Gone Fishing

I am not really fishing...I am on a secret mission. All I can say is...b2g. More on that when I return to the blogoshpere next Tuesday.

While I am away from "a place to muse" I am sure that you will want to catch up on your reading. Just in case, I have included some links to my favorite posts thus far. This is a series on The Beauty of God that didn't receive many comments but is worthy of dialogue. Check it out again here, here, here, here, here, and here. It goes in order and works well as a series so you may want to start with the first one--however, you can skip around if you want (this is the WWW after all).


Talk to you later,

b-nut

Give Bo a Band

I have heard many complain about the state of our television programing these days. Where have all the writers gone? and what used to be on T.V. before reality took over? I honestly can't remember. Now that Everyone Loves Raymond is off the air what is next? It is a free for all...almost.

I am afraid that reality T.V. is here to stay. It is cheap, low-risk profit. A network can work an audience into a frenzy of disciplined T.V. watching without having to worry about keeping them for the long haul. Even if a reality T.V. show crashes and burns there is little loss for a network--in three months they just start a better one.

You might be saying to your computer right now that I am wrong. Reality TV is an uncreative waste of time. There are too many people that complain about it. You might be right. But show me one complainer that isn't also a watcher.

While one might curse the Nanny on Tuesday they are watching Mister Mom on Wednesday...or Trading Spouses, Big Brother, Cheaters, INXS, American Idol, The Bachelor, I Want to Be a Hilton, The Simple Life, Average Joe: The Joe Strikes Back, Brat Camp, The Cut, So You Think You Can Dance, Extreme Makeover: Whatever Edition, Hooking Up, Fear Factor, Survivor, Blue Collar TV, Extreme Fakeovers, Hell's Kitchen, Blind Date, and ?!?!?!

There have been 102 reality TV series aired on just the four major network stations, FOX, CBS, ABC, and NBC--102. That doesn't begin to count cable. What is the message here? What does this say about the watchers--about our culture?

Well...today I am going to come clean. I am a reality TV show complainer. And we already know what that means. That's right. I am a watcher.

I have wasted a lot of time watching American Idol and now I watch Rock Star: INXS. I have a thing for music I guess. INXS starts where American Idol should end--after they have the final 15 singers. Of course you know--since I just complained about it--that I watch American Idol all the way to the end. Bo Bice was my man. It is too bad that I probably won't like any of the pop songs that they will make him sing.

He should have waited to try out to be INXS's next lead singer--not that I like INXS. But then he could rock. "Give Bo a Band" should be the motto of any decent reality TV complainer. The fact that Bo has to sign a contract with American Idol has to be the greatest tragedy of reality TV this past year. He should never be forced to join the ranks of Kelly Clarkson, Carrie Underwood, Ruben Studdard, and that other guy. Give Bo a Band.

That being said, I have a prediction for you. Jordis Unga from St. Paul, MN will be in the final four at the end of the INXS season. She is the youngest contestant and one of the best. If she is lucky she will make it to the final two and then get kicked of the show so that she can start a real career with a real band. If she is unlucky then she will win. Take it from a faithful complainer.

You can watch Rock Star: INXS on Monday night, Tuesday night, and Wednesday night. You can also get a recap on the weekends.

"Give Bo a Band!"

I am not a Toolman, but I may be a Tool

This past weekend I helped a friend with a large home improvement project and it occurred to me that I am not a Toolman, but I may be a Tool.

Tool: (def) instrument: the means whereby some act is accomplished. I don't know much about these. Toolmen use these.

Tool: (def) creature: a person who is controlled by others and is used to perform unpleasant or dishonest tasks for someone else. This sounds more familiar. In Basic Training, at least, this is what my Drill Sergeant called me.

I used to be bigger, stronger, and maybe even better looking when naked than my friend, Dave. This, however, has changed. Dave is a Toolman. Toolmen, with a proper diet of course, get to be better looking in the nude than non-Toolmen. I am sure that this is the case with Dave and myself (although we haven't had a proper 'flex-off' in years).

A good reason for this is that the tools used by Toolmen tend to be heavy. Additionally, using tools tends to be physically exhausting. Proof of this can be seen in the machines built to help Toolmen. They are impressive. They are big. Some of them can lift houses and crush cars. I have seen them. Even the clothes Toolmen have to wear are strong--like steeled toed boots. When I work I wear sandals--without socks.

Even as I write this my wife tells me that I am haunching over. Toolmen don't haunch over when they sit down. They have good posture. It now occurs to me that the Apple Fritter that I am eating probably doesn't help my posture either. Dave drinks PowerAde. I have no use for such drinks. It is strictly coffee for me. I don't even drink water. Whereas Toolmen have beer to end a hot day of hard work, I just have beer.

