So obviously I am in a season of random blogging at best. No rhyme, no reason, only when I feel like it. I suppose that's not too different than what I normally do, only I seemed to be much more consistent. Not sure if that's a good thing or not.
Pet peeve of the week - saw another national ad using the word less when it should be fewer. I know, less is more punchy and to the point. It's also wrong. No wonder our country can't speak its own tongue.
Social faux pas of the week: so our housechurch combined with the Rogers housechurch for some fellowship and so we could try to take care of some of the brush in my back yard by burning it in a fire barrel. All went well for about an hour, when my neighbor came out and complained that the fire was too close to his house and he'd be happy to call the fire department and let them know we were illegally burning stuff. So, being the non-confrontational person I am, I grabbed a bucket of water and threw it on the fire and called an end to it. I'm sure Steve was right and that I wasn't doing anything wrong, but why antagonize neighbors who probably don't like me anyway? It's times like these I wonder if I'm made to live in a neighborhood. You know, around other people.
Over halfway through Lent - I gave up chocolate (as usual) and TV, which is not at all usual. Haven't really missed it much, though trying to catch up on it all on Sundays doesn't always work. The problem is, I haven't found a constructive way to fill the time. Not sure I could say what I have done - probably more time online. The goal was to remove distractions, which I did, but don't feel I've redeemed the time so to speak. Sure, I've read more, but wonder if I should do more. Geesh, guilt-ridden much?
So last week for artwalk I spent some time in the Surrealism exhibit. If you're in the Cincy area, I highly, highly recommend it. Great stuff from the Jerusalem museum in its only North American appearance. Here are some random thoughts I had, both last week and on Saturday:
Unlike much of what passes for modern art, surrealism I get - the physical expression of the unconscious. Like dreams, we often cannot explain them, but they are felt and experienced all the same. Reason takes a back seat and we bypass the logical and see how it feels. We find within that which we can almost identify, but it slips through our fingers as soon as we try to grasp it. The familiar shifts to the left and suddenly what we thought we knew is something new altogether. Lines blur or disappear or become impossibly thick, breaking boundaries, opening us up to a new way of seeing. The colours seem brighter, more real than the muted ones we see in real life. Like our dreams, these images lie closer to the truth than our rational minds can grasp. These images force us to stare - with nothing solid to hold on to, our eyes try to make sense of what they see, but as soon as we think it makes sense, it slides and shifts, leaving only impressions, not knowledge.
Later...
These images, like half-remembered dreams captured on canvas - they remind me of moments thought forgotten. I do not understand the image, yet I connect with it. You do not explain these - you experience them. Like God, they resist category, resist examination. They are and we find ourselves examined by them. And whatever they elicit from us speaks more of who we are than of what they are.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Pomegranates - This Land Used To Be My Land, But Now I Hate This Land
via FoxyTunes
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
a parable
All his life, James wanted to be a writer, though he forgot the moment he fell in love with writing. It seemed pen and paper surrounded him most of his life. But he vividly remembered the first time he let anyone read his writing. He was ten years old, in the semi-darkness of his neighbor Suzy’s shed. He watched her face anxiously as she mouthed his words. What she would think? Would she like them? Her eyes caught his, then looked down. “It’s nice. Want to get some ice cream?”
He didn’t share his writing much after that.
Not that he stopped writing. He spent hours furiously scribbling in notebooks, on scraps of paper, wherever he could find a waiting surface. And often he imagined sharing these words. But he remembered the look in Suzy’s eyes and feared to see it again.
But as junior high passed and high school came, his confidence grew. One summer night, he’d almost shown one of his sonnets to a lovely girl in the backseat of a Camaro. But cowardice won out and by the time he found the courage again, she found her way to someone else’s backseat. Eventually, though, the stars aligned and he presented his good friend Anna one of his notebooks. And this time, the look he saw in her eyes as she read left him hopeful. She actually seemed to like them. Finally, joy! But after a while, James got nervous leaving his writing in someone else’s hands, even hands that seemed to like his words. So with many tears, he asked for their return. And, realizing his mistake, spent the next year trying to give them back. But the moment had passed.
Despairing, he talked to older, wiser friends who offered him encouragement, telling him to be patient, that now was not his time. Wait for college, they’d say. There you’ll flourish. There you’ll find yourself published. Then all those who rejected your words will realize what they missed and wish they hadn’t squandered their opportunity. James brightened up and eventually packed up all his notebooks and headed off to college with hope in his heart.
Over the next several years, James gave his writing away to waiting eyes, ever hopeful that this would be the one. But the one never seemed to materialize. Sometimes they returned the notebooks, unopened. Sometimes they enjoyed them for a while, but then got bored and gave them back. Sometimes they found someone else’s writing more appealing. He heard a myriad of excuses, but soon they all began to sound the same: “Your poems and stories, they’re nice enough, but…I was hoping for something more.”
James couldn’t understand – all around him, others were finding readers that understood their writing, even writers he felt weren’t nearly as gifted as he was. How was it so easy for some to share, to find readers that got them? How were they getting published when he could barely get anyone to look at his manuscripts? Why couldn’t he find connection with someone? Why didn’t others love his stories, his poems, his musings?
After years of struggling, holding on to hope, James found himself one night reading through his notebooks. As his eyes crept across the pages, it became all too clear, so clear he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. Maybe the problem didn’t lie in finding someone to like his writing. Maybe the problem lay in the writing itself. He’d always been told he was a good writer, that someday it would happen, someday he would get published. But sitting there by the light of a single candle, the truth became apparent: he wasn’t much of a writer. And he never would be. It made sense: if he had any ability or talent, it would have happened by now. Not everyone is born with the gift and better to realize this now and find what his gift was than trying to be something he could never be.
Without a word, he gathered up his notebooks, his pens, his pencils and shoved them into a box. He made his way down the basement stairs and placed them on a shelf next to some old clothes he kept meaning to take to Goodwill. With a final sigh, he walked back up the stairs, wondering what waited for him now, the box abandoned to the darkness. Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Hold Steady - Lord, I'm Discouraged
via FoxyTunes
He didn’t share his writing much after that.
Not that he stopped writing. He spent hours furiously scribbling in notebooks, on scraps of paper, wherever he could find a waiting surface. And often he imagined sharing these words. But he remembered the look in Suzy’s eyes and feared to see it again.
But as junior high passed and high school came, his confidence grew. One summer night, he’d almost shown one of his sonnets to a lovely girl in the backseat of a Camaro. But cowardice won out and by the time he found the courage again, she found her way to someone else’s backseat. Eventually, though, the stars aligned and he presented his good friend Anna one of his notebooks. And this time, the look he saw in her eyes as she read left him hopeful. She actually seemed to like them. Finally, joy! But after a while, James got nervous leaving his writing in someone else’s hands, even hands that seemed to like his words. So with many tears, he asked for their return. And, realizing his mistake, spent the next year trying to give them back. But the moment had passed.
Despairing, he talked to older, wiser friends who offered him encouragement, telling him to be patient, that now was not his time. Wait for college, they’d say. There you’ll flourish. There you’ll find yourself published. Then all those who rejected your words will realize what they missed and wish they hadn’t squandered their opportunity. James brightened up and eventually packed up all his notebooks and headed off to college with hope in his heart.
Over the next several years, James gave his writing away to waiting eyes, ever hopeful that this would be the one. But the one never seemed to materialize. Sometimes they returned the notebooks, unopened. Sometimes they enjoyed them for a while, but then got bored and gave them back. Sometimes they found someone else’s writing more appealing. He heard a myriad of excuses, but soon they all began to sound the same: “Your poems and stories, they’re nice enough, but…I was hoping for something more.”
James couldn’t understand – all around him, others were finding readers that understood their writing, even writers he felt weren’t nearly as gifted as he was. How was it so easy for some to share, to find readers that got them? How were they getting published when he could barely get anyone to look at his manuscripts? Why couldn’t he find connection with someone? Why didn’t others love his stories, his poems, his musings?
After years of struggling, holding on to hope, James found himself one night reading through his notebooks. As his eyes crept across the pages, it became all too clear, so clear he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. Maybe the problem didn’t lie in finding someone to like his writing. Maybe the problem lay in the writing itself. He’d always been told he was a good writer, that someday it would happen, someday he would get published. But sitting there by the light of a single candle, the truth became apparent: he wasn’t much of a writer. And he never would be. It made sense: if he had any ability or talent, it would have happened by now. Not everyone is born with the gift and better to realize this now and find what his gift was than trying to be something he could never be.
