfort and security that would give us) and live with the paradox, the irritatingly irresolvable tension.
I think its important to do so on this issue not only because it has assumed great importance in the church and in our society as a whole, but also because doing so might shed light on so many other issues which similarly distract us from our mission. The Bible does not clearly define where we ought to stand on a number of either/or questions. Big church vs. small church, seeker-sensitive vs. well, everybody else, liturgical vs. extempore worship. Hymnody vs. worship to popular music (and all its permutations: loud vs. soft, contemplative vs. dancing in the aisles, organs vs. guitars & drums) ... oh and let's not forget creationism vs. evolutionism ... and on and on.
Lest you think I've fallen into tertium quid-ism let me assure you there are many things I think are unequivocally clear in scripture. That Jesus is fully God and fully human. That he came to rescue us from our sorry sin-sick history, which — as the Eden story illustrates, began with our attempts to trust in our own understanding. That Jesus died to set us from from the effects of sin and death. That we are to deliver the message of this great salvation to the ends of the earth. That we are to forgive and not judge.
I suspect that our pre-occupation with either/or issues tends to distract us from that mission. While we're arguing among ourselves, the world watches us bicker and wonders why it should listen to us. Who can blame them?
The world really is watching. When do we show them that love Jesus talked about in John 14? "The world will know that you are my disciples, because you love one another."
I don't know what the third option is, the one that can contain all the E vs. C ambiguity. But that option must be shot full of agape love. Love that seeks the other's best must be its foundation, its motivation and its outcome. On that I think we can — no, if we're Christians, we must — agree. Inserting a bit of love — and the respect, consideration and humility that accompany that kind of love — into the either/or debates might be a good start toward finding third options.
But where to from there? Why not prayer? Personally, I wish I had prayed about this subject for as many hours as I've studied and thought about it over the last 30 years. I'd also suggest a mantra (horrors!). How about "I could be wrong." Repeat thrice daily, and after every strong statement.
If I was one of those well-read bloggers, I'd suggest we all take a month to pray, suspending talk, study and writing. What might happen? I'd like to think that we'd reconvene, in tears and anguish of soul, to begin a real conversation. My guess is we'd end up with a third option full of ambiguity. But if we could do so and love each other, would that not be ... better?
And then we might be able to take that love that spills over for each other and give it away to the world — which I think was the whole idea in the first place.
But I could be wrong.
So I looked it up. According to my beat-up copy of Webster's from my college days (oh, so long ago), it's a late Latin phrase that translates literally as "third something." It has two definitions: (1) something that escapes a division into two groups supposed to be exhaustive; (2) a third party of ambiguous status.
Definition #2 is a pretty good description of me these days. In most of the discussions going on in the little corner of the blogosphere I frequent, I'm a third party of ambiguous status. Definition #1 decribes my view of the sometimes not-so-cordial conversation between Christian egalitarians and complimentarians.
Hardcore complimentarians like to portray egalitarianism as a radical stance that blurs or worse, denies, the distinctions based on gender, under the influence of "radical feminists." On the other side, I've heard hardcore Egalitarians portray complimentarianism as a mask for patriarchy, a pose of those who wish to preserve their hierarchical hegemony and flat-out misogyny. While I'm certain that there is, in some extreme cases, some truth to both of these extreme portrayals, neither is particularly fair or insightful about the majority of people who subscribe to either position. When it comes to these and other opposed sets of "isms," much of the public dialogue tends to be dominated by the loudest and most radical adherents, while more thoughtful voices (they're out there) tend to get out-shouted or ignored.
Tangent: (Sorry, this is the way I think. Stuff just bubbles up. It takes me hours to sort out all the weird stuff that pops up in my mind and arrange it into nice, neat essays — one reason I haven't been blogging much lately. I'm not a linear thinker. So you'll just have to wade through it. Sorry.) In the blogging economy, the number of posts one attracts — and therefore, the level of potential influence one has — is often proportional to the author's willingness to make a statement that will elicit an emotional response. This is the systemic downside of blogging: the medium can, just like other forms of media, be ill-used and manipulated. Unlike some, however, I don't propose that we abandon the medium because some give in, unconsciously or consciously, to the temptation to become blog celebrities and/or indulge in insulting, demeaning or outright picking fights with those with whom they disagree.