I was explaining this very fact to my wife when I leaned on our kitchen counter and it moved an inch. It has been falling away from the wall at a consistent rate for the last three years. My wife reminds me that it is getting worse and I agree with her. There is definitely something wrong. The drawers don't even close correctly anymore. I suspect that someday it will just finish its slow but steady fall all at once...with a big bang. I suspect that that will probably scare the dog.

Our toilet handle fell off one day...you know, the flusher knob. For two months I stuck my hand into the water tank and flushed it manually. Figuring out how to do that was a stroke of genius. My friend, Ben, told me that it would only take 3 minutes to change the knob. I protested that he did not know me. I asked about the glue and the chains and the tools. He shook his head. He said I didn't need those things. He is a Toolman so I trusted him. He was right. It took me 3 minutes to put in the wrong knob.

This is why I am not a Toolman. Even when I can do something right it is not right. That means that I have to drive all the way back to the Toolman shop and explain to some professional Toolman that I am an idiot. They always smile at me like I am a woman who is pretending to be a man...or like I am Will from Will and Grace. Speaking of women...

Dave's wife, Jill, is more of a Toolman than I am. This is particularly disturbing, not that women cannot be Toolmen or that there are not Toolwomen, but because Jill works long hours at a challenging job and is getting another degree. She is a better Toolman than I am and she does it in her spare time--which is very little. My whole life is spare time.

My wife and I once had a room that was completely dark. It was dark for over a month. I couldn't figure out which light bulbs to get. No, I am not a Toolman, but I just may be a Tool.

My First Trip to Hooters

Ever since I fractured my skull playing softball almost 8 weeks ago I have been wrestling with insomnia. I don't fall asleep until 3am some nights--that is five hours after taking Tylenol PM. Two nights ago (Friday) I only got about 4 hours of sleep before my day began on Saturday. I was exhausted midway through a day of babysitting and manual labor. I turned to my wife and said, "I want you to treat me right tonight." She did.

I got home, took a shower and we were off. As we were walking through the Mall of America to get tickets for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory my wife stopped at Hooters to get a table. I was to get tickets and come back to join her. I have never been to Hooters.

I had been on staff with a non profit collegiate ministry for 5 years. I am a seminary student. My major financial supporters were Evangelical churches and individuals--a large part of whom are from the Bible Belt. One does not spend their money (or anybody else's) to eat at Hooters. Hooters is the place that I pretended not to be interested in when driving by with Christian friends. The only 'worthy' reason to enter Hooters for an Evangelical minister with fundamentalist financial backing is to respond to an emergency call about a waitress who is having a crisis of faith and wants to be 'saved' immediately. Even then you would send in a woman...or wait until her shift was over and she had changed clothes.

I came back with the tickets to look for my wife who had already taken a seat. This presented me with a problem. My wife was in there looking for me. That meant that I had to be very careful where I was looking. I decided that my best option was to keep my head in constant motion back and forth--never down. Just as I entered a large cluster of Hooters girls formed to my right--singing some sort of song for some guy with a bucket on his head and a wiener in his mouth. I decided a worthy husband who is being watched by his wife would turn left. I made two laps around the restaurant--people were starting to recognize me as the guy who had past their table before. I was getting desperate for a hand to shoot up in my field of vision and direct me to my seat. At the end of my second lap the cloister of Hooters girls--that I wasn't looking at--dispersed to reveal my wife sitting at a table right in the middle of all the girls.

I was a little fidgety at first. My wife was too and that made it worse. I knew she would be watching me. I was beginning to wonder if she had set me up for a bad night. She was watching me when our cute waitress bent down to put her arms on the table--directly in front of me. There are four sides to our table and she chose that one. I didn't mind of course. She turned her elbows in just enough to squish her boobs together. If I looked at her face I looked at her boobs--and my wife looked at me. She asked me what I wanted to drink. I said water like a sheepish teenager. My wife made sure I knew that she was wearing Victoria's Secret finest push up bra. I took her word for it.

Speaking of Victoria's Secret...that is another one of those places that I have pretended not to be interested in--especially when walking by with my wife. I like to sit a short distance away from VS and watch men walk by with their wives. That is entertaining!

For centuries (I am sure) Christianity and women have conspired against men. They have conspired to make men think that the shame they begin to feel when passing VS or Hooters is from a source even more spiritual than religion or women. It is God himself who is stirring up my conscience and this is why I feel shame. I feel shame because of my sinful self. My wife and church have nothing to do with it. And what man will dare to say different. That is a sure way to get sent to some Bible Study, counseling or 'accountability group'--maybe even to Promise Keepers. It is better to play along.

Of course, after trying so hard all day--like a good Christian husband--not to be captivated, not to appreciate, not to be awed by any woman that I see, I am supposed to become the lover from Song of Songs by night. No wonder men die young. I digress...

My wife and I had a good time at Hooters. While there are certainly things there that are not beautiful--like the goggling 50-year-olds that have their 10-year-olds sitting next to them and like the potential that there are women there who feel belittled and insecure concerning their own bodies--there are also good things there--New Castle on tap, cute girls that pretend to like me, and buffalo wings.

