New Years Grinch

Tomorrow is a new year. Another artificial marker in time... another rollover of some arbitrary counter. Another opportunity to make some sort of resolution on exercise, habits, goals, etc.

I don't feel any different today than I did yesterday. And tomorrow, I won't feel any different than I did today. Today, the sun rose and it set, and so it shall tomorrow. Any "resolution" that we want to start tomorrow might as well be started today. I don't believe "tomorrow" is a special "tomorrow." We have opportunities every day to start new.

"Behold, I makes all things new."

And yet, as I go through the journals, writings, and poems from this last year, I cannot deny that a string of days has wrought change. Or rather, retrospectively, I can say that God has remained faithful. Reading my journal from 12/31/08, I can humbly say that I didn't accomplish all my goals or resolutions. I have fallen short on multiple levels... community, holiness, academic goals, spirituality... and yet I am still here, enveloped and surrounded by an acceptance and love that is not rooted in the successful accomplishment of my goals, no matter how noble they might be.

I spent the year quite selfishly, and have found it rather vacuous. I frequently cheated myself with the cheap and easy when depth and substance required work and sacrifice. Despite all that, He has been faithful, and I will not make the mistake Israel made, which was to forget God's faithfulness.

So tomorrow is like any other day, albeit one in which I will probably miswrite the date as '09. Today I give thanks, and tomorrow is a day in which mercies are made new.

What is man that you are mindful of him?

There is something about being alone in the wilderness. All the Jack London stories read around a campfire cannot do it justice. There is security in the other. There is safety in company. But when the cell signals of civilization do not penetrate the deep woods of wilderness, one is left eerily alone with oneself. The ceiling of stars loses its romance and strikes with its vastness. A residual image of beauty before floating into dreams is engulfed with an immense feeling of insignificance and finitude. “If an entire star, a burning fury of grandeur and power, is so infinitesimal in the blackness of night, how much smaller am I?” The breeze is a wind, and the wind is a howl. Darkness swaying all around does not promote warmth. For all I felt with my -20 degree bag, I could have been lying naked and exposed on the ground. And I was, if perception was reality. There were no walls around me, no ceiling above me. The dark recesses of my primal psyche, the part that has been repressed by modern lights and noise, tested its newfound territory.

In the wilderness alone, in the dark, all your accolades are stripped of you. Your degrees, your job, who you are as defined in relationship to others, the brands you wear and the lies you maintain, there is no one to perceive them or give them value. There is no one to affirm you or console you, to stop or encourage you. There is no one to feed your addictions or to reciprocate your codependence. There is no one to save you. The amount of knowledge and illumination you have in your life at any given moment is directly proportional to the strength and radius of your headlamp’s beam. Who are you, in the darkness of your own thoughts? When naked vulnerability is the frigid air you breathe, what is it that keeps you warm? When there are no brick walls to separate you from an untamed and wild reality, what grants you security?

It is rare to be truly alone, if only for a night. I will not soon forget it.

“What is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?” –Psalm 8:4

Sense

At work, we tell our kids to try and understand their anger or their actions. We challenge them to see if there are other factors contributing to their frustrations. “It doesn’t come from nowhere,” we say. Our day, earlier events, stress, anticipation, relationships, a lack of sleep… yet when it comes down to it, those of us who are staff, seeming to have all the answers and insight, are not immune from such things. I sit here and I enumerate all the reasons why I’m in a shitty mood. 14 hours of travel. Drained on socializing. Not enough time with the family. Hating the process of packing for work. 2 hours of sleep last night. Yes, it all makes sense, but sense doesn’t always make things better. I think about the conviction in which I speak my hopes to those kids… my hope that they would learn to express themselves, to feel better after they share their emotions… hopes that they won’t be discouraged at setbacks and learn to accept what is out of their control… hopes that they would wrestle with the hurt, wounds, and disappointments they carry. Those phrases roll of my tongue like sweet honey, and it sounds so good when I say them. It makes so much sense. But my sense pesters me in the back of my mind… questions me vindictively on why I struggle to do that which I preach with such ease.