Tangent II: Such has been suggested about the medium of television. Some insist that Christians should avoid watching it altogether. But I wonder if the fact that Christians by and large have avoided involvement in television production is at least partly to blame for why it's gotten so far out of hand?
Back to E vs. C: Both sides claim their positions on theological grounds, with some appeals to philosophy, sociology, psychology. That brings me to -ologies. People involved in these disciplines, people far more well-read and more intellectually disciplined in their thinking than I am, disagree. That's all I have to say about that.
Tangent III: For some, that will label me as an anti-intellectual. For the record, I'm not (not that my denial will make any difference). But I also don't believe that being an intellectual (whatever that really means) has any intrinsic value. Intellectualism all-too-easily can become (has become?) just another banner over another stall in the already overcrowded religious marketplace.
Back to E vs. C: What all this has to do with egalitarianism vs. complimentarianism is this: I think the issue is tertium quid. It's become an either/or, the opposite sides of which both subscribe to the notion that they, together, constitute the only possible options, yet the issue really cannot be contained by these positions. I've pored over the biblical record (and literature writen about it) myself and I don't see where that record clearly and unequivocally defines the roles of men and women in the home, church or society. If it did, we wouldn't be arguing about what it said (though I dare say there would still be conflict). But what that says to me, anyway, is that a position that adequately addresses the issue must address the ambiguity of the record. For some time now I've thought that I'd like there to be a third option. I'm not sure what it would be. The truly Christian stance must acknowledge the ambiguity, give up its right to define and know (which is motivated as much by our desire for control and the comfort and security that would give us) and live with the paradox, the irritatingly irresolvable tension.
I think its important to do so on this issue not only because it has assumed great importance in the church and in our society as a whole, but also because doing so might shed light on so many other issues which similarly distract us from our mission. The Bible does not clearly define where we ought to stand on a number of either/or questions. Big church vs. small church, seeker-sensitive vs. well, everybody else, liturgical vs. extempore worship. Hymnody vs. worship to popular music (and all its permutations: loud vs. soft, contemplative vs. dancing in the aisles, organs vs. guitars & drums) ... oh and let's not forget creationism vs. evolutionism ... and on and on.
Lest you think I've fallen into tertium quid-ism let me assure you there are many things I think are unequivocally clear in scripture. That Jesus is fully God and fully human. That he came to rescue us from our sorry sin-sick history, which — as the Eden story illustrates, began with our attempts to trust in our own understanding. That Jesus died to set us from from the effects of sin and death. That we are to deliver the message of this great salvation to the ends of the earth. That we are to forgive and not judge.
I suspect that our pre-occupation with either/or issues tends to distract us from that mission. While we're arguing among ourselves, the world watches us bicker and wonders why it should listen to us. Who can blame them?
The world really is watching. When do we show them that love Jesus talked about in John 14? "The world will know that you are my disciples, because you love one another."
I don't know what the third option is, the one that can contain all the E vs. C ambiguity. But that option must be shot full of agape love. Love that seeks the other's best must be its foundation, its motivation and its outcome. On that I think we can — no, if we're Christians, we must — agree. Inserting a bit of love — and the respect, consideration and humility that accompany that kind of love — into the either/or debates might be a good start toward finding third options.
But where to from there? Why not prayer? Personally, I wish I had prayed about this subject for as many hours as I've studied and thought about it over the last 30 years. I'd also suggest a mantra (horrors!). How about "I could be wrong." Repeat thrice daily, and after every strong statement.
If I was one of those well-read bloggers, I'd suggest we all take a month to pray, suspending talk, study and writing. What might happen? I'd like to think that we'd reconvene, in tears and anguish of soul, to begin a real conversation. My guess is we'd end up with a third option full of ambiguity. But if we could do so and love each other, would that not be ... better?