The best thing that happened while I was there was being able to look in to my waitress's...eyes--and see that she was human. Before I broke that barrier all that I had to go on was my lesson from Christianity that these women were objects. They were objects not to be looked at. I now know differently. My wife's gift to me was this: I am beginning to learn how to not be controlled by shame but by my own free choices. It turns out my wife did treat me right after all.

Our future choices may very well bring us back to Hooters to try those wings again. It is hard to make rules about these things without ending right back where we started--guided by shame rather than wisdom.

License to Operate

Is it bad when my computer says that it is beginning a physical dump of memory? or when it asks me if I want to start windows normally? or when it begins a disk check of drive C upon a normal start up? or when it takes 30-45 minutes and 10-15 attempts for it to start up normally? Which of these seems to be the worst new feature of my laptop?

This was bound to happen. Giving me a computer is like giving a ten year old two phone books and the keys to a new car. They should make us take some sort of class before we are allowed to transition from pen and ink to software and hard drives. I suspect that one of the first things that they would tell you in such a class would be not to purchase a Gateway computer. The second might be to get a Mac. The third might be to run anti-virus software. Who knew?

I sure don't. I have yet to mention that my USB ports, speakers and CD rewrite drive have all stopped working. I still have a warranty, but that involves sending Gateway my computer...what a hassle. I'd give my two phone books and keys back if I wasn't so hooked on this blogging thing...and had to get news on the Chi-town Cubbies...write papers...email...

Worship as Propaganda?

Over the past two days I have been exploring a dialogue on worship from Pat’s blog (here and here). It all started with this article by S.M. Hutchens which compares today’s worship with lying. If you have some time you might want to read it. The author draws some distinctions between ‘God-centered’ songs and songs that contain a lot of personal pronouns in them. He claims that we have sacrificed good theology in music for personally emotive lyrics. Consequently we compromise our theology and falsify our hearts when we sing—essentially, we lie.

While there are some good points that are made in this article, I agree with Pat that the problem isn’t about personal pronouns. I admit that I do not know much about worship. I do have former roommates and friends that are or have been worship leaders. I will have to ask them what their thoughts are some time.

Hutchens draws fairly extensive conclusions about the future of Evangelicalism that may or may not be warranted. However, I don’t know if I could have been as nice as he was when speaking of many Evangelical worship services. I haven’t gone for a long time, but when I do, I usually do not participate in the singing. It often feels like propaganda—an effort to construe hearts and minds to be in a certain place. If I am honest with myself (about my theology and about what I actually feel and what I am supposed to be singing) I usually cannot sing. That being said, I don’t mind not participating. It is a peaceful time for me if others don’t mind me sitting down and thinking instead of standing up and singing.

What bothers me is often how these worship songs are used. They are often sung in ways that are disconnected from their setting--from their stories. Consequently, I have to manufacture a story for the song to be true. I may have to pretend that I am distressed or that my heart is somehow untrue for example--it depends on the song. This might be easier on some days than it is on others.

The Psalms and other songs sung in Israel were tools of a community for remembering certain stories. This is often very different than how we use worship. Rather than being united and guided with a strong and true story we are often encouraged to manufacture our own context for which the song can take meaning.

In fact, it is sad, but I have been in some worship services where pastors depend upon worship being disconnected from a true story so that they can manipulate our own. For instance, if the sermon is on the importance of confession than all the worship will be about how miserable that I am. I am convinced that some pastors secretly hope that I will manufacture some story from my life that fits the tone of the music so that I will be ripe for the message. This effort of the pastors may or may not work--but I think that it is propaganda.

Pat (in his blog) rightly connects the Psalms with their stories and provides us with the storied context for one of his own songs that he wrote. I just wish that that was a more common practice in worship--that our communities could remember together rather than be contrived together.

This brings me to another issue…how songs are written. It is important to recognize that the Psalms were not written as merely a personal tool, but as a corporate tool. They were community reminders (of stories) for a specific community. Today’s music is too often not written for a specific community. They are detached from any known story. They tend to be written for individuals or for the general community of Mr. and Mrs. Christian.

While I don’t want to completely disregard this practice. I would like to see more communities writing songs that are attached to their story of relationships…about this church split or a death that affected their community or about the success of a building fund—these are the stories that will make worship special and a community more in touch with their God and with one another. I think that this is a primary purpose of singing worship.

I think that my own group of friends should write a song about how they all came to my aid when I fractured my skull—they visited me in the hospital, they mowed my lawn and made me food. If we sang about this we would be remembering our service to one another and reminding ourselves of its importance in our story together. Our new friends would then learn our stories.

Similarly, the hymn It Is Well With My Soul first gained meaning for me when I discovered its story. You can read a version of that story here.

