Just a reminder that I've moved to my new site jasonropp.com. I'll still leave old posts up for reference, but no new material will be on this site.
Enjoy!
Moving Day
It has been 218 posts since I started this blog, which my mother compiled for me in paperback form as a graduation present. If you'd like a copy let me know and I can get you one. Otherwise I'll be leaving this sight up for reference in case you want to find an old post.
Learning From Each Other
Last post I talked about my own failure, (Click the link to check it out). Now I'm curious.
How do you deal with failure (big or small) in your own life?
Have you failed in a way that produced something beautiful?
I'd love to hear your comments.
How do you deal with failure (big or small) in your own life?
Have you failed in a way that produced something beautiful?
I'd love to hear your comments.
Learning to Love Failure.
Perfectionism takes various animal shapes, some more deadly than others. Mine would be a sloth, or maybe an Eeyore; I can't do things as good as I'd like so I don't bother doing them. In school, I typically finished projects by staring at the computer screen for an hour, reassuring myself that if I just turn in the paper, the worst that could happen is that I'd get a low B. It's a bit depressing when you consider almost everything to be failure before you're even finished.
In my world, everything is in some sense failure, it's never perfectly what it should be. Our faith, art, play, and relationships are all typically mediocre. Even the best at anything find critics.
I set a goal recently, to write 2,000 words a day. I'm 0 for 4. Day 1 I got in a solid 1,700. Day 2-3 I was recording guitar all day and didn't write at all. Today I've done about 800, plus however long this blog is. This is all failure to my perfectionist mind.
But even my failure is getting me closer to where I want to be. Failure means I'm trying, it means I'm one step closer to where I want to be.
In my world, everything is in some sense failure, it's never perfectly what it should be. Our faith, art, play, and relationships are all typically mediocre. Even the best at anything find critics.
I set a goal recently, to write 2,000 words a day. I'm 0 for 4. Day 1 I got in a solid 1,700. Day 2-3 I was recording guitar all day and didn't write at all. Today I've done about 800, plus however long this blog is. This is all failure to my perfectionist mind.
But even my failure is getting me closer to where I want to be. Failure means I'm trying, it means I'm one step closer to where I want to be.
Digging in the Sand
The house was too noisy.
The children were relentless tornado sirens.
But you can't be the uncle Who tells children to shut up,
So I slipped away to sandy shores to dig.
I found a log, near the embankment,
Next to a pile of charred wood.
It had been talked, and laughed, and sung over,
Inscribed with life,
Then seared by flame into ornate patterns.
But I'm not here to share,
I'm here, alone, to dig,
To find a little rock to polish by throwing it to the waves.
They smash the stone against the sandy shore,
Over and over,
Until it yields something to share with the noisy children.
The children were relentless tornado sirens.
But you can't be the uncle Who tells children to shut up,
So I slipped away to sandy shores to dig.
I found a log, near the embankment,
Next to a pile of charred wood.
It had been talked, and laughed, and sung over,
Inscribed with life,
Then seared by flame into ornate patterns.
But I'm not here to share,
I'm here, alone, to dig,
To find a little rock to polish by throwing it to the waves.
They smash the stone against the sandy shore,
Over and over,
Until it yields something to share with the noisy children.
Pictures of Buffalo
It's easy to live life through a two inch screen.
I heard a story about a couple who banned the use of phones and cameras at their wedding. They wanted people to take in the experience with them, rather than re-view it through a pixelated portal. I'm sure the photographer was excluded from the ordinance.
It's tempting to try and capture every significant moment digitally. We want to be able to relive something in a way that our imagination won't let us, so we are in a state of constant cell phone preparedness.
The irony is, that in trying to preserve the moment, we miss it altogether. Courtney and I are in Oregon this week. My parents came out for my graduation, so we drove back with them, making stops along the way. As we took a northern route home from Indiana, it only made sense to drive through Yellowstone and get our first glimpse of Old Faithful. Standing in front of the steaming spout with two or so minutes left before the fireworks began, we heard my Dad yell from near the lodge. Two Bison were sauntering in our direction, seemingly ignorant of the mostly Asian and European mass that had worked itself into a frenzy over its casual presence. I snapped into action, literally. Before you could say Kodak is bankrupt I was capturing the experience with high-resolution clarity. Then it hit me, put down the camera. Instead of worrying about a good shot, or missing something fantastic, I decided just to breath it in.
The Buffalo mozied toward us. I sware, if I ever saw anything mozy, it was this buffalo, and it was beautiful. I've never been that close to an unleashed beast and felt the awe of its strength; at any moment he could have run down my wife, myself, or any of the other greenhorn tourists. This was a taste of raw nature, and in trying to preserve the moment, I almost missed it.
Moments of wonder can't be forced, captured, or preserved. We can only stop, listen, and accept them for what they are, when they come and when they leave. If this weren't the case, Courtney and I wouldn't have to work on our marriage; we could just watch our wedding video and relive the idealized passion. But instead we try to make space for great moments, put down the camera, and breath them in like life.
Mother's Week: Dancing in the Pain
Mom Danced --once or twice. Both times
with medical consequences. One dance sessions happened as she
walked toward her car as us boys played basketball on the concrete. I
don't remember why she started dancing, but the next thing we knew, she was flat on gravel laughing --or crying, I'm still not sure
which.
On another occasion mom filleted the
back of her hand with a Miracle Blade knife while talking on the
phone, which was also the cause of both pain and laughter. She
was millimeters from severing a tendon.
My mother never gave me the impression
that life was easy, or even all that pleasant, but she found reasons
to laugh. I'm thankful to have caught that trait; life is far too
serious and severe to go through it without a healthy dose of
laughter mixed with the pain. Sometimes you just gotta dance, even
if it costs you an ankle.
Mothers' Week: The Mother-In-Law
I hope you noticed that the apostrophe in Mother's week moved. There is another mother I need to throw into the mix of awesomeness --my mother-in-law Paula.
TV did an excellent job of brainwashing me into thinking that a mother-in-law is an unfortunate reality. Whoever it was, she was going to be manipulative, self-serving, obnoxious, and loud. I must have found the exception --well except for the loud part.
If Paula were to die today (which I hope she doesn't) I fully expect at least a thousand people would show up for the funeral. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating. Sometime around midnight the officiating pastor would have to cut things short and send everyone home grumbling that they had barely begun. Paula is a teacher at a local elementary school; everywhere we go, we run into someone she had as a student. They all shout her name and come running as if she saved their life from a burning building (the more I get to know her, the more likely this scenario seems).
There are some people who do their job quite well from 9 to 5 and make quite an impression on a lot of lives. And then there are those who go into a bug bed infested, 1970s, single wide trailer after work to clean up, take the sick mother some food, and sit on a bug bed infested couch to talk to them like they are actually people. No, this isn't someone involved in a church program, just my mother-in-law doing what seems to come so natural to her.
TV did an excellent job of brainwashing me into thinking that a mother-in-law is an unfortunate reality. Whoever it was, she was going to be manipulative, self-serving, obnoxious, and loud. I must have found the exception --well except for the loud part.
If Paula were to die today (which I hope she doesn't) I fully expect at least a thousand people would show up for the funeral. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating. Sometime around midnight the officiating pastor would have to cut things short and send everyone home grumbling that they had barely begun. Paula is a teacher at a local elementary school; everywhere we go, we run into someone she had as a student. They all shout her name and come running as if she saved their life from a burning building (the more I get to know her, the more likely this scenario seems).
There are some people who do their job quite well from 9 to 5 and make quite an impression on a lot of lives. And then there are those who go into a bug bed infested, 1970s, single wide trailer after work to clean up, take the sick mother some food, and sit on a bug bed infested couch to talk to them like they are actually people. No, this isn't someone involved in a church program, just my mother-in-law doing what seems to come so natural to her.
Mother's Week: Rose Colored Glasses.