Without a word, he gathered up his notebooks, his pens, his pencils and shoved them into a box. He made his way down the basement stairs and placed them on a shelf next to some old clothes he kept meaning to take to Goodwill. With a final sigh, he walked back up the stairs, wondering what waited for him now, the box abandoned to the darkness. Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Hold Steady - Lord, I'm Discouraged
via FoxyTunes
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
not so easy
I thought I would easily get back into the swing of blogging again, but I seem to have hit a wall of some sort. Every time I sit down to write, it all seems so trivial and unimportant. Why bother putting drivel out there. There's plenty of it to go around nowadays. But if I wait until I'm "inspired," who knows when I'll post again.
And honestly, is anyone out there interested in a blow by blow recounting of the trials and joys of my days? Surely I've been absent long enough that those who were using this blog as a means of keeping in touch with my life have moved on. And what kind of picture are they getting of my life anyway when I mostly use this space to bitch and moan? Not a complete picture at the very least.
Maybe it's time to put an end to this season of my life. I have found other ways to get my writing fix, other places to rant and rave. It was nice to scream into the void for a while, but maybe I'm in a different place now. Or maybe I was always in this place, only I didn't realize it. Or maybe I'm just in one of my moods and should shut up.
My lent so far has not been as focused as I had hoped. Giving up TV has left me with a lot more miscellaneous time on my hands, which I've been filling with reading and a little writing. But am I doing what I'd planned, which is actually finding/seeing God's face? Or am I simply filling the space left by one distraction with another? I do find myself doing a lot more thinking lately, which isn't always a good thing. I end up chasing my tail and convincing myself of things that aren't necessarily true.
Sunday night at Thinplace we looked at the Transfiguration and I journalled about what it is that terrifies me and I came up with a long list. Actually, it terrified me just how terrified I am. Not the fears we usually talk about - spiders, snakes, heights. These are ones I've been wrestling with for quite a while, ones I've not seen go away. And after I had written them down, I realized I had no one I could - or would - share them with.
Which makes me a little sad.
Look, maybe it's the season of life. Maybe all this is fairly normal, though I sense not much about my life could be considered normal. Maybe this too will pass. But what if it doesn't? What if this isn't a phase but is simply the next part of life and I need to stop hoping it will change and get used to dealing with what it is? Perhaps at this point it's too late to keep hoping each day will be different and realize my energy is better spent making the best of each day.
Which makes me a little sad. Æ
----------------
Now playing: Soul Coughing - Screenwriter's Blues
via FoxyTunes
And honestly, is anyone out there interested in a blow by blow recounting of the trials and joys of my days? Surely I've been absent long enough that those who were using this blog as a means of keeping in touch with my life have moved on. And what kind of picture are they getting of my life anyway when I mostly use this space to bitch and moan? Not a complete picture at the very least.
Maybe it's time to put an end to this season of my life. I have found other ways to get my writing fix, other places to rant and rave. It was nice to scream into the void for a while, but maybe I'm in a different place now. Or maybe I was always in this place, only I didn't realize it. Or maybe I'm just in one of my moods and should shut up.
My lent so far has not been as focused as I had hoped. Giving up TV has left me with a lot more miscellaneous time on my hands, which I've been filling with reading and a little writing. But am I doing what I'd planned, which is actually finding/seeing God's face? Or am I simply filling the space left by one distraction with another? I do find myself doing a lot more thinking lately, which isn't always a good thing. I end up chasing my tail and convincing myself of things that aren't necessarily true.
Sunday night at Thinplace we looked at the Transfiguration and I journalled about what it is that terrifies me and I came up with a long list. Actually, it terrified me just how terrified I am. Not the fears we usually talk about - spiders, snakes, heights. These are ones I've been wrestling with for quite a while, ones I've not seen go away. And after I had written them down, I realized I had no one I could - or would - share them with.
Which makes me a little sad.
Look, maybe it's the season of life. Maybe all this is fairly normal, though I sense not much about my life could be considered normal. Maybe this too will pass. But what if it doesn't? What if this isn't a phase but is simply the next part of life and I need to stop hoping it will change and get used to dealing with what it is? Perhaps at this point it's too late to keep hoping each day will be different and realize my energy is better spent making the best of each day.
Which makes me a little sad. Æ
----------------
Now playing: Soul Coughing - Screenwriter's Blues
via FoxyTunes
Saturday, February 28, 2009
not intending to tease
So much for aspirations of writing every day of Lent. Blame end the end of the trimester. And being in a show. And simple a growing tendency to become easily distracted.
Last night was our third show. We're almost halfway through now. The performance felt the tiniest bit off, though I don't know if that means my perception was off or if we were off. I know I caught myself anticipating lines and actions last night, spoiling my performance. Hopefully not enough that anyone else noticed, though most likely if they did, it was an unconscious awareness. Will need to focus tonight to make sure it doesn't happen again.
Lots of friends and family in the audience last night - my parents; the Ball's; Russ, an old friend from college I haven't seen in about 20 years; Angela, Izaac and Sophie; one of my students and his mom. I came out after the show to chat, but kept getting distracted. Like I said, it all felt a little off. Combined with the usual post-show buzz, I probably came across as rude and uncaring. 'Twas not my intention, but I couldn't seem to track anything. Mea culpa.
Nothing officially planned for the day - I've started some much-needed laundry and need to sit down and finally gather all my tax materials together. No grading today - Saturday is my sabbath from all things school, even when I have piles still to go like I do. One day a week seems reasonable. I was going to try and grade last night during the show, but that didn't happen, which is probably good for all involved. The last thing you want is a distracted teacher grading your essays.
Maybe it's the greyness of the day, but my daily life seems to lack the lustre you'd want if you're going to share it with the world. Events of the past several days, weeks, run through my head, but none seem interesting enough to share. Or they seem self-indulgent (yes, I know the whole idea of a blog is in itself self-indulgent, but you know what I mean). This is what kept me away for so long. Nothing worse than having your own mundaneness and selfishness confirmed in public. And I don't dare open the door to my thoughts because I don't understand them most of the time and can't imagine what they would look like to outsiders.
Maybe I'm beginning to lose my mind.
Gee, aren't you glad you decided to check back in and see if I was writing? Time to stop.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Dust Brothers - This Is Your Life
via FoxyTunes
Last night was our third show. We're almost halfway through now. The performance felt the tiniest bit off, though I don't know if that means my perception was off or if we were off. I know I caught myself anticipating lines and actions last night, spoiling my performance. Hopefully not enough that anyone else noticed, though most likely if they did, it was an unconscious awareness. Will need to focus tonight to make sure it doesn't happen again.
Lots of friends and family in the audience last night - my parents; the Ball's; Russ, an old friend from college I haven't seen in about 20 years; Angela, Izaac and Sophie; one of my students and his mom. I came out after the show to chat, but kept getting distracted. Like I said, it all felt a little off. Combined with the usual post-show buzz, I probably came across as rude and uncaring. 'Twas not my intention, but I couldn't seem to track anything. Mea culpa.
Nothing officially planned for the day - I've started some much-needed laundry and need to sit down and finally gather all my tax materials together. No grading today - Saturday is my sabbath from all things school, even when I have piles still to go like I do. One day a week seems reasonable. I was going to try and grade last night during the show, but that didn't happen, which is probably good for all involved. The last thing you want is a distracted teacher grading your essays.
Maybe it's the greyness of the day, but my daily life seems to lack the lustre you'd want if you're going to share it with the world. Events of the past several days, weeks, run through my head, but none seem interesting enough to share. Or they seem self-indulgent (yes, I know the whole idea of a blog is in itself self-indulgent, but you know what I mean). This is what kept me away for so long. Nothing worse than having your own mundaneness and selfishness confirmed in public. And I don't dare open the door to my thoughts because I don't understand them most of the time and can't imagine what they would look like to outsiders.
Maybe I'm beginning to lose my mind.
Gee, aren't you glad you decided to check back in and see if I was writing? Time to stop.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Dust Brothers - This Is Your Life
via FoxyTunes
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
what I've left undone
We start with a confession - forgive me, for I have sinned. It's been 56 days since my last post. This was an unintentional sabbatical. No forethought, it simply turned out this way. For some reason, my thoughts didn't feel worth posting. I know, I know, it's never stopped me before. But it did this time.
I'm not sure I have anything of significance to share tonight, either, but it's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I thought I throw a handful of my thoughts at the screen and see what didn't disappear into the void.
