everyday wonder

And everydaywonder shall be no more...

2007-07-26T11:29:00.000-07:00

That's it, I've finally finished my other blog, moving my online personality to jasonrecampbell.blogspot.com. This one is officially toast.

The launch of new blogs

2007-06-19T07:10:00.001-07:00

So I've been threatening for a while to launch some new blogs, and after much work in the web design area, I finally got my first new one out of the gate.

A tiny bit of background first: I've always been irritated by a lack of good sites on the internet that review fantasy and science fiction in anything approaching my tastes. Nearly all the sites out there are so specialized that I can't even understand what they are saying, or they are so broad so as to praise every work to be released by Tor with phrases like "lucent, lyrical prose", "fast-paced" and "action-packed". I managed to find a movie review site out there whom I trust, and I hope to become something like that for picky fans of the fantasy genre. Someday. After I get a few more posts on: fantasticfictions.blogspot.com.

Okay, since I wrote this blog, I got inspired and launched one of the others I've been sitting on for a while. Go check out sanctuscross.blogspot.com.

Marco Polo in three strands

2007-05-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

FIRST STRAND

A swimming pool in some state between California and Nebraska: it's warm outside, the afternoon sun disappearing somewhere beyond the raised freeway that cuts a swath through this town with a name not worth remembering. Three older children whose names I don't know are with me in the pool. One of the children has his eyes closed and repeatedly and obnoxiously yells "Marco!", to which all the rest of us, trying desperately to stay out of his you're-it reach, respond "Polo!"

SECOND STRAND

A decade or more later, I am standing in Barnes & Noble just before the border between Washington and Oregon. It is raining. I have a gift card to spend, and I find myself following a string of interesting book titles from one Italo Calvino. I settle on two, If Upon A Winter's Night a Traveler and Invisible Cities.

Weeks later, I sit down to read Invisible Cities. Each chapter begins with an exchange between Marco Polo and Kublai Khan; this is representative:

POLO: Perhaps the terraces of this garden overlook only the lake of our mind...

KUBLAI: ...and however far our troubled enterprises as warriors and merchants may take us, we both harbor within ourselves this silent shade, this conversation of pauses, this evening that is always the same.

POLO: Unless the opposite hypothesis is correct: that those who strive in camps and ports exist only because we two think of them, here, enclosed among these bamboo hedges, motionless since time began.

KUBLAI: Unless toil, shouts, sores, stink do not exist; and only this azalea bush.

POLO: Unless porters, stonecutters, rubbish collectors, cooks cleaning the lights of chickens, washerwomen bent over stones, mothers stirring rice as they nurse their infants, exist only because we think them.

KUBLAI: To tell the truth, I never think them.

POLO: Then they do not exist.

KUBLAI: To me this conjecture does not seem to suit our purposes. Without them we could never remain here swaying, cocooned in our hammocks.

Each chapter following such exchanges is composed entirely of descriptions of cities which Marco Polo purportedly visited throughout the great Khan's empire. Each description is rarely more than a page in length, something like this:

Summoned to lay down the rules for the foundation of Perinthia, the astronomers established the place and the day according to the position of the stars; they drew the intersecting lines of the decumanus and the cardo, the first oriented to the passage of the sun and the other like the axis on which the heavens turn. They divided the map according to the twelve houses of the zodiac so that each temple and each neighborhood would receive the proper influence of the favoring constellations; they fixed the point in the walls where gates should be cut, foreseeing how each would frame an eclipse of the moon in the next thousand years. Perinthia--they guaranteed--would reflect the harmony of the firmament; nature's reason and the gods' benevolence would shape the inhabitants' destinies.

Following the astronomers' calculations precisely, Perinthia was constructed; various peoples came to populate it; the first generation born in Perinthia began to grow within its walls; and these citizens reached the age to marry and have children.

In Perinthia's streets and square today you encounter cripples, dwarfs, hunchbacks, obese men, beared women. But the worse cannot be seen; guttural howls are heard from cellars and lofts, where families hide children with three heads or with six legs.

Perinthia's astronomers are faced with a difficult choice. Either they must admit that all their calculations are wrong and their figures are unable to describe the heavens, or else they must reveal that the order of the gods is reflected exactly in the city of monsters.

Hundreds of cities, so described, haunt or sing from the pages of this strange and wonderful book.