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
My mother claims I looking at the past with rose colored glasses. If she means that I'm leaving out her less noble traits, well maybe, but I'm trying to reveal the core of who my mother was and is, who I know and remember her to be. Maybe I am guilty of idealizing, but that's only because the things that stick the most are the things that were repeated most often. Maybe I'm blocking out memories of her hitting me with a baseball bat; it's more likely that she's just a fantastic woman, which is why it doesn't surprise me that people I rarely talk to are coming out of the woodwork to comment and like the links to these posts on my facebook wall. They are only more evidence that what I'm saying is quite true.
My mother claims I looking at the past with rose colored glasses. If she means that I'm leaving out her less noble traits, well maybe, but I'm trying to reveal the core of who my mother was and is, who I know and remember her to be. Maybe I am guilty of idealizing, but that's only because the things that stick the most are the things that were repeated most often. Maybe I'm blocking out memories of her hitting me with a baseball bat; it's more likely that she's just a fantastic woman, which is why it doesn't surprise me that people I rarely talk to are coming out of the woodwork to comment and like the links to these posts on my facebook wall. They are only more evidence that what I'm saying is quite true.
Mother's Week: Pain
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
Mom was not unfamiliar with pain. It was common for my brothers and I to play quietly while mom gave herself a shot and spent the entire day in a dark room, fighting off a migrane. It's hard for a son to see mommy hurt, it's even harder when you know that there isn't anything you can do other than play quietly.
I had migraines as a child as well, so those days that mom was out of commission, I could almost feel the insatiable throbs, the fight for a comfortable position, and the longing for a sleep deep enough to forget about the pain. Sometimes I prayed that I could go through the headaches instead of her, especially on days when getting to the dark room to recover was not on her list of options.
My mother is a fantastic cook; due to her particular prowess of cooking great food for over 400 people, a new position was created on top of the cooking committee at our church specifically for funerals, which in Mennonite country can be translated as, excuse for a big meal. I have this theory that at the core of being Mennonite, there is a necessary element of preparing, eating, and cleaning up a giant meal. When someone is born, you have a shower with lots of food, when someone gets married (I broke this tradition) a smorgasbord is expected; even your death is an excuse for people to chow down. Within this culinary driven sub-culture, my mother has a reputation for setting a table you won't soon forget. But what people back home may not know is that a fair number of these gargantuan meals coincided with one of those debilitating (to the average person) migraines.
But my mother is not average --and her drive to care for others continued even when her head was throbbing. Us boys were often on the receiving end of her selflessness. Even when our requests were rather petty, she saw to them, and never held our selfishness against us. Physical pain, self sacrifice, unending forgiveness toward undeserving little twits... sounds like someone else I know.
Mom was not unfamiliar with pain. It was common for my brothers and I to play quietly while mom gave herself a shot and spent the entire day in a dark room, fighting off a migrane. It's hard for a son to see mommy hurt, it's even harder when you know that there isn't anything you can do other than play quietly.
I had migraines as a child as well, so those days that mom was out of commission, I could almost feel the insatiable throbs, the fight for a comfortable position, and the longing for a sleep deep enough to forget about the pain. Sometimes I prayed that I could go through the headaches instead of her, especially on days when getting to the dark room to recover was not on her list of options.
My mother is a fantastic cook; due to her particular prowess of cooking great food for over 400 people, a new position was created on top of the cooking committee at our church specifically for funerals, which in Mennonite country can be translated as, excuse for a big meal. I have this theory that at the core of being Mennonite, there is a necessary element of preparing, eating, and cleaning up a giant meal. When someone is born, you have a shower with lots of food, when someone gets married (I broke this tradition) a smorgasbord is expected; even your death is an excuse for people to chow down. Within this culinary driven sub-culture, my mother has a reputation for setting a table you won't soon forget. But what people back home may not know is that a fair number of these gargantuan meals coincided with one of those debilitating (to the average person) migraines.
But my mother is not average --and her drive to care for others continued even when her head was throbbing. Us boys were often on the receiving end of her selflessness. Even when our requests were rather petty, she saw to them, and never held our selfishness against us. Physical pain, self sacrifice, unending forgiveness toward undeserving little twits... sounds like someone else I know.
Mother's Week: People First.
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
My mother, Jane to those who love her, (and Delilah, or Diléeah to telemarketers) is a woman of action. My mother doesn't sit around philosophizing about things like I do, she gets things done. The walls I was raised in have witnessed appreciation dinners for teachers (complete with an entire pig roast), fifty or so guests each Christmas Eve, words of compassion and counsel, and more obnoxious teenagers streaking up and down the front porch than one could (or should be able to) count. I don't remember a time when we were prohibited from having someone over, even when Mom had a hard day and we were being jerks for even suggesting it. There was always some sort of treat waiting, along with lots of smiles.
Mom cared about people. They came first, even frustrating people, or people who might want to hurt you, or had hurt you already. Not that my mother was never hurt or frustrated, but it is obvious to me that my she always placed reconciliation in front of justice. My mother taught me that people are more important than being right, or understood, yourself.
My mother, Jane to those who love her, (and Delilah, or Diléeah to telemarketers) is a woman of action. My mother doesn't sit around philosophizing about things like I do, she gets things done. The walls I was raised in have witnessed appreciation dinners for teachers (complete with an entire pig roast), fifty or so guests each Christmas Eve, words of compassion and counsel, and more obnoxious teenagers streaking up and down the front porch than one could (or should be able to) count. I don't remember a time when we were prohibited from having someone over, even when Mom had a hard day and we were being jerks for even suggesting it. There was always some sort of treat waiting, along with lots of smiles.
Mom cared about people. They came first, even frustrating people, or people who might want to hurt you, or had hurt you already. Not that my mother was never hurt or frustrated, but it is obvious to me that my she always placed reconciliation in front of justice. My mother taught me that people are more important than being right, or understood, yourself.
The Problem with 'Fixing' Problems.
I've been
reading a lot of Flannery O'connor lately. I particularly enjoy her characters who are stories within themselves. There is the Bible salesman Manly
Pointer who steals Hulga the angry atheist's prosthetic leg, the chubby girl who
leaps across the table to strangle the subtly racist Mrs. Turpin,
whispering in her ear, "Go back to hell where you came from you
old warthog!", and even a 'Misfit' who kills the overly nostalgic, paranoid, and self-centered grandma. Flannery's characters are hardly
neutral, but rarely contrived; there is something about them that rings very true in us.
Yesterday I found myself in one of Flannery's characters: Sheppard, a single father and psychiatrist who tries to 'fix' people. The problem is, Sheppard tries to fix actions and behavior, rather than work to heal the heart. In the process he simply tries to conform people to his own image.
The problem with fixing isn't new to me. My wife often reminds me she wants me to listen rather than fix it. I've tried (rather unsuccessfully) to be more careful about not telling other people what they should do. What is new to me is what I realized about Sheppard's (and my own) attempts to fix people, it flows out of a desire to control others and thus my environment. If people are more like me, I don't have to try so hard to love them, because their doing what I want them to. Often, in group discussion I steer conversation toward a topic I'm more comfortable with. Or if someone has some differing theology, I try to steer them toward my perspective so I can feel more at home.
The healthy version of the fixer, is the healer. The tragedy in the story of Sheppard is that he never really listened to the heart of his son. When his son, looking through a telescope, insisted that he saw his dead mother waving at them, Sheppard tried to fix the behavior instead of dealing with the issues in his son's heart. He later returned to the attic to find his son hanging from the rafters.
Being a healer isn't as fun. It means listening to people when we think they're crazy, or stupid, or irrational, because often when people say something angry, bitter, or frustrated, their communicating something deeper, something that needs to be drawn out and listened to. Fixing the 'problem' only closes up a wound, leaving the bullet inside.
Also, read some Flannery O'connor; it's fantastic stuff.
Peeing Before the Throne of Grace
Wee toddlers,
standing before the great white throne,
swords drawn,
prepared to fulfill their God-given purpose.
We unskilled swordsmen
dream of an aim, someday true.
