I dreamed again last night. I dream fairly often, but I only occasionally remember them in detail enough to share. A few of my dreams have been told and retold even by others since my college days. The one about the giant squirrel and the other about the Devil's Nachos are my favorites.
But I digress. This dream was one of the recurring ones. I've had a recurring theme all my life where I discover a room/apartment/cave where there wasn't one before and finding it is so...cool. The feeling I have as I walk into that space is adventure and mystery and excitement--even if all I find there is some crazy Hawaiian shirts (which in that particular dream world were actually Mexican shirts). Some of these rooms are attached to specific places. There is a secret room in the attic of Mr Morley's house in the town where I grew up. The entrance is behind the pool table--when its there at all--and its full of candlelit beds with frilly canopies. There is also a secret cave branching off the entrance to Subway Caverns near Redding, CA. That dream was so real that I mentioned it to some friends who were in the dream as if it had actually happened. It took another visit before I was fully convinced it wasn't real.
This one was an apartment. It isn't attached anywhere, but its at the top or at the back of a large apartment building. In the last dream I was contemplating moving to that apartment, but even in my dream I'd wonder if I'd be able to find it again after I left. This time I was looking for our missing pillow. We lost a pillow somewhere in the 1/4 mile move into our new house. I never found it, but my wife was there--an unusual occurrence in itself--as well as a very billowy set of the aforementioned Hawaiian shirts that were actually Mexican shirts.
What do these dreams mean? A quick search of online "dream dictionaries" tells me I'm discovering or exploring a new aspect of my personality. I'm not really sure what that means exactly, having the personality that I do, but it sounds cool. Trouble is, I can't really think of any new aspects of my personality that I hadn't known about already.
The other option to the room theme focused on my feelings about the room. Feelings of excitement when entering the room are supposed to represent satisfaction about life. This one seems a little more relevant, as I am supremely satisfied with my life these days. I have a great job with a great boss and coworkers, my newly decorated little house looks awesome, I am actually planting a garden with brick planters and everything, I love my new town, my wife is even more beautiful, exciting, patient, kind, loving, intelligent, radiant, talented and amazing to me then she was when we got married.
So I guess that's what the dream means. I'm happy with life. I've found that passageway that leads to joy that isn't always there and may not be again. Its a feeling that's so real and vivid, but hard to explain and even the memory of it flees too quickly leaving behind only odd floral shirts and frilly beds. But I talk about it and write about it in the hopes that those details will remain. That when the wall behind the pool table no longer opens to a staircase we together will be able to remember what it was like when it did.
I'm still looking for that pillow though.
9/15/10
8/31/10
Dreamworks
I dreamed again last night. I dream fairly often, but I only occasionally remember them in detail enough to share. A few of my dreams have been told and retold even by others since my college days. The one about the giant squirrel and the other about the Devil's Nachos are my favorites.
But I digress. This dream was one of the recurring ones. I've had a recurring theme all my life where I discover a room/apartment/cave where there wasn't one before and finding it is so...cool. The feeling I have as I walk into that space is adventure and mystery and excitement--even if all I find there is some crazy Hawaiian shirts (which in that particular dream world were actually Mexican shirts). Some of these rooms are attached to specific places. There is a secret room in the attic of Mr Morley's house in the town where I grew up. The entrance is behind the pool table--when its there at all--and its full of candlelit beds with frilly canopies. There is also a secret cave branching off the entrance to Subway Caverns near Redding, CA. That dream was so real that I mentioned it to some friends who were in the dream as if it had actually happened. It took another visit before I was fully convinced it wasn't real.
This one was an apartment. It isn't attached anywhere, but its at the top or at the back of a large apartment building. In the last dream I was contemplating moving to that apartment, but even in my dream I'd wonder if I'd be able to find it again after I left. This time I was looking for our missing pillow. We lost a pillow somewhere in the 1/4 mile move into our new house. I never found it, but my wife was there--an unusual occurrence in itself--as well as a very billowy set of the aforementioned hawaiian shirts that were actually mexican shirts.
What do these dreams mean? A quick search of online "dream dictionaries" tells me I'm discovering or exploring a new aspect of my personality. I'm not really sure what that means exactly, having the personality that I do, but it sounds cool. Trouble is, I can't really think of any new aspects of my personality that I hadn't known about already.
The other option to the room theme focused on my feelings about the room. Feelings of excitement when entering the room are supposed to represent satisfaction about life. This one seems a little more relevant, as I am supremely satisfied with my life these days. I have a great job with a great boss and coworkers, my newly decorated little house looks awesome, I am actually planting a garden with brick planters and everything, I love my new town, my wife is even more beautiful, exciting, patient, kind, loving, intelligent, radiant, talented and amazing to me then she was when we got married.
So I guess that's what the dream means. I'm happy with life. I've found that passageway that leads to joy that isn't always there and may not be again. Its a feeling that's so real and vivid, but hard to explain and even the memory of it flees too quickly leaving behind only oddly floraled shirts and canopied beds. But I talk about it and write about it in the hopes that those details will remain. That when the wall behind the pool table no longer opens to a staircase we together will be able to remember what it was like when it did.
I'm still looking for that pillow though.
But I digress. This dream was one of the recurring ones. I've had a recurring theme all my life where I discover a room/apartment/cave where there wasn't one before and finding it is so...cool. The feeling I have as I walk into that space is adventure and mystery and excitement--even if all I find there is some crazy Hawaiian shirts (which in that particular dream world were actually Mexican shirts). Some of these rooms are attached to specific places. There is a secret room in the attic of Mr Morley's house in the town where I grew up. The entrance is behind the pool table--when its there at all--and its full of candlelit beds with frilly canopies. There is also a secret cave branching off the entrance to Subway Caverns near Redding, CA. That dream was so real that I mentioned it to some friends who were in the dream as if it had actually happened. It took another visit before I was fully convinced it wasn't real.
This one was an apartment. It isn't attached anywhere, but its at the top or at the back of a large apartment building. In the last dream I was contemplating moving to that apartment, but even in my dream I'd wonder if I'd be able to find it again after I left. This time I was looking for our missing pillow. We lost a pillow somewhere in the 1/4 mile move into our new house. I never found it, but my wife was there--an unusual occurrence in itself--as well as a very billowy set of the aforementioned hawaiian shirts that were actually mexican shirts.
What do these dreams mean? A quick search of online "dream dictionaries" tells me I'm discovering or exploring a new aspect of my personality. I'm not really sure what that means exactly, having the personality that I do, but it sounds cool. Trouble is, I can't really think of any new aspects of my personality that I hadn't known about already.
The other option to the room theme focused on my feelings about the room. Feelings of excitement when entering the room are supposed to represent satisfaction about life. This one seems a little more relevant, as I am supremely satisfied with my life these days. I have a great job with a great boss and coworkers, my newly decorated little house looks awesome, I am actually planting a garden with brick planters and everything, I love my new town, my wife is even more beautiful, exciting, patient, kind, loving, intelligent, radiant, talented and amazing to me then she was when we got married.
So I guess that's what the dream means. I'm happy with life. I've found that passageway that leads to joy that isn't always there and may not be again. Its a feeling that's so real and vivid, but hard to explain and even the memory of it flees too quickly leaving behind only oddly floraled shirts and canopied beds. But I talk about it and write about it in the hopes that those details will remain. That when the wall behind the pool table no longer opens to a staircase we together will be able to remember what it was like when it did.
I'm still looking for that pillow though.
8/20/10
Data Type Error
I spent all day with a computer today. It's a database I've been working on for my newest place of employment. I cannot wait for it to be done because so many cool things will be possible when it is. So I chained myself to my desk and stared at query grids and code for nearly eight straight hours. For the second day in a row. When I got home I told my wife that I think I need to spend some time doing something else tomorrow because I think I'm losing my humanity. To deal with computers, one has to learn to think like them. And computers are very black and white, literal and particular creatures. Anal you might even say--though my mother would not approve if you did.
Needles to say, this style of thinking is not all that compatible when dealing with actual people instead of personified ones. If I were to tell my wife with a blank look on my face that she committed a "stack overflow error" by putting too much food on my plate and then refused to eat anything before she cooked the meal over again from scratch, I would probably be "shut down" until I installed a few "upgrades."
It occurred to me as I sat here tonight that many of us approach God in the same way. We know exactly what his specifications are, what he should be capable of, but we find ourselves unable to harness that power because we realize that we just aren't "god" people. Or maybe we were taught to do a few things with God back in the day and we don't really want or think we need any of those fancy new features he's got now. I've seen this kind of thing between people and their computers. There is a disconnect at a very basic level, an incompatibility of thought that stands between man and machine that is kind of sad when you stop to consider what could be accomplished if that gulf could be spanned.
Of course if you're already a christian, you've immediately thought of the problem of sin, and you're right. That gulf will never be jumped without the cross. But after salvation we need to continually remind ourselves that God is not a machine. That particular incompatibility doesn't have to exist been us and God. But it will as long as we insist on reducing our god to a list of concise doctrines and our relationship with him to a step by step process.
You will lose your humanity if you spend your life trying to understand who God is and how to use him. But you will find it again when you desire to know him as the person he is: complexities, ambiguities and all.
blog.completed = true
End blog
Needles to say, this style of thinking is not all that compatible when dealing with actual people instead of personified ones. If I were to tell my wife with a blank look on my face that she committed a "stack overflow error" by putting too much food on my plate and then refused to eat anything before she cooked the meal over again from scratch, I would probably be "shut down" until I installed a few "upgrades."
It occurred to me as I sat here tonight that many of us approach God in the same way. We know exactly what his specifications are, what he should be capable of, but we find ourselves unable to harness that power because we realize that we just aren't "god" people. Or maybe we were taught to do a few things with God back in the day and we don't really want or think we need any of those fancy new features he's got now. I've seen this kind of thing between people and their computers. There is a disconnect at a very basic level, an incompatibility of thought that stands between man and machine that is kind of sad when you stop to consider what could be accomplished if that gulf could be spanned.