THIRD STRAND

Later still, I am looking for information about explorers and come across the works of one Marco Polo, his huge work given the unassuming title of simple Travels. This great work is the descriptive travelogue of Marco Polo (1254-1324), the Venetian explorer who claims to have traveled from his home in Venice to the court of Kublai Khan in China. His work consists of brief descriptive chapters which read like this:

Having stayed a while at Soldaia, they considered the matter, and thought it well to extend their journey further. So they set forth from Soldaia and travelled till they came to the Court of a certain Tartar Prince, BARCA KAAN by name, whose residences were at SARA and at BOLGARA [and who was esteemed one of the most liberal and courteous Princes that ever was among the Tartars.] This Barca was delighted at the arrival of the Two Brothers, and treated them with great honour; so they presented to him the whole of the jewels that they had brought with them. The Prince was highly pleased with these, and accepted the offering most graciously, causing the Brothers to receive at least twice its value.

After they had spent a twelvemonth at the court of this Prince there broke out a great war between Barca and Aláu, the Lord of the Tartars of the Levant, and great hosts were mustered on either side.

But in the end Barca, the Lord of the Tartars of the Ponent, was defeated, though on both sides there was great slaughter. And by reason of this war no one could travel without peril of being taken; thus it was at least on the road by which the Brothers had come, though there was no obstacle to their travelling forward. So the Brothers, finding they could not retrace their steps, determined to go forward. Quitting Bolgara, therefore, they proceeded to a city called UCACA, which was at the extremity of the kingdom of the Lord of the Ponent; and thence departing again, and passing the great River Tigris, they travelled across a Desert which extended for seventeen days' journey, and wherein they found neither town nor village, falling in only with the tents of Tartars occupied with their cattle at pasture.

Here, then, is the experience of postmodern culture. A figure whose name I recognize from a childhood game appears as a figurehead in a book about the postmodern condition: exploring themes of perception, truth, experience, and the poverty of language used to describe and relate that experience to another. The book's primary literary charm is the use of a real world figure in the mode of that figure's expression, all to express modern angst in a beautiful literary work. Calvino's work has no beauty unless it springboards from the real Polo, dimly known.

And most strange of all is that in my own experience, the last work for me to encounter is that of the real Marco Polo. In fact, I think Invisible Cities worked on me more profoundly because of my lack of knowledge about the historical person. I came to Calvino's work more malleable because I had only a dim understanding of who Marco Polo and Kublai Khan actually were; their fantastical aspect allowed for more room upon which Calvino could paint.

EPILOGUE

Most who refuse Christian faith in this culture do not refuse the faith that Christians know. The have come to know faith in Christ as a childhood game: in glimpses, in games, in jokes, in clips in movies and cartoons. They encounter symbols they do not understand, words they cannot know, ideas which seem monstrous, strange, cryptic, or wicked.

Perhaps that is why athiest popularizers Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins have such a loyal following in popular culture--because the faith they attack is one experienced only in false reflections, faint echoes, shadows cast upon a cold wall. When these figures begin to paint their picture of the venom and violence of Christian faith, they paint upon white canvas, unsmirched by experience of Jesus and the people among whom He dwells.

Sustained focus on our goals:New tools for my spiritual disciplines

2007-05-15T08:23:00.000-07:00

The season of Lent this year revealed much to me about the practice of spiritual disciplines. One of the insights that I value from this experience is the realization that I can be pretty tenacious about a disciplined behavior when it has a fixed (and short) duration. For Lent, I chose to give up shopping for books (gasp!) and all non-real food.

Those may seem strange goals for Lent, but here was the rationale: the book thing was becoming for me a habit of mind--when I had free time, one of the things which occurred to me was to go check out what's new at the local bookstore. I have limited funds with which to buy books, so it wasn't a matter really of stewardship so much as, well, lust. I wanted to know what new books were out and what great deals I could find at some of the local book shops. I wanted to add to my collection, I wanted new ideas to think about, I wanted new adventures to experience in the form of fiction. The habit of mind was becoming intrusive, so it was time to chain it up for a while and teach it some manners. The diet thing was similar--chain up the desire for worthless food: cookies, cake, fried junk, candy, chips--the stuff that has no nutritional value but rises higher on the "I-want" list than bread and beans (and makes the bathroom scale rise higher too). Hence the Lenten fast.

I didn't find it terribly difficult to give up either of these things, mostly because I knew it was for a limited duration. Granted, when Melissa baked cookies for house guests or when we came to dessert time at Home Community, my eyes certainly locked on the goodies for longer than was healthy. But all in all, not too bad.

The really interesting part for me was the transition following Lent. Once I could return to the bookstore and the bag of chips, I found that my desire for them had changed. The habit of mind had shrunk significantly for both items, and I found that life pretty much went on just fine without either thing. Of course, like an idiot, I started eating french fries again just because I could and now I'm back to craving them all the time. But it didn't have to turn out that way. With better management of transition between the season of tight discipline and returning to a normal order of life, I could have put minor behaviors in place which would have maintained the discipline without it really being a discipline--instead, it would have become a change in habit.