Coal Trains and the Red Line

I have a theory. At my job, I work 8 days on, and then get 6 days off. With this kind of schedule, months fly by in the blink of an eye. My theory is that instead of 30 some individual days, I live my month in 4 segments. With the beginning of each shift or off week, the end is in sight, and so that segment passes not as a collection of days, but as one block of time, similar to how everyone else would view one day. Thus, the four segments disappear much like 4 days would disappear.

Whether or not this theory is correct, I don’t know. But talking to a friend about future plans, he pointed out that according to my timeline of desired events, I would finish grad school by the age of 30. Thirty!! Despite the fact that grad school may take 5 or 6 years, it is but another segment in my life. When one begins it, one lives with the anticipation and vision of finishing it. If we are not careful and intentional, these segments in life will pass quickly, leaving us at a place wondering where all our time, youth, and energy has gone.

I don’t presume to know what it means to be intentional, but I presume that it’s one of the few ways of living life without waking up one mid-life morning and wondering how one arrived there or what the hell one is doing. I fear that our scrambling and striving, without a certain intentionality, will dull our ability to be alive. With every self-interested step we make towards our unexamined goals, we fall further into a void of eventual uncertainty that sooner or later, will overtake us.

It was surprising last night, with the Chicago sounds coming through the window, what the rumbling of tracks and the pitch of a train whistle would do to my memory. It caught me off guard and brought be back to the frigid winters in the boys HNGR house, looking through a frosted window across the yard to see the long cargo trains plow through the evening, much like the grayness that rumbled through my being. Most of that hurt, by the grace of God, has been sifted through time, but I can’t get that haunting cry out of my ears. And now, most of these people who have walked with me during those years are one by one leaving the place that helped form us. One by one, we treat this time as a steppingstone and keep moving on. There is something I want to hold onto, people I want to hold onto because by losing them, I fear losing all that I once knew and all who knew me as I once was, all the while not knowing fully who I am or who I should be.

Morte Christe

During the Good Friday service today, we had a reading that incorporated the text from “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”. Those words aggressively threw me against the wall of nostalgia, since I had sung the song “Morte Christe” with that text in Men’s Glee Club. For the half an hour drive home from church, my car leaked at the seams with old Glee Club repertoire as I relived standing on those creaky risers and hitting those low D’s.

I talked with some friends these last few days, others like me who curse and spit at the mere thought of remembering second semester senior year for their own reasons, those who would have agreed with Eliot that “this is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper.” An ugly stain upon our hearts and minds, we still graduated and moved forward, strewn across the country, chasing our dreams to move on, and moving on to chase our dreams, all the while hoping to forget the unforgettable.

Where are we?

Perhaps my emotions were primed by the Stations of the Cross. I mean, thinking about Jesus dying is a bit of debby downer. I wanted desperately for Sunday to be right now. Right after the line in the bulletin that read, “The service ends in silence,” I wanted the lift, the resolution, the fix. I wanted to know that everything was ok and to bask in the glow of that empty tomb in a garden, with an angel shining like a Thomas Kinkade painting.

But that’s not how it goes. Today, we sit with the reality of death. We will go to bed with it tonight, and wake up with it heavy on our chests, even if the sun sneaks through our shutters. And we will walk with it, make it our own, let it weary our souls until God lifts us up, as he does Jesus on Sunday. But for now, we are Saturday. Neither here nor there, but moving forward like time inevitable.

On Media, Hiphop, Porn, and Mr. Darcy

I know some would argue that the movie "Notorious," portraying the life of the gangster rapper Notorious B.I.G., can hardly be called an artistic or profound film. Whatever criticisms one might have about it, I believe it illustrates one thing well: Entertainment, for the most part, is not real life.

When one creates or produces something, whether it be a painting, song, movie, book, etc, it falls along a continuum of how accurately it reflects reality (among other things). On one extreme, the piece of work may be extremely representative of realities. I believe "Slumdog Millionaire," although entertaining, was a powerful expression of an ugly reality. On the other extreme are works that have very little intent on anything other than pure sensory stimulation (not that it is necessarily a bad thing.)