The Bible is not a Fortune Cookie

Today's post is rather revealing of a former self. It is a snapshot of someone who was trying to find a place among contemporary Evangelical faith and practice. What follows is from a journal entry that marks the last time that I have read my Bible (or have written in a journal for that matter). It is from over a year ago.

Ok...Some of you know that I have picked it up since...but usually as a reference or with other people. This is not a crisis of faith. It is a re-organizing, a re-understanding, a re-practicing. More on that later. I believe that this post reveals a common hermeneutic in today's Evangelical community. It is one that I had fallen victim to...


From April 16, 2004 (after reading the Bible)

As I started reading I realized that what I was reading had nothing to say about what was on my heart. It had nothing to say about what I was praying about. I was immediately disappointed and frustrated. Then I realized that I was using the Bible as my own personal fortune cookie. I have a long habit of opening Scripture and wanting it to comment on my current emotional/physical/mental/spiritual situation. This rarely happens. If it does happen it is often probably because I construed it to happen.

The Bible has immensely important things to say about my life; however, God is not a fortune teller and the Holy Spirit is not an Asian delivery man. Maybe I need to eliminate from my life these so called 'quiet times.' I have trouble separating the fortune cookie tendency from the trendy Christian idea of having regular quiet times with God. I feel like what I am writing here is touching on something that has been a hindrance in my life for years. I can study scripture for what it is rather than try to make it into something that it is not--a personal commentary on my life situation.

I have been told that I must not approach Scripture too academically because that may leave my heart cold and unaffected. Well, I feel like my heart is often cold and unaffected. This is because I cannot seem to relate Scripture to my life in the ways that I have been attempting--I often come away disappointed and frustrated with a hidden feeling that it is somehow my fault. Well, it probably was and today, for the first time, I may know why. The Bible is not a fortune cookie.

Wish you were Hitler

I spent a year on a deployment with the Army to Kosovo. In fact, a year ago I was training in my replacement. Kosovars idolize Bill Clinton--literally. There are streets and athletic buildings named after him. Clinton sent in the bombs that ended the war and mutual extermination of Serbs and Albanians from Kosovo. He did this without U.N. approval.

While we were in Kosovo the greatest violence since the war broke out in the March riots of 2004. Serbian churches were destroyed and Serbs were forced from their homes during the riots. Part of our job after the riots were under control was to assess the damage. During this time I was involved in driving a Serbian family back to their Albanian neighborhood to reclaim their damaged home. He had been severely beaten by a crowd of Albanians before being rescued by U.S. soldiers. Another time I went with one of our highest ranking officers to check on the rebuilding process for a family whose home was completely destroyed during the riots.

To the right there is a picture of the ensuing conversation. It is admittedly a poor picture and you can just barely see the two Serbian men that we were talking to. Two of the 'soldiers' with us in this picture are actually local translators. You can see some of the rebuilding occurring to the left. The Serbian men are upset and are scolding us--they are especially upset with our commander.

They are upset that their home is not being rebuilt exactly like it was before the riots. They say that they wish Hitler was in control rather than us. They were reminiscing of a time when he was in control. Things were different then. Things were safer. This is probably true.

Hitler made things safe--for Serbians living in this area. He exercised more control than the U.S. policy in Kosovo would allow. The UN was attempting to help Albanians and Serbians work together to solve their own problems. They are not interested in controlling them like Hitler did. This, however, leaves plenty of room for conflict--something that these Serbians were understandably not happy about. If we were Hitler their home may not have been destroyed.

The Inferno

Well, in the short life of this blog, poetry and art have not drawn a significant number of comments--about zero. Theology seems to hit or miss and movies generally draw a reliable response. Of course everyone wants to hear about the Chicago Cubs (who have won 6 out of their last 7). That being said, I am well aware that many of you read without ever commenting--like my family--so judging what to write about by counting comments is perhaps as reliable as a good voter exit poll.

Anyways, I thought I would try poetry again--not mine of course. Dante. I want to share this fraction of a poem because it has some personal value. My life experience has prompted my mind to often reflect upon the opening lines to The Inferno. In fact, I have started reading the entire poem many different times only to get as far as these few lines...from a translation by Robert Pinsky:


Midway on our life's journey, I found myself
In dark woods, the right road lost. To tell
About those woods is hard--so tangled and rough

And savage that thinking of it now, I feel
The old fear stirring: death is hardly more bitter.
And yet, to treat the good I found there as well

I'll tell what I saw, though how I came to enter
I cannot well say, being so full of sleep
Whatever moment it was I began to blunder

Off the true path.


I usually do not like to be the first to comment on art--I don't like to dominate interpretive views. But since this is poetry and I might be the only one commenting, I will share some of why I found it to be meaningful to me.

This part of The Inferno became potent for me when I was battling an intense depression a few years ago. The depression was largely my fault--I burned myself out with my life style. However, I thought that I was doing good...doing 'God's will' even. Needless to say, depression was like a dark wood. I had no idea how I got there at the time and as I started getting better years later I was fearful that I would somehow find my way back there.