But now we are jealous
of the three year old
who leaves only a drip or two
on the snow white seat;
while we stand in puddles
–evidence of a stream of failure.
standing before the great white throne,
swords drawn,
prepared to fulfill their God-given purpose.
We unskilled swordsmen
dream of an aim, someday true.
But now we are jealous
of the three year old
who leaves only a drip or two
on the snow white seat;
while we stand in puddles
–evidence of a stream of failure.
Right now and Later Reasons
There are right now reasons and later reasons.
Right now reasons are things like, because I'm tired, or hungry, or I have a concert tomorrow. Right now reasons put out fires.
Later reasons are things like, because I want to be a good writer, a great guitarist, or someone who might resemble Jesus someday.
It's hard at first to think about later reasons, because the payoff is severely delayed; but as I go back and explore things I wrote before Myspace was popular, I see the distance I've travelled on the never ending road to excellence.
One of the hardest parts of my job as a guitar teacher is convincing people that great musicians are who they are today because they are people motivated by later reasons. Whereas the typical problem for my students is that the early stages of practice are simply going to be boring. Someday I'll figure out how to make it more fun than Halo, but for now it's just going to have to take self-discipline and vision.
To quote a teacher that I really never liked that much, "When God makes a squash he takes eight weeks, when he makes an oak tree he takes a hundred years."
My Review of Blue Like Jazz
I made the drive to Indy last week to catch opening night with a friend. Which, as it turns out, was well worth the ticket price, let alone the cost of gas to get there and back. The short of it is, I highly recommend BLJ.... sort of. In other words, that would be two reserved thumbs ecstatically up. What?
The movie was everything I'd hoped for. I was actually a bit nervous when it started because I've spent the last three years hyping myself up over this thing. When the opening credits started rolling a veil came off and I finally realized what I had done. For better or worse, I had very high expectations, and the feeling no movie could meet them. I was dead wrong.
Blue Like Jazz was honest, thoughtful, creatively portrayed, and for any genre of movie (let alone an indie film, or even worse a Christian film) had fantastic acting. To be honest one or two of the scenes were slightly forced, but even those were probably only noticeable because my radar for such things was operating at full power. By movie's end, my friend and I had to just sit there and think for a while. We were talking about it for several hours afterward.
The basic plot revolves around a Baptist kid from Texas who skips town when he finds his mother is having an affair with a youth pastor. The fictional Don Miller ends up on the campus of Reed college in Portland (which is self described as the most godless place in America). Don, on the advice of his first friend at Reed, a lesbian, ditches his faith in favor of a better fitting cynicism about everything religious. At one point he even pulls a prank with one of his classmates, putting a giant condom on a steeple of a local church.
As far as the point of the story? It's hard saying. It said a lot, but not in a heavy handed way. It was a lot more like a poem; you read it thirty times and get different angles with each reading, depending on where you're at that day. If you're expecting a "Christian" movie with a clearly stated moral at the end, this one isn't for you. It seems like Steve Taylor and Donald Miller have more faith in their audiences intelligence than to spoon feed them the message. If you see the movie, a gang of meaning will probably jump you in an alley on your way hope.
I thought the movie was fantastic. Five stars. Two thumbs up. But I'm hesitant about recommending it to everyone.
The movie isn't polite. It's trying to accurately represent life on the most godless college campus in America, and from what I heard even BLJ pulled punches to get underneath an R rating (which it only missed by a half syllable). There is plenty of swearing, flamboyant men in diapers making a marching band, and plenty of innuendo. At one point the youth pastor of the church looks over at his wife who is playing music that morning and says in an obviously naive tone, "alright honey, tickle that organ."
If you're looking for something like Sherwood Baptist church is putting out these days (Fireproof, Courageous, etc.)" then this probably isn't the film for you. But if you're looking for something forcing you to examine your faith, and make you recognize your oddities and laugh at them, all while telling a great story with superb acting, then by all means find the closest theater and make the drive. It was definitely worth the 6 hour round trip.
P.S. The distribution company for Blue Like Jazz (they also recently released Margin Call), at a screening of the film, noted that the audience was young, intelligent, and had thoughtful questions, but they weren't sure there was a broader audience amongst Christian's for such a film. Prove them wrong and make the drive.
WOASP Part IV: Guest Writer Debbie Sommers.
To wrap up this week, I'm asking a good friend to write today's post. Debbie is a fantastic artist in the fields of painting, drawing sculpting, and personalitying. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband Andy. The picture makes here look a little diva, but really she's usually a lot more dramatic than that.
I am an artist but I’m also a Christian. This really shouldn’t be that complicated. God was the first great artist. He created the universe, humans, nature, EVERYTHING, and He did it all with massive attention to detail and profound skill. Think about that long enough and your work as an artist will look utterly pathetic.
So what’s all this fuss about art and “Christian” art? Why are Christians who are also artists in constant battle with themselves and the “church”? When did we get so divided?
Honestly, art is art. There isn’t “Christian” art, secular art, or religiously indifferent art. I’m not going to label my work as “Christian” because I feel it’s a hindrance. God didn’t create secular flowers for the atheists and “Christian” flowers for the religious people to look at. He created flowers for everyone.
As an artist, that’s what I’m here to do. I want to create work that speaks to a large demographic of people from every background, culture, and religion. My goal is to make work that shows skill and speaks about something. I want you to look at my work and not see the answer right at first, but instead search. To appreciate it for its beauty but then stumble headfirst into something deeper.
And to be honest, that’s my goal as a Christian; to let my life be intertwined with people from every background, culture, and religion. I want you to look at my life and see there is something going on. I want you to see something that makes you search, for the truth, for life, for something so deep and beautiful that your soul will sing.
I want you to find Christ.
A Week of Art and Shameless Promotion Part III: What Only Poetry Can Do
Over the next week I will be talking about "Christian" media and art. You will probably notice that each reference to "Christian" will be marked by parenthesis. As an amateur writer and musician who is a follower of Jesus it has been difficult to define what "Christian" art is. Derek Webb said that the term "Christian" used in reference to anything other than a person is a marketing technique. I think I agree.
I'm drastically aware of our culture's short attention span. Yet I ignored it yesterday, especially in a week of such frequent posts. So I'll be working in a box today. Like a Reneissance sonnet I'll only use 14 lines (minus the intro paragraph) to get a point accross.
There are several analogies floating around in my head. C.S. Lewis' stuck a line in Mere Christianity about a boy buying a present for his father using the money he borrowed from his father to buy it. Brennan Manning told me that my love is small, but Jesus is just beneath my paper-thin skin like dynamite. The priest, from Hugo's Les Miserables, spoke to me the words of Jesus, "With this silver, I have bought your soul. I've ransomed you from fear and Hatred, and now I give you back to God." I enjoyed reading these books. But more than that they communicated something to my soul that it desperately needed.
I'm too intellectual. If an idea comes knocking, my brain is the helicopter father who answers the door. "I'm sorry, the heart is not available right now. Why don't we just talk about this on the front porch?" Poetry is smarter than this. It rings the doorbell then immediately sneaks to a back window, getting a few words in with my heart before my head knows what's going on.
A Week of Art and Shameless Promotion Part II: Criticism
I want to be a better writer, musician, friend, husband, and servant of Jesus. If I am at the same point ten years from now in any of those categories I will be disappointed.
We all make decisions about how good we want to be at something. Natural ability is generally a farce. It's true, some people just pick up a guitar and make it sing like a sixty year marriage, but most of my guitar students are a lot more like awkward newlyweds. Up until that first lesson they're excited about the possibilities while simultaneously having no clue what they're doing. About lesson three they realize that mastery of the axe is a 10,000 hour road.
I recently heard a story on NPR about the Mona Lisa. They had found a copy of Leonardo's work. Apparently he made various versions of the painting, but they think that this particular painting was in the studio beside the version that hangs in the Louvre. They know that this painting was probably the twin because when they placed it under some sort of sonographic examination they found that over the years it underwent the same sorts of changes that the original did.
Changes?