However, something terribly wrong happens when one creates a piece of work for the purpose of pure entertainment with little grounding in reality, but the observers mistake it as an expression of how things are or should be. T.I.'s song "Dead and Gone" pinpoints the possible negative influence of Hiphop on black urban culture. The movie "Notorious" illustrated the contrast between the glorified versions of what he rapped about (women, money, drugs) versus the reality of his life, which was the attempt to manifest much of what he rapped about.

The truth is, given the ability to create, we are able to either draw out and paint deeper realities beyond what we see, hear, smell, taste or touch, or we can create that which does not exist. This power of imagination is potent. It has the potential to lift our eyes and spirit, and to call us forward through difficulty and oppression. Think of the role music, stories and oration played in historical struggles like the Civil Rights movement or various revolutions in the world. Think of the way narratives are used to guide our behavior and grant meaning to life (eg the Christian narrative).

However, the ability to paint that which does not exist carries a dangerous side. If we are not keen towards the effects of such a power, it may evolve from the creation of our hands into a beast beyond our control. When one attempts to live another's fake creation, the expected results seldom happen, while plenty of unintended realities do not cease. Going back to the illustration of "Notorious," a verbal war between two rappers consumed not only their lives but fostered such animosity between East and West coasts, all because they created that which did not exist, and listeners believed it as real. The danger is compounded when this created image draws its strength from real human needs, desires, emotions, or realities. They resemble realities, but in essence are mythologies merely clothed with aspects of the what we recognize within ourselves and the environment around us.

This has much subtler implications. A friend of mine, after being told that he was a crappy boyfriend, was encouraged to watch some chick flicks by his ex to learn how to be a better one. I cringed at that idea, because such films, although entertaining, are bastardizations of reality. With every cut, switch of scene, or panning of the camera, reality is edited out. Time is condensed. Ugliness is omitted. It is one person creating that which does not exist for the purpose of entertainment and money, while the masses consume these fabricated standards or ideas and internalize them as expected realities.

If such things seem harmless, think of it in terms of pornography. Pornography itself portrays two people having sex, a very normal phenomenon. However, it does three things. First, it grounds itself in very real physical desires (which is why it sells). Second, it appears real, since two very real people with arms and legs and other such plumbing are interacting in ways known to be possible. But most importantly, it takes that reality and creates something that is isolated, glamorized, beautified, and altogether rather fake. And then consumers, seeking out their needs, end up internalizing the performance or "beauty" expectations they see on a screen. Simply replace the physical with the emotional, and you will see why that bastard Mr. Darcy is a terrible human being.

So, my dear friend, I suggest you do not take your ex's advice, and find someone who glories in the sometimes gritty and ugly realities of commitment and love, versus someone who thinks the world would be better if men pretended they were in a chick flick.

I Don't Know Why You Say Hello, I Say Goodbye

Everything has an end. At times, it catches you blind, like an alarm that broadsides your dream like a drunk in a truck, running a light. Others set, ever so slowly, almost imperceptible, were it not for a lengthening of shadows under the eyes and the color of fire lit above the horizon. Passed, before it was lived. But everything has an end. Some are orchestrated, choreographed in step with Pomp and Circumstance, notarized with chops and officiated by priests. Pictures. Speeches. Flowers, delicately arranged, cut and sacrificed for this very occasion. Others will squat upon your mind as you get a haircut or eat yet another meal… a sitting vision, a premonition wondering if it will all still be the same the next time you come back. Everything has an end. It will all come to pass. Though, most of us would appreciate a little heads up.

Roads Are Made for Traveling

Today was spent in an embittered battle against a statistics program on my computer. I have a love-hate relationship with SPSS. There is something satisfying when you make a few selections, press a few buttons, and a printout tells you that your results are significant. Oh, how we love to feel significant. However, the lover can be cold when a wall of numbers stares unemotionally back at you, defiant and obstinately refusing to interpret themselves in a way a normal human being would understand... (Reminds me of women sometimes... zing! ;)

Thus, after a long battle in man vs machine, I am tired. But tired is a good place to be when honesty is something to be sought after. After all, gone is the strength to find another distraction.