Like Dante's traveler I could not say much about how I happened into the dark wood, but I could also find some good there. I am continuing to become a new person--not necessarily better--definitely different. It has been 5 years since Dante and my depression happened upon me, but there have been many other occasions to reflect upon The Inferno's first lines as well.

Maybe now I can get to the rest of the poem...

Chocolat

For a study break yesterday I watched Chocolat again with my wife. This movie easily rates as one of my favorites--five beers for sure. I will not review the movie today, although I would like to--I have to finish this paper I am working on instead. I was surprised to discover so many of the themes that I have been writing about lately emerge from this movie. I will leave you with the concluding homily given on Easter morning by a young priest who is learning about ministry and life. Here it is:

I am not sure what the theme of my homily today ought to be. Do I want to speak of the miracle of our Lord's divine transformation? Not really, no. I don't want to talk about his divinity. I'd rather talk about his humanity. I mean, how he lived his life here on earth--his kindness, his tolerance. Listen, here is what I think. I think that we can't go around measuring our goodness by what we don't do, by what we deny ourselves, what we resist and who we exclude. I think that we have got to measure goodness by what we embrace, what we create and who we include.

I am sure that this homily, read by itself, causes apprehension in many believers. There seems to be an allowance for too much freedom here. There are not enough boundaries given to control behavior. If behavior is not managed a little more closely than what is to ensure the continued faith of those who follow Jesus?

Is it possible that we put more emphasis on Jesus' divinity because it is easier to control behavior with a model of holiness that appears to be so clearly distinct from the pleasures of our everyday life? It becomes messier when we have to explain Jesus' human actions. How do we regulate when someone is supposed to hang out with prostitutes and when they are not; when they are to give more wine to likely drunk wedding partiers and when they are not, when they are to waste a years wages on a perfume bath and when they are not; when they are to eat with 'sinners' and when they are not. Worse yet, how do we control the manner in which they do these things...the methods? Can we live out of control and really give people freedom to embrace, create and include like this priest urges his congregation? Or is it too dangerous?

Perhaps I am being too abstract and we all need to watch Chocolat together. Chocolat is about a town that has to answer these questions. It is an atheist who ultimately has something of value to share with the Christian...at least with those who are willing to receive the gift. Well, now I have gone too far and started a review...

Rethinking Holiness

A while ago I had to write a summary of a chapter from Michael Downey's book, Altogether Gift A Trinitarian Spirituality. The chapter is called Living Freely from the Gift: The Grammar of Spiritual Life. I know many of you are considering reading no further. However, I have been surprised at how often my thoughts have gone back to this article. Downey encourages us to rethink a more Trinitarian approach to holiness. See what you think.


Downey argues that understanding the Trinity helps us to live freely in and from the gift. In order to demonstrate this he attempts to compare and contrast previous understandings of the Trinity with this newer approach to the Trinity. For example, in the grammar of holiness God is often viewed as wholly different and separate; this is juxtaposed to a God who is seen as not far off, aloof and a self-subsistent self, but as one who has manifested himself in us as only a self-donating, self giving being can. Our task then is not in imaging a distant type of holiness, but a holiness of one who lives amidst us (the Holy Spirit) and embraces human reality (as Jesus did). Similarly, vocations that have traditionally been 'set apart' (i.e. monks, missionaries, or from sexual relations like priests) have been given a higher regard in Christian circles. The fact that Jesus came into humanity's midst and the Holy Spirit lives within a believer authenticates a variety of life forms. One can have a spiritual connection with God by appreciating one's life as a gift. Vocation consequently is a way of presencing Christ and the Spirit in a particular manner, rather than a puzzle to painstakingly figure out by searching for some abstract notion of God's will. Likewise, the eminence of Christ in the world and the Holy Spirit in human lives has not produced the same asceticism (or discipline by which one conforms to Christ) applicable to the laity and daily tasks like caring for children, complex decisions, struggles for subsistence and the uncertainties of agrarian life that traditional views of God have inspired for abstinence, sexual purity and the office of the clergy. While Downey goes on for a large part of the chapter drawing similar conclusions in the grammar of discernment, healing, social responsibility, prayer, contemplation, and mysticism he ultimately concludes that everything is related to everything else, "created in the image of a God who exists in the relations of interpersonal love." And everything is given as a gift. In this perspective nothing escapes value and importance in view of the presence of Christ in the world and the Spirit in humans. I leave you with his last paragraph:

The various disciplines of the Christian spiritual life are simply the means by which we seek to participate, more contemplatively, in the mystery of three in one Love. The various terms that have formed the nomenclature of spiritual life--holiness, vocation, asceticism, discernment, healing and wholeness, social responsibility, prayer, contemplation and action, mysticism--all bespeak the truth that learning to receive is a lifelong process, never an entirely accomplished fact. The Christian spiritual life entails the ongoing, rigorous discipline of receptivity, of cultivating, nurturing, and sustaining a grateful heart for what is. All is gift, ours to receive, even that which awaits us at the end of the one and only life we have to live--which is given as a gift.