It turns out that Leonardo kept making changes to the work, long after the original sitting by the lovely Lisa. It turns out that the world's most recognizable work of art was not made in a day. Nor will you. Long after his moment of inspiration, Leo kept criticizing his own work.
Christians are not all that good at constructive criticism. While we know how to complain about everything, but don't seem to know how to do it in a way that is helpful. I spent three and a half years playing guitar and keys for a band called Escaping Yesterday. After most of our 130 shows I asked people for feedback, "Be brutally honest" I would say. I remember 3 instances when the request was granted. Nate Butler, Luke Mills, and Grant Beachy... thank you for your services.
One of those 130 shows was a side stage at a Music Festival in Ft. Wayne. An hour before our set I was chatting with a friend who owns a recording studio. We were listening (not by choice) to the daughter of a local "Christian" radio station owner who had obviously received a spot on the stage because of her Father. Backed by a rather poor to mediocre band, she did a rendition of Revelation Song that would bring you to tears, which has more to do with the fact that your ear drums had ruptured. In a passionate manner she sang the chorus a consistant 1/4 step flat. At the end of the song, as the small group of listeners actually clapped, my friend leaned over and whispered through the perfunctory noise, ""Christian" music is the only genre that allows you to suck and get away with it." I think he's right.
The rather successful band Green Day, whether you like them or not, was booed off the stage during their first performance. Billie Joe Armstrong (the band's front man) cited this as one of the keys to their success. Had they not been applauded, they would have never realized there was any need for improvement. That applause would have cost the band millions of dollars.
I'm not suggesting that I should have booed the cat in the blender at Icthus. I do think that I'm called to be gracious to people. I think one of my tasks as a follower of Jesus is to give space for people to make mistakes, a whole lot of them. But I'm also called to love people long term, which I think means making suggestions for improvement.
If I want to be a better husband, writer, whatever, I need to know what should be improved. I'll never play like Hendrix if all I get is applause and a pat on the back. I need that, but frankly if it's all I ever hear I stop believing it. If I can't trust you to tell me what's wrong, how am I supposed to believe you when you say something is right?
I want "Christian" art to be good, really good. I want it to say profound things in profound ways, like C.S. Lewis. But Lewis didn't just up and decide to write great stories that everyone would like. He was a literary critic who spent years writing articles about what he thought was well or poorly done art. He was surrounded by some of the greatest literary minds of England, who analyzed every word he wrote, looking for a hole in his logic and style. The man was in a pressure cooker. I'm grateful that men like Lewis were criticized, it made them into the writers that they were.
So back to Blue Like Jazz.
I've spent the last couple of years verbally criticizing "Christian" art, because I care. If I didn't care I would crank Muse or Coldplay and forget that genre ever existed. I think Christians have the best source material for stories, but we're terrible storytellers. I criticize because I think we can do better. I am by no means the only one who has spoken up, and people are starting to listen, changes are coming.
This past year Gungor entered my life; a fusion of Jazz, Rock, Spanish Guitar, Classical Music, and a whole slew of spices. If you haven't heard their album Ghosts Upon the Earth you probably should, the entire album is available on YouTube. They are evidence that there is a demand for something thoughtful.
Another game changer is coming up this Friday. I find myself as adamantly pushing for attention for Blue Like Jazz the Movie as I have criticized the mediocrity of "Christian" art. I fully expect this movie to make mistakes, to do certain things 'wrong' as any work of art does. But this movie represents the fruit of constructive criticism, and it is taking risks to answer that call.
So I'll continue my shameless (and genuine) promotion of BLJ the movie. If you share my desire to see something different out of "Christian" art, you can vote with your wallet this Friday. Go to bluelikejazzthemovie.com, find a theater, and go see it. According to Steve Taylor (the producer), at one of the movie screenings their distribution company was surprised to find thoughtful young viewers of faith with significant questions about content. But they still aren't convinced that there is a significant number of Christ followers to warrant future production of such movies.... I would like to see them proved wrong. This Friday is one way to do that.
A Week of Art and Shameless Promotion Part I
Over the next week I will be talking about "Christian" media and art. You will probably notice that each reference to "Christian" will be marked by parenthesis. As an amateur writer and musician who is a follower of Jesus it has been difficult to define what "Christian" art is. Derek Webb said that the term "Christian" used in reference to anything other than a person is a marketing technique. I think I agree. When I set up a tour to Oregon for my band last summer, I had to navigate this strange world of questions like, "what will you do spiritually for my youth? Are you a Christian band?" These are fair questions, but what percentage of something has to be a direct reference to the Father, Son, or Spirit (or all three) in order to be "Christian"? Are songs on a "Christian" album individually "Christian" songs simply because they are placed nexted to other more obviously "Christian" songs?
Honestly I think this sort of talk is a bit ridiculous. I think we should care about what sort of art and media we ingest, but I'd rather we do away with making artistic genres entirely out of lyrical content. To communicate, however, I'm going to perpetuate the use of such categories but bring them into question with parenthesis. I recognize the genres, but I think they are altogether silly.
Now let's get this awkward ball rolling...
This Friday something very exciting is happening, there is a movie coming out that will either stand as an anomaly in history, or change the face of "Christian" media for years to come. Blue Like Jazz. If you have been hiding under a rock for the past few months you might have missed this. Take heart, it's not too late. This Friday Blue Like Jazz will be opening in select theaters across the country, which is really a rather large miracle.
The movie had some problems getting off the ground. As Donald Miller (the author of Blue Like Jazz the book) and Steve Taylor (the producer of the movie) went around the country giving the sales pitch to investors they ran into a problem that more and more artists are finding themselves in, it was either too Jesus or not Jesus enough. In the end they had a big Christian investor (does not need parenthesis because it refers to an actual person) who backed out because he was afraid to have his name attached to the film (we'll get to why later on). So for a while it seemed that three years of vision and creativity were about to be abandoned, then something fantastic happened.
Two fans of both Taylor and Miller pulled their brains together and started a Kickstarter campaign. Kickstarter is an online financial fundraising site for artistic projects. A goal is set for each project that must be reached if the project would like to receive any money from contributions. The response was overwhelming. In 40 days (allow me to be cliché and draw some sort of biblical number reference) the movie emerged from the wilderness, empowered by $345,000 of entirely fan based funding, making it the largest movie budget of it's kind.... ever. Needless to say, there were a lot of BLJ fans who wanted to see this thing happen. A later Kickstarter campaign raised another $40,000 or so to help pay for distribution costs.
There is some controversy swirling around this movie. For some it's because it was a half syllable away from reaching an R rating. The movie is after all about a Christian (again person) kid going to college at Reed in Portland, Oregon; loosely based on Miller's own experiences. Reed College is self-claimed as the most godless college in North America. The movie is trying to at least reasonably portray what life there is like. Christian's don't typically admit that they like swearing. So this upsets people.
The second item is a more recent fatwa (as Steve Taylor called it) against BLJ by Sherwood Baptist Church. They said that they would not work with anyone who chooses to work with BLJ. Taylor pointed out that the distribution company they work with is the same one that distributed The DaVinci code. Sherwood Baptist also requested that BLJ trailers would not be played beside trailers for the upcoming movie "October Baby." Steve Taylor's responses to these things were both gracious and sarcastic. Just Google, "Steve Taylor response to Sherwood Baptist" and you can find his comments. Basically, some Christians as well as "Christian" movie makers are not to happy about what Miller and Taylor are trying to do.
I think this movie is important, very important and this is why. I think that good art communicates something in a way that makes you tilt your head and say, "huh, that's neat." I think great art makes people react to it strongly in both positive and negative ways. If I read a poem that said that married men should be loving fathers and husbands to a group of elderly people in a nursing home, they would nod and tell me stories. If I played Cat Steven's "Cat's in the Cradle" (Go listen to it) to the same room of old men whose children had grown and left them in a nursing home they would weep. Blue Like Jazz is "Cat's in the Cradle" for $345,000 worth of my generation. I fully expect there will be well aimed arrows of truth, communicated in profound ways, that sink deep into hearts and let them know they aren't alone. I think, if you want to understand something about me (scary thought) you should go see this movie.