At Thinplace Sunday night, this phrase from Psalm 27:11 jumped out at me: "Seek my face." This is what I wrote about it at the time:
I imagine the scene - waiting at the airport terminal (heh - I wrote "terminable" originally), anxiously scanning the crowd as they come out the door, looking for the one we love. The crowd is filled with a myriad of faces, ones we could easily fall in love with or in lust with, faces whose eyes tell stories we long to hear. But not today. Today we long to see our beloved's face, the one whose absence has caused an ache deep within us. And oh the joy when we find them! Our entire demeanor transforms, our breath shortens and with a fierce determination, we begin pushing through the crowd. And then they see us and we see our own adoration reflected in their expression as they too begin to move toward us, oblivious to the many many bodies between us, intent only to find ourselves in one another's embrace. And there, arms wrapped around each other, we trace the contours of our beloved's face with our eyes, hoping to burn this memory into our consciousness forever. Like Peter on the mountain top, we proclaim it is good to be here. But like him we cannot stay, we must leave, hand in hand with our beloved.
When you're in love, every other face dims before the beloved. We stare at the brightness of their face and discover just how shabby everything else appears. The beloved is transfigured and we will never look at the or the rest of the world the same way.
This is my prayer for this season of Lent, that by seeking His face, I will be unable to see the world quite the same. I've begun by seeking to remove distractions from my life, those other "faces" that threaten to pull my focus away. No TV this year, which should give me more time to write down my thoughts here. But it's more than getting rid of distractions. I was reminded Sunday night and again tonight with the reading of Isaiah 58, that part of seeking His face means finding His face in the face of those who hungry, those who are thirsty, those who are naked, those who are imprisoned, those who are oppressed. Only when love is turned outward can it truly light up the darkness. Only then can we fall into the arms of the beloved.
I have miles to go on this Lenten journey. And I know it will not be easy. But I also know it will be worth it. Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Orchard of My Eye
via FoxyTunes
I'm not sure I have anything of significance to share tonight, either, but it's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I thought I throw a handful of my thoughts at the screen and see what didn't disappear into the void.
At Thinplace Sunday night, this phrase from Psalm 27:11 jumped out at me: "Seek my face." This is what I wrote about it at the time:
I imagine the scene - waiting at the airport terminal (heh - I wrote "terminable" originally), anxiously scanning the crowd as they come out the door, looking for the one we love. The crowd is filled with a myriad of faces, ones we could easily fall in love with or in lust with, faces whose eyes tell stories we long to hear. But not today. Today we long to see our beloved's face, the one whose absence has caused an ache deep within us. And oh the joy when we find them! Our entire demeanor transforms, our breath shortens and with a fierce determination, we begin pushing through the crowd. And then they see us and we see our own adoration reflected in their expression as they too begin to move toward us, oblivious to the many many bodies between us, intent only to find ourselves in one another's embrace. And there, arms wrapped around each other, we trace the contours of our beloved's face with our eyes, hoping to burn this memory into our consciousness forever. Like Peter on the mountain top, we proclaim it is good to be here. But like him we cannot stay, we must leave, hand in hand with our beloved.
When you're in love, every other face dims before the beloved. We stare at the brightness of their face and discover just how shabby everything else appears. The beloved is transfigured and we will never look at the or the rest of the world the same way.
This is my prayer for this season of Lent, that by seeking His face, I will be unable to see the world quite the same. I've begun by seeking to remove distractions from my life, those other "faces" that threaten to pull my focus away. No TV this year, which should give me more time to write down my thoughts here. But it's more than getting rid of distractions. I was reminded Sunday night and again tonight with the reading of Isaiah 58, that part of seeking His face means finding His face in the face of those who hungry, those who are thirsty, those who are naked, those who are imprisoned, those who are oppressed. Only when love is turned outward can it truly light up the darkness. Only then can we fall into the arms of the beloved.
I have miles to go on this Lenten journey. And I know it will not be easy. But I also know it will be worth it. Æ
----------------
Now playing: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Orchard of My Eye
via FoxyTunes
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmas Eve musings
Not sure how much musing will actually go on, but it is Christmas Eve and I am actually sitting down to type up something similar to musings. Probably won't provoke too many thoughts - not even provoking my own thoughts at the moment. But it seems like I ought to at least say something...
Ought. There's a word that's been haunting me lately.
Not feeling much like Christmas today. Rain and miserably warm temperatures definitely part of that. Didn't help that my scheduled trip to heaven turned out less than ideal. To quote a wise man from the north, "My head looks like something Picasso painted." I know it's the day before Christmas and all, but did you not hear me when I said, "Please leave the front longer?" Too busy worried about getting to the myriad of Christmas Eve events planned for after work I guess. I know. Hair grows. There are far worse problems. But my hair has never been this short. Never. A friend of mine broke into laughter upon seeing me. I don't blame them. At least I'll bring a little joy to people's lives this Christmas.
A friend (not the one who laughed at me) has been feeling a bit blue this Christmas and asked how I fought the blues. And I realized I don't fight them. Takes too much energy and you end up feeling worse. Better to give in and become friends with them, take them down to the local pub and buy them a drink or invite them over to watch some sad movie or sit in the dark and listen to some melancholy music. Love your enemies, the Bible says and I find myself doing that, befriending the blues. Not sure it works for everyone, but it works for me (though I'm sure some would say it doesn't work so well...).
If it hasn't become obvious yet, been a fairly low-key Christmas break so far. Started off well - three Over the Rhine shows, a fairly clean house full of guests, good times spent with friends, Christmas tree finally up. Still, been struggling with my usual nemesis this time of year - to quote the poet, "The worst kind of lonely/Is alone in December." All the gatherings, the concerts, the parties, the services, reminded me how much my heart longs to share them with someone. Not to sell my friends short, which I probably am (and for that I'm sorry), but sometimes you long for a hand to hold, to make the darkness seem not so dark because their heart brightens the hidden parts of you.
Of course, I had a hand to hold last year during Christmas and I can't say it made it any brighter. Oh wait, I'm not allowed to talk about that. Moving on...
Christmas Eve service tonight at 11:00. Mom and dad talked about coming down, but with the gross weather, they decided to stay in Dayton. I don't blame them - I wouldn't have wanted to drive all the way here, either. I'm looking forward to being quiet for a bit, listening to the stillness of the night, trying to remember why it is we actually celebrate this season. Phyllis reminded us at the conference that this season is all about the Incarnation - God becoming man, entering into our world and thereby transforming it, showing us what we could become, what we were created for. Forget the stars and the angels and the shepherds and the myth of a silent night (seriously, it was noisy in and around that manger). God became flesh. God became us. Us, with our weaknesses and our selfishness and our tendency to forget what is truly important. And by doing so, He showed us what we could be, reminded us of what it means to be in the image of God. And we've been trying to live up to that for 2000 years. As well we should.
Enough for now. Not sure when I'll be back- been less than inspired lately. We'll see how it goes.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Prince - Another Lonely Christmas (12")
via FoxyTunes
Ought. There's a word that's been haunting me lately.
Not feeling much like Christmas today. Rain and miserably warm temperatures definitely part of that. Didn't help that my scheduled trip to heaven turned out less than ideal. To quote a wise man from the north, "My head looks like something Picasso painted." I know it's the day before Christmas and all, but did you not hear me when I said, "Please leave the front longer?" Too busy worried about getting to the myriad of Christmas Eve events planned for after work I guess. I know. Hair grows. There are far worse problems. But my hair has never been this short. Never. A friend of mine broke into laughter upon seeing me. I don't blame them. At least I'll bring a little joy to people's lives this Christmas.
A friend (not the one who laughed at me) has been feeling a bit blue this Christmas and asked how I fought the blues. And I realized I don't fight them. Takes too much energy and you end up feeling worse. Better to give in and become friends with them, take them down to the local pub and buy them a drink or invite them over to watch some sad movie or sit in the dark and listen to some melancholy music. Love your enemies, the Bible says and I find myself doing that, befriending the blues. Not sure it works for everyone, but it works for me (though I'm sure some would say it doesn't work so well...).
If it hasn't become obvious yet, been a fairly low-key Christmas break so far. Started off well - three Over the Rhine shows, a fairly clean house full of guests, good times spent with friends, Christmas tree finally up. Still, been struggling with my usual nemesis this time of year - to quote the poet, "The worst kind of lonely/Is alone in December." All the gatherings, the concerts, the parties, the services, reminded me how much my heart longs to share them with someone. Not to sell my friends short, which I probably am (and for that I'm sorry), but sometimes you long for a hand to hold, to make the darkness seem not so dark because their heart brightens the hidden parts of you.