A friend mentioned to me that she just returned from a retreat with the outgoing class of HNGR interns. Juniors, doe-eyed and hopeful, waiting to change the world in just 6 months. New eyes for the least of these... jumping in with both feet already wet, their dreams and anxiety, palpable. I remember tasting it in my mouth as we tried to remember that nothing would be as we expected. Junior year with so much on my heart and mind. It was where I needed to be. Trust in the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

I commented to my friend that I now feel less hopeful, not quite as young, and certainly less impressionable. "Oh for sure. Graduating changed everything," was her response. Did it? What changed between cramming for our last test and starting our first day in this entry-level job? What is it that left us, subjectively, when we left that square mile encompassing College Ave? What was it that we were so afraid of when our eyes were wider and our knees more calloused? The tyranny of 9 to 5. The wailing of a monday alarm and the anxious glances toward a friday clock. The passive withering of our 4 year $150,000 brain cells. The loss of our hearts in the slow exchange for the subtle American dream, slipped into as quietly but as surely as the sun bows out to the dark. It smelt of death in our nostrils, and we staked our passion as collateral, that "we" would never be like "them."

It's been a while since my knees have gotten dirty. When the rain stops, all sorts of unintentional things start drying up as well. I took a break from thinking. I've sought a reprieve from feeling. I'm growing a new hobby to scratch my aesthetic itch and to feed my money to. I'm putting on some snow treads and road tripping to the great state of Mormons and National Parks in hopes for something new. Something communal. Maybe I can find Someone in places with names like Eureka(!) and Freedom and Zion and Jericho. Yes, I'm sure of it, the Mormons were looking in the right place for God.

We'll Shake the Nightmare Free

In a non-Gnostic, purely illustrative way, I think people function with three layers. Superficially, our skin is what we show to the world. It’s this outer garment we cake with makeup and drape with clothes. We carry it when we walk and present it as we wish to be viewed. It is the pride of our youth, and what the simplest forms of beauty call home. But beneath it is our flesh and bones… the blood and truth of our thoughts and emotions. Our skin heals, albeit with scars, but our sinews and tendons are not so easily mended, leaving us with Jacob’s limp that asserts itself every step of the way. It is our flesh and bones that move our feet down a path, and joints and ligaments that bend our fingers in creation or destruction. Being the substance of who we are, there is no ignoring its depth. It's cut with the jagged blade of the fall, and woven together with generational sin. It’s patched with all the wrongs done to us and laced with all the wrongs we have done to others. It is, for most people, the driving winds and currents propelling our lives, in light of or in spite of our awareness. Our flesh and blood is what we attempt to escape from at the edge of sleep, what haunts our dreams in the early hours of morning, and the invasive sharp that pries our eyes awake like light from slotted blinds.

But even further beneath the rolling tumult that animates our breath lays a dark core of stillness… the center of who we are and what we truly know. In those rare moments when our flesh and blood are at ease and our skin is translucent, our soul, what the ancient Jews would call “Nephesh,” can be heard whispering its steadiness and truth.

More eternal than the broken bones and pain of bruises, my nephesh simply says, “Yes, He is worth it. His Kingdom is worth it. Greater than your past and past your future, It is worth it.” Like strings on a sitar, my nephesh resonates when it hears the vibrations of grace. It quells my shaking bones long enough for the flesh to ponder an existence beyond itself, beyond the idolatry of its own hands and mind, beyond the myopic dreams turned sour… long enough to hope that deep in my marrow, I will one day know the truth my nephesh claims.

It will innervate my tissue, forcing out the angry red poison I have known all my life. Flowing through my veins, redeeming all it gives breath to, it will not heed the threat of pain. No longer will my passions be crooked or my heart be broke. No longer will the oscillating waves throb behind my eyes or pummel my mind… my flesh and bone will be moved by the depths of what my nephesh knows. My soul and flesh and skin will align and be an unruly mustang no longer, but with its head bowed low, carry the Lord like humility once did.

Innocuously Insidious

It seems innocuous enough, even laudably romantic, to say that despite others’ opinions, one sees glimpses of some greater beauty in another person. It would make (and probably has made) the skeleton plot of many movies… the person who is patient and suffers all sorts of abuse in the process of bringing out that greater character in the other. After all their hard work and persistence, their faith, hope, love, and an undying belief in never giving up, the other character’s true selves are able to flourish, and everything ends happily ever after.