I have been ranting about "Christian" art for some time now. I don't regret this, but Donald Miller once said that if you see a problem you shouldn't simply complain, but offer solutions. I think this is week is a small way that I can do that. So this week I'll be attempting to talk about and promote my personal definition of GREAT CHRISTIAN ART! I realize a lot of this is subjective, but I'm not necessarily just going with what I like, I'm going with what tries to communicate depth in profound, not cliché ways.
So here is my sales pitch for today. Go see Blue Like Jazz this Friday. The better it does on opening day, the more theaters will pick it up nationwide. Consider this Friday an opportunity to vote for great "Christian" art.
Why Today Is Just Another Day.
I'm being tongue in cheek, in a sense. But there is something very normal about today, eggs and coffee for breakfast normal.
Shift in thought....
I was seriously going to write about how today just felt normal, important but normal. This is probably due to some lack of preparation on my part. But even in the time it takes me to brew some coffee I'm hit by the profundity of how little I feel about a day of such importance. But in some sense we are very normal people who are fortunate enough to have the affections of someone extraordinary.
Today is a reminder for people like me who continually fail to get it.
Jesus knew he was dying for prostitutes, thieves, bad husbands and abusive fathers. I think he also knew he was dying for the apathetic.
I hope so. My life depends on it.
When It Hits the Fan
I recently published an article for a magazine called the Brotherhood Beacon which is distributed to my denomination's conference. My blog was listed at the end of the article. So for those looking into my world for the first (or rather second) time, welcome. For the rest of you, I figured I should give some context.
While the article is about unity with Christ followers who believe sometimes very different things than we do, there are some items regarding alcohol and universalism that are talked about that will very likely be criticised (for the record I'm not a universalist, the item in the article was about a friend who had reached such conclusions when looking at scripture).
Now on to the post.
I have a feeling that things are going to hit the fan. I feel like I've come out of a closet of sorts (in a literary/public voice sense). I have exposed myself to the world I live in. Now I sit here waiting for the eye of the storm to move on and pound me with it's relentless fury. There really isn't much I can do about that now. Issues have been distributed, people have probably read the article, and I'm sure the scare crow version of me has probably taken a few intellectual baseball bats to the head.
I knew this sort of thing would happen. I seriously considered withdrawing the article before it was published, not because it wasn't true, but because I knew it would have repurcussions for people other than myself. To anyone who takes any sort of flaq for my writing, thank you thank you thank you. I'll by you coffee, or dinner, or as I now feel a little more free expressing since publishing the article, a beer if you'd like.
I don't have a sort of persecution complex, I really don't think I've done anything worthy of being persecuted. I'm just recognizing that my ideas might clash in big ways with the heartfelt convictions of others.
So why would I publish something that I know would make some upset, and make life difficult for others?
For that, you can blame Brennan Manning and book made movie The Help. If you haven't read anything by Manning, stop reading this or anything else. Don't even eat until you've finished Ragamuffin Gospel, Signature of Jesus, and All is Grace. Brennan has been a mentor to me. His honesty has healed me. His passion has inspired me. The alcoholic, divorced, rogue priest, now rendered an invalid because of his less noble addictions has pulled a veil off of my eyes that has allowed me to experience the unending love of God. I read All is Grace while writing the article for the Beacon. I gained a purpose as I realized that it is unlikely that Brennan will write any more books. I felt a sense of responsibility to take up the task to communicate the love that Brennan so honestly communicated to me. I suppose you could call that a 'call', but it feels more to me like being the first person to stumble upon a wreck. No one really asked me to do anything, but I would regret turning a blind eye.
The Help addressed the fears that come with a drive to be brutally honest. In case you haven't heard of or seen it, the basic plot line follows a white girl, daughter of a prominent family in the south, who wants to be a writer. She works with two Black maids who face possible death in order to publish stories about their employers and the conditions they are forced to endure. The movie carries a scent of White Man's Burden, but I found the courage of Abeline, one of the maids, inspiring. At the end of the movie, Abeline is fired, forced to leave behind the daughter of the white woman who she has raised. Her voice has cost her something precious to her, but she is more sure than ever of her purpose and the need to raise that voice as a writer.
I know my writing will sometimes anger people. It (and I don't mean my writing) will hit the fan now and then. People will disagree with, misunderstand, and probably even hate the things I have to say. But I hope what is clearly heard is that I'm not writing to be controversial, or divisive. I'm writing because there were people brave enough to say and write things that got them in trouble, things that set me free. I hope to do the same for others.
City of Brotherly Love? Part II
Carl is a heroin addict. I know this because he told me. Actually he told me he had just shot up about five or ten minutes ago. We were in a neighborhood called Somerset. According to the group we were working with that day it is the worst drug corner in Philadelphia. Police had a mobile unit set up and rode around on bikes. When the cop disappeared around the corner a flurry of activity picked up until a spotter saw the police coming again. We were there handing out sack lunches and listening to people's stories.
Carl was the first person I met as we piled out of the van. He was more than happy to take the lunch as he hadn't eaten that day. He wondered why we were there, in Somerset, at night, talking with heroin addicts. I just said we were there because God loved us and we wanted to spread a little bit of that love, if only with a pb&j and an open ear. At this point Carl started crying and asking God why He would love a heroin addict and a failed father like him. At first I wanted to say something to him, to help him understand that love a little more, but Carl had already clasped his hands, tucked them to his chin and through a sobbing voice thanked Jesus for that love. I've said thank you for your love. I think at times, very dark times, I've said it out of all sorts of desperation and craving, but Carl cried out from the bottom of a barrel surrounded by needles and self-hatred. I don't know that I've ever seen such genuine, raw, worship of God.
Carl started to sway back and forth as if losing his balance, then he started actually losing his balance. We helped him to the ground where his eyes rolled back into his head as he convulsed. A friend of his came over and told us he has these caesuras every so often and that we shouldn't call the ambulance, Carl wouldn't want that. After about thirty seconds of kneeling over Carl, feeling his shoulder's weight convulsing on my foot, he rolled over and vomited up the half sandwich he had eaten on the sidewalk. After a couple of minutes we helped him back up and started the conversation all over again, "Why are you here?" This time the question was more about disbelief than curiosity. I repeated my previous answer, which sent him into another bout of praises to God. As he hugged me and buried his head in my chest, in my incomplete love I was disgusted by the thought of his vomit rubbing off on my leather jacket. In the face of the urger to push him away I forced myself to embrace him more. Carl then asked who we were and why we were there. His short term memory and sense of reality was shot, which only makes me think of his praise as more genuine.
Allow me to explain.
The only surgery I ever had was the removal of my wisdom teeth. This being my first time going under, I was rather nervous about saying something stupid in my state of anestesia, especially because the nurse administering the drugs was rather stunning. She had freckles; I'm a sucker for freckles. As I counted backwards from ten I yelled at myself to keep my mouth shut. There is something unnerving about the prospect that your darkest thoughts might be unearthed.
After what felt like three minutes later, I started coming out of the fog. I was sitting in an office with my mother and the cute nurse with freckles. We were talking about after surgery items, like keeping mass amounts of gauze in my mouth and not chewing gum for a while lest it bust open my stitches or get stuck in the new holes in my head. And as the doctor rambled on I started regaining my memory and realized what happened as soon as I came to in the OR.
Freckles: "Hey there. How are you feeling?" *said with a voice that would sail a thousand ships*
Me: "Uh," yawn "Good. I didn't say anything stupid did I?"
Freckles: *adorable giggle* "No. No you didn't. Those were your first words."
Me: (Thinking to myself, but apparently out loud) "Good, I was afraid I was going to say something embarrassing. You know since your so hot."
Back in the room with my mother and Freckles I fought the urge to palm my face. I stopped looking her in the eyes. The point is, I think, that the things we establish in our sane moments are revealed in our delusions, which makes me think that what meant more than anything in the world to Carl was the outlandish idea that God loved his heroin pumping heart.