Of course, I had a hand to hold last year during Christmas and I can't say it made it any brighter. Oh wait, I'm not allowed to talk about that. Moving on...
Christmas Eve service tonight at 11:00. Mom and dad talked about coming down, but with the gross weather, they decided to stay in Dayton. I don't blame them - I wouldn't have wanted to drive all the way here, either. I'm looking forward to being quiet for a bit, listening to the stillness of the night, trying to remember why it is we actually celebrate this season. Phyllis reminded us at the conference that this season is all about the Incarnation - God becoming man, entering into our world and thereby transforming it, showing us what we could become, what we were created for. Forget the stars and the angels and the shepherds and the myth of a silent night (seriously, it was noisy in and around that manger). God became flesh. God became us. Us, with our weaknesses and our selfishness and our tendency to forget what is truly important. And by doing so, He showed us what we could be, reminded us of what it means to be in the image of God. And we've been trying to live up to that for 2000 years. As well we should.
Enough for now. Not sure when I'll be back- been less than inspired lately. We'll see how it goes.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Prince - Another Lonely Christmas (12")
via FoxyTunes
Monday, December 15, 2008
is re-posting the same as re-gifting?
I'm sure this is something I've posted before. But last night at Thinspace we chatted about Luke 2, the inspiration for this poem. It's one of the pieces I'm proud of because it turned out much like it was in my head when I thought of it. I now have a companion piece I'm working on, after our discussion last night. Here's hoping I find time to work on it. In the meantime, enjoy.
ποιμένας
abiding here in shadow-swept darkness
surrounded by the keep of my watch
ever searching the frozen horizon for signs
a glimpse of reflected fire in an unwelcome eye
the subsensular growl upon a midnight clear
i wait as always in the glooming mist
the stars alone my singular companions
the mind it drifts like winter here
thoughts dispersed upon the breeze
condensed to droplets, a veil before my eyes
distorting what little light remains
reflected from the city below me lying
life is lived within its walls
warmth and passion i only know
through frosted window pane
the swirling smoke from a well-loved hearth
like prayers raised to a God of love
and grace and truth and beauty and hope and
i wonder why my little fire
lights and warms only me
and suddenly she happens
shredding the darkness round about
peeling back my night-stained world
to leave her only in the wake
i stand beauty-struck dumb
my heart a feral beast bound
blindly seeking space without
the first Adam’s cage
like my thoughts i scramble backwards
(as i always seem to do)
only to fall down, sore afraid
fear not! she cries in such a voice
compliance tends impossible
her presence enough to send me
clambering to the night for
i fear to taste the love she pours
from fingertips stretched to cool my raging tongue
i fear to touch such suppleness
and lose myself within her open grace
i fear the fragrance of her invading all i am
‘til truth alone remains
i fear to see her severe beauty reminding me
this other Life by life obscured
but most of all i fear to hear the siren-song of hope
crouched hiding ‘neath her tidings of joy
for unto me is born this day in her
salvation long-expected, long-forgotten
wrapped in rags of radiant splendor
and lying in a bed
somewhere in the teeming city
dimmed by glory flinging
hallelujahs in the night
it comes to pass when she is gone
my eyes mere pinpricks growing wide
i rise with haste to seek
peace, good will, hope newborn
lying still there in the dark
and all these things shall i keep kept
to ponder in my desert heart
Æ
ποιμένας
abiding here in shadow-swept darkness
surrounded by the keep of my watch
ever searching the frozen horizon for signs
a glimpse of reflected fire in an unwelcome eye
the subsensular growl upon a midnight clear
i wait as always in the glooming mist
the stars alone my singular companions
the mind it drifts like winter here
thoughts dispersed upon the breeze
condensed to droplets, a veil before my eyes
distorting what little light remains
reflected from the city below me lying
life is lived within its walls
warmth and passion i only know
through frosted window pane
the swirling smoke from a well-loved hearth
like prayers raised to a God of love
and grace and truth and beauty and hope and
i wonder why my little fire
lights and warms only me
and suddenly she happens
shredding the darkness round about
peeling back my night-stained world
to leave her only in the wake
i stand beauty-struck dumb
my heart a feral beast bound
blindly seeking space without
the first Adam’s cage
like my thoughts i scramble backwards
(as i always seem to do)
only to fall down, sore afraid
fear not! she cries in such a voice
compliance tends impossible
her presence enough to send me
clambering to the night for
i fear to taste the love she pours
from fingertips stretched to cool my raging tongue
i fear to touch such suppleness
and lose myself within her open grace
i fear the fragrance of her invading all i am
‘til truth alone remains
i fear to see her severe beauty reminding me
this other Life by life obscured
but most of all i fear to hear the siren-song of hope
crouched hiding ‘neath her tidings of joy
for unto me is born this day in her
salvation long-expected, long-forgotten
wrapped in rags of radiant splendor
and lying in a bed
somewhere in the teeming city
dimmed by glory flinging
hallelujahs in the night
it comes to pass when she is gone
my eyes mere pinpricks growing wide
i rise with haste to seek
peace, good will, hope newborn
lying still there in the dark
and all these things shall i keep kept
to ponder in my desert heart
Æ
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Facebook is ruining my blogging
Thurman wishes he had the time to write out the thoughts he had during last week's The Great Emergence conference but finds no time to do so.
Æ
Æ
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
advent goodness from Uncle Fred
Because this stuff is too good to keep to oneself. And because I've been quite aware of the darkness lately.
All the paradoxical themes of Advent are compressed into that handful of words: Christ coming at Christmas time in great humility and again at the end of time in glorious majesty - Christ coming as a child to save us and as a king to judge us - mortal life, immortal life. They clatter against each other like shutters in the wind with all their points and counterpoints. They all but deafen us with their message at one and the same time of sin and grace, justice and mercy, comfort and challenge. "Cast away the works of darkness," they say, and put on "the armor of light." Maybe those are the words that best sum up the paradox of who we are and where we are. Somewhere between the darkness and the light. That is where we are as Christians. And not just at Advent time, but at all times. Somewhere between the fact of darkness and the hope of light. That is who we are.
"Advent" means "coming" of course, and the promise of Advent is that what is coming is an unimaginable invasion. The mythology of our age has to do with flying saucers and invasions from outer space, and that i s unimaginable enough. But what is upon us now is even more so - a close encounter not of the third kind but of a different kind altogether. An invasion of holiness. That is what Advent is about.
What is coming upon the world is the Light of the World. It is Christ. That is the comfort of it. The challenge of it is that it has not come yet. Only the hope for it has come, only the longing for it. In the meantime we are in the dark, and the dark, God knows, is also in us. We watch and wait for a holiness to heal us and hallow us, to liberate us from the dark. Advent is like the hush in a theater just before the curtain rises. It is like the hazy ring around the winter moon that means the coming of snow which will turn the night to silver. Soon. But for the time being, our time, darkness is where we are.
----------------
Now playing: Sufjan Stevens - O Come, O Come Emmanuel
via FoxyTunes
Give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which thy son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility: that in the last day, when he shall come again in hi glorious majesty, to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal.
All the paradoxical themes of Advent are compressed into that handful of words: Christ coming at Christmas time in great humility and again at the end of time in glorious majesty - Christ coming as a child to save us and as a king to judge us - mortal life, immortal life. They clatter against each other like shutters in the wind with all their points and counterpoints. They all but deafen us with their message at one and the same time of sin and grace, justice and mercy, comfort and challenge. "Cast away the works of darkness," they say, and put on "the armor of light." Maybe those are the words that best sum up the paradox of who we are and where we are. Somewhere between the darkness and the light. That is where we are as Christians. And not just at Advent time, but at all times. Somewhere between the fact of darkness and the hope of light. That is who we are.
"Advent" means "coming" of course, and the promise of Advent is that what is coming is an unimaginable invasion. The mythology of our age has to do with flying saucers and invasions from outer space, and that i s unimaginable enough. But what is upon us now is even more so - a close encounter not of the third kind but of a different kind altogether. An invasion of holiness. That is what Advent is about.
What is coming upon the world is the Light of the World. It is Christ. That is the comfort of it. The challenge of it is that it has not come yet. Only the hope for it has come, only the longing for it. In the meantime we are in the dark, and the dark, God knows, is also in us. We watch and wait for a holiness to heal us and hallow us, to liberate us from the dark. Advent is like the hush in a theater just before the curtain rises. It is like the hazy ring around the winter moon that means the coming of snow which will turn the night to silver. Soon. But for the time being, our time, darkness is where we are.