Such stories make us sigh wistfully, echoing within us the hopes that perseverance pays off, that ugliness succumbs to beauty, that pain will be redeemed, and that love conquers all. Each of those things, in their purest forms, are true in their deepest sense and can be found at the core of our Christian story. Those things are true of our Father and displayed in his son. Even today, we catch reaffirmations of them through his spirit in our lives.

But I wonder what happens when each of those good truths are slightly distorted as we place ourselves at the center of those statements. We try to become the ones who redeem pain. We try to conquer all with our version of love. We want to be the ones to bring out the beauty in others, whether or not it is our rightful place to do so. All the while, we see the entire situation with our convoluted and cracked lenses. We tell ourselves that we are living the Gospel story, loving our neighbors as ourselves, when in fact it is our neediness, brokenness and emptiness that is trying to play God. We want to be the beneficiaries of our own “unconditional” love. We want to be the redeemers of our own pain that we created, and the one who plants, waters, grows and reaps seeds in the lives of others. It is not the Lord’s work in their lives that we are after, but *our* version of the Lord’s work according to *our* ideas of who we want them to be, which inevitably revolve around ourselves. It is our own corruption reading itself into a narrative that desires to be true.

So in the end, though it seems innocuous, we may be playing into the most insidious of sins by stringing together our distorted version of those truths. Namely, we cast ourselves as the role of God, even as we attempt to “love.” Sometime ago, in speaking of relationships, Bonhoeffer says that Christ must mediate our relationships. If Christ bids us to speak or act in love, we speak or act. If Christ bids us to stay silent and still, we rest and hold our tongues. If he calls us to greet and embrace, we do so in his name. But he may also call us to bid adieu and depart, and that too is in his name. Therefore, tenacity and persistence are only values so long as they are in Christ and his will. Love through actions is only God’s love so long as he calls for it. Since in him, there is a season for everything, and love in obedience, even if it is in silence, is far truer to his purposes than a seemingly innocuous romantic story.

Red Ink Black Ink

Don’t you sometimes wish that you could balance memories like a checkbook? Red ink and black ink, positives and negatives. For every crappy one you have, a positive one of equal strength would cancel it out, putting you at a net of 0. Having a bad day? No worries, go make some good memories with friends and cash them in. Plan on having a rough year? Stash the laughs up now, or dig yourself out later. But instead of being equal parts of sour vs. sweet, we weigh lead against helium and blow our hot air in hopes that we live more than a zero sum game. Instead, we are left with the full spectrum of our broken selves and our strange functioning 3lb glob of neural connections, keen to fire at the most innocuous of triggers, resigned to survive on a word that simply says, "This way that it is, it is good."

So it is, the difference between what we wish and what is real… trusting, praying, hoping that Grace is a reality redeeming the red, ceasing our striving, granting us reprieve, and putting us over the top.

Chitown

When I left on my four wheels
across interstates and
demarcations of time
you begged for rest like
a child denied
his dreams painted upon his mind
by green summer afternoons
on his back picking clouds
Now
facedown
upon a sponge of transference
materializations of hopes deferred
But rest,
as wakefulness was no friend
unkind to hope
inhospitable in youth
Sleep because you must
through this déjà vu
and ponder what might be made new
when
you rub the sand from your dry eyes.

Visceral Grace

We live by bold statements. We try to take lessons from the mouth of Jesus and the pens of prophets, and graft them onto ourselves. Our grafts try to bring peace, they try to move in love, they try to speak words of truth. We make grand gestures with our arms and try to embrace those who have been cut by misplaced touch. But every once in a while, if we are keen to those tumultuous unspoken currents that pulse within us, they sometimes spill out and reveal that no matter how many branches and leaves we tape to our bodies, a slab of cold granite is incapable of accepting grafts. The fear that wells up from prejudices we deny, the anger that blinds from wrongs we have forgiven, the bitterness that should have gone with the times…we are no tree of life.

I believe visceral reactions often reveal truths we bury under layers of ideals we deceive ourselves into believing. Before those well-rehearsed truths are able to do damage control, our beating hearts and short breath betray another reality, one that says anger is lurking outside our door, that our fear merely wears masks, and that bitterness is no lover of God or men.