Of course if you're already a christian, you've immediately thought of the problem of sin, and you're right. That gulf will never be jumped without the cross. But after salvation we need to continually remind ourselves that God is not a machine. That particular incompatibility doesn't have to exist been us and God. But it will as long as we insist on reducing our god to a list of concise doctrines and our relationship with him to a step by step process.
You will lose your humanity if you spend your life trying to understand who God is and how to use him. But you will find it again when you desire to know him as the person he is: complexities, ambiguities and all.
blog.completed = true
End blog
8/1/10
The Good Stuff is on the Top Shelf
No.
That is what I am saying to the force that is keeping me from writing in this blog for nearly a month.
No. Not one more day.
So, um, what to write about? I hate it when people write blogs about not having anything to write. But in my defense, we really only hate things in other people that remind us of ourselves. That, and this is totally just an exercise to sit me down and get me to start writing--in the desperate hope that something awesome will flow out of my fingertips. Kind of like when you turn on the tv on saturday afternoon in sheer desperation for entertainment and your favorite movie is just starting on That Movie Show For People With No Life. I'm staring at my keyboard right now, wondering how the awesomeness would affect the delicate inner workings of my computer and hoping it fares better than my camera did in the Pacific Ocean.
Ah, the Pacific Ocean. I saw a map today at a church we visited that had the good ol' PC in the middle of the map instead of the usual wrap-around-the-edges treatment it usually gets. Seems like the Atlantic Ocean would have been a better candidate for that, but it did provide a nice empty spot in the middle of the planet for their sign. I feel like I can relate a little bit to the PC. (That's right, we're on an initials-only basis now). I mean, PC always gets the wrap-around just because it happens to be the widest body of water on the planet. And since nobody's bothered to map that giant ocean of trash that's floating somewhere in the middle, then there's really no reason to include anything between Hawaii and New Zealand. It goes the same for me. Being a tall guy, I'm always in the back for pictures, always in the front seat of the car, always being hunted for by small old ladies in grocery stores who only buy things off the top shelf.
But this is my lot in life. Or should I say, these are our lots in life. It could be worse. Nobody even remembers the Arctic Ocean even exists--heck the Antarctic Ocean is still fighting for the right to call itself that. And I, well, I could be short for one. Or still unemployed, poor, starving, or living in Nevada. It could always be worse. Being content in life is really just a matter of perspective, isn't it? The sweet spot is just above average--doing better than most but not so much as to appear snobby or have to work too hard to stay there. And average is just a statistic. You can do whatever you want with statistics! So there. There's the secret to contentedness. A nice even 60%.
Well look at that. I started this thing with nothing to say and I ended up improving everyone's outlook on life. Sweet. Now does anyone know how to get awesomeness out of a keyboard? I think my "ggggggggggggggggggggggggg" Kgey isg stucgk.
That is what I am saying to the force that is keeping me from writing in this blog for nearly a month.
No. Not one more day.
So, um, what to write about? I hate it when people write blogs about not having anything to write. But in my defense, we really only hate things in other people that remind us of ourselves. That, and this is totally just an exercise to sit me down and get me to start writing--in the desperate hope that something awesome will flow out of my fingertips. Kind of like when you turn on the tv on saturday afternoon in sheer desperation for entertainment and your favorite movie is just starting on That Movie Show For People With No Life. I'm staring at my keyboard right now, wondering how the awesomeness would affect the delicate inner workings of my computer and hoping it fares better than my camera did in the Pacific Ocean.
Ah, the Pacific Ocean. I saw a map today at a church we visited that had the good ol' PC in the middle of the map instead of the usual wrap-around-the-edges treatment it usually gets. Seems like the Atlantic Ocean would have been a better candidate for that, but it did provide a nice empty spot in the middle of the planet for their sign. I feel like I can relate a little bit to the PC. (That's right, we're on an initials-only basis now). I mean, PC always gets the wrap-around just because it happens to be the widest body of water on the planet. And since nobody's bothered to map that giant ocean of trash that's floating somewhere in the middle, then there's really no reason to include anything between Hawaii and New Zealand. It goes the same for me. Being a tall guy, I'm always in the back for pictures, always in the front seat of the car, always being hunted for by small old ladies in grocery stores who only buy things off the top shelf.
But this is my lot in life. Or should I say, these are our lots in life. It could be worse. Nobody even remembers the Arctic Ocean even exists--heck the Antarctic Ocean is still fighting for the right to call itself that. And I, well, I could be short for one. Or still unemployed, poor, starving, or living in Nevada. It could always be worse. Being content in life is really just a matter of perspective, isn't it? The sweet spot is just above average--doing better than most but not so much as to appear snobby or have to work too hard to stay there. And average is just a statistic. You can do whatever you want with statistics! So there. There's the secret to contentedness. A nice even 60%.
Well look at that. I started this thing with nothing to say and I ended up improving everyone's outlook on life. Sweet. Now does anyone know how to get awesomeness out of a keyboard? I think my "ggggggggggggggggggggggggg" Kgey isg stucgk.
6/17/10
Bottle Rocket
My wife and I just drove through Las Vegas as we travel north towards home. Vegas always strikes me as an odd town for several reasons. First, it's so stinkin' big! And right in the middle of one of the least attractive parts of the country! Second, I know several people that live there and claim its a great place to raise a family. And third, there's sex and gambling on nearly every street corner.
I couldn't help but wonder as we drove past the adult bookstore across the street from our hotel if this was just the natural state of American culture. If the laws in other states suddenly relaxed, would we find slot machines at Trader Joes in Santa Rosa? Would it be as easy to get a lap dance in Seattle as it is to get a cup of coffee?
My mind went to Paul's words: "All we like sheep have gone astray." And "there is none righteous, no, not one". Surely, given the chance, we would all dwell in the same moral desert as Nevada. By the time we'd gotten out of the city, I was even disgusted by the fireworks for sale just outside the city line. My moral superiority sneered at the thought that they don't even care if they start forest fires.
And so, just as I was thanking God for the gift of moral restraint he had bestowed on the rest of the country, I remembered something else Paul had said: "I am the greatest sinner of them all". This is Paul we're talking about here, a guy who was to the average jew what Salt Lake City is to Las Vegas: the epitomy of moral restraint and superiority. In the end though, Paul realized that his pride in being so Good was actually quite Bad. And that at least those folks in Vegas are having a good time, but nobody likes a self-righteous bastard.
So here I sit, a little humbler, a little wiser. And wishing we had stopped at that fireworks booth.
I couldn't help but wonder as we drove past the adult bookstore across the street from our hotel if this was just the natural state of American culture. If the laws in other states suddenly relaxed, would we find slot machines at Trader Joes in Santa Rosa? Would it be as easy to get a lap dance in Seattle as it is to get a cup of coffee?
My mind went to Paul's words: "All we like sheep have gone astray." And "there is none righteous, no, not one". Surely, given the chance, we would all dwell in the same moral desert as Nevada. By the time we'd gotten out of the city, I was even disgusted by the fireworks for sale just outside the city line. My moral superiority sneered at the thought that they don't even care if they start forest fires.
And so, just as I was thanking God for the gift of moral restraint he had bestowed on the rest of the country, I remembered something else Paul had said: "I am the greatest sinner of them all". This is Paul we're talking about here, a guy who was to the average jew what Salt Lake City is to Las Vegas: the epitomy of moral restraint and superiority. In the end though, Paul realized that his pride in being so Good was actually quite Bad. And that at least those folks in Vegas are having a good time, but nobody likes a self-righteous bastard.
So here I sit, a little humbler, a little wiser. And wishing we had stopped at that fireworks booth.
4/26/10
The other night, my wife and I watched Shakespeare in Love. We didn't start it with a lot of enthusiasm, but the selection of streaming movies on Netflix leaves a lot to be desired. But it was an award winning film and we did enjoy it. Afterward, lounging in the romantic red glow of the "You have finished watching Shakespeare in Love" screen that Netflix displays, I admitted to my wife that I kind of like romantic movies--but I never watch them.
She was mildly confused, but mostly I think she was just enraptured by the red glow on my face and anything I said at that point would have been amazing. So I went on. I told her that I have always secretly enjoyed romantic movies simply because one day I wanted to have some romance in my own life. For an hour and a half, I could feel all warm and fuzzy and pretend that I had actually fallen in love. I kept a pretty straight face though and I doubt anyone realized what was going on in my head during the movie. I always finished feeling a little twitterpated.
And that's why I stopped. Because the twitterpation only lasted for a short while. Then the depression set in. I wasn't really in love, I was just pretending. When the difference between reality and imagination became a little too much to handle, I got depressed.
Somewhere in that conversation with my wife, I said the following thing: "There is a fine line between hope and lament." It was a great line that even now, sitting in front of the white glare of the blogger site, still sounds good.
There is a point when one's hope becomes too much to bear. The fulfillment of one's greatest wishes seems an impossible thing. That's when the lamenting begins. The self-pity, the moaning, the woe-is-me-ing. The sighing (one of my personal favorites). I'm not sure this is even wrong, per se. The Bible is full of laments. Some of them God's.
So what do we do with that? When all hope is lost and we are sinking in despair, what do we do--especially when the greatest men of biblical history are sinking right along with us?
I don't know. Usually for me the lamenting feeling just goes away of its own accord. Its like I get tired of it and without even realizing it, don't do it anymore--like playing with my Legos when I was a kid. There is a difference, though, between my laments and those I see in the Bible. Those laments, far more poetic than my own, always seem to end on a positive note. "Woe is me, my enemies assault me from every side," they cry out. And then, when the tears are gone and the emotion spent, they say something to the effect of this: "But God is good and he will be praised." Or, "But my help comes from the hills and God lifts me up." Notice the upswing, the return to hope?
Its almost as if hoping in something is like walking up a hill. Its tiring and our legs hurt and we begin to wish there was some change in the terrain. And then the trail finally turns a corner and starts descending slightly. The change of pace feels good, but it comes at a cost: we are losing elevation and we are painfully aware of it. But the rest is good for our muscles. And when it comes time to "hope" our way up the next incline, we are more ready for it than we had been before. And know that we will make it to the next lament.