Driving a Lamborghini

Yesterday I was having a bad day...until Adam called me. We sat in my house drinking New Castle and watching the NL loose the All-Star game while catching up on each others lives. Catching up on each others lives inevitably means talking theology.

This may sound strange, but I hope heaven is the place of endless theological discussion. Most people seem to think that we won't have any more theological questions in heaven. I hope that is not the case. If theology is about facts and figures and rules then maybe that will be the case. I think, however, that theology is about relationships. If theology is about relationships that are not very shallow then heaven will contain endless mystery significant enough to my well being that I will have to keep dialoguing about it.

As it is, when I think about deep things I feel connected to God. I feel as if I am discovering my life as if it were a gift. I used to think that I created my life--that life was mine for the making. I think more often now about discovering my life. After all, I had very little to do with many of the stories that form my life: my parents, my country, my culture, being post-modern and being right handed for example.

Thanks, Adam, for a refreshing end to a bad day. And thanks to all of you who have endured theological discussions with me as I meander through the complexities of abstract thoughts. I rarely come to conclusions and often leave my dialogue partners worn out as I try. For me, it is not so much about coming to profound conclusions; it is about the process of trying. I imagine that it is like driving a Lamborghini for the first time--who cares where you end up, the beach, the mountains...Iowa. It is the drive that will tell you about the maker.

That being said, I imagine that someone who drives through the mountains will know things about the maker that someone driving through Iowa may never discover (not to leave Iowa out...I am sure that works the other way around too).

Casey at the Bat

In honor of the All-Star Game tonight here is an oldie and a goodie. On June 3, 1888 Ernest Lawrence Thayer published his now famous poem, Casey at the Bat, under his alias, 'Phin.' One Hundred and Seventeen years later: here is his poem as originally published in The Examiner.


Casey at the Bat

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that-
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand toungues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they's a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in theis favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

I Believe!

It doesn't take much for a Cubs fan to revive their spirits. Call it blind faith. Call it superstition. Call it a blue "I believe" bracelet. Call it Old Style beer. Call it what you want, but the Cubs are turning things around.

Since my commitment not to check the Cubs website or to follow any news from the team nothing but good has happened. Derrek Lee has returned to the lineup and has raised his already league leading batting average and has tied the league lead in home runs. Nomar Garciaparra (arguably one of the best batters in the league and was leading the all star voting for a while even though he had only played 14 games early this season) is set to return from a 'season ending' injury on August 1st.

Better yet: the North Siders have won three straight since my decision to forego checking in on them every day. This only feeds my superstitious side. I hope that I did not make a mistake by checking in on them today...I will see how it goes. But now that we know that I am in control of their season I can revert to not following them at any moment so that they may continue their success.

Until then I will enjoy watching Lee and Ramirez suit up for the All-Star Game.

God, Medicine and Suffering

Stanley Hauerwas first published Naming the Silences: God, Medicine and the Problem of Suffering in 1990. This book was republished in 2000 as God, Medicine and Suffering. Below is an unfairly brief summary of some of its key points.

Hauerwas addresses the objectified questions of theodicy. A theodicy usually revolves around attempting to answer the dilemma of how evil can exist despite the existence of an all powerful and completely good God. Some construe the book of Job to be such a theodicy. Another theodicy might be the Free-Will Defense which usually originates evil in the necessary free decisions of humanity thereby absolving God of responsibility. There are many more of these objective attempts at theodicy. Hauerwas, I think rightly, appears to be exasperated by these attempts. He states:

The question “Why does evil exist?” is asked as if it makes sense from anyone’s perspective. But we are not “anyone”; we are people who exist at this point in time, with this particular set of convictions, in relation to these friends and this community, and who have these particular hopes and desires. Only within such a context does the question of suffering become serious. We are, quite rightly, not interested in the theoretical issue of suffering and evil; rather, we are torn apart by what is happening to real people, to those we know and love. (2)

Rather than using theodicy as a tool to objectify suffering Hauerwas suggests that “our only hope lies in whether we can place alongside the story of the pointless suffering of a child…a story of suffering that helps us know that we are not thereby abandoned” (34). Consequently, it is the community of the sufferer and their narrative together that takes an increased role. For a Christian believer these narratives are closely wrapped up in the narrative of God and the new communal life he makes available in his kingdom. In fact, Hawerwas argues that for early believers suffering didn’t elicit questions of God’s existence or goodness, but rather, it elicited questions of practical response. Likewise, the laments of the psalmists were community protests against the pointlessness of suffering—they were practical tools of a community within the narrative of God. Hauerwas suggests that the concept that Christian beliefs are explanatory accounts sufficient to show “the way things are” was developed “when Christianity became a civilizational religion oriented to provide the ethos necessary to sustain an empire. Rather than being a set of convictions about God’s work in Jesus Christ requiring conversion and membership in a community, Christianity became that set of beliefs which explains why the way things are is the way things were meant to be for any right-thinking person, converted or not” (55).