Years ago in high school, I listened to a speaker talk about “bitter root syndrome,” as he spoke out of Hebrews 12:14-15. The verses say, “Make every effort to live in peace with everyone and to be holy; without holiness no one will see the Lord. See to it that no one falls short of the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.” He warned strongly about the potential for bitterness to dig its tendrils deep into our being, tainting our thoughts and actions, and warring against our call to be the new creations that we are. Living at peace is intrinsically connected to holiness, and holiness to seeing the Lord. This bitter root, this growing poison chokes not only our own love and holiness, but according to Hebrews, it threatens to cast its curse upon others as well.

I’m not certain what it means to possibly “fall short of the grace of God.” But I assume that it means somehow granting grace by living up to that same grace given to us, in line with, “Forgive us our trespasses AS WE forgive those who trespass against us.” The granting of grace or forgiveness does not require bilateral reciprocation, since we were redeemed unilaterally, while we were still sinners. Plastering ourselves with Christian truisms does not necessitate transformation. Somewhere deep inside, where tangled roots of bitterness innervate our visceral reactions, this is where grace weeds out anger and fear. What controls us is our idol. What dictates our steps, thoughts, words, who or what we avoid and embrace… this is what we worship.

I do not serve a god that succumbs to fear or bitterness. Anger has no permanent address here. I serve a Lord who prayed with grace, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

A Rejection of Focus on the Family's "Letter from 2012"

I recently started a Facebook group to protest Focus on the Family's "Letter from 2012." The link can be found here: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=30055124462&ref=mf

This is what the group info says:

Focus on the Family Action recently put out a hypothetical letter that outlined what America would look like from the perspective of a Christian looking back on an Obama presidency from 2012. The letter starts off by saying, “Many Christians voted for Obama – Younger evangelicals actually provided him with the needed margin to defeat John McCain – but they didn’t think he would really follow through on the far-Left policies that had marked his career. They were wrong.” Here are just some of their scenarios Focus on the Family paints for us:

- The Supreme court leans liberal, 6 to 3.
- Terrorist attacks have occurred in 4 US cities.
- Christian doctors, nurses, counselors, and teachers have either been fired or quit.
- Iran perpetrated a nuclear attack on Israel, drastically reducing the size of is borders.
- Pornography is freely displayed.
- Inner city violent crime has dramatically increased due to gun control.
- Russia has occupied 4 additional countries.
- Gas tops $7 a gallon.
- Euthanasia becomes commonplace.
- Blackouts occur throughout the country.
- Homosexual marriage becomes law in all 50 states.
- Campus ministries, Christian adoption agencies and Christian schools nearly cease to exist.
- Home school families emigrate to Australia and New Zealand by the thousands.
- Bush officials are jailed and bankrupt.
- Taliban oppression overtakes Iraq and death of American sympathizers reaches millions.
- Homosexuals are given a bonus to enlist in the military.

As you can see, Focus on the Family has abandoned all reasonable appeals and resorted to shameless tactics of fear mongering. They have abandoned the belief that voters can make informed decisions and have instead appealed to fear as their fundamental motivator.

As Christians, we stand appalled and ashamed at such tasteless demagoguery. We believe that civil, educated, and compassionate dialogue should and can occur with the active engagement of our faith, but believe that Focus on the Family Action has, in this letter, stepped far outside of reasonable boundaries into pure sensationalism. We believe that such thoughtless expressions coming from an organization that purports to represent Evangelicals continues to mar our legitimacy and voice in the public arena, and damages our basic Christian witness.

Please let Focus on the Family know your thoughts by contacting them through email at citizenlink@family.org.

The original letter can be found here:

http://focusfamaction.edgeboss.net/download/focusfamaction/pdfs/10-22-08_2012letter.pdf

Please encourage your friends to contact Focus on the Family and to join this group.

Release

When it is a prayer we speak to
grant reprieve, we are instead
granted sleep to ease the pull,
a constant stress upon the cords holding
what is
and what is not yet.
Grant instead
a distaste for opiates, cheapness, and
the quiet waiting that walks what is
toward the glaring silence of
what is not yet.