And then we might be able to take that love that spills over for each other and give it away to the world — which I think was the whole idea in the first place.
But I could be wrong.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Odd Thomas
Story — especially in the form of the novel and the motion picture — is a fixture in my life. I savor it like several of my friends savor their favorite concoctions at Starbuck's.
Story mirrors my life back to me, in the most unusual and arresting ways. On the pages of a well-conceived novel and in the sounds and images of a well-directed film, I often see my lights and shadows play across a canvas not my own, and as a result, find it easier to look at them, and then, as the title of this blog suggests, embrace them. I see in a particular character, and sometimes in several who populate the same artistic work, aspects of me, my personality traits, my foibles, my hidden desires, my oddities.
It was the latter that had me weeping as I read the last 50 or so pages of Odd Thomas, a book written by Dean Koontz. He writes in the Stephen King vein, but manages to do so at the cost of about half as many trees. To call this book a horror story, or even a mystery/thriller, however, is to put it in a box that can't hold it.
Odd Thomas is named for its main character, a 20-year-old man who lives in a smallish town in the Mojave Desert. Odd Thomas (that's the name on his birth certificate: someone apparently left off the "T") has a gift.
He can see the dead.
As the book opens, you learn that he also can communicate with them (though they cannot speak) and they have learned to come to him to seek justice. In fact, the book opens with Odd Thomas confronting a child molester and murderer whose crime had been hidden for years. As the man is borne away to jail, the young girl he had killed stands (unseen by others, of course) at Odd Thomas's side. Finally at peace, she waves goodbye and walks away, fading into Rest.
Odd Thomas has an unusual relationship with the town's chief-of-police, who has come to believe not only that Thomas can communicate with the spirit world, but that Thomas' vision, though not complete, is always reliable. Together, he and Odd Thomas have solved a number of crimes, and prevented an even greater number. The Chief, in fact, has become the father figure Odd Thomas never had.
Odd Thomas' gift however, is also an affliction. It is not an easy thing to see the dead. It is no comfort to know — and this, only in part — the horrors the future holds if something isn't done. He has, at best, only hints about the future, and he is not, for that reason, always able to parlay his sight into action soon enough. He suffers the pain of "if only ..." If only I had said something sooner. If only I had paid more attention to that feeling, that sense that something wasn't right.
Because of the enormity of the gift's burden, Odd Thomas has unburdened his life in most other areas, so as not to clutter up his mental and emotional landscape: He works as a fry cook, lives in a one-room apartment, does not own a car, and has never set foot outside the provincial confines of his small town life. At one pivotal point in the story, when a disaster of unprecedented proportions — one that only Odd Thomas can see coming — threatens to destroy them both, his girlfriend — the only girl he's ever had and the only other person who knows everything about his gift — suggests that they run off to Vegas and get married. He says "No." She doesn't understand this from the young man who has proposed to her regularly for several years. In Vegas, he explains — that much larger desert burg where the dark underside of life is painted with bright colors — he would be mobbed by the dead, who live tormented, caught between two worlds, in the aftermath of lives steeped in greed, lust, loss and corruption. He knows it would be too big to handle alone. He has all he can handle.
In the end, Odd Thomas acts. But not soon enough. He foils, almost single-handedly, a sinister plot by members of a secret coven of satan worshippers (including, ironically, several members of the police department) who want to make the world forget all about Charles Manson and other home-grown American terrorists. An enormous killing spree in a shopping mail is cut short, but not until the Chief has been shot and lies near dead, and 19 others die, including the girl he loved — the girl who said yes when his gift demanded that he say no.
I cried because I saw in this darkly imaginative tale a parable of the "how much more" sort that Jesus often told. Odd Thomas acted. He risked all — alone — to save many. But it wasn't quite enough. And he lost everything in doing so. But — and this is the kicker — at least he made the sacrifice.