The Clown in the Belfry
Frederick Buechner
Frederick Buechner
----------------
Now playing: Sufjan Stevens - O Come, O Come Emmanuel
via FoxyTunes
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
a little holiday levity
1. Put your iPod on shuffle. (Or you can write whatever comes on the radio.)
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Love is Blindness - Cassandra Wilson
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Hanging on to You - Jay Farrar
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
Tear Off Your Own Head (It's a Doll Revolution) - Elvis Costello
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Eric's Trip - Sonic Youth
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Do You Love Me? - Clem Snide
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Brown Eyes - Red House Painters
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Things That Disappear - Rhett Miller
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Lie Still, Little Bottle - They Might Be Giants
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Slow and Steady - Pedro the Lion
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Wild Blue - The 77s
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Well OK - Altar Boys
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Another Song - Sam Phillips
WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Ticket to Ride - The Beatles
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
A Girl in Port - Okkervil River
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Be Still My Beating Heart - Sting
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Faded Flowers - Shriekback
WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Gone - U2
HOW WILL YOU DIE?
Do Or Die - Dropkick Murphys
WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
The Little Cowboy- Erin McKeown
WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Out of Control - U2
WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart - Whiskeytown
WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Shaker - Yo La Tengo
WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Hotwax - Beck
IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Flugufrelsarinn - Sigur Ros
WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Bad - U2
----------------
Now playing: U2 - Bad
via FoxyTunes
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Love is Blindness - Cassandra Wilson
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Hanging on to You - Jay Farrar
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
Tear Off Your Own Head (It's a Doll Revolution) - Elvis Costello
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Eric's Trip - Sonic Youth
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Do You Love Me? - Clem Snide
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Brown Eyes - Red House Painters
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Things That Disappear - Rhett Miller
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Lie Still, Little Bottle - They Might Be Giants
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Slow and Steady - Pedro the Lion
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Wild Blue - The 77s
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Well OK - Altar Boys
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Another Song - Sam Phillips
WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Ticket to Ride - The Beatles
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
A Girl in Port - Okkervil River
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Be Still My Beating Heart - Sting
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Faded Flowers - Shriekback
WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Gone - U2
HOW WILL YOU DIE?
Do Or Die - Dropkick Murphys
WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
The Little Cowboy- Erin McKeown
WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Out of Control - U2
WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart - Whiskeytown
WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Shaker - Yo La Tengo
WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Hotwax - Beck
IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Flugufrelsarinn - Sigur Ros
WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Bad - U2
----------------
Now playing: U2 - Bad
via FoxyTunes
Monday, November 24, 2008
getting what we deserve
This is always a goofy week. Two days of classes, with a good 15-20% of students already gone for the holidays. It's only school - why bother having my student show up? Anyway, today was easy - two bells of lab time, two bells of test taking. I even covered for Kurt who fell to the projectile vomiting his offspring passed along to him. The joys of childrearing.
As we enter this holiday season (and notice I said enter, as in not yet - holiday season doesn't start until Thanksgiving, ads and displays in grocery stores be damned), I'm feeling much like one of George Romero's creations - gruesome and slow with a desire to feed off the living. In other words, business as usual around ths blog. Hard to believe only a year ago I was anxiously anticipating the holiday season and the joys it would bring. Of course, this is before it all went spectacularly wrong.
Been pondering the word deserve lately from a multitude of sides. Rob brought this up during Thinspace a couple of weeks ago, how we're paralyzed by this word. Many of us think we haven't gotten what we deserve, that this world, our God, owes us. Health. Love. Wealth. Our hearts' desire. Many of us think we have gotten something we didn't deserve - a broken relationship, a shattered dream, a raw deal. And then there are those of us who believe we don't deserve anything - not comfort, not security, not success, not love. Where do these ideas come from? How is this concept of what we deserve formed within us? How do we come to such differing conclusion on what it is we deserve?
It will come as no surprise to my regular reader that my struggle is with the last of this unholy trinity - I've come to believe that I don't deserve anything. Check that - I don't deserve anything good in my life. My martyr complex is well-documented and this is part of that, I suppose - we are created for suffering, not for pleasure; we should meet suffering with the same joy we meet blessing; we should not be surprised or saddened when disappointment enters our lives. While I know intellectually this is a steaming pile of feces, emotionally it continues to cripple me. It's difficult to live passionately when you not only expect life to suck, but believe that's the way life is supposed to be. It's hard to hold on to the things you love when you don't believe they're truly yours.
Strangely enough, my view on this works the other way for other people. I see my friends suffering through illness and job anxiety and divorce and believe they don't deserve to be going through all that. And even when the suffering comes from their own choices, I find myself wishing the consequences away, asking for God's grace to step in, to bring them joy. Why can I not do this for myself? Why is God's grace good enough for them but not for me?
Too often we reduce grace to this idea of what we deserve - we all deserve to be punished for our sins and shortcomings, but God gives grace and takes away the punishment. He's the great executioner deciding not to drop the axe on our deserving necks. But this makes grace no more than a means to an end - a way to avoid what should happen to us. But I don't believe God desires this utilitarian view of grace. Grace isn't ultimately about us - it's ultimately about how God interacts with His creation, fallen as it may be. God doesn't just extend grace to us - He is grace to us.
I pray I can remember that this holiday season. I pray we all can remember that.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Neko Case - Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis
via FoxyTunes
As we enter this holiday season (and notice I said enter, as in not yet - holiday season doesn't start until Thanksgiving, ads and displays in grocery stores be damned), I'm feeling much like one of George Romero's creations - gruesome and slow with a desire to feed off the living. In other words, business as usual around ths blog. Hard to believe only a year ago I was anxiously anticipating the holiday season and the joys it would bring. Of course, this is before it all went spectacularly wrong.
Been pondering the word deserve lately from a multitude of sides. Rob brought this up during Thinspace a couple of weeks ago, how we're paralyzed by this word. Many of us think we haven't gotten what we deserve, that this world, our God, owes us. Health. Love. Wealth. Our hearts' desire. Many of us think we have gotten something we didn't deserve - a broken relationship, a shattered dream, a raw deal. And then there are those of us who believe we don't deserve anything - not comfort, not security, not success, not love. Where do these ideas come from? How is this concept of what we deserve formed within us? How do we come to such differing conclusion on what it is we deserve?
It will come as no surprise to my regular reader that my struggle is with the last of this unholy trinity - I've come to believe that I don't deserve anything. Check that - I don't deserve anything good in my life. My martyr complex is well-documented and this is part of that, I suppose - we are created for suffering, not for pleasure; we should meet suffering with the same joy we meet blessing; we should not be surprised or saddened when disappointment enters our lives. While I know intellectually this is a steaming pile of feces, emotionally it continues to cripple me. It's difficult to live passionately when you not only expect life to suck, but believe that's the way life is supposed to be. It's hard to hold on to the things you love when you don't believe they're truly yours.
Strangely enough, my view on this works the other way for other people. I see my friends suffering through illness and job anxiety and divorce and believe they don't deserve to be going through all that. And even when the suffering comes from their own choices, I find myself wishing the consequences away, asking for God's grace to step in, to bring them joy. Why can I not do this for myself? Why is God's grace good enough for them but not for me?
Too often we reduce grace to this idea of what we deserve - we all deserve to be punished for our sins and shortcomings, but God gives grace and takes away the punishment. He's the great executioner deciding not to drop the axe on our deserving necks. But this makes grace no more than a means to an end - a way to avoid what should happen to us. But I don't believe God desires this utilitarian view of grace. Grace isn't ultimately about us - it's ultimately about how God interacts with His creation, fallen as it may be. God doesn't just extend grace to us - He is grace to us.