A Penny For Your Thoughts: Everything Must Change

I have just finished the book “Everything Must Change: Jesus, Global Crisis, and a Revolution of Hope” by Brian McLaren. I wish to hear thoughts from those of you who have read the book, but mostly challenges and critiques. However, before I do that, I want to state as honestly as I can the assumptions and biases from which I speak.

I do not function from a position of a socially conservative Evangelical. I fully affirm the ancient creeds about the Trinity, the work of Christ, and hold Scripture to be the word of God. However, I am unapologetically affected by post-modernity and its critiques of old dominating meta-narratives and its recognition of modernist arrogance. In the same vein, I hold loosely the exclusivity and absolutism of the specific strain of Protestantism of which I am a part. I want to recognize the development of theology and thinking in light of a given historical context. As cultural creations, I do not believe that people can view truth objectively, even though Truth exists in the person of Jesus Christ. We look through a glass darkly and await the day we will see clearly, face to face. Given such assumptions, I desire to view my own tradition with humility, knowing that it was not shaped in a vacuum nor bestowed in a pure untainted form from on high. In the same breath, I seek to listen to the voices of those from other Christian traditions with the belief that God is not a tribal God. I am inclined to give a hearing to women and non-Western traditions, because God is not a white Protestant male. I desire to listen to the voices of the poor and oppressed, to see how the Gospel manifests itself among those who do not have money and power behind their words, because these are people God favors. I believe that left unchecked, our cultural waters have and will continue to inform our understanding of our faith more than our faith will change us. I believe in listening to those of different faiths or non-faiths, because God can use whomever he chooses to give a clearer perspective of his realities.

With that said, “Everything Must Change” is built upon the work of post-modernity’s understanding of dominating meta-narratives, a la Foucault. McLaren first establishes and names the narratives that our culture lives by, and then proceeds to discuss why such narratives are fundamentally dysfunctional, referring to people as disparate as Rene Padilla, Jim Wallis, Philip Jenkins, Wendell Berry, Cornel West and our own Dr. Bruce Benson. He then appeals to the scholarship of people like N.T. Wright and Dominic Crossan in the understanding of a Historical Jesus and how the historical Jesus spoke to the dominant (and equally corrupt) narratives of his day. McLaren draws a parallel between what Jesus said and did in the 1st century and what we he says to our global context today. He uses people like MLK, Pope John Paul II, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela to illustrate the true power of what happens when Christians undermine faulty narratives with the [reconstructed] Christian one. He doesn’t hesitate to critique the religious structures in their perpetuation of the fallen narratives, and challenges the church to reform itself according to Jesus’ narrative, one that truly subverts the massive powers and principalities at work in the world.

I appreciate McLaren’s willingness to listen to many different voices. Undoubtedly, his association with liberation theologians, left-leaning Evangelicals, economists critical of globalization, Christian pacifists/tree hugging poets and the simple mention of "post-modernity" will turn off a more conservative reader. However, as I’ve stated from the outset, such things do not count against him in my eyes.

I ask for a critique because I am predisposed to accepting what McLaren says. This book was referred to me by a man I respect, its contents contain authors, theologians and philosophers that I tend to agree with, and even the book’s specific contents aren’t so much an exposure to new ideas as it is a clarification, connection, or reframing of certain ideas I’m already open to. I appreciate a good deconstruction and am interested to hear if anyone has other thoughts.

Ivy and Ivory Towers

Driving from Linwood, NJ to Princeton, NJ was like driving from the sprawling utilitarianism of suburban American wastelands into some transplanted European town in the midst of shedding its green and revealing its glory. Narrow streets intended for horses were paved over and forced to accommodate cars, but tall white columns in front of colonial homes still guard olde money. If it weren’t for the college students in Uggs, I would swear the campus ivy screamed London.

As I marveled at massive theological tomes housed in old European architecture, I joked with my friend who attends Princeton Theological Seminary that it felt far removed from the rest of the America, and his response was simply, “Just like the oasis of Wheaton.” It’s isolated quaintness, streets lined with gnarled trees in gold and red, and Asian families with cameras vicariously dreaming for their children belied the fact that it was a mere 10 miles from one of the most dangerous cities in the country (Trenton). Meandering its streets, I did not feel the dirty grit of reality.