She was mildly confused, but mostly I think she was just enraptured by the red glow on my face and anything I said at that point would have been amazing. So I went on. I told her that I have always secretly enjoyed romantic movies simply because one day I wanted to have some romance in my own life. For an hour and a half, I could feel all warm and fuzzy and pretend that I had actually fallen in love. I kept a pretty straight face though and I doubt anyone realized what was going on in my head during the movie. I always finished feeling a little twitterpated.
And that's why I stopped. Because the twitterpation only lasted for a short while. Then the depression set in. I wasn't really in love, I was just pretending. When the difference between reality and imagination became a little too much to handle, I got depressed.
Somewhere in that conversation with my wife, I said the following thing: "There is a fine line between hope and lament." It was a great line that even now, sitting in front of the white glare of the blogger site, still sounds good.
There is a point when one's hope becomes too much to bear. The fulfillment of one's greatest wishes seems an impossible thing. That's when the lamenting begins. The self-pity, the moaning, the woe-is-me-ing. The sighing (one of my personal favorites). I'm not sure this is even wrong, per se. The Bible is full of laments. Some of them God's.
So what do we do with that? When all hope is lost and we are sinking in despair, what do we do--especially when the greatest men of biblical history are sinking right along with us?
I don't know. Usually for me the lamenting feeling just goes away of its own accord. Its like I get tired of it and without even realizing it, don't do it anymore--like playing with my Legos when I was a kid. There is a difference, though, between my laments and those I see in the Bible. Those laments, far more poetic than my own, always seem to end on a positive note. "Woe is me, my enemies assault me from every side," they cry out. And then, when the tears are gone and the emotion spent, they say something to the effect of this: "But God is good and he will be praised." Or, "But my help comes from the hills and God lifts me up." Notice the upswing, the return to hope?
Its almost as if hoping in something is like walking up a hill. Its tiring and our legs hurt and we begin to wish there was some change in the terrain. And then the trail finally turns a corner and starts descending slightly. The change of pace feels good, but it comes at a cost: we are losing elevation and we are painfully aware of it. But the rest is good for our muscles. And when it comes time to "hope" our way up the next incline, we are more ready for it than we had been before. And know that we will make it to the next lament.
4/5/10
A Few More Random Thoughts From China
I'm back from China now, but there are a few more observations I made that didn't get posted.
1. It's perfectly acceptable--and often encouraged--to eat candy for breakfast in China.
2. More name transliteration fun: Benjamin is written in the Chinese bible as "Urine Grace Pity". I could also be "Foolish German". So far the winner is "Root".
3. I cannot, no matter how many times I flush, make everything go down the toilet. It's always clean when I come in, so there's no evidence that anyone else has this problem, but there's always evidence of me!
4. China loves drama. Of the uncounted chinese movies and tv I saw (there are tv's EVERYWHERE) probably 90 percent of the shows were dramas. Even the funny movie we saw on the bus ended with the main character getting shot.
All in all China is a great place. They are very different from Americans in a lot of quirky (and quite honestly irritating) ways sometimes, but they're not that different in the ways that really matter. They love their families and their country, they're frustrated with their bosses and government, they enjoy their lives as much as they can. I can relate to that.
Well, maybe not the boss thing right now, but you know what I'm saying.
1. It's perfectly acceptable--and often encouraged--to eat candy for breakfast in China.
2. More name transliteration fun: Benjamin is written in the Chinese bible as "Urine Grace Pity". I could also be "Foolish German". So far the winner is "Root".
3. I cannot, no matter how many times I flush, make everything go down the toilet. It's always clean when I come in, so there's no evidence that anyone else has this problem, but there's always evidence of me!
4. China loves drama. Of the uncounted chinese movies and tv I saw (there are tv's EVERYWHERE) probably 90 percent of the shows were dramas. Even the funny movie we saw on the bus ended with the main character getting shot.
All in all China is a great place. They are very different from Americans in a lot of quirky (and quite honestly irritating) ways sometimes, but they're not that different in the ways that really matter. They love their families and their country, they're frustrated with their bosses and government, they enjoy their lives as much as they can. I can relate to that.
Well, maybe not the boss thing right now, but you know what I'm saying.
3/19/10
The Road Not Noticed
Every now and then I come upon something that totally changes my way of thinking. Most of the time, when it comes to Great Topics of the Faith, I tend to hold the middle ground until I'm good and sure I feel one way or another. Even then I tend to move back to the middle after a while, but not always. It's as if while trying to understand who God is and what's going on in this universe he created, I come to a fork in the trail. And, looking down either trail, I'm not really convinced that either is the correct route. I don't want to go too far down either one, because if it's the wrong one then I'll have all this backtracking to do and I hate that. So, I end up just camping out at the intersection until someone comes along with a map, I remember something the guide at the trailhead mentioned, or there's a clearing in the weather that lets me see what's ahead.
In college, I walked down the trail that led to Salvation By Works Gorge a little too far before I'd realized my mistake. I'd even half-considered switching to Eastern Orthodoxy because they've got the whole self discipline down to a science. But I quickly realized it wasn't really working. Life still sucked and I just had less time on my hands and way more guilt. So I gave it up. I decided that the rituals were what was holding me back. Empty shallow prayers at mealtimes, sleepily skimming the words of the Bible at dawn, chapel service after endless chapel service where we'd sing "Yes, Lord" till we where hoarse in the throat--I was done with it all. I decided that ritual was bad. Meaningless. And that I was going to follow after the Person of God. Know him as a real individual capable of being known like any other individual. And to Hell with the rituals.
I think it worked, for the most part. But I find myself often in a quandry. How do you get to know someone like God? How does that even happen?
I think there's two ways.
First, I will sheepishly admit that ritual can actually work--to a point. And the point is this: the moment you depend on the ritual to lead you to God, you're skipping down the wrong path. My wife and I decided that, even though we're married now and see each other pretty much all day ever day, we'd still set aside one night every week for "date night". We take turns thinking up something interesting to do, we get dressed up and we go out. There are certain requirements though: I have to open the car door for her. We have to talk about one of the following: hopes, dreams, fears or stories from our childhood. It's a ritual we have found to be valuable, even in our happy-go-lucky first year of marriage because it forces us to be more than just roommates with benefits and to concentrate on our mate. Because the point of our relationship isn't the marriage, it's each other. The ritual of Date Night helps remind us of that. That's the point of ritual. It forces us to stop the mind numbing drudgery of everyday life and focus on what's really important. It's like driving across the country. If you don't stop from time to time, look at a map and think about how great a time you're going to have when you get there, then it's very easy to just tune everything out and become some sort of driving zombie. It's very dangerous, both to other drivers as well as to yourself. But when the ritual becomes just another mind-numbing drudgery, it's time to change the ritual.
The second method is what I call the anti-ritual. It's the sudden and out of the ordinary, not even repeatable act of faith. It's not something you can do everyday because the very nature of it is so big that it's like suddenly hitting a right angle turn on a road you're speeding down. Sometimes these things are forced on us. My sudden loss of a job just before my marriage was one of those things. It required me--and still does--to focus on who God is and where we're going with this new fact in life. Other examples from my life are going to Romania to work with orphans while I was in college. Loaning a large sum of money to a friend that was never going to pay me back. Agreeing to lead a discussion group at church on the topic of God and Sex as a single guy who'd barely kissed a girl. These kinds of decisions threw me off balance and caused me to change my idea about who I was and who God is and what we could be together. It dragged me back to him. To go back to the hiking metaphor, it was like suddenly coming around a corner and finding a cliff in my path. I had to wait for God to catch up and show me the way or backtrack till I figured out where we'd gotten separated.
So these days I've decided to bring back some of those rituals in college that I'd left behind. A little bit of Bible in the morning. A little prayer at meals. Because I think I'm back to the point where God is the point of the ritual, not my guilt relief. Sometimes, while I'm camped out at the intersection, the real answer is a small unnoticed footpath that leads between the other two. That's the trail I'm going to follow this time.
In college, I walked down the trail that led to Salvation By Works Gorge a little too far before I'd realized my mistake. I'd even half-considered switching to Eastern Orthodoxy because they've got the whole self discipline down to a science. But I quickly realized it wasn't really working. Life still sucked and I just had less time on my hands and way more guilt. So I gave it up. I decided that the rituals were what was holding me back. Empty shallow prayers at mealtimes, sleepily skimming the words of the Bible at dawn, chapel service after endless chapel service where we'd sing "Yes, Lord" till we where hoarse in the throat--I was done with it all. I decided that ritual was bad. Meaningless. And that I was going to follow after the Person of God. Know him as a real individual capable of being known like any other individual. And to Hell with the rituals.
I think it worked, for the most part. But I find myself often in a quandry. How do you get to know someone like God? How does that even happen?
I think there's two ways.
First, I will sheepishly admit that ritual can actually work--to a point. And the point is this: the moment you depend on the ritual to lead you to God, you're skipping down the wrong path. My wife and I decided that, even though we're married now and see each other pretty much all day ever day, we'd still set aside one night every week for "date night". We take turns thinking up something interesting to do, we get dressed up and we go out. There are certain requirements though: I have to open the car door for her. We have to talk about one of the following: hopes, dreams, fears or stories from our childhood. It's a ritual we have found to be valuable, even in our happy-go-lucky first year of marriage because it forces us to be more than just roommates with benefits and to concentrate on our mate. Because the point of our relationship isn't the marriage, it's each other. The ritual of Date Night helps remind us of that. That's the point of ritual. It forces us to stop the mind numbing drudgery of everyday life and focus on what's really important. It's like driving across the country. If you don't stop from time to time, look at a map and think about how great a time you're going to have when you get there, then it's very easy to just tune everything out and become some sort of driving zombie. It's very dangerous, both to other drivers as well as to yourself. But when the ritual becomes just another mind-numbing drudgery, it's time to change the ritual.