P.S.
It comforts me to know that there is a man named Harry who heads down to that corner with his wife every Friday night with a sack lunch and words of love for Carl. Harry has already helped Carl's sister get into rehab and he continues to encourage Carl to do the same. Harry, who formerly visited Somerset as a customer, works with a group called Inner City Missions (www.innercitymissions.org) which is run by people from that neighborhood who were once part of the drug problem but now desire to see people freed from the chains that once held them.
City of Brotherly Love? Part I
Over the next few weeks I'll be digging up stories from my time in Philadelphia with a group called Urban Hope. This is my way of processing everything that happened, so really you're just joining me as I try to figure out what it is that I've learned.
My drive toward Warsaw, Indiana was a bit unnerving. I knew practically nothing about the trip, other than we were going to Philly. I also had no clue who was going on the trip with me. With the exception of one informational meeting, I knew no one who climbed on that old BlueBird school bus, which motivated me to stick my nose in a book for most of the ride.
Just before leaving, Courtney had recommended The Same Kind of Different as Me, the autobiography of a man who grew up as a sharecropper in the south, hopped a train at thirty to the city, succumbed to drugs and homelessness, spent every night for over a year praying beside a dumpster for a close friend, and went almost daily to a nursing home to care for and clean up a severely racist old man who only referred to him as 'nigger.' There is more to it than all of that, and you should probably read the book, but I think it represents the tension of love and addiction that I encountered on the streets of Philadelphia.
It's easy to pretend the world is a simple place, that people are homeless because they are lazy, or do drugs because they make the choice to do so, and that all drug dealers care about is an easy dollar. This sort of oversimplification makes it easier to deal with life. If I see a man on the street with a sign it's easier to look away if I think that he should have known better, or worked harder, or paid attention in school instead of doing drugs. I can reassure myself that I am helping him by not helping. If I give him a dollar, he'll probably just buy drugs. Besides, he probably makes $30,000 a year begging. We can always find excuses. But as I learned in Philly, if we actually stop and listen we will find that there are individual people with individual problems. Who knows, they might even become a mirror.
So I will be telling a few of those stories that I was able to listen to; like Sean, who apparently did two drug deals while we talked about him, or Carl, who worshiped God over a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich before and after his heroin induced caesurae, or Gino, who had turned down a salary because he was still afraid of what money would do to him.
I have to warn you, my experiences were limited in time and scope. While I hope this serves as an inspiration to further understand the complexity of poverty, as well as people, consider this as about as comprehensive and studied as the recent Kony phenomena. There is simply no way that with my limited experience I will be able to do more than broach the subject at this point. I'm just trying to process the things I did see and hear. I hope to do some more reading on the topic myself, and I'll be sure to pass on whatever resources I come across.
May I learn to look people in the eye and listen.
Jason's Letter to the Church in the US
Please understand my title as tongue in cheek. I am not the voice of God. Do, however, listen carefully because I think I am asking questions that try to get to the heart of God.
Political season is gearing up, or rather already has been. The Republican primary has turned into a circus. We will soon be finishing up the spec and moving into the main event, kicked off by renewed 'birther' controversy that will probably hit the fan within a day or so. And I cringe.
Not because I think the ongoing controversy is possibly idiotic (I do), but because of what I fear the church will do with it, and this new election.
I fear for the church, not so much that it will entirely fall apart, but that we will sink into another political cat fight. You know that whole thing where everyone else accuses everyone else of not being a faithful follower of Jesus because they didn't vote a certain way. I have a specific church in mind that had members leave because of their disgust with the acceptance of a political diversity. Though it comes from both sides, the reality is that the louder voice of contention comes from the religious right.
It seems I have tipped my hand. I am obviously an Obama advocate. No, not really. I don't find him to be the idiot that most Christians I talk to claim, but my ideals actually line up the most (which in this case is about 25%) with Ron Paul. Mostly I just like that I know exactly what Paul has thought about things for the last twenty years. However, you should take this 'endorsement' as nothing more than an acknowledgement that if we sat and expressed personal opinions about things, we would agree slightly more often than I would be the case with other candidates.
But really, I'm not exactly here to talk about polotics.
I'm here to talk about why I intentionally did not vote in 2008 and may not in 2012 It's not because I'm being lazy about it. In fact I'd like to think I've been following polotics quite well.
And why didn't I vote?
I think it is important to be involved in the political process, to give one's opinion, and to appreciate democracy. I encourage people to be thoroughly informed, something more than just spouting off whatever Rachel Maddow, or Glenn Beck said this week (Which Beck actually recommends himself). However, my priority is a kingdom that is not of this earth. The Bible says that we are aliens, ambassadors, passers-through on this planet. I think those terms (among other items) should place a weight on us about our role on this earth that reminds us that political ideals take third or fourth chair in relation to God's kingdom. I repeat, be involved, and vote, but realize that the voice you lift up as a Christian in politics can affect assumptions people have about Jesus in ways that may not necessarily be true of Him.
I've heard it said that if you don't vote you can't bitch. Well in the case of the kingdom of God, I decided to not vote so I could bitch. Essentially I didn't want the concerns I raise to be confused with bitterness that my team didn't win. Whether that was the right decision or not, God knows. It is what it is.
So these are my requests -no, my pleas for the church in the United States.
1) As Jesus prayed for us in his final hours, may we seek unity. Jesus compiled a group of political opposites, revolutionaries, Roman IRS agents, secessionists, and blue collar workers, and made the kingdom of God their priority. These radically different men added thousands of Barbarians, Scythians, Slaves, and Millionaires to this body of misfits. I believe that priority is still present today.
2) While I don't advocate the issue of 'political correctness,' I do advocate the unbending love of God that is perceptive and compassionate, seeking to convince others of Christ, removing any obstacles to that person seeing the savior more clearly. Have political discussions, be honest, but allow the Spirit of God to let you know when your disdain for 'political correctness' might keep someone from encountering God.
3) Recognize that it is God who establishes authorities, and not just the ones you like. We are told to honor the king, and to pray for him. This language comes out of a Roman concession to the Jews. Instead of offering sacrifices to the emperor, they offered sacrifices on his behalf to God. You may not always like the person in power, but God has called you to live in the tension of giving honor to the one you disagree with. It's helpful to remember our problem in that tension tends to be failure in the honoring category. We don't seem to have problems letting people know what we don't like.
I'm sure there is a lot more to say, but these (in my opinion) are the most important.
I'll leave Gungor to add a final point.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WybvhRu9KU
Recognizing Misconceptions
It's easy to think that when we talk we are saying something obvious and clear. If someone rejects what we say they are clearly rejecting what we think we are communicating, right? Not necessarily.
Speakers at very large youth seminars like to talk about how we shouldn't be ashamed to tell everyone who Jesus is, all the time. Just lay it out there and let people accept or reject it.
I think Jesus would have had a problem with this. Jesus recognized that people often have certain hangups that take time to get past before they can hear about an idea. Jesus himself actually did this. On multiple occasions Jesus told people not to tell others that he was the Messiah. So Jesus was ashamed of himself? No, not really. He was considerate of other people and their assumptions.
Jesus knew that the Jewish perception of the Messiah was so far off target that he avoided the term, even though he was in fact the Messiah. Instead he used an obscure term hidden in Daniel called Son of Man. He then told them who the Son of Man was and what he would do, that he would tear down the temple and rebuild it in three days. After his death and resurrection his followers went around telling people that the Son of Man was the Messiah. Youth pastors that look like Brad Pitt would like to tell you that you shouldn't care what people think, but Jesus did care.
And here we are today, and if I'm honest I hesitate when people ask for quick responses about faith. Not because I'm ashamed of what I believe, I just realize that it takes anywhere from good hour of conversation to a lifetime to even begin working past assumptions about what "Christians" are and who Jesus is.