Despite these efforts to show the way things are, Christians have not historically had a ‘solution’ to the problem of evil; “Rather, they have had a community of care that has made it possible for them to absorb the destructive terror of evil that constantly threatens to destroy all human relations” (53).

It is clear that something has gone decisively wrong for Christians when we underwrite the widespread assumption that there is a so-called problem of evil which is intelligible from anyone’s perspective—that is, when we turn the Christian faith into a system of beliefs that can be or is universally known without the conversion of being incorporated within a specific community of people. In effect, it is to underwrite the Enlightenment assumption that we are most fully ourselves when we are free of all traditions and communities other than those we have chosen from the position of complete autonomy (53).

It is this autonomous individuality that often characterizes our approach to medicine. While at one time it was a long death where one could make final preparations that was most desired, today many desire a short death in a car accident or in ones’ sleep. Rather than having an understanding of when to allow life to come to a close we are frightened by it. Consequently, medicine has become a sort of theodicy—an answer to the question of evil. We use medicine to keep people alive or to disguise the fact that we are dying.

I will close this blog entry with a final quote from Hauerwas regarding the pointless death of children struggling with tuberculosis.

I think that childhood suffering bothers us so deeply because we assume that children lack a life story which potentially gives their illness some meaning. In that respect I suspect we often fail to appreciate the richness of their young world as well as their toughness and resilience. But I suspect that what bothers us even more about childhood suffering is that it makes us face our deepest suspicions that all of us lack a life story which would make us capable of responding to illness in a manner that would enable us to go on as individuals, as friends, as parents, and as a community. I suspect that if Christian convictions have any guidance to give us about how we are to understand as well as respond to suffering, it is by helping us discover that our lives are located in God’s narrative—the God who has not abandoned us even when we or someone we care deeply about is ill (67).

North Side Woes

The North Siders just lost their 8th straight. Their best player, D. Lee, is out with a sore shoulder. They just optioned two of their starting outfielders to triple A. It is July and Mark Prior has never had a winning record in July. And lastly (although I could easily go on), I have decided to stop following their progress--or digress--temporarily. It is not that I am not a fan anymore. It is just two disappointing.

I know. I should be used to this. After all, it is the Cubs. It has been almost 100 years since they have won a world series--the longest drought in baseball. Maybe it is the curse. That possibility makes me a little superstitious. Maybe not following the Cubs will bring good tidings somehow. Anyway, I have got to take a break. A North Sider can endure a lot--more than most sports fans--but this is bringing me down.

I hereby ban myself from the Chicago Cubs website--and from following any web links to news about the team--for at least two days.

'Knee-Deep' Relationships

A couple of weeks ago my great friend and brother-in-law-in-law (or whatever you call your sister-in-law's husband) wrote a blog about church called, stirring the pot 1. The blog entry 'stirred the pot' because it mused about a Church centered upon relationships rather than on buildings. Often times church buildings provide the space and structures in which to originate and maintain relational connections for Christians. What if this was not the case?

What if Church was only about relationships and had nothing to do with church buildings? What if a common church building did not exist for a group of Christian friends? (we are musing here) What if the things that are held as sacred along with certain faith practices and structures were determined by the depth of distinct relationships rather than the strength of certain denominations? If this was the case (I muse) then relationships would be dependent (even more so) upon their depth with one another for continued fellowship rather than the place at which they meet.

My brother-in-law-in-law referred to this depth of relationship as being 'knee-deep' in each others lives. This is a phenomena that he has never experienced in his Christian life with two possible exceptions. Only two times in his Christian life has he developed relationships with a group of believers that came close to having a knee-deep depth. I imagine knee-deep relationships as equal to volunteering to wade through quick sand. This would not be the same type of quick sand encounter that you see in Western movies--not the kind where earthy vines or horses' reins are dangling within grasp. It is the kind of quick sand encounter that is life giving--one surrenders life as they know it in a knee-deep relationship. Sadly, I think, most believers that I have met (and I would count myself among them) have rarely encountered this type of relationship with another person--much less with a group of people.

I think part of the struggle in being knee-deep in each other's lives is that we own so much private space and the public space that we share is too often sparsely and infrequently populated with each other's company. Even if I would invite someone to be knee-deep in my own life it would be a difficult task for a normally employed and otherwise occupied person to undertake. I think that any solution would have to involve a lifestyle change around shared spaces, public and private.

I began to ponder life-style changes for the sake of these types of relationships a few years back. Dorm life in college often leant itself to knee-deep relationships whether one liked it or not. Likewise, living with a house-hold of bachelors also leant itself in those directions. However, now that I am married more drastic measures are likely needed to make these relationships possible.