The second method is what I call the anti-ritual. It's the sudden and out of the ordinary, not even repeatable act of faith. It's not something you can do everyday because the very nature of it is so big that it's like suddenly hitting a right angle turn on a road you're speeding down. Sometimes these things are forced on us. My sudden loss of a job just before my marriage was one of those things. It required me--and still does--to focus on who God is and where we're going with this new fact in life. Other examples from my life are going to Romania to work with orphans while I was in college. Loaning a large sum of money to a friend that was never going to pay me back. Agreeing to lead a discussion group at church on the topic of God and Sex as a single guy who'd barely kissed a girl. These kinds of decisions threw me off balance and caused me to change my idea about who I was and who God is and what we could be together. It dragged me back to him. To go back to the hiking metaphor, it was like suddenly coming around a corner and finding a cliff in my path. I had to wait for God to catch up and show me the way or backtrack till I figured out where we'd gotten separated.
So these days I've decided to bring back some of those rituals in college that I'd left behind. A little bit of Bible in the morning. A little prayer at meals. Because I think I'm back to the point where God is the point of the ritual, not my guilt relief. Sometimes, while I'm camped out at the intersection, the real answer is a small unnoticed footpath that leads between the other two. That's the trail I'm going to follow this time.
3/18/10
Life's a Beach
I have a picture from one of my drives up the coast that I wish I had with me so I could post. It's the perfect picture of one of the more fascinating differences between Chinese and American culture. Unfortunatly, that picture is sitting on my computer at home, so you'll just have to suffer through a thousand word description.
The picture is taken from the top of the cliff just outside Jenner, CA. It looks down on the sandbar that borders, and sometimes separates, the mouth of the Russian River and the Pacific Ocean. The bar is home to a herd of harbor seals that have lived there for, well, as long as there's been harbor seals probably. You can walk out on the sandbar from the south side and get as close as the law allows, or you can drive up Hwy 1 to this cliff and look down on them in all their cute glory. I was taking the photo from the second location.
What prompted me to take the photo wasn't just the seals. It was actually kind of a bad day to be doing photography, so it was more of the "check out what I saw" kind of picture rather than the "this is an amazing shot" kind. The harbor seals were there in full force, laying in close contact with each other if not on top of each other in a giant pile of blubber and fur which completely covered the tip of the sand bar. Next to them, as if there was some sort of glass wall between them, was a flock of seagulls. They too were hunkered down in the wind and formed a whiter stripe of feather below the shiny black stripe of fur next to them. And then, to complete the picture were a flock of cormorants on the other side of another invisible glass wall. This formed another black stripe on the sand bar which now sort of resembled an Oreo cookie seen from the side. It was as if some obsessively compulsive Seal Watch volunteer went out onto the bar and organized all the animals into nice little rows.
The reason this picture comes to mind now is that it looks like a picture of the way Americans and the Chinese view our personal freedoms. The difference lies in the way the seals and the sea gulls organized themselves within their groups. (The cormorants might mean something too, but I couldn't come up with anything, so they're just there for visual closure.)
In America, we love our personal freedom. We pride ourselves on the fact that we can do whatever we want. We drink when we want at meals. We eat only as much as we want to. And while it's polite to offer more food, it's not polite to force it on another. We follow the traffic laws and stay in our lanes. It's completely rude to pull out in front of another person because that person was going somewhere and you have no right to stop them or make them slow down for you. That would violate *their* rights and if we all respect each other's rights, then we'll all be happy and free.
This is exactly how the seagulls were organized. They had spaced themselves out fairly evenly on the sand, each bird maintaining a certain boundary between themselves and the others. There were small clusters here and there, maybe a younger bird and their parent or maybe just two un-seagull-like cuddlers, but for the most part they respected each other's space. When you have feathers, it's totally understandable. I won't ruffle your feathers if you won't ruffle mine. We're all happy.
Opposed to this was the harbor seals. As I said, they were organized in a solid pile of fur and blubber. You could watch them wriggle and move as individual seals suddenly felt the need to go out to the water or just roll over to the other side. Inevitably this meant pushing other seals out of the way, climbing over them, sometimes even barking and biting to get out of a particularly tight squeeze.
I've always watched seals and thought it would suck to be one. On the one hand, they look magnificently happy lying there in the sun when they're not sliding through the water and that kind of appeals to me. But if it meant having to be climbed over and bumped and moved around in the middle of my sleep--then forget it.
But (from what I can tell) this is the Chinese approach to personal freedoms in a nutshell. If there's no one in front of me, I'm going to pull into the lane even if you're barreling down the road. I know you'll stop. And you won't even get mad because you did the same thing when you pulled onto this street earlier. I'm not going to take a drink at our meal without you because it's sad for us to drink alone. We'll all eat out of the same dish because we're eating together--even if we end up sharing our sickness. Harmony. Family. Together. These are the Chinese values and they are strong!
As an American, it's very grating sometimes. I am a seagull in a land of seals and my feathers are so ruffled it's not even funny. Sometimes I feel like I can't even breath because of the weight on my back. But while we Americans promise that "I won't step on your toes if you won't step on mine," the Chinese promise that "It's OK if you step on my toes because I'm probably stepping on yours." It's crazy to watch, but it works. And it probably works better in a land of 1.3 billion seals, er, people.
The picture is taken from the top of the cliff just outside Jenner, CA. It looks down on the sandbar that borders, and sometimes separates, the mouth of the Russian River and the Pacific Ocean. The bar is home to a herd of harbor seals that have lived there for, well, as long as there's been harbor seals probably. You can walk out on the sandbar from the south side and get as close as the law allows, or you can drive up Hwy 1 to this cliff and look down on them in all their cute glory. I was taking the photo from the second location.
What prompted me to take the photo wasn't just the seals. It was actually kind of a bad day to be doing photography, so it was more of the "check out what I saw" kind of picture rather than the "this is an amazing shot" kind. The harbor seals were there in full force, laying in close contact with each other if not on top of each other in a giant pile of blubber and fur which completely covered the tip of the sand bar. Next to them, as if there was some sort of glass wall between them, was a flock of seagulls. They too were hunkered down in the wind and formed a whiter stripe of feather below the shiny black stripe of fur next to them. And then, to complete the picture were a flock of cormorants on the other side of another invisible glass wall. This formed another black stripe on the sand bar which now sort of resembled an Oreo cookie seen from the side. It was as if some obsessively compulsive Seal Watch volunteer went out onto the bar and organized all the animals into nice little rows.
The reason this picture comes to mind now is that it looks like a picture of the way Americans and the Chinese view our personal freedoms. The difference lies in the way the seals and the sea gulls organized themselves within their groups. (The cormorants might mean something too, but I couldn't come up with anything, so they're just there for visual closure.)
In America, we love our personal freedom. We pride ourselves on the fact that we can do whatever we want. We drink when we want at meals. We eat only as much as we want to. And while it's polite to offer more food, it's not polite to force it on another. We follow the traffic laws and stay in our lanes. It's completely rude to pull out in front of another person because that person was going somewhere and you have no right to stop them or make them slow down for you. That would violate *their* rights and if we all respect each other's rights, then we'll all be happy and free.
This is exactly how the seagulls were organized. They had spaced themselves out fairly evenly on the sand, each bird maintaining a certain boundary between themselves and the others. There were small clusters here and there, maybe a younger bird and their parent or maybe just two un-seagull-like cuddlers, but for the most part they respected each other's space. When you have feathers, it's totally understandable. I won't ruffle your feathers if you won't ruffle mine. We're all happy.
Opposed to this was the harbor seals. As I said, they were organized in a solid pile of fur and blubber. You could watch them wriggle and move as individual seals suddenly felt the need to go out to the water or just roll over to the other side. Inevitably this meant pushing other seals out of the way, climbing over them, sometimes even barking and biting to get out of a particularly tight squeeze.
I've always watched seals and thought it would suck to be one. On the one hand, they look magnificently happy lying there in the sun when they're not sliding through the water and that kind of appeals to me. But if it meant having to be climbed over and bumped and moved around in the middle of my sleep--then forget it.
But (from what I can tell) this is the Chinese approach to personal freedoms in a nutshell. If there's no one in front of me, I'm going to pull into the lane even if you're barreling down the road. I know you'll stop. And you won't even get mad because you did the same thing when you pulled onto this street earlier. I'm not going to take a drink at our meal without you because it's sad for us to drink alone. We'll all eat out of the same dish because we're eating together--even if we end up sharing our sickness. Harmony. Family. Together. These are the Chinese values and they are strong!
As an American, it's very grating sometimes. I am a seagull in a land of seals and my feathers are so ruffled it's not even funny. Sometimes I feel like I can't even breath because of the weight on my back. But while we Americans promise that "I won't step on your toes if you won't step on mine," the Chinese promise that "It's OK if you step on my toes because I'm probably stepping on yours." It's crazy to watch, but it works. And it probably works better in a land of 1.3 billion seals, er, people.
3/13/10
Random thoughts from China
1. The Chinese are as impressed that we can use chopsticks as we are that they actually use them.
2. "Never follow strangers to the happy places."
3. A can of shaving cream is a "very dangerous thing" to have on a bus, but if you pretend not to hear the x-ray technician trying to make you remove it from your bag they'll just let you walk through.
4. If you transliterate my name you get either Stupid (Ben) or Half Man (Benjamin). I haven't decided which is better yet.
5. You can do pretty much whatever you want while driving as long as you honk first.
6. The Chinese really do write like that.
7. If you're a baby, you can pee on the floor wherever you want and people think it's cute.
8. Chinese food (real Chinese food) is really good. Except when its not. Then its probably good, but its also really weird.
9. I just learned that eight is the perfect number in Chinese culture. Unfortunatley, I didn't learn that until thought number nine.
2. "Never follow strangers to the happy places."
3. A can of shaving cream is a "very dangerous thing" to have on a bus, but if you pretend not to hear the x-ray technician trying to make you remove it from your bag they'll just let you walk through.
4. If you transliterate my name you get either Stupid (Ben) or Half Man (Benjamin). I haven't decided which is better yet.
5. You can do pretty much whatever you want while driving as long as you honk first.
6. The Chinese really do write like that.
7. If you're a baby, you can pee on the floor wherever you want and people think it's cute.
8. Chinese food (real Chinese food) is really good. Except when its not. Then its probably good, but its also really weird.