Which brings me to my new tool: the 21-day discipline. Lent was too long and has too many other worthy and powerful spiritual components to be repeated more than once a year. But, taking what I learned from the short-term discipline part of it, I am implementing a new strategy in reaching the various spiritual, financial, emotional, and physical goals I have set for myself. I pick one thing to address for a period of 21 days and set up a discipline around it. Then, through prayer and the application of my own will, I seek to free myself from habits which obstruct the accomplishment of my goals.

Also, taking what I have learned from the transition out of Lent, I'll try to take advantage of the loosening of the old habits and put the minor behaviors in place which will maintain and nurture the new habits until they become "nature".

For example, on May 5th, I began a discipline intended to open the way to one of my goals: to become a published writer. As a pastor, husband, and father, I don't have an excess of free time, so finding time to write has remained a real challenge. Add to that the fact that sleep and I get along very, very well, I have set for myself the goal of adjusting my sleeping habits and schedule to allow for some disciplined writing time. For the last ten days (excluding Sundays, the day for celebration and rest from your discipline; another thing I learned from Lent), I have been getting out of bed at 6:00am and writing for two hours. Actually, it works out to more like 45 minutes, once I get some cereal down, make coffee, and stare at the screen until I wake up, but the idea is the same. That's 45 minutes more per day than I have ever had in my life.

The trick will come at the end of the 21 days. How will I maintain the discipline of rising early while setting down the hard work of forcing myself out of bed at 6:00? It's already becoming a habit, but what happens when I am "free" to sleep in whenever I feel like it? And oh, will I feel like it come May 26th. I wonder.

Monsters in the Garbage Cans, pt. II

2007-05-05T07:37:00.001-07:00

(read part I)

Edward came to the foot of ladder, setting his feet on what seemed like damp stone. The pungent scent of garbage still lingered, but it was no worse than it was at the top of the ladder. Even down here, he could still hear the bubble gum music ponderously thudding along. Somewhere in the distance, water trickled into a drain. Only the strongest rays of light braved these depths, leaving Edward enveloped in umbrous shadow; and though he could see nothing around him, he found that he was not much afraid. Better here than stuck in a fashion shop all afternoon.

In the darkness he searched his pockets, discovering there a Super Joe action figure he had brought with him. Edward smiled the smile of false competence, as if he had known all along that he would find himself in such a predicament. You see, Super Joe was a large action figure whose main weapon against Terron was a fearsome chest-mounted laser cannon. And since most toy manufacturers frowned upon the distribution of such armaments to small children (at least in the United States), they substituted a weak flashlight beam. Edward switched it on and held the figure before him like something part way between a crucifix and a fully-articulated lantern.

The dim light revealed the walls to be formed of smooth concrete, cold and dusty. The floor was rougher and every few feet, Edward had to step around a wide, shallow puddle of muddy water. He walked along in his small bubble of light for several minutes, taking a turn here or there. He fancied he could not become lost, since the route did not branch at any point that he could see. It did not take him long to leave behind a whole world of malls and fashion shops, pretzel vendors and pet stores; so easily we forget ourselves in the solitude of our private journeys.

A faint scratching sound reached his ears from somewhere far ahead. Edward stopped to listen; the scratching reminded him of the sound of his spaniel's dull nails on the hardwood floors of the kitchen. He wondered to himself what sort of dog would wander tunnels like this. He supposed it could drink from the muddy puddles, but who filled its bowl? As he continued toward it, the sound grew louder until he began to wonder why he did not see the dog's eyes glimmering in Joe's light beam. Edward stopped, listening again for the sound. The scratching sound had stopped. And as he looked around, he realized he had come into some sort of small chamber, circular in shape, with walls which bent in and up like a funnel.

As he was looking up into the darkness, he caught a brief flash of light accompanied by the sound of a small, rusty metal door swinging open. Before the light disappeared again, he caught a glimpse of something falling toward him. He instinctively covered his head with his hands. Just in time too, for he was struck by something which left him warm, wet, and sticky—what was that smell? Coffee?

He found where he had dropped Super Joe, and shined the dim light around him. It was indeed coffee—and there on the floor near him was a soggy Starbucks cup. "Yuck, who drinks that stuff?" he said to himself, utterly unaware that opinions might be subject to change years hence.

He looked up again, wondering where the cup had come from. The coffee was not hot, the cup had not been full—then it occurred to him: the tiny metal door above him was the door to a metal garbage can. Which meant—

Something grey and bristling walked toward him out of the darkness, its dull nails scratching along the floor. Edward backed away until he bumped into the cold concrete wall. As it crept closer, he could see a shaggy head in a mass of grey fur, and above