This past weekend my wife and I had some good friends from Chicago stay with us. It was a pleasure that we partake in about once or twice a year--each others company I mean. Admittedly we probably refreshed ourselves as well as wore ourselves out (having only 5 hours of sleep on the last night didn't help). It is easy to wear yourself out with people that you love and seldom see. It is impossible to get enough of them in one extended weekend so we cram as much knowing and being known as we can into that short time frame. I do not regret my tiredness at all. Maybe one of these trips we will pace ourselves, but I secretly hope not.

I mention this because I have only a small handful of friendships that I would voluntarily enter into quick sand. Figuring out ways in which to share public space might be the easiest task. My wife and I would choose our jobs, careers, place to raise our kids, homes and subsequent lifestyle around these relationships. I also, however, would permanently give up my private space to my Chicago friends (along with a few others). Yes, I would live in the same small house and share one small bathroom with them indefinately--although, we would have to learn to pace ourselves relationally. Even so, I muse that this would only create a more conducive setting in which we would be knee-deep in each others lives--the rest is up to us.

In this day--I muse--where individuality has taken its toll on our spiritual faith and practices, we need to begin to contemplate how to live knee-deep in our relationships with others. This will undoubtedly require sacrifice. It may even require the trading in of our freedom to do and own what we want for the freedom that comes from a deeper knowing and being known.

4th of July

Have a good weekend! Next post will be after the 4th.

Beauty of God V

This Beauty of God topic could really go on for a long time. There is so much more to share and so much more to summarize from the weekend that I spent in Colorado. However, I think that I will bring it to a close today with a personal musing about Andy Goldsworthy's Rivers and Tides.

Rivers and Tides is a documentary which follows Goldsworthy around as he creates his natural art. This is a film that may get some practical-producing type of people all worked up. One may hear this type of people yell, "get a life!" or "come on!?" or "I can't believe his wife lets him get away with this!"--if it were not for the healthy amount of money he makes doing what he does. My wife would generally fit this category of people. They are admittedly the people who actually get things done in life while their spouses sit around typing on blogs.

Goldsworthy essentially plays all day long in an effort to find meaning in nature. He plays in the mud, on the beach, in trees and in rivers. One moment from the film that has implanted its self into my memory is a time where he sets out early in the morning to build one of these egg or seed shaped rock formations for which he is well known. He uses a flat rock on the beach and attempts to finish before the tide comes in--it is a race against the clock. I was amazed as he slowly deliberates over each rock before setting it upon the others. My wife and I both were disappointed when the rocks shifted after a considerable amount of time and the structure fell over--four times. Each time the viewer could see the agony on Goldsworthy's face as he would look back at the quickly approaching tide and let out long sighs with his hands on his knees. He even contemplated giving up for the day. This was until, bent over on his hands and knees in front of yet another pile of stone, he realized out loud that each time he learned a little more about the rock with which he was working--and after all, that is what it is all about.

This is about the time that the practical people are befuddled by Goldsworthy and want to shake into him the idea that life is not about understanding how these beach rocks fit into an egg-shaped thing that will be swallowed up by the tide. I want to pause a moment to say that I have learned something substantial from this. I thought that this moment on the beach was about the egg-shaped thing, about the finished product, but it was about the rocks as well--even if the egg-shaped thing never came to be that day... I think that I have been in a rush much of my life to produce something...so much so that I haven't found meaning in the process regardless of the outcome.

There is a picture in this documentary of a man who seems to understand (maybe not in theological terms) that his life is a gift. Art is his nourishment and the land is its source. He gives himself to what nourishes him. One may look at his work process as impractical, as an overindulgence or as child's play (this impression wasn't far from even my own mind), but I now see it as an answer to the question of "why live." I, on the other hand, am pretty much out of touch with myself. I have not taken the time since I was a child to discover what it is that nourishes me--that makes me feel really alive.

In my own journey with life I have been told that being spiritual was how I would find nourishment. After all, it was said that mankind does not live on bread alone, but on the very words of God. And since much of our Christian practice maintains a definition of spiritual holiness as something other that what is human--something set apart and distinct--I have spent much of my life attempting to be something that I am not. I learned to see my childhood indulging as selfish. Doing what I wanted to do with my life was out of the question to many degrees--especially in an Evangelical ministry setting. To admit that Metallica's music did more for nourishing my life than did singing worship songs in church was an absurdity.

I failed to realize that I did not have to do something other than be what I was in order to do something spiritual. I was inherently spiritual. The things that captured me as a child were clues to what would nourish me as an adult--they are my own spiritual connection with God as I grow to acknowledge my life as a gift. It is partly in the process of this acknowledgement, rather than solely in the products of life, that I can say, 'Amen,' to Goldsworthy--that is what it is all about.

I could write for a long time about many of the things that I took away from this movie, but this discussion brings me full circle to answer some of the questions that I set out in my original Beauty of God post. I am satisfied with that.