9. I just learned that eight is the perfect number in Chinese culture. Unfortunatley, I didn't learn that until thought number nine.
The Wheels on the Bus
Right now I am on a bus in China. My wife and I are on our way to city number five on our speed tour of the Middle Kingdom. This is the, um, 'less cared for' bus we've been on so far and since I cannot sleep (for fear of being jostled out of my seat), I thought I would write.
The bouncing seat back, made for a person half my height, isn't the worst part of this particular vehicle. It's the horn. In China, the horn isn't so much the rude sign of anger it tends to be in the US. To us, hearing a horn blast is almost an audible middle finger. To them though it's just a way of saying 'I am here!'. And if you saw the way they drive you'd understand why the driver of our bus seems to feel the need to announce his presence nearly every time we pass another vehicle. He's doing it for our safety.
At least this is what I think is happening. One of the more frustrating things about traveling in other cultures is not knowing what everyone is saying. With the Chinese, it's often hard to even read their faces. So for all I know, our driver is a seething raging cauldron of dangerous anger. But I don't think so. I think he's just being the chinese version of a good driver.
Of course he's also still honking at everything that moves around us, so I'm going to focus on not being thrown out of my seat and try to ignore the fact that WE ARE HERE! WE ARE HERE! WE ARE HERE!
The bouncing seat back, made for a person half my height, isn't the worst part of this particular vehicle. It's the horn. In China, the horn isn't so much the rude sign of anger it tends to be in the US. To us, hearing a horn blast is almost an audible middle finger. To them though it's just a way of saying 'I am here!'. And if you saw the way they drive you'd understand why the driver of our bus seems to feel the need to announce his presence nearly every time we pass another vehicle. He's doing it for our safety.
At least this is what I think is happening. One of the more frustrating things about traveling in other cultures is not knowing what everyone is saying. With the Chinese, it's often hard to even read their faces. So for all I know, our driver is a seething raging cauldron of dangerous anger. But I don't think so. I think he's just being the chinese version of a good driver.
Of course he's also still honking at everything that moves around us, so I'm going to focus on not being thrown out of my seat and try to ignore the fact that WE ARE HERE! WE ARE HERE! WE ARE HERE!
2/22/10
Warm Mug, Warm Heart
I love a good cause. I love getting all worked up and fighting for something. Unfortunately for the world, which has so many things to be fought against, the causes that tend to really get me worked up tend to be somewhat mediocre in the grand scheme of things. For instance, at the camp I used to work at, I made it my personal responsibility to fight against the practice of putting the staff donuts right behind the coffee machine where the guests could see them but not actually reach them. I believed with all my heart that this was inhumane and cruel and I would denounce it to the office staff whenever I found the big pink box taunting our visitors. Then I'd go back to my office and fire off a few really nasty emails to important people asking them to pass policies and post signs to prevent people from committing this heinous act. I like to think that the management's recent decision to remodel the entire office and actually remove the offending counter in the process was because of my campaign.
Sunday I was walking into a church I was visiting for the weekend, ever-present coffee mug in hand, when I spied a sign placed conspicuously near the door to the sanctuary. The sign said, in polite but very firm letters: "Please, No Food or Drink in the Sanctuary." I wasn't sure what to do. This very church had just sold me the coffee that was now banned from complementing my worship of our common God. I felt cheated and embarrassed, like when you are at someone's house and they hand you a cold drink without a coaster and then have to ask you to use a one even though there are none in sight and you have to find them behind the picture of grandma on the end-table under the lamp.
My cause instincts were raised and I wanted to pull the greeter aside and tell him just what I thought, not only of his church's ridiculous policy but what it said about their theology. Didn't Jesus eat and drink with his disciples? Didn't the early church eat and drink together? Even science shows that having a coffee in your hands during church will only make the service better and is well worth the risk of carpet stains. I speak from personal experience when I say that those trays of grape juice they pass around once a month cause a bigger spill and stain risk than a cup of Joe. (I still feel a twinge of fear even twenty years later whenever one comes my way).
See how I get all worked up? Why are such petty issues so important to me? Why are things like sex trafficking and child slavery and homelessness and breast cancer something I can look past but my banned coffee gets my hackles raised in a hurry? I think I know why. Because all those other things happen to someone else, somewhere else. We Christians have a tendency (like all people do) to wrap ourselves up inside our cozy bubble and forget that there are real things wrong with real people in the real world just outside. We don't care that people don't know God and will suffer needlessly for it because we don't know any of those people. We don't really care that kids are being sold for sex because we've never been to a place where kids can be born and sold without anyone even knowing--or caring--that it happened.
Jesus was known for hanging out with sinners. And this kind of intimate fellowship fueled his cause instinct to give everything he could to save them from themselves. I'm sure that in Jesus' church we'd be allowed to drink coffee in the pews. But I'm also sure that the coffee drinker next to me would be someone who desperately needs to be there, to hear the words coming out of Jesus' mouth, someone I'd probably be surprised to be sitting next to because they'd be so different from me.
I think this is what we need to do. We all need to go get something warm to drink--coffee, hot chocolate, tea, even plain hot water if that's your fancy--hold it in your hands and ask God to expand your horizons. Then get up and find a cause.
Sunday I was walking into a church I was visiting for the weekend, ever-present coffee mug in hand, when I spied a sign placed conspicuously near the door to the sanctuary. The sign said, in polite but very firm letters: "Please, No Food or Drink in the Sanctuary." I wasn't sure what to do. This very church had just sold me the coffee that was now banned from complementing my worship of our common God. I felt cheated and embarrassed, like when you are at someone's house and they hand you a cold drink without a coaster and then have to ask you to use a one even though there are none in sight and you have to find them behind the picture of grandma on the end-table under the lamp.
My cause instincts were raised and I wanted to pull the greeter aside and tell him just what I thought, not only of his church's ridiculous policy but what it said about their theology. Didn't Jesus eat and drink with his disciples? Didn't the early church eat and drink together? Even science shows that having a coffee in your hands during church will only make the service better and is well worth the risk of carpet stains. I speak from personal experience when I say that those trays of grape juice they pass around once a month cause a bigger spill and stain risk than a cup of Joe. (I still feel a twinge of fear even twenty years later whenever one comes my way).
See how I get all worked up? Why are such petty issues so important to me? Why are things like sex trafficking and child slavery and homelessness and breast cancer something I can look past but my banned coffee gets my hackles raised in a hurry? I think I know why. Because all those other things happen to someone else, somewhere else. We Christians have a tendency (like all people do) to wrap ourselves up inside our cozy bubble and forget that there are real things wrong with real people in the real world just outside. We don't care that people don't know God and will suffer needlessly for it because we don't know any of those people. We don't really care that kids are being sold for sex because we've never been to a place where kids can be born and sold without anyone even knowing--or caring--that it happened.
Jesus was known for hanging out with sinners. And this kind of intimate fellowship fueled his cause instinct to give everything he could to save them from themselves. I'm sure that in Jesus' church we'd be allowed to drink coffee in the pews. But I'm also sure that the coffee drinker next to me would be someone who desperately needs to be there, to hear the words coming out of Jesus' mouth, someone I'd probably be surprised to be sitting next to because they'd be so different from me.
I think this is what we need to do. We all need to go get something warm to drink--coffee, hot chocolate, tea, even plain hot water if that's your fancy--hold it in your hands and ask God to expand your horizons. Then get up and find a cause.
2/8/10
It Actually *Is* Greek to Me
I've decided to learn Greek. My wife and I were talking and we decided we needed hobbies or something to dedicate our minds to. We were spending too much time just hanging out and not doing anything; a human being needs something to occupy his mind and heart. For some people TV does the trick. We don't have TV and our internet is painfully slow, so even Youtube videos are out. So, um, Greek it is.
I realize that doesn't really make sense. But according to Meyers-Brigg, I'm an Intuitive person and we I's don't need things like "logic" to explain our decisions. My gut said "learn Greek", so I am. My gut rarely does me wrong. Of course, my gut isn't the one that has to do all the work of memorizing vocabulary, but so far my brain hasn't complained. My shoulders are certainly not happy about it though. But then they grumble whenever there's too much computer involved and that's not necessarily a result of the Greek. I think my shoulders have already become the grumpy old man I fear lies in my own future someday.
There's an interesting thing about Koine Greek--the dialect of Greek that the New Testament is written in. It seems that there's very little written in it outside of the Bible. For a long time, scholars thought that it was basically "God's Dialect", a language that must have come straight out of heaven since no one else wrote anything in it. But then they found some receipts and shopping lists in various places around the Mediterranean and decided that it's just another plain old language. There's not much written in it because it was basically the Greek Pigeon of the day--the Greek that everyone learned to speak because they had to in order to communicate with everyone else, especially their rulers (or conquerors rather). If you were going to write something really deep and profound and important, you would have used a more formal version of the language, or maybe even your local language instead of Koine. Its like writing the constitution in Southern Hick English with Ebonics.
And therein lies the beauty of the Bible. The people it was written to didn't speak proper Greek. They spoke Koine Greek because everybody spoke Koine Greek. So, that's what Paul and Company decided to write their letters in. The book that we consider to be the Very Words of God Himself was written on legal pad in everyday language--probably with lots of spelling errors (though I haven't gotten that far yet). This really impresses me about my God. That he is so plain and ordinary sometimes. Of course, he's also freaking amazing in a way I cannot find the words to describe ("freaking amazing" comes close though), but he's also simple. And ordinary. And that means he's accessible no matter what is happening, no matter where I am and what I'm doing. I could be picking up after the dog or shaking the president's hand in the Oval Office--God matters.
We'll see how I feel about the simplicity of God once I get into parsing nouns and verbs though. I have a feeling I'm going to be wishing I was walking that dog again.