I want people to know who Jesus is, but I want people to know who Jesus is, and that takes more than thirty seconds, especially when all the little Jesus people have been running around for so long yelling that dirty people are a nuisance to him.
Shooting at the Bowling Alley
I watched as the most skilled member of our expedition twisted his body like Bill Murray in Kingpin, minus the toupee flapping in the wind. A few lanes down, keeping up my movie reference, a few Amish kids enjoy cheap beer and opportunities for the guys in the group to prove their manhood to the bonnets by hurling 12 pound urethane orbs at a triangle of 10 squat, wood pins.
I chat with a friend about the local economy. And as casually as Bill Murray posts turkeys onto his score, I shoot off my mouth and land red hot lead in his heart.
Words, intended for good or evil, carry a force to be reckoned with. Frankly it doesn't matter whether or not we intended them this way or that. Stray bullets don't care about motives.
I'm not very good about using my words wisely. I walk into conversations like I'm in a scene out of the Matrix, guns blazing, room left in ashes. Then I come to and see the victims of friendly fire, at which point I call the ambulance in panic. I'd like to think that I'm better at this than I used to be, but when it comes to words, my mind always has a finger on the trigger, which results in more wounded friends than I'd like to admit.
A Shooting at the Bowling Alley
I watched as the most skilled member of our expedition twisted his body like Bill Murray in Kingpin, minus the toupee flapping in the wind. A few lanes down, keeping up my movie reference, a few Amish kids enjoy cheap beer and opportunities for the guys in the group to prove their manhood to the bonnets by hurling 12 pound urethane orbs at a triangle of 10 squat, wood pins.
I chat with a friend about the local economy. And as casually as Bill Murray posts turkeys onto his score, I shoot off my mouth and land red hot lead in his heart.
Words, intended for good or evil, carry a force to be reckoned with. Frankly it doesn't matter whether or not we intended them this way or that. Stray bullets don't care about motives.
I'm not very good about using my words wisely. I walk into conversations like I'm in a scene out of the Matrix, guns blazing, room left in ashes. Then I come to and see the victims of friendly fire, at which point I call the ambulance in panic. I'd like to think that I'm better at this than I used to be, but when it comes to words, my mind always has a finger on the trigger, which results in more wounded friends than I'd like to admit.
My Post Game Analysis
I watched the big game yesterday. I enjoy football. It reminds me of Sunday afternoons with my dad. I'm not as dedicated as I used to be, but if there's a game on, I enjoy reconnecting with those memories.
Of Course my memories also include dozens of advertising vignettes, that creatively tried to sell me cheap beer and domain names. Everything about Superbowl coverage is product placement. Every award, replay, player of the game, is sponsored by something. And of course we anticipate the commercials. In my experience, the beer commercials are usually the most creative. I still have vivid images of the Budweiser frogs of my youth. This year was a bit lackluster, mostly they tried to make it look like sophisticated people rather than rednecks drank Budweiser.
A not so funny series of commercials were by G&E. They had one where cancer survivors met the people who made cat scan machines. It was rather sentimental. There was a gentle crescendo of violins when they arrived at the factory and met the employees. Several of this year's Superbowl ads carried a seemingly heartfelt concern for the real issues in the world. Seemingly.
But this isn't really about football or commercials.
I heard something last year around this time that I forgot about until driving home after the game. This "something" didn't make headlines, or get an envied spot as a Superbowl commercial. It is something I'd honestly rather not think about, especially on a day that should be filled with laughter and good food. But if the past fifteen years of the Superbowl are any indicator, yesterday, Indianapolis was the best place in the country to pay money to have sex with a child.
The Superbowl is the largest event of the year for the sex slave trade. Two years ago in Miami it was estimated that while the Indianapolis Colts were being raped, so were 10,000 victims of the sex slave trade, most of those 18 and under.
If you watched the game, I hope you enjoyed it, but don't let Ferris Bueller commercials, the bulging breasts of several dozen women, the notion that G&E might care more about people than money, or even your severe love or hatred for a few dozen men you know very little about distract you from the realities of what this game meant to a possible 10,000 people this year.
I'm not sure what to do with this info right now, and I'm not sure what you can either, but I think we should be people willing to live within the tensions of joy and pain. I want to be awake, I want to make a difference, I think that starts by recognizing there is a problem.
If you'd like some info from the experts about what you can do, here are some experts.
www.traffick911.com
Of Course my memories also include dozens of advertising vignettes, that creatively tried to sell me cheap beer and domain names. Everything about Superbowl coverage is product placement. Every award, replay, player of the game, is sponsored by something. And of course we anticipate the commercials. In my experience, the beer commercials are usually the most creative. I still have vivid images of the Budweiser frogs of my youth. This year was a bit lackluster, mostly they tried to make it look like sophisticated people rather than rednecks drank Budweiser.
A not so funny series of commercials were by G&E. They had one where cancer survivors met the people who made cat scan machines. It was rather sentimental. There was a gentle crescendo of violins when they arrived at the factory and met the employees. Several of this year's Superbowl ads carried a seemingly heartfelt concern for the real issues in the world. Seemingly.
But this isn't really about football or commercials.
I heard something last year around this time that I forgot about until driving home after the game. This "something" didn't make headlines, or get an envied spot as a Superbowl commercial. It is something I'd honestly rather not think about, especially on a day that should be filled with laughter and good food. But if the past fifteen years of the Superbowl are any indicator, yesterday, Indianapolis was the best place in the country to pay money to have sex with a child.
The Superbowl is the largest event of the year for the sex slave trade. Two years ago in Miami it was estimated that while the Indianapolis Colts were being raped, so were 10,000 victims of the sex slave trade, most of those 18 and under.
If you watched the game, I hope you enjoyed it, but don't let Ferris Bueller commercials, the bulging breasts of several dozen women, the notion that G&E might care more about people than money, or even your severe love or hatred for a few dozen men you know very little about distract you from the realities of what this game meant to a possible 10,000 people this year.
I'm not sure what to do with this info right now, and I'm not sure what you can either, but I think we should be people willing to live within the tensions of joy and pain. I want to be awake, I want to make a difference, I think that starts by recognizing there is a problem.
If you'd like some info from the experts about what you can do, here are some experts.
www.traffick911.com
Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places
God knows I can't pay attention for very long. As a musician, I'm always looking for innovation, a new guitar tone, maybe a fancy new way to guide rhythm in a song. When I hear new music I become obsessed. I field dress it several times a day until I can pick out every layer while hanging upside down blindfolded. Then, in the distance, I hear the new Coldplay album tinkling in the breeze. And like a child who spots a shiny yellow dump truck accross the room, I set down the White Stripes and make like a zombie toward Mylo Xyloto.
God knows I can't pay attention for very long.
One of my favorite poets is Gerard Manly Hopkins. Hopkins believed that everything carried an essence within it, an essence that ultimately points back to Christ, which is where I got the title "Christ plays in ten thousand places." This has been my life. God seems to teach me things by having them pop up everywhere, sort of like a Made in China sticker seems on practically every toy from my childhood.
In the past few weeks that lesson has been about suffering in the world around me (which will be it's own post later on). The sources include a sermon at my church, an episode of NPR's This American Life, President Obama's speech at the national prayer breakfast, an email from some missionaries from our church, and then last night through my wife's reflections on a day where God was teaching her the exact same thing through some pretty difficult and random (If you believe in such a thing) circumstances. And I just lay there, half listening, half telling God, "Ok I get it, I get it."
God knows I can't pay attention very long, but instead of beating me over the head for not focusing, He gets creative.
As Kingfishers Catch Fire - Gerard Manly Hopkins
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow string finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves-goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.
I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his going graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is -
Christ - for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.
The Difficulty of Listening.
Listening to pain is a difficult thing. It feels impotent. I just listened for a half hour or so, fighting constantly the need to give my opinion to a good friend suffering things I can't even begin to understand, unsure of what to do. I admit I failed a couple of times and chimed in with my thoughts, but I consider these unhelpful mistakes. My friend just needed an ear.