How much more, then, should we who claim The Christ be willing to act? How much more should we be willing to make sacrifices? We also see the dead. They are all around us. Though they cannot speak, millions of unborn children cry for justice, right here in our burg. Infanticide in China is epidemic. Do you not know? Have you not heard? Millions more, born but bereft of love, warmth, light, are dying as they walk through our increasingly Godless culture, as mom and dad (if they happen to have one of each) pursue demanding careers and seek recognition, position, influence, power, money. The drop-out rate in our schools is at an all-time high. Drug use, violence, casual — in fact, almost meaningless — sex are the hellish hallmarks of a youth culture that is burdened by -- no, that worships — darkness, hopelessness and death. Outside our burg, women and children in Africa are bought and sold daily (sorry, the report of the slave trade's demise was a bit premature). Slavery flourishes. And it takes more subtle forms. Sweat shops in Asia clothe us cheap and make the rich richer. The list could go on for pages.
Unlike Odd Thomas, we are not alone. We are legion. And we have — or so we claim — the promise of help from the very God of the Universe himself. So ... when do we divest ourselves of the things that clutter our mental and emotional landscapes and truly step into the breach? Why do we need so many toys? Do we really need a bigger house, a newer car, another pair of shoes? The next cruise? And what is it about American Idol anyway? Satan no longer needs to tempt Christians to sin. In America, all the devil needs is distractions. the list here, too, could go on for pages. He only needs to blind us to the hurting people all around us. Simply create a distraction for each breach of justice that stares us right in the face.
As it is, a lot of us don't even do church anymore, we mostly just talk about it. Argue about it. Define it and redefine it. Write books about it. More distractions.
When do we be the church?
Story mirrors my life back to me, in the most unusual and arresting ways. On the pages of a well-conceived novel and in the sounds and images of a well-directed film, I often see my lights and shadows play across a canvas not my own, and as a result, find it easier to look at them, and then, as the title of this blog suggests, embrace them. I see in a particular character, and sometimes in several who populate the same artistic work, aspects of me, my personality traits, my foibles, my hidden desires, my oddities.
It was the latter that had me weeping as I read the last 50 or so pages of Odd Thomas, a book written by Dean Koontz. He writes in the Stephen King vein, but manages to do so at the cost of about half as many trees. To call this book a horror story, or even a mystery/thriller, however, is to put it in a box that can't hold it.
Odd Thomas is named for its main character, a 20-year-old man who lives in a smallish town in the Mojave Desert. Odd Thomas (that's the name on his birth certificate: someone apparently left off the "T") has a gift.
He can see the dead.
As the book opens, you learn that he also can communicate with them (though they cannot speak) and they have learned to come to him to seek justice. In fact, the book opens with Odd Thomas confronting a child molester and murderer whose crime had been hidden for years. As the man is borne away to jail, the young girl he had killed stands (unseen by others, of course) at Odd Thomas's side. Finally at peace, she waves goodbye and walks away, fading into Rest.
Odd Thomas has an unusual relationship with the town's chief-of-police, who has come to believe not only that Thomas can communicate with the spirit world, but that Thomas' vision, though not complete, is always reliable. Together, he and Odd Thomas have solved a number of crimes, and prevented an even greater number. The Chief, in fact, has become the father figure Odd Thomas never had.
Odd Thomas' gift however, is also an affliction. It is not an easy thing to see the dead. It is no comfort to know — and this, only in part — the horrors the future holds if something isn't done. He has, at best, only hints about the future, and he is not, for that reason, always able to parlay his sight into action soon enough. He suffers the pain of "if only ..." If only I had said something sooner. If only I had paid more attention to that feeling, that sense that something wasn't right.
Because of the enormity of the gift's burden, Odd Thomas has unburdened his life in most other areas, so as not to clutter up his mental and emotional landscape: He works as a fry cook, lives in a one-room apartment, does not own a car, and has never set foot outside the provincial confines of his small town life. At one pivotal point in the story, when a disaster of unprecedented proportions — one that only Odd Thomas can see coming — threatens to destroy them both, his girlfriend — the only girl he's ever had and the only other person who knows everything about his gift — suggests that they run off to Vegas and get married. He says "No." She doesn't understand this from the young man who has proposed to her regularly for several years. In Vegas, he explains — that much larger desert burg where the dark underside of life is painted with bright colors — he would be mobbed by the dead, who live tormented, caught between two worlds, in the aftermath of lives steeped in greed, lust, loss and corruption. He knows it would be too big to handle alone. He has all he can handle.