I realize that doesn't really make sense. But according to Meyers-Brigg, I'm an Intuitive person and we I's don't need things like "logic" to explain our decisions. My gut said "learn Greek", so I am. My gut rarely does me wrong. Of course, my gut isn't the one that has to do all the work of memorizing vocabulary, but so far my brain hasn't complained. My shoulders are certainly not happy about it though. But then they grumble whenever there's too much computer involved and that's not necessarily a result of the Greek. I think my shoulders have already become the grumpy old man I fear lies in my own future someday.
There's an interesting thing about Koine Greek--the dialect of Greek that the New Testament is written in. It seems that there's very little written in it outside of the Bible. For a long time, scholars thought that it was basically "God's Dialect", a language that must have come straight out of heaven since no one else wrote anything in it. But then they found some receipts and shopping lists in various places around the Mediterranean and decided that it's just another plain old language. There's not much written in it because it was basically the Greek Pigeon of the day--the Greek that everyone learned to speak because they had to in order to communicate with everyone else, especially their rulers (or conquerors rather). If you were going to write something really deep and profound and important, you would have used a more formal version of the language, or maybe even your local language instead of Koine. Its like writing the constitution in Southern Hick English with Ebonics.
And therein lies the beauty of the Bible. The people it was written to didn't speak proper Greek. They spoke Koine Greek because everybody spoke Koine Greek. So, that's what Paul and Company decided to write their letters in. The book that we consider to be the Very Words of God Himself was written on legal pad in everyday language--probably with lots of spelling errors (though I haven't gotten that far yet). This really impresses me about my God. That he is so plain and ordinary sometimes. Of course, he's also freaking amazing in a way I cannot find the words to describe ("freaking amazing" comes close though), but he's also simple. And ordinary. And that means he's accessible no matter what is happening, no matter where I am and what I'm doing. I could be picking up after the dog or shaking the president's hand in the Oval Office--God matters.
We'll see how I feel about the simplicity of God once I get into parsing nouns and verbs though. I have a feeling I'm going to be wishing I was walking that dog again.
2/4/10
© 2010
I don't consider myself to be a creative person. By "creative", I mean being able to take something from nothing and make it into something. For instance, my friend Amy can sit down and make a picture of a tree that comes from some idea in her head. I don't have ideas like that, much less am I able to make them into reality.
Whenever I see something creative though, I really want to be creative too--even though I can't. The other night, my wife and I watched "Stranger Than Fiction", one of the best movies ever. I love it because it is so unlike any other movie I've ever seen; plus it's about a socially hampered guy who gets a totally awesomely fun girl. I guess I identify a bit. Anyway, every time I watch it, I want to write my own story.
(If you haven't seen this movie, stop reading right now and go rent it. Seriously. Do it now.)
(You seen it? Ok, continue reading.)
(I'm not kidding here, you'll kick yourself if you keep reading without seeing the movie.)
My story would go something like this. There's this guy who is a CPA and he has a cell phone that would someday save his life. He suddenly starts seeing phantom film crews everywhere that are filming him, but no one else can see them. There's also a director that keeps explaining the next scene to him, but no one else can hear or see him. He thinks he's going crazy. So he finds a local movie buff who helps him figure it out because somewhere along the way he discovers that the movie is going to end with his death.
Meanwhile, he decides to take up the piano and falls in love with one of his clients who is a french chef. In the end, he jumps in front of a tractor (the whole thing is based in Iowa) to save a little girl from being run over and breaks a whole bunch of bones. He doesn't die though because a piece of the cell phone gets lodged in his leg and it keeps him from bleeding to death.
Yup, this is the story that Stranger Than Fiction makes me want to write. But it wouldn't be as good as the movie. Also, its a complete rip-off of the original, so that's kind of working against it as well.
Today I got an email from my pastor with an interesting quote. Its from some guy named Dallas Willard. I don't actually know who that is, but knowing my pastor, Dallas is probably some amazing guy that would change my life if I'd read anything by him. I'm just saying my pastor likes all the same stuff I do. Here's the quote:
This is interesting to me because I'd been having much of the same thoughts recently regarding theology and God. Those of us who care to worship God are convinced that he is worthy of worship. How we are convinced of this seems to be different for each person, but whatever happens, we can't let go of this deep down feeling that there is something there that is worth it in the end. Something amazingly beneficial to us and the world; something worth thinking about; something BIG and GOOD. And in our efforts to explain this person to ourselves and to others, we basically end up writing bad knock-offs of the real thing. They all come close--some come really close, but we're always left with something that just doesn't fit. Some piece of God revealed to us in the Bible that just doesn't fit into our story.
But being the wishfully-creative-but-not-actually-creative person that I am, I can totally understand the desire to create a God just like the real thing. I meet him and think, "Man, how awesome would it be to be the one that came up with that!" So I sit down and work something out that sounds just like him and its entertaining and useful and makes me feel good about who I think he is. But what I've created isn't Him.
Its also very frowned upon by copyright laws.
Whenever I see something creative though, I really want to be creative too--even though I can't. The other night, my wife and I watched "Stranger Than Fiction", one of the best movies ever. I love it because it is so unlike any other movie I've ever seen; plus it's about a socially hampered guy who gets a totally awesomely fun girl. I guess I identify a bit. Anyway, every time I watch it, I want to write my own story.
(If you haven't seen this movie, stop reading right now and go rent it. Seriously. Do it now.)
(You seen it? Ok, continue reading.)
(I'm not kidding here, you'll kick yourself if you keep reading without seeing the movie.)
My story would go something like this. There's this guy who is a CPA and he has a cell phone that would someday save his life. He suddenly starts seeing phantom film crews everywhere that are filming him, but no one else can see them. There's also a director that keeps explaining the next scene to him, but no one else can hear or see him. He thinks he's going crazy. So he finds a local movie buff who helps him figure it out because somewhere along the way he discovers that the movie is going to end with his death.
Meanwhile, he decides to take up the piano and falls in love with one of his clients who is a french chef. In the end, he jumps in front of a tractor (the whole thing is based in Iowa) to save a little girl from being run over and breaks a whole bunch of bones. He doesn't die though because a piece of the cell phone gets lodged in his leg and it keeps him from bleeding to death.
Yup, this is the story that Stranger Than Fiction makes me want to write. But it wouldn't be as good as the movie. Also, its a complete rip-off of the original, so that's kind of working against it as well.
Today I got an email from my pastor with an interesting quote. Its from some guy named Dallas Willard. I don't actually know who that is, but knowing my pastor, Dallas is probably some amazing guy that would change my life if I'd read anything by him. I'm just saying my pastor likes all the same stuff I do. Here's the quote:
"The acid test for any theology is this: Is the God presented one that can be loved, heart, soul, mind, and strength? If the thoughtful honest answer is; "Not really," then we need to look elsewhere or deeper. It does not really matter how sophisticated intellectually or doctrinally our approach is. If it fails to set a lovable God--a radiant, happy, friendly, accessible, and totally competent being--before ordinary people, we have gone wrong. We should not keep going in the same direction, but turn around and take another road."
This is interesting to me because I'd been having much of the same thoughts recently regarding theology and God. Those of us who care to worship God are convinced that he is worthy of worship. How we are convinced of this seems to be different for each person, but whatever happens, we can't let go of this deep down feeling that there is something there that is worth it in the end. Something amazingly beneficial to us and the world; something worth thinking about; something BIG and GOOD. And in our efforts to explain this person to ourselves and to others, we basically end up writing bad knock-offs of the real thing. They all come close--some come really close, but we're always left with something that just doesn't fit. Some piece of God revealed to us in the Bible that just doesn't fit into our story.
But being the wishfully-creative-but-not-actually-creative person that I am, I can totally understand the desire to create a God just like the real thing. I meet him and think, "Man, how awesome would it be to be the one that came up with that!" So I sit down and work something out that sounds just like him and its entertaining and useful and makes me feel good about who I think he is. But what I've created isn't Him.
Its also very frowned upon by copyright laws.
1/30/10
Frozen Chunkies
As my wife pulled out her chair to sit down at her computer tonight, her eyes swept over my side of the desk and landed with some surprise on my glass of water. Now a glass of water isn't so surprising, I do partake of the substance on occasion. But this time, there was ice in the glass! Shocking, I know.
What you may not know about me though is that I never want ice in my glass. With most drinks, the ice just melts and makes my drink watery. Between the two evils of watery beverage and lukewarm beverage, I prefer the second. There's also the matter of the ice just being in the way. I just want to pour the drink into my mouth, not sift it through my lips and teeth to keep the chunkies in the glass. I know. Its un-American. But that's they way I like it. And you earn big points if you deliver my drink to me ice-less.
So you can see why she was surprised. Here I am, getting ready to blog and drinking a glass of literally ice cold water--complete with ice. You could see the confusion on her face like she was a third grader in calculus class. She thought she knew something about me. And then, it turns out she didn't.
Lately I've been having this same kind of response to God. He is very difficult to box up, you know. I once tried to use a trash bag to collect a bunch of packing peanuts--except the bag was too small and even though it seemed like I should have been able to get it closed over the top, peanuts were flying everywhere. God is way worse than that.
A friend of mine recently stopped trying to decide what to call herself theologically. I think that's a good idea. Because even if I agree with, say, Martin Luther, the moment I call myself a Lutheran I suggest that Martin had it all figured out. That Martin's view of God was the right one and by knowing Luther, I'll know God.
Except that knowing Luther isn't the same as knowing God. And Martin didn't even have it all figured out. He was quite happy teaching totally opposite truths about God because he'd read them both in the Bible. It didn't matter to him that they didn't make sense. Drove his followers crazy.
I kind of like the idea of driving people crazy. Keeps them on their toes. I think God does too. It means that we're constantly going back to Him instead of our assumptions about him and figuring out all over again who he is. And what he'd like in his soda.
What you may not know about me though is that I never want ice in my glass. With most drinks, the ice just melts and makes my drink watery. Between the two evils of watery beverage and lukewarm beverage, I prefer the second. There's also the matter of the ice just being in the way. I just want to pour the drink into my mouth, not sift it through my lips and teeth to keep the chunkies in the glass. I know. Its un-American. But that's they way I like it. And you earn big points if you deliver my drink to me ice-less.