In the past three or so years, I've had more conversations like this than I would ever wish on anyone. I've seen men crying and raging like a teenage girl who got dumped while on her period. And most of the time all I can think to do is listen, which, I think, is really what is needed. People need a safe place. People need a bucket that they can vomit into, someone who can really ask "How are you?" and mean it.
So here are a few tips for listening
1) Like I said before, I'm tempted to speak up. When people divulge the pain of life, one can't think in terms of syllogisms and the details of "the right thing to do." There's a time for that, but if that comes at all, it is step number three or four, maybe eight. What people need is for you to shut up and nod.
2) Beverages and food. Every painful conversation should involved both liquids and solids, something light, something comforting. Winter time calls for a hot beverage of course. Coffee shops can be good, but are prone to interruption. A corner of a dining table and three or four cups of coffee go well together. For summer time experiences, a cold drink on a warm summer evening is, I think, the best time to open wounds. Also, having something to drink helps you keep your mouth shut.
3) Avoid sympathetic terms. You probably don't understand what the other person is going through. Having your boyfriend or girlfriend dump you, while significant to you, probably isn't the same as experiencing the pain of destroying your own marriage, being betrayed by family, or failing to the degree that your reputation is thoroughly wrecked. People know you care because you have been sitting on the porch listening to rehashing of the same story since 11:00pm, which was five hours ago. Understanding nods and eye contact are acceptable. No need to open your mouth and say something stupid like, I understand. Unless of course you went through the EXACT same thing and actually can.
I have several more tips, but most of them could be summarized with the following. Shut your mouth, and open your ears and heart.
Also, never say "Don't worry, it will be ok." Worst thing you could possibly say.
That is all.
For The Thing Itself.
I'm tired of doing things as a means to an end rather as an end in themselves.
Writing for example. There was a time when I wrote as a means to an end, mainly to get better at writing. It worked, I became a better writer. I'm glad that I forced myself to do that sort of thing, but I'm glad I don't do it quite as much anymore. It was miserable. It basically took the thing I wanted to love to do and taught me to hate it. I'm glad I survived that experience.
I suppose you could argue that sort of experience is a step in any proces, but I dare say it is a stage of immaturity. Marathon runners get up morning after morning, fighting the urge to sleep, but always glad to be alive and going once their feet hit the pavement. I don't understand runners (nor do accountants understand why I would ever be so keenly interested in improving my grammar).
Maturity does the thing for the thing itself, even if it is a means to an end. This post, this sentence, these words are the work in front of me and it brings me joy to arrange them on my screen this morning. Of course this world is still tainted, sometimes I have to fight for that joy, but most mornings, even in the frustrating times, it is there.
I'm going to take a turn now and point myself in the direction I originally intended. Last night my wife was talking about whether or not she took her faith seriously enough, or whether or not she did enough. If I can be honest for her, she has to fight the feeling about what she 'should' do, which is funny because without even realizing it she is drastically selfless. I fight these sorts of things as well. Certain things that Jesus said about caring for down and outs cut at my rather self centered existence. I find myself continually fighting what Brennan Manning talked about when he said "don't should on ourself."
Brennan Manning was one of those people who did the thing for the thing itself, to the point that he almost didn't seem aware of the service he was involved in, including work with the homeless and AIDS patients in New Orleans. It's a sign of his maturity (though he was certainly deficient in other areas). To him, loving was the means to the end and the end itself.
I want that.
Say Something
Communication is a tricky thing. I've been writing, giving sermons, and making music to various degrees for the last several years, and I've found that the most common theme in my communication is that it is typically misunderstood, sometimes because of poor communication on my part, but more often because language is a flawed institution formed by flawed beings. English for example is an amalgamation of French royalty, religious Latin, and the ramblings of whatever drunk Viking happened to occupy the British isles.
I led a workshop at CMC's conference this year on communication. To jump start our discussion I posed the question, "Who knows what the word Hosannah means?" I was specifically thinking of the song Hosannah by Hillsong, that uses the phrase "Hosannah in the Highest" in the chorus. I've probably sang this song several dozen times at my church, but only have a vague notion of what Hosannah meant. I thought it had something to do with God saving us, but the phrase "in the Highest" threw me off. So after fifteen or so seconds of silence the pastor in the room piped up and said he thought it had something to do with God saving us, but even he seemed unsure.
There are verses in the Bible that talk about words. There are verses that say not to use idol words, or have worthless conversation. I used to think these verses were talking about those four letter words that I used to roll around my mouth on the tractor because that seemed so foreign with their harsh germanic inflections and sharp syllables. I would say them until they were sounds devoid of meaning I don't know maybe God was talking about four letter words, but I think more than that God is looking for his people to be people who say things that mean things and bring life. I think he was talking about communicating life when we speak. And while Christian's are good about avoiding sins of commission we run rampant through fields of meaningless communication.
I don't think it's a Christian problem, I think it's a human problem. In North America we know how to say a whole lot without saying anything at all. Maybe this sounds a little too much like "The good ol days" but watch a Mike Myers comedy like Wayne's World and compare it to something more recently by Will Ferrel. I'm not saying either are the epitome of intellectual excellence, but watching Wayne's world might require me actually knowing something about economic or political conditions, and jokes sound like they were thought out rather than just being an impromptu session of Ferrel screaming random barely incoherent phrases. I fear for the intelligence of this generation.
I believe we have a responsibility to communicate life, which is really so much more than saying Hosanna or Jesus saves. I'm sorry but words lose meaning, language changes, and what you think is so clear to the world might not sound much different than me talking to you about the importance of understanding tapered versus analog contours when selecting potentiometers, or even the debate about whether or not guitars should just be true bypass with a push-pull cutoff switch. That all actually did really mean something specific and real by the way. While that all makes perfect sense to me, clear as day, it means nothing to you, and to get you to the point of understanding what I am talking about might take a while. How much more difficult is describing relationship, let alone relationship with God. I think it takes a lot of work and creativity, otherwise Jesus wouldn't have told so many stories (which are by the way still looked at, even by the secular world, as an amazing example of communication skills).
I'll leave you with some words from a skeptic who taught me about meaning what I say and saying it well.
Our Bog Is Dood
By Stevie Smith
Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,
They lisped n accents mild,
But when I asked them to explain
They grew a little wild.
How do you know your Bog is dood
My darling little child?
We know because we wish it so
That is enough, they cried,
And straight within each infant eye
Stood up the flame of pride,
And if you do not think it so
You shall be crucified.
Then tell me, darling little ones,
What is dood, suppose Bog is?
Just what we think, the answer came,
Just what we think it is.
They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours
And we are wholly his.
But when they raised them up again
They had forgotten me
Each one upon the other glared
In pride and misery
For what was dood, and what their Bog
They never could agree.
Oh sweet it was to leave them then,
And sweeter not to see,
And sweetest of all to walk alone
Beside the encroaching sea,
The sea that soon should drown them all,
That never yet drowned me.
Resolving to Fail
I'm doing something this year that I have thought about doing for a while now. I'm not going to tell you exactly what it is. I've found that if I express my larger goals too quickly I get this sense of satisfaction as if I've already done the thing. So for now I'll be keeping my mouth shut so I don't let out the motivation.
I can tell you that what I'm trying to do is one of the more extensive, long term, projects I've undertaken. It feels like the first time I drove across the country alone. At first it was a fairly exciting venture, around Boise things got boring enough that I had time to actually consider what I was doing. It took me until somewhere in Wyoming before I finally settled down and thought I might make it. Right now I'm somewhere in Boise and a lot of details are settling in. I'm terrified. At times like this it is a lot easier to think about all the things I'm doing wrong, all the things that I don't know. It's a bit overwhelming, so I'm shifting my goals.
My goal is to fail at my project.
I'm not giving up, all those details are still sitting there, I've just given myself permission to fail. The whole reason I set out on this journey in the first place is because I want to get better at something, and the best way to do that is repetition. So really the only unacceptable failure is giving up.
Ok, let's get to it.
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