In the end, Odd Thomas acts. But not soon enough. He foils, almost single-handedly, a sinister plot by members of a secret coven of satan worshippers (including, ironically, several members of the police department) who want to make the world forget all about Charles Manson and other home-grown American terrorists. An enormous killing spree in a shopping mail is cut short, but not until the Chief has been shot and lies near dead, and 19 others die, including the girl he loved — the girl who said yes when his gift demanded that he say no.
I cried because I saw in this darkly imaginative tale a parable of the "how much more" sort that Jesus often told. Odd Thomas acted. He risked all — alone — to save many. But it wasn't quite enough. And he lost everything in doing so. But — and this is the kicker — at least he made the sacrifice.
How much more, then, should we who claim The Christ be willing to act? How much more should we be willing to make sacrifices? We also see the dead. They are all around us. Though they cannot speak, millions of unborn children cry for justice, right here in our burg. Infanticide in China is epidemic. Do you not know? Have you not heard? Millions more, born but bereft of love, warmth, light, are dying as they walk through our increasingly Godless culture, as mom and dad (if they happen to have one of each) pursue demanding careers and seek recognition, position, influence, power, money. The drop-out rate in our schools is at an all-time high. Drug use, violence, casual — in fact, almost meaningless — sex are the hellish hallmarks of a youth culture that is burdened by -- no, that worships — darkness, hopelessness and death. Outside our burg, women and children in Africa are bought and sold daily (sorry, the report of the slave trade's demise was a bit premature). Slavery flourishes. And it takes more subtle forms. Sweat shops in Asia clothe us cheap and make the rich richer. The list could go on for pages.
Unlike Odd Thomas, we are not alone. We are legion. And we have — or so we claim — the promise of help from the very God of the Universe himself. So ... when do we divest ourselves of the things that clutter our mental and emotional landscapes and truly step into the breach? Why do we need so many toys? Do we really need a bigger house, a newer car, another pair of shoes? The next cruise? And what is it about American Idol anyway? Satan no longer needs to tempt Christians to sin. In America, all the devil needs is distractions. the list here, too, could go on for pages. He only needs to blind us to the hurting people all around us. Simply create a distraction for each breach of justice that stares us right in the face.
As it is, a lot of us don't even do church anymore, we mostly just talk about it. Argue about it. Define it and redefine it. Write books about it. More distractions.
When do we be the church?
Saturday, April 15, 2006
American in Paris
I've been away from the blog for a while.
No, I haven't been in Paris for a month. But I did spend a week there at the beginning of April. April in Paris is supposed to be beautiful, but based on my time there, I wouldn't know. It was a work-related trip.
There's a big trade show that happens in Paris each year, and I was there representing my publishing firm. I worked 17 hour days, walking the show floor all day, then sitting in the hotel lobby with my Powerbook (the only spot the Wi-Fi worked) until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning, connected to my office back in Colorado, trying feverishly to meet the drop-dead deadline for our magazine's May issue. Aside from a very brief dinner with our staff at a cafe a few steps down the street my first night there (from which I excused myself early because I had to get back to the hotel to work), I thereafter saw the inside of my hotel room, the inside of the hotel lobby, the inside of the subway station (steps down to it were right outside the hotel front door), the inside of the subway train, and the inside of the Paris Expo exhibit hall.
While there, I received e-mails from friends back home, asking me about the Paris riots and strikes. Apparently the U.S. press was showing riot scenes in full color on the evening news. I neither saw nor heard a single word from anyone about the riots from any Parisians while in Paris. If it hadn't been for the e-mails, I might have passed the week without ever knowing that just a mile or so away, Parisians and the Paris police were doing battle. (Sorta says something about the way the media tend to shape our view of reality.)