I pray I can remember that this holiday season. I pray we all can remember that.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Neko Case - Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis
via FoxyTunes
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
respice
Respice
begging in the darkness alone
hearing the movement
the excitement all around
wondering what all the chaos is about
they tell me what it is
why the crowds clamor
why the joy, the surge of hope
but my eyes
my damned eyes
will not open
i want but cannot see
i know Him
i know who He is
what He can do
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!"
the voices in my head attempt to drown me out
be quiet!
your crying drowns out our joy
don't drag us down
let us praise Him!
let us sing!
how dare you ruin on our parade
how dare you steal this moment
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!"
i've been silent too long
content to let others experience His presence
willing to sit on the sidelines
happy just to know such joy exists
even if i cannot see it myself
what good is dancing if i cannot see my partner?
what good is hoping when only darkness lies ahead?
and so i scream from my darkness, hoping beyond hope
"LORD JESUS CHRIST, SON OF GOD, HAVE MERCY ON ME, A SINNER!"
and all
becomes
still
something has changed around me
the sweet chaos of the moment fades
into an otherworldly silence. no longer
do the voices condemn. no longer
do the crowds distract. no longer
am i lost in the midst of what i cannot have
all is stripped away
leaving only me in darkness
Him in stillness
nothing moves
nothing stirs
and from this space of unimaginable peace
i hear the question that haunts
"What do you want Me to do for you?"
all creation belongs to Him
His is not an empty offer
i know within me He will
give me whatever i ask
my mind spins
the stillness of the moment is shattered
by the swirling of my wants and desires
all shouting for supremacy
all seeking to be the answer
ask for wealth!
ask for wisdom!
ask for peace!
ask for love!
yet at the center of this holy moment
a whisper rises within my soul
until it can no longer be ignored
and in a cracked and raspy voice
i lay my deepest desire at His feet
"Lord, let me see again
let me know Your presence
let this darkness blinding me
be swept away. save me from relying
on second-hand experience, living vicariously through
what others see
what others experience
i once tasted this life
i remember the glory of the sky
the splendor of the earth
the wonder of a smile
the devastation of a tear
the burn of a stare
help me, Lord, remember them again
help me, Lord, recover what i've lost
help me, Lord, not only to see
but to live again"
the crowd, still silent
the air anticipatory
all creation lingers, fingers crossed
as i wait with outstretched arms
nothing left to lose
all the world to gain
and in that holy silence
i hear Him draw a breath
as He did at the beginning of time
ready to transform
this sightless lump of clay once again
to bring me back to life
back to the love and life and joy i once knew
He exhales and i feel him breathe into my darkness
the words i've longed to hear...
receive
your
sight...
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - This Temporary Life
via FoxyTunes
begging in the darkness alone
hearing the movement
the excitement all around
wondering what all the chaos is about
they tell me what it is
why the crowds clamor
why the joy, the surge of hope
but my eyes
my damned eyes
will not open
i want but cannot see
i know Him
i know who He is
what He can do
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!"
the voices in my head attempt to drown me out
be quiet!
your crying drowns out our joy
don't drag us down
let us praise Him!
let us sing!
how dare you ruin on our parade
how dare you steal this moment
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!"
i've been silent too long
content to let others experience His presence
willing to sit on the sidelines
happy just to know such joy exists
even if i cannot see it myself
what good is dancing if i cannot see my partner?
what good is hoping when only darkness lies ahead?
and so i scream from my darkness, hoping beyond hope
"LORD JESUS CHRIST, SON OF GOD, HAVE MERCY ON ME, A SINNER!"
and all
becomes
still
something has changed around me
the sweet chaos of the moment fades
into an otherworldly silence. no longer
do the voices condemn. no longer
do the crowds distract. no longer
am i lost in the midst of what i cannot have
all is stripped away
leaving only me in darkness
Him in stillness
nothing moves
nothing stirs
and from this space of unimaginable peace
i hear the question that haunts
"What do you want Me to do for you?"
all creation belongs to Him
His is not an empty offer
i know within me He will
give me whatever i ask
my mind spins
the stillness of the moment is shattered
by the swirling of my wants and desires
all shouting for supremacy
all seeking to be the answer
ask for wealth!
ask for wisdom!
ask for peace!
ask for love!
yet at the center of this holy moment
a whisper rises within my soul
until it can no longer be ignored
and in a cracked and raspy voice
i lay my deepest desire at His feet
"Lord, let me see again
let me know Your presence
let this darkness blinding me
be swept away. save me from relying
on second-hand experience, living vicariously through
what others see
what others experience
i once tasted this life
i remember the glory of the sky
the splendor of the earth
the wonder of a smile
the devastation of a tear
the burn of a stare
help me, Lord, remember them again
help me, Lord, recover what i've lost
help me, Lord, not only to see
but to live again"
the crowd, still silent
the air anticipatory
all creation lingers, fingers crossed
as i wait with outstretched arms
nothing left to lose
all the world to gain
and in that holy silence
i hear Him draw a breath
as He did at the beginning of time
ready to transform
this sightless lump of clay once again
to bring me back to life
back to the love and life and joy i once knew
He exhales and i feel him breathe into my darkness
the words i've longed to hear...
receive
your
sight...
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - This Temporary Life
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, November 13, 2008
it's pronounced doo-MAHS
The story so far: due to his inability to accurately judge the amount of time necessary to adequately grade all the work he assigned over the trimester, our intrepid hero found himself entering the final week of class buried under a cavalcade of ungraded papers and assignments that threatened to drive what remains of his tenuous sanity into the nether regions of hell itself. Every new day brought frustrations and tortures galore as the piles seemed unchanged, perhaps even growing slightly. But as he woke on this final day, a flicker of light danced in the distance, through the remaining papers and essays, and for the first time in weeks he began to believe all was not lost.
Our hero is monumentally stupid, as will soon be proven.
After a few snatches of sleep, this beleaguered man stumbled into his waiting chariot and made his way to the school to finish off the final stack waiting for him there. Finish these, he thought, and only the final essays will stand between me and sweet freedom. He finished a good chunk of them in the stillness before the first exam. He fought through distractions during first bell and entered the final exam period on his schedule needing only to finish a smattering of research papers. As his second bell students finished his far-too-easy final, he scribbled furiously, scratching the scores down on a makeshift grade sheet until, just before the bell rang, only two papers remained. He passed back his student's work, impressed with his grading acumen, and gathered the remaining flotsam and jetsam scattered on his desk to deal with during his planning period. He felt the weight lift from his shoulders. A sense of peace waited for him, only minutes away, in the office he shared with his fellow teachers.
It was there, in that cramped, windowless polygon of brick that it all began to fall apart. As our exhausted champion sifted through the pile of miscellaneous detritus he brought with him, he could not locate the makeshift score sheet he had used to record the grades. Thinking he had left it back in his classroom, he made a trek through the empty halls back to the third floor to retrieve it from his desk.
Of course, it was not there.
Panic setting in, he cast about, searching every inch of his room, every nook and cranny where such an important piece of paper could hide, trying not to disturb the students taking their final exam and giving him concerned looks. He thrust his hands into the recycling box, hoping to find the elusive artifact amidst the discarded student work callously dumped there after his charges had noted their grade. Nothing. He retraced his steps back to the office, scanning the floor for any sign, any glimpse of his red marks next to student's names, to no avail. From the depths of his soul came a dark rush of nausea, colliding with the ominous cloud of despair, forming a swirling maelstrom of impending madness somewhere in the vicinity of his suddenly impotent brain. His world turned black. The grades he had so diligently finished were gone, vanished forever, never to be seen again.
The questions came crashing in. What had happened to it? What would he do? What could he do? What would happen to the final grades he had to turn in that weekend? Could he remember what they had earned? Could he reconstruct the morning's efforts? What if he made a mistake? He wandered the halls, clenching and unclenching his useless hands, imagining nightmare scenarios involving parent complaints, administration censure, loss of employment and managing a Wendy's franchise.
Eventually the students were freed from the farce of finals, leaving him alone in his ransacked room, wondering what to do next. He stared at the empty spaces in his gradebook, knowing not how they would ever be filled now. The darkness of the situation continued to haunt him, leaving him hopeless, directionless, useless. Slowly it became clear what he must do - he must face up to his error and reach out to the ones he had let down through his own irresponsibility and negligence. With a deep breath to quiet the storm in his head, he grabbed the keyboard lying on the desk and typed up an email to all those affected by his asininity, students and parents alike, asking for their forgiveness and their final grade, if they had not already carelessly trashed them.
So now he waits, saddened by the evidence of his own incompetence, hoping tomorrow finds his inbox filled with the redemption needed to put this horrible experience behind him and to enter the new trimester with the opportunity and determination not to screw up this stupendously ever, ever again.
Good luck with that, dumbass.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Extreme - Comfortably Dumb
via FoxyTunes
Our hero is monumentally stupid, as will soon be proven.
After a few snatches of sleep, this beleaguered man stumbled into his waiting chariot and made his way to the school to finish off the final stack waiting for him there. Finish these, he thought, and only the final essays will stand between me and sweet freedom. He finished a good chunk of them in the stillness before the first exam. He fought through distractions during first bell and entered the final exam period on his schedule needing only to finish a smattering of research papers. As his second bell students finished his far-too-easy final, he scribbled furiously, scratching the scores down on a makeshift grade sheet until, just before the bell rang, only two papers remained. He passed back his student's work, impressed with his grading acumen, and gathered the remaining flotsam and jetsam scattered on his desk to deal with during his planning period. He felt the weight lift from his shoulders. A sense of peace waited for him, only minutes away, in the office he shared with his fellow teachers.