So you can see why she was surprised. Here I am, getting ready to blog and drinking a glass of literally ice cold water--complete with ice. You could see the confusion on her face like she was a third grader in calculus class. She thought she knew something about me. And then, it turns out she didn't.
Lately I've been having this same kind of response to God. He is very difficult to box up, you know. I once tried to use a trash bag to collect a bunch of packing peanuts--except the bag was too small and even though it seemed like I should have been able to get it closed over the top, peanuts were flying everywhere. God is way worse than that.
A friend of mine recently stopped trying to decide what to call herself theologically. I think that's a good idea. Because even if I agree with, say, Martin Luther, the moment I call myself a Lutheran I suggest that Martin had it all figured out. That Martin's view of God was the right one and by knowing Luther, I'll know God.
Except that knowing Luther isn't the same as knowing God. And Martin didn't even have it all figured out. He was quite happy teaching totally opposite truths about God because he'd read them both in the Bible. It didn't matter to him that they didn't make sense. Drove his followers crazy.
I kind of like the idea of driving people crazy. Keeps them on their toes. I think God does too. It means that we're constantly going back to Him instead of our assumptions about him and figuring out all over again who he is. And what he'd like in his soda.
1/24/10
My Storybook Life
One of the things I find amazing about good writing is the author's ability to resolve conflicts. Not all the conflicts, mind you--at least until the end of the book--but just enough by the end of the chapter to make you feel like you've accomplished something by reading it. Of course if they're really good, they've also thrown in two more for every one that's resolved so that the net result is you can't put the book down until the very end. It takes a certain amount of skill to resolve conflicts. After all, in real life conflicts and troubles are rarely resolved as neatly as they are in stories--making it a challenge to resolve them in a believable way. A good chapter leaves you hanging with a sense of unresolved tension. It may be sorrow, anger, fear or something else, but whatever it is, its unpleasant. And we don't want to stop reading because the rule of stories is that the tension will be resolved. At least in the stories I like anyway.
The great thing about a story though is that the resolution doesn't take any more effort than continuing to read. Real life is more complicated.
I find myself these days between chapters. The last chapter was full of adventures and romance, but there was also rejection and pain. Just enough of each to make you want to keep reading. And it isn't done being written yet. The material is all there, but the narrative is far from complete. I find myself reviewing it, revising it as time goes on and different events come to the foreground. Obvious conflicts that beg to be resolved but weren't, hidden conflicts whose resolutions were so neat and secure I couldn't have written them better if I'd tried.
The challenge I find myself facing is how to finish writing that last chapter in such a way as to preserve the joys and the pains as they really were but set them up for resolution in the next chapter. How to tell about the evil things without letting them take over and the good things without losing their believability. It is not an easy task, as there is more than just a good story at stake here. The conflicts I am trying to resolve are real conflicts. The pain is real pain. And the joys are real joys.
I am comforted with the thought that my Editor is the best in the business and the kind of story he wants me to write is my favorite kind: the kind where everything works out in the end. But that doesn't mean I don't find myself stuck at my writer's desk sometimes, wondering where the heck this story is going.
The great thing about a story though is that the resolution doesn't take any more effort than continuing to read. Real life is more complicated.
I find myself these days between chapters. The last chapter was full of adventures and romance, but there was also rejection and pain. Just enough of each to make you want to keep reading. And it isn't done being written yet. The material is all there, but the narrative is far from complete. I find myself reviewing it, revising it as time goes on and different events come to the foreground. Obvious conflicts that beg to be resolved but weren't, hidden conflicts whose resolutions were so neat and secure I couldn't have written them better if I'd tried.
The challenge I find myself facing is how to finish writing that last chapter in such a way as to preserve the joys and the pains as they really were but set them up for resolution in the next chapter. How to tell about the evil things without letting them take over and the good things without losing their believability. It is not an easy task, as there is more than just a good story at stake here. The conflicts I am trying to resolve are real conflicts. The pain is real pain. And the joys are real joys.
I am comforted with the thought that my Editor is the best in the business and the kind of story he wants me to write is my favorite kind: the kind where everything works out in the end. But that doesn't mean I don't find myself stuck at my writer's desk sometimes, wondering where the heck this story is going.
1/21/10
Oogah Boogah
Kevin stood at the fence watching the field. Most of the boys in his class were lining up, casting glances at their competitors for the Pick and making suggestions to the Captains on who they should pick first. Kevin would have been doing the same, had his back been up against the same fence as theirs. But Kevin's back was safely out of reach of the Pick--or rather safely out of reach of the Not-Being-Picked. He idly pushed a dandelion over with his foot, imagining the thunderous crash it would have made if it weren't so small, and fell backwards into the fence. Leaning on the fence is never as comfortable as the springy curve of the chain links might suggest and he quickly bounced back out and started shuffling towards the classroom.
It wasn't so much that he wasn't good at the game, he actually didn't even know if he was good or bad at it. He'd never played. He couldn't have explained *why* he'd never played, as boys of that age are not prone to analyzing their histories, he just knew that crossing over to that other fence was like crossing the ocean into some unfamiliar and potentially hostile country. A land filled with strangely colored men wearing uncomfortable looking clothing and carrying large sharp weapons. He told them he had come to explore their country, to learn their ways and he had much to share with them, but they didn't seem to understand him. They stood with violent expressions, seeming ready to pounce at any moment. Kevin didn't want to hurt them, but he steadied himself into a subtle defense posture and examined their faces, looking for the clue that would unlock their friendship--or show their weakness.
A teacher smiled as Kevin walked by, his arms in a pose vaguely resembling something they'd learned in P.E. that morning, his lips silently opening and closing and a look of intense concentration on his face. He was old enough to realize that people were watching him, but not old enough to keep his imagination from spilling out into real life.
"Hey, Kevin!" the teacher called out as he passed. Kevin jumped like he'd been hit from behind and turned to look at the teacher. "Where you going?" the teacher asked.
Kevin shrugged. He was "going" to kick some native butt, but he wasn't "going" anywhere. He wasn't sure how to answer that question.
The two of them stared at each other for a while. Then the teacher smiled and turned back to spotting ruffians. Kevin turned and sped up his pace, anxious to get out of range in case the teacher noticed him again. The natives had left. He couldn't remember if they'd just been attacking or had offered their peace pipe--or even how he'd gotten to the island in the first place. That's the problem with daydreams. You can't rewind or pause them.
The jungle island gone, Kevin looked at where his legs had taken him. He was back at the field, watching the two teams line up along a line Kevin couldn't see. He tried to lean up against the fence again. It was still uncomfortable, but he stayed there, feeling the cold links dig into his shoulders, watching the game.
It wasn't so much that he wasn't good at the game, he actually didn't even know if he was good or bad at it. He'd never played. He couldn't have explained *why* he'd never played, as boys of that age are not prone to analyzing their histories, he just knew that crossing over to that other fence was like crossing the ocean into some unfamiliar and potentially hostile country. A land filled with strangely colored men wearing uncomfortable looking clothing and carrying large sharp weapons. He told them he had come to explore their country, to learn their ways and he had much to share with them, but they didn't seem to understand him. They stood with violent expressions, seeming ready to pounce at any moment. Kevin didn't want to hurt them, but he steadied himself into a subtle defense posture and examined their faces, looking for the clue that would unlock their friendship--or show their weakness.
A teacher smiled as Kevin walked by, his arms in a pose vaguely resembling something they'd learned in P.E. that morning, his lips silently opening and closing and a look of intense concentration on his face. He was old enough to realize that people were watching him, but not old enough to keep his imagination from spilling out into real life.
"Hey, Kevin!" the teacher called out as he passed. Kevin jumped like he'd been hit from behind and turned to look at the teacher. "Where you going?" the teacher asked.
Kevin shrugged. He was "going" to kick some native butt, but he wasn't "going" anywhere. He wasn't sure how to answer that question.
The two of them stared at each other for a while. Then the teacher smiled and turned back to spotting ruffians. Kevin turned and sped up his pace, anxious to get out of range in case the teacher noticed him again. The natives had left. He couldn't remember if they'd just been attacking or had offered their peace pipe--or even how he'd gotten to the island in the first place. That's the problem with daydreams. You can't rewind or pause them.
The jungle island gone, Kevin looked at where his legs had taken him. He was back at the field, watching the two teams line up along a line Kevin couldn't see. He tried to lean up against the fence again. It was still uncomfortable, but he stayed there, feeling the cold links dig into his shoulders, watching the game.
1/13/10
Never Judge a Person By Their Relatives
My wife and I were in Powell's City of Books yesterday in Portland. We spent twenty minutes in the lobby looking at a bookshelf full of new releases and old favorites before we decided to venture any deeper into the labyrinth of bookshelves, magazines and Powell's brand merchandise. The store takes up an entire city block and they have every book you can imagine on nearly every topic. We were in the Red Room--the religious section--and based on my quick survey of the shelves, most of the books are crap. But everyone would find something they think is crap in the religious section.
One of the books we picked up was by the writer Deepak Chopra. It was about something called the "Third Jesus" and promised to tell the secret to living the kind of mystical selfless life that Jesus described in the gospels. Now, granted, I didn't read more than the jacket cover and a few random pages in the book, but it seemed to be that the key to the whole thing was wrapped up in a few key secrets to the universe that Deepak has somehow discovered by a lot of meditation. Or something like that. "Buy this book. It will tell you how to be a better person.
This had followed a recent conversation with a dear friend who shared that she was tired of the hypocrisy of Christianity and didn't see how it was doing much better than any other religion at making people into better people. I didn't really respond to her then, I wasn't really sure what to say. She has a point, Christians are statistically no better than anyone else on a myriad of social sins--though it is my personal opinion that statistics are 90% lies.
After Deepak, we went deeper (eh eh) into the bookstore. As I said, we were in the religious section and the shelves were lined with books telling me how to be happy, how to be fulfilled, how to be a better person. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something about all of this was wrong. And then I think I figured it out.
It happened when my wife said, "They're all missing the point!" To which I replied, "Yes, they are. I was just thinking that." But between you and me I hadn't thought of that at all beyond the stomach thing. She was right though. They were all missing the point!