I have no doubt about the importance of theological studies. If I were made of sterner stuff, I would have contemplated it as possible steppingstone in life. I pondered at certain moments what my Chinese grandmother would think walking through these streets, a women who has lived her entire life in the tumultuous country of her birth, from one historical desolation to another. She would have found it incomprehensible that such a beautiful and entirely different place existed on the same earth she knew. And yet, here it stands, buildings and streets that were built to facilitate theological and academic pursuits, intended from its foundation to be a place where those who knew God intimately would be sent out to shepherd flocks and lead the country.

Is theology, or the pursuit thereof grounded in reality? Perhaps I shouldn’t draw such a line. Some would undoubtedly say that pursuing theology *is* pursuing reality. I would like to hope that such a notion is true, that theology is indeed the attempt at understanding the workings of God in a world of brokenness. However, I can’t help but to think of the books housed in one of the greatest theological libraries outside of Oxford and wonder how this entire town, swarming at every coffee shop, bar and corner with intelligentsia, an antithesis of what the rest of the world experiences, can possibly say to suffering, hungry and struggling people in the midst of wars, disease, and death.

I wonder, though not in a condemnatory way, why the study of God and reality seems, by most appearances, so insulated from it.

In no way am I disparaging academic pursuits of God through theological studies. However, I am wary of the simple pursuit of theology. The former (as I understand it), is an attempt to better love the Lord. The countless hours and late nights of classes, readings and writings will multiply into true bread for the hungry. It seeks to better understand the heart of the Lord, and how to love what He loves. It is a means to His ends. He is the end. But the pursuit of theology for the sake of itself seems to be as useful to the world as an unread thesis gathering dust underneath the basement shelves of a converted anachronistic cathedral in a beautiful isolated town of New Jersey. I wonder how many brilliant minds throughout history have settled for the fiddling of words.

For my friends in various seminaries and ivory tower institutions around the country, I pray that all those days behind Greek and Hebrew books, systematic, philosophical and historical theology classes, all the homiletics and exegesis practices will indeed bring you to love the Lord more, and draw you to the ghettos of this earth like Trenton, 10 miles away from the insulated comforts of Princeton. And if I ever get there to join y’all, call me down to earth once in a while.

A Thought Exercise: Race and Evangelical Politics

I'm curious. I really am. I wonder what the conservatives (and especially Christian ones) would say if Obama was the one who had left his first wife after she got into a car accident and became handicapped, cheated with other women while still married, and then married a rich young heiress. I bet they wouldn't be silent about it, that's for sure.

I'm also curious what the conservatives would say if it was Obama who had a pregnant teenage daughter. I wouldn't be surprised to hear Focus on the Family talking about how he has no family morals and no control over his children, and why he has any right being president of the United States if he can't manage his own household.

Now, at the end of the day, we will never know for sure what would happen if that were the case. This is why it's a hypothetical exercise. However, I don't think it would be a stretch to say that somewhere in there, Obama would find himself having to defend his entire race for his actions (which McCain certainly doesn't have to do even if people pointed out the outrageous inconsistency of values voters supporting him). Somewhere in there, I wouldn't be surprised if the stereotype of promiscuous black women was subtly hinted at, or the unfaithful black male was conjured to attack him.

Sadly, I have a hard time believing that the voice-boxes of Evangelical righteousness would say, "Oh, everyone sins. Let's stop attacking his family and history! God has forgiven them. Who are we to cast the first stone?" I could be wrong, but my mind has a hard time imagining that as a possibility.

Under My Umbrella [ella ella]

under an uncertain street light
amber in its glare
do not cower from the rain
for its threats against your being
are moot.
upon bare flesh it refreshes
jogs a memory of life alive
and umbrellas serve only to impinge
upon the improbable knowledge of
an unceasing current like
a wet static upon the skin from
an impregnable dark.
unlikely reminders that we are more
than the sum of our weight
in minerals.

do not cower from the rain or
the silence dripping through your bones.
far too long is spent being
far too dry.

There should be a rule that says for every one thing that you deconstruct, critique, challenge, or destroy, another thing should be planted, built, created, or cherished.

If passion is always negative and discouraging, it will certainly leave us with ulcers.