It was there, in that cramped, windowless polygon of brick that it all began to fall apart. As our exhausted champion sifted through the pile of miscellaneous detritus he brought with him, he could not locate the makeshift score sheet he had used to record the grades. Thinking he had left it back in his classroom, he made a trek through the empty halls back to the third floor to retrieve it from his desk.
Of course, it was not there.
Panic setting in, he cast about, searching every inch of his room, every nook and cranny where such an important piece of paper could hide, trying not to disturb the students taking their final exam and giving him concerned looks. He thrust his hands into the recycling box, hoping to find the elusive artifact amidst the discarded student work callously dumped there after his charges had noted their grade. Nothing. He retraced his steps back to the office, scanning the floor for any sign, any glimpse of his red marks next to student's names, to no avail. From the depths of his soul came a dark rush of nausea, colliding with the ominous cloud of despair, forming a swirling maelstrom of impending madness somewhere in the vicinity of his suddenly impotent brain. His world turned black. The grades he had so diligently finished were gone, vanished forever, never to be seen again.
The questions came crashing in. What had happened to it? What would he do? What could he do? What would happen to the final grades he had to turn in that weekend? Could he remember what they had earned? Could he reconstruct the morning's efforts? What if he made a mistake? He wandered the halls, clenching and unclenching his useless hands, imagining nightmare scenarios involving parent complaints, administration censure, loss of employment and managing a Wendy's franchise.
Eventually the students were freed from the farce of finals, leaving him alone in his ransacked room, wondering what to do next. He stared at the empty spaces in his gradebook, knowing not how they would ever be filled now. The darkness of the situation continued to haunt him, leaving him hopeless, directionless, useless. Slowly it became clear what he must do - he must face up to his error and reach out to the ones he had let down through his own irresponsibility and negligence. With a deep breath to quiet the storm in his head, he grabbed the keyboard lying on the desk and typed up an email to all those affected by his asininity, students and parents alike, asking for their forgiveness and their final grade, if they had not already carelessly trashed them.
So now he waits, saddened by the evidence of his own incompetence, hoping tomorrow finds his inbox filled with the redemption needed to put this horrible experience behind him and to enter the new trimester with the opportunity and determination not to screw up this stupendously ever, ever again.
Good luck with that, dumbass.
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Extreme - Comfortably Dumb
via FoxyTunes
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
"This is our moment. This is our time."
Barack Obama is the President-elect of the United States of America.
Just in case you didn't hear.
I'm looking forward to what happens next, to see if Obama can prove to be a different politician. If he can do even half of what he spoke of in his victory speech, his will be a memorable administration. At the very least, I won't be cringing every time the president speaks to the nation and the world anymore.
The best part of this whole thing: as I was reminded again tonight, Obama's not truly in control. God is. And even if the worst fears of the far right come true or Obama proves to be less than I hope him to be, I know my call is the same - to love God with all my heart, mind, soul and strength and my neighbor as myself. That never changes - and this call is the one thing I have some semblance of control over. I can't control what happens next in our country, but I can find a way to show love to all those around me. And that is something we as Americans can all agree on, no matter the color of our state. Æ
----------------
Now playing: Okkervil River - Calling And Not Calling My Ex
via FoxyTunes
Just in case you didn't hear.
I'm looking forward to what happens next, to see if Obama can prove to be a different politician. If he can do even half of what he spoke of in his victory speech, his will be a memorable administration. At the very least, I won't be cringing every time the president speaks to the nation and the world anymore.
The best part of this whole thing: as I was reminded again tonight, Obama's not truly in control. God is. And even if the worst fears of the far right come true or Obama proves to be less than I hope him to be, I know my call is the same - to love God with all my heart, mind, soul and strength and my neighbor as myself. That never changes - and this call is the one thing I have some semblance of control over. I can't control what happens next in our country, but I can find a way to show love to all those around me. And that is something we as Americans can all agree on, no matter the color of our state. Æ
----------------
Now playing: Okkervil River - Calling And Not Calling My Ex
via FoxyTunes
Friday, October 31, 2008
Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself
Other people's words, from Uncle Fred again. Read this last night. Can I believe both last night's post and this one? I believe I can...Æ
Now playing: Okkervil River - Calling And Not Calling My Ex
via FoxyTunes
After centuries of handling and mishandling, most religious words have become so shopworn nobody's much interested any more. Not so with grace, for some reason. Mysteriously, even derivatives like gracious and graceful still have some of the bloom left.----------------
Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There's no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about any more than you can deserve the taste of raspberries and cream or earn good looks or bring about your own birth.
A good sleep is grace and so are good dreams. Most tears are grace. The smell of rain is grace. Somebody loving you is grace. Loving somebody is grace. Have you ever tried to love somebody?
A crucial eccentricity of the Christian faith is the assertion that people are saved by grace There's nothing you have to do. There's nothing you have to do. There's nothing you have to do.
The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It's for you I created the universe. I love you.
There's only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you'll reach out and take it.
Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.Wishful Thinking
Now playing: Okkervil River - Calling And Not Calling My Ex
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, October 30, 2008
do not read this
More words from other people, this time from Doug. It's how I'm feeling tonight. Tomorrow, probably not so much.
Now playing: Two Cow Garage - Not Your Friends
via FoxyTunes
"Loneliness is my curse - our species' curse - it's the gun that shoots the bullets that make us dance on a saloon floor and humiliate ourselves in front of strangers.----------------
"Where does loneliness come from?...Maybe you think fate is only for others. Maybe you're ashamed to be reading about loneliness - maybe someone will catch you and then they'll know your secret stain. And then maybe you're not even very sure what loneliness is - that's common. We cripple our children for life by not telling them what loneliness is, all of its shades and tones and implications. When it clubs us on the head, usually just after we leave home, we're blindsided. We have no idea what hit us. We think we're diseased, schizoid, bipolar, monstrous and lacking in dietary chromium. It takes us until thirty to figure out what it was that sucked the joy from our youth, that made our brains shriek and burn on the inside, even while our exteriors made us seem as confident and bronzed as Qantas pilots. Loneliness."Eleanor Rigby
Now playing: Two Cow Garage - Not Your Friends
via FoxyTunes
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
loss for words
Been silent here a while. My usual blather/banter hasn't seemed particularly relevant or important or significant to share with the world at large. And I find myself inundated with opinions and arguments and accusations and rationalizations, a swirling maelstrom of mangled language meant to convince me of one side's superiority over the other's, but succeeds only in convincing me to stop listening at all.
And maybe that's a good thing. I wonder sometimes if our need to fill up the silence with whatever pops into our heads keeps us from truly communicating. I don't speak or write to connect with anyone else, but only so I don't have to deal with the uncomfortableness silence brings. Or listen to what the silence says.
Maybe it's time to listen more to the silence than to the noise.
Yet here I am, filling up cyber-silence with my own blog noise. I am nothing without my contradictions.
Been reading Peterson's The Contemplative Pastor and this morning read his chapter on Annie Dillard and realized I'd been missing her and her ability to, as Peterson puts it, exegete the world around her with eyes wide open. I've found my eyes squinted shut too much lately. I should pry them open by revisiting some of Dillard's thoughts. Need something deeper to challenge me. Been skimming the surface for too long.
Methinks illness is wreaking havoc on my brain. Too tired to think anything or write anything coherent. Silence sounds like a good option (or listening to my new emusic downloads - ah, contradictions).
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Crooked Fingers - Cannibals
via FoxyTunes
And maybe that's a good thing. I wonder sometimes if our need to fill up the silence with whatever pops into our heads keeps us from truly communicating. I don't speak or write to connect with anyone else, but only so I don't have to deal with the uncomfortableness silence brings. Or listen to what the silence says.
Maybe it's time to listen more to the silence than to the noise.
Yet here I am, filling up cyber-silence with my own blog noise. I am nothing without my contradictions.
Been reading Peterson's The Contemplative Pastor and this morning read his chapter on Annie Dillard and realized I'd been missing her and her ability to, as Peterson puts it, exegete the world around her with eyes wide open. I've found my eyes squinted shut too much lately. I should pry them open by revisiting some of Dillard's thoughts. Need something deeper to challenge me. Been skimming the surface for too long.