The Christian life isn't about being a good person. It isn't about being a happier, more fulfilled person. It isn't about doing good things in your church or homeless shelter. It isn't about feeding the poor. it isn't even about being 'god-concious' (whatever that means). All of these things are great things that everyone from Buddhists to Mormons do. I am reminded of a poster I saw one time advertising a clothing distribution organized by an Islamic group. That's not the point.
Here's the point: God. It's all about God. You want to stop being a scummy husband? Take your nose out of your navel and look at God. You want to care more about the poor? Take your nose out of your wallet and look at God. Feel better about your looks? Eyes out of the mirror and onto God.
My wife asked me one time why I loved her. My mind scrambled for reasons as to why I had picked her out of all the women I had ever known. She's beautiful? She's intelligent? She's funny? Yes, yes and yes, but that's not why I love her. I wouldn't be married to her if that's all there was; I'd have been married a long time ago to someone else because she's certainly not the only beautiful, intelligent and funny woman in the world. I couldn't answer the question. And then I realized I didn't want to. Whatever answer I gave to why I loved her would only demean the reality of the love itself. I love that she's beautiful, but I don't love her *because* she's beautiful. And that means she has the freedom to lose her beauty without losing my love. From what I can tell, though, it's only made her *more* beautiful. Because it's beautiful when a girl takes care of herself without worrying about whether she's taking care of herself enough. And my wife, a very beautiful woman, doesn't need to worry about it.
I think it works this way with God. He loves us no matter what. And when we realize this, we are captivated by him in a way that makes church politics,Christian morality, theological simplifications and those pesky statistics strangely meaningless. Because they have nothing at all to do with God himself. He is the one we look towards and all else falls away.
I don't always get him. I can't understand him. But I cannot deny him. And he is *not* like every other deity or deity-like figure we know. He loves me. Loves me with the kind of selfless love I can't even begin to understand the depth of. I can't say why, but I don't need to.
And that's the point.
One of the books we picked up was by the writer Deepak Chopra. It was about something called the "Third Jesus" and promised to tell the secret to living the kind of mystical selfless life that Jesus described in the gospels. Now, granted, I didn't read more than the jacket cover and a few random pages in the book, but it seemed to be that the key to the whole thing was wrapped up in a few key secrets to the universe that Deepak has somehow discovered by a lot of meditation. Or something like that. "Buy this book. It will tell you how to be a better person.
This had followed a recent conversation with a dear friend who shared that she was tired of the hypocrisy of Christianity and didn't see how it was doing much better than any other religion at making people into better people. I didn't really respond to her then, I wasn't really sure what to say. She has a point, Christians are statistically no better than anyone else on a myriad of social sins--though it is my personal opinion that statistics are 90% lies.
After Deepak, we went deeper (eh eh) into the bookstore. As I said, we were in the religious section and the shelves were lined with books telling me how to be happy, how to be fulfilled, how to be a better person. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something about all of this was wrong. And then I think I figured it out.
It happened when my wife said, "They're all missing the point!" To which I replied, "Yes, they are. I was just thinking that." But between you and me I hadn't thought of that at all beyond the stomach thing. She was right though. They were all missing the point!
The Christian life isn't about being a good person. It isn't about being a happier, more fulfilled person. It isn't about doing good things in your church or homeless shelter. It isn't about feeding the poor. it isn't even about being 'god-concious' (whatever that means). All of these things are great things that everyone from Buddhists to Mormons do. I am reminded of a poster I saw one time advertising a clothing distribution organized by an Islamic group. That's not the point.
Here's the point: God. It's all about God. You want to stop being a scummy husband? Take your nose out of your navel and look at God. You want to care more about the poor? Take your nose out of your wallet and look at God. Feel better about your looks? Eyes out of the mirror and onto God.
My wife asked me one time why I loved her. My mind scrambled for reasons as to why I had picked her out of all the women I had ever known. She's beautiful? She's intelligent? She's funny? Yes, yes and yes, but that's not why I love her. I wouldn't be married to her if that's all there was; I'd have been married a long time ago to someone else because she's certainly not the only beautiful, intelligent and funny woman in the world. I couldn't answer the question. And then I realized I didn't want to. Whatever answer I gave to why I loved her would only demean the reality of the love itself. I love that she's beautiful, but I don't love her *because* she's beautiful. And that means she has the freedom to lose her beauty without losing my love. From what I can tell, though, it's only made her *more* beautiful. Because it's beautiful when a girl takes care of herself without worrying about whether she's taking care of herself enough. And my wife, a very beautiful woman, doesn't need to worry about it.
I think it works this way with God. He loves us no matter what. And when we realize this, we are captivated by him in a way that makes church politics,Christian morality, theological simplifications and those pesky statistics strangely meaningless. Because they have nothing at all to do with God himself. He is the one we look towards and all else falls away.
I don't always get him. I can't understand him. But I cannot deny him. And he is *not* like every other deity or deity-like figure we know. He loves me. Loves me with the kind of selfless love I can't even begin to understand the depth of. I can't say why, but I don't need to.
And that's the point.
1/9/10
Fánétíks Ín Spes!
A word of explanation on this one would probably be appreciated. My wife and I just took a week-long primer on linguistics and translation hosted by Wycliffe . It's their way of saying, "See, this Bible translation thing isn't so hard," to which an attendee would either say 1) "I didn't realize it was so easy!" and run out and do it, or 2) "Oh yes it is! I'll stay home and support you and *you* can go do it!". Either way, it works out well for those people groups who don't have the Bible yet (or even a written language for that matter). I had the first half of the first response. In another blog I may write a little more about it. For now, though, I want to share my project for the week. We had to write a short story about our time there using a (made up) phonetic orthography of English. [evil grin for throwing out words that make me sound smart]. Extra credit if you can properly pronounce the two words we were talking about over lunch!
Ãz đá boi gat oldr, ŧís ámeziŋ tãlént bikem sámwát émbérésíŋ. Ãnd so đá boi prãktíst híz dip spes mánuvrs onli ín đá Şauwr Taim Nébiulá.
Hi wáz also e mãstr spélr—wán áv đá bést ín đá wúrld, íf đá smal sãmpl áv spélrz ín híz fíŧ gred klãs wúr éni méşr. Hi hãd bitén đém al ín đá klãsrum spélíŋ bi.
Bát ãz đá boi lúkt ãt đá plãnét-baund fok áraund hím, hi kúd tél đãt nat onli hãd no wán bén tu Ãndramédá, no wán kúd ivén rait ít daun.
Ãnd so đá boi lúrnd tu kip híz ŧats tu hímsélf. Hi wúd sailéntli pandr sác dip kwéscáns ãz, “Wát íz đá dífréns bitwin e 'P' ãnd e 'B',” ãnd wéđr lízrd pipl kúd se aiđr wán síns đe hãv no líps. Đá oldr hi gat, đá kwaiétr hi bikem an sác şemfúl tapíks.
Đén wán de hi faund hímsélf ín đá kámpéni áv pipl hu sãt ín fãsínetéd wándr ãz e lékşrr déskraibd đá mãjík áv ãlofims ãnd naun frezéz. Hi stérd áraund hím ãz đe dískást đá dífréns bitwin “ŧai” ãnd “đai” ovr gríld ciz sãndwícéz. Hi révld ín đá joi hi félt wén đá místri áv đá “P” ãnd đá “B” wáz rivild. Ít med hím hãpi tu no đér wúr so méni pipl hu lávd đá sem ŧíŋz hi díd.
So hãpi, ín fãct, hi disaidéd tu şér đá sikrét áv đá rakét şíp noiz:
Ít's jást e Sástend Raundéd Voislés Pãlétál Fríkátív!
Fánétíks Ín Spes!
Wáns ápan e taim, ŧér wáz e boi hu kúd mek véri rilístík rakét şíp noizéz wíŧ híz mauŧ. Hi wúd éntrten hímsélf bai flaiíŋ híz pénsúl frám đá plãnét áv Skuldésk tu đá plãnét áv Pénsúl Şarpénr ãnd bãk. Íf yu klozd yor aiz, yu kúd smél đá rakét fiul.Ãz đá boi gat oldr, ŧís ámeziŋ tãlént bikem sámwát émbérésíŋ. Ãnd so đá boi prãktíst híz dip spes mánuvrs onli ín đá Şauwr Taim Nébiulá.
Hi wáz also e mãstr spélr—wán áv đá bést ín đá wúrld, íf đá smal sãmpl áv spélrz ín híz fíŧ gred klãs wúr éni méşr. Hi hãd bitén đém al ín đá klãsrum spélíŋ bi.
Bát ãz đá boi lúkt ãt đá plãnét-baund fok áraund hím, hi kúd tél đãt nat onli hãd no wán bén tu Ãndramédá, no wán kúd ivén rait ít daun.
Ãnd so đá boi lúrnd tu kip híz ŧats tu hímsélf. Hi wúd sailéntli pandr sác dip kwéscáns ãz, “Wát íz đá dífréns bitwin e 'P' ãnd e 'B',” ãnd wéđr lízrd pipl kúd se aiđr wán síns đe hãv no líps. Đá oldr hi gat, đá kwaiétr hi bikem an sác şemfúl tapíks.
Đén wán de hi faund hímsélf ín đá kámpéni áv pipl hu sãt ín fãsínetéd wándr ãz e lékşrr déskraibd đá mãjík áv ãlofims ãnd naun frezéz. Hi stérd áraund hím ãz đe dískást đá dífréns bitwin “ŧai” ãnd “đai” ovr gríld ciz sãndwícéz. Hi révld ín đá joi hi félt wén đá místri áv đá “P” ãnd đá “B” wáz rivild. Ít med hím hãpi tu no đér wúr so méni pipl hu lávd đá sem ŧíŋz hi díd.
So hãpi, ín fãct, hi disaidéd tu şér đá sikrét áv đá rakét şíp noiz:
Ít's jást e Sástend Raundéd Voislés Pãlétál Fríkátív!
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