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.
1/30/10
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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