Methinks illness is wreaking havoc on my brain. Too tired to think anything or write anything coherent. Silence sounds like a good option (or listening to my new emusic downloads - ah, contradictions).
Æ
----------------
Now playing: Crooked Fingers - Cannibals
via FoxyTunes
Saturday, October 18, 2008
thoughts from Uncle Fred
Because I can't think of anything to say myself tonight...Æ
Most of the old restraints are gone or going. Such purely practical restraints as the fear of pregnancy and venereal disease have been all but eliminated by the ingenuity of modern science. Pornography is available to anybody who has the money to buy it at the newsstand. As much as you can generalize about such matters, in the realm of sexual behavior the word seems to be increasingly, "Anything goes," or, among the more responsible, "Anything goes as long as nobody gets hurt," the trouble with which how can anybody know in advance, in any complex human relationship, sexual or otherwise, who is going to get hurt psychologically, emotionally, spiritually? Or the word is, "Anything goes as long as you love each other," the trouble with which is that love here is likely to mean a highly romanticized, sentimental sort of enterprise that comes and goes like the pink haze it is.
What makes this a tragic situation, I believe, is not so much that by one set of standards or another it is morally wrong, but that in terms of the way human life is, it just does not work very well. Our society is filled with people for whom the sexual relationship is one where body meets body but where person fails to meet person; where the immediate need for sexual gratification i satisfied but where the deeper need for companionship and understanding is left untouched. The result is that the relationship leads not to fulfillment but to a half-conscious sense of incompleteness, of inner loneliness, which is so much the sickness of our time. The desire to know another's nakedness is really the desire to know the other fully as a person. It is the desire to know and to be known, not just sexually but as a total human being. It is the desire for a relationship where each gives not just of his body but of his self, body and spirit both, for the other's gladness.The Hungering Dark
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
homecoming
For those wondering: I did indeed survive my first ever excursion into chaperoning. But not without consequence - I ended up feeling ill Monday morning and called in sick today to stay home and rest with the hopes of staving off a more serious illness. We'll see over the next couple of days whether I was successful or not.
As for the dance itself, it wasn't nearly as bad as I imagined it might be. Of course, as I told a friend, I had anticipated scenes from a post-apocalyptic world where all morals had been discarded, so there was no where to go but up. Maybe I'm not as easily shocked as others. Maybe I simply didn't see the decadence going on. But of the 2100 (!) students attending the dance, only a handful of them seemed intent on reenacting acts meant for the bedroom.
Now I don't have great experience with school dances, having grown up in a pre-enlightened Church of the Nazarene where pre-marital sex was frowned upon because it might lead to dancing. My church went so far as to provide homecoming and prom "alternatives." For the uninitiated, these were similar to school dances in that they involved finding a date, buying a corsage, dressing up, going to a fancy dinner and staying out until the wee hours of the morning. The only thing missing was the dancing. We even had our share of drama (we were teenagers, after all).
So being a good Nazarene, I never set foot at an official high school dance (at least, until after I graduated from high school, but I mentioned that already). Most of my non-Nazarene friends had difficulty grasping the problem - heck, even some of my Nazarene friends had a hard time understanding it. Looking back, it does seem a bit ridiculous to call dancing sinful, especially since it's mentioned so many times in the Bible, most of the time in a positive manner. But being a member of the Nazarene church, I felt it was my responsibility to live up to the standards they had set forth in the Bible...er...Manual. Even if I didn't agree with them.
But the truth was, dancing was never a huge temptation for me. Rare was the time I found myself with the burning desire to "get my groove on," so to speak. Some of that was due to my religious upbringing (I say religious because I don't remember my parents ever telling me it was wrong to dance). Some of that was due to my lack of confidence with girls. Some of that was due to my uncomfortableness with my body. But I was reminded Saturday night the main reason I did not go to dances...
The music is abysmal.
Seriously. Made me want to grab a random corsage and jam the pin into my ear to stop the madness. Most of the "songs" (and I use that term loosely) were stunning in their boringness. Didn't help that during the four hours of the dance, they only played three songs I have on my iPod (for the curious: Journey's "Don't Stop Believing;" Michael Jackson's "Thriller;" and Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me"). The rest were unremarkable, minus two absolute travesties: "Cotton-Eyed Joe: remix" and a dance medley of hairband hits (imagine AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Guns 'n Roses over a dance beat. Trust me, it's worse than you can imagine).
Other than that, my first dance as a chaperone was, for the most part, a positive experience. I could have done without the oppressive humidity in the arena (was so bad, it started to drip from the ceiling. I'll let your stomach churn over that image). And standing for over five hours made me long for my comfy chair. But it was actually fun seeing my students dressed up. You could see the adults they will become in a few years lurking just below the surface. And it was an ego boost to see them get excited over seeing you there. Yet what I'll probably remember most, and what I most regret from not going to dances in high school, was the sense of joy that permeated the event. When the songs everyone knew (everyone but me, of course) came on, teenagers came from every corner to fill the dance floor, throw their troubles into the humid gym air and lose themselves in an expression of joy. Or to sway quietly in the darkened arena, aware only of the arms draped about your neck, the eyes staring into yours. We all need to do that sometimes. If onlythey would play some decent music to go along with it...Æ
----------------
Now playing: Big Star - Back of a Car
via FoxyTunes
As for the dance itself, it wasn't nearly as bad as I imagined it might be. Of course, as I told a friend, I had anticipated scenes from a post-apocalyptic world where all morals had been discarded, so there was no where to go but up. Maybe I'm not as easily shocked as others. Maybe I simply didn't see the decadence going on. But of the 2100 (!) students attending the dance, only a handful of them seemed intent on reenacting acts meant for the bedroom.
Now I don't have great experience with school dances, having grown up in a pre-enlightened Church of the Nazarene where pre-marital sex was frowned upon because it might lead to dancing. My church went so far as to provide homecoming and prom "alternatives." For the uninitiated, these were similar to school dances in that they involved finding a date, buying a corsage, dressing up, going to a fancy dinner and staying out until the wee hours of the morning. The only thing missing was the dancing. We even had our share of drama (we were teenagers, after all).
So being a good Nazarene, I never set foot at an official high school dance (at least, until after I graduated from high school, but I mentioned that already). Most of my non-Nazarene friends had difficulty grasping the problem - heck, even some of my Nazarene friends had a hard time understanding it. Looking back, it does seem a bit ridiculous to call dancing sinful, especially since it's mentioned so many times in the Bible, most of the time in a positive manner. But being a member of the Nazarene church, I felt it was my responsibility to live up to the standards they had set forth in the Bible...er...Manual. Even if I didn't agree with them.
But the truth was, dancing was never a huge temptation for me. Rare was the time I found myself with the burning desire to "get my groove on," so to speak. Some of that was due to my religious upbringing (I say religious because I don't remember my parents ever telling me it was wrong to dance). Some of that was due to my lack of confidence with girls. Some of that was due to my uncomfortableness with my body. But I was reminded Saturday night the main reason I did not go to dances...
The music is abysmal.
Seriously. Made me want to grab a random corsage and jam the pin into my ear to stop the madness. Most of the "songs" (and I use that term loosely) were stunning in their boringness. Didn't help that during the four hours of the dance, they only played three songs I have on my iPod (for the curious: Journey's "Don't Stop Believing;" Michael Jackson's "Thriller;" and Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me"). The rest were unremarkable, minus two absolute travesties: "Cotton-Eyed Joe: remix" and a dance medley of hairband hits (imagine AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Guns 'n Roses over a dance beat. Trust me, it's worse than you can imagine).
Other than that, my first dance as a chaperone was, for the most part, a positive experience. I could have done without the oppressive humidity in the arena (was so bad, it started to drip from the ceiling. I'll let your stomach churn over that image). And standing for over five hours made me long for my comfy chair. But it was actually fun seeing my students dressed up. You could see the adults they will become in a few years lurking just below the surface. And it was an ego boost to see them get excited over seeing you there. Yet what I'll probably remember most, and what I most regret from not going to dances in high school, was the sense of joy that permeated the event. When the songs everyone knew (everyone but me, of course) came on, teenagers came from every corner to fill the dance floor, throw their troubles into the humid gym air and lose themselves in an expression of joy. Or to sway quietly in the darkened arena, aware only of the arms draped about your neck, the eyes staring into yours. We all need to do that sometimes. If onlythey would play some decent music to go along with it...Æ
----------------
Now playing: Big Star - Back of a Car
via FoxyTunes
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