I did get a glimpse of something else, however. The run up to the Paris trip, the trip itself, and its aftermath has provided a sort of squeaky-hinge turning point for my life. "Squeaky hinge" in the old black-and-white "B" movie sense of scary foreboding.
In the two weeks prior to the trip, I was the object of several prophecies, the substance of which was that I have for some time lived a sort of hermetic life, a life apart, a sort of monkish existence, but that time has drawn to a close. Paris was a sort of pinnacle point of that life — a sign — isolated and preoccupied by my work, unaware of either the delights or the riots in the fabled City of Lights. The last night I was there, I had the latest in a string of tornado dreams, which for me have always prophetically preceded periods of significant personal change that always involve what I guess you could call profound deconstruction. Last time around, six years ago, I had a series of six or seven dreams, during each of which I observed a single tornado. I lost my home, my job and my family. The recent dreams involved two and, in the Paris dream, six or seven tornados. Naturally, I'm a little nervous. I'm still waiting to see where all of this goes, which explains, at least in part, my prolonged absence from the blog.
But as I entered Holy Week, at least one thing of significance crystallized. Yesterday, is the day we now call Good Friday, the day that at the time seemed like the End, but actually proved to be the Beginning. The day that we — oh yes, I think most of us eventually must admit that we'd have been in that crowd shouting "Crucify him!" or at least slinking away in fear while it was done — condemned him to the cross. Tomorrow, we celebrate the day that Jesus walked away — alive forever — from Joseph of Arimethea's tomb, having defeated both sin and death.
I think The Church often misses the ultimate significance of that act, and gets lost in the details. For many years, I certainly have. But in that two-part act, Jesus became the Hinge of History. Prior to the cross, Jesus proclaimed the last days of God's dealing with a "special" group. His sayings, parables, teachings and healings progressively dismantled the idea of "ins" and "outs." Anyone willing to read the Gospel accounts guilelessly, in humility, can't miss it. The folks he was speaking to certainly didn't miss it: Jesus rebukes were not for "sinners" but primarily for those who presumed to draw the lines that separate sinners from God — always placing themselves safely on the God side of the line. Jesus crossed the line, and took a stance squarely on the other side, with the sinners — those whom he explicitly stated he was there to save. That's why they crucified him.
On Easter, Jesus greeted first Mary of Magdala — he didn't greet a man and certainly not one of the religious elite of the time, but a woman of questionable reputation, one the religious folks of the time would have placed far over on the wrong side of the line. Why Mary? I think the answer is simple. First, he loved her and she had returned his love. But second, how better to underscore his point?
During that three-day period, from Good Friday to Easter Sunday, Jesus became the Door to the Eternal and proclaimed the Eternal Yes of God. And woe upon woe to us, the naysayers, the blind judges, the self-appointed dividers of sheep and goats — a group among whom I still, to my great dismay, so often find myself numbered.
As long as we attempt to be our own yes, by saying no to others, by continuing to insist that lines be drawn, we remain whitewashed tombs.
But Jesus left the tomb. If we chose to remain there, examining the empty grave clothes, then we cannot partake of His resurrection life. What possible hope is there for us?
Only to admit that we belong, with Mary of Magdala, on the wrong side of the line, stuck fast in the kingdom of darkness. We must admit it, because — hallelujah! Glory!! — Jesus is there with us, able to turn even our deepest darkness to incomparable Light.
No, I haven't been in Paris for a month. But I did spend a week there at the beginning of April. April in Paris is supposed to be beautiful, but based on my time there, I wouldn't know. It was a work-related trip.
There's a big trade show that happens in Paris each year, and I was there representing my publishing firm. I worked 17 hour days, walking the show floor all day, then sitting in the hotel lobby with my Powerbook (the only spot the Wi-Fi worked) until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning, connected to my office back in Colorado, trying feverishly to meet the drop-dead deadline for our magazine's May issue. Aside from a very brief dinner with our staff at a cafe a few steps down the street my first night there (from which I excused myself early because I had to get back to the hotel to work), I thereafter saw the inside of my hotel room, the inside of the hotel lobby, the inside of the subway station (steps down to it were right outside the hotel front door), the inside of the subway train, and the inside of the Paris Expo exhibit hall.
While there, I received e-mails from friends back home, asking me about the Paris riots and strikes. Apparently the U.S. press was showing riot scenes in full color on the evening news. I neither saw nor heard a single word from anyone about the riots from any Parisians while in Paris. If it hadn't been for the e-mails, I might have passed the week without ever knowing that just a mile or so away, Parisians and the Paris police were doing battle. (Sorta says something about the way the media tend to shape our view of reality.)
I did get a glimpse of something else, however. The run up to the Paris trip, the trip itself, and its aftermath has provided a sort of squeaky-hinge turning point for my life. "Squeaky hinge" in the old black-and-white "B" movie sense of scary foreboding.
In the two weeks prior to the trip, I was the object of several prophecies, the substance of which was that I have for some time lived a sort of hermetic life, a life apart, a sort of monkish existence, but that time has drawn to a close. Paris was a sort of pinnacle point of that life — a sign — isolated and preoccupied by my work, unaware of either the delights or the riots in the fabled City of Lights. The last night I was there, I had the latest in a string of tornado dreams, which for me have always prophetically preceded periods of significant personal change that always involve what I guess you could call profound deconstruction. Last time around, six years ago, I had a series of six or seven dreams, during each of which I observed a single tornado. I lost my home, my job and my family. The recent dreams involved two and, in the Paris dream, six or seven tornados. Naturally, I'm a little nervous. I'm still waiting to see where all of this goes, which explains, at least in part, my prolonged absence from the blog.
But as I entered Holy Week, at least one thing of significance crystallized. Yesterday, is the day we now call Good Friday, the day that at the time seemed like the End, but actually proved to be the Beginning. The day that we — oh yes, I think most of us eventually must admit that we'd have been in that crowd shouting "Crucify him!" or at least slinking away in fear while it was done — condemned him to the cross. Tomorrow, we celebrate the day that Jesus walked away — alive forever — from Joseph of Arimethea's tomb, having defeated both sin and death.
I think The Church often misses the ultimate significance of that act, and gets lost in the details. For many years, I certainly have. But in that two-part act, Jesus became the Hinge of History. Prior to the cross, Jesus proclaimed the last days of God's dealing with a "special" group. His sayings, parables, teachings and healings progressively dismantled the idea of "ins" and "outs." Anyone willing to read the Gospel accounts guilelessly, in humility, can't miss it. The folks he was speaking to certainly didn't miss it: Jesus rebukes were not for "sinners" but primarily for those who presumed to draw the lines that separate sinners from God — always placing themselves safely on the God side of the line. Jesus crossed the line, and took a stance squarely on the other side, with the sinners — those whom he explicitly stated he was there to save. That's why they crucified him.
On Easter, Jesus greeted first Mary of Magdala — he didn't greet a man and certainly not one of the religious elite of the time, but a woman of questionable reputation, one the religious folks of the time would have placed far over on the wrong side of the line. Why Mary? I think the answer is simple. First, he loved her and she had returned his love. But second, how better to underscore his point?
During that three-day period, from Good Friday to Easter Sunday, Jesus became the Door to the Eternal and proclaimed the Eternal Yes of God. And woe upon woe to us, the naysayers, the blind judges, the self-appointed dividers of sheep and goats — a group among whom I still, to my great dismay, so often find myself numbered.
As long as we attempt to be our own yes, by saying no to others, by continuing to insist that lines be drawn, we remain whitewashed tombs.
But Jesus left the tomb. If we chose to remain there, examining the empty grave clothes, then we cannot partake of His resurrection life. What possible hope is there for us?
Only to admit that we belong, with Mary of Magdala, on the wrong side of the line, stuck fast in the kingdom of darkness. We must admit it, because — hallelujah! Glory!! — Jesus is there with us, able to turn even our deepest darkness to incomparable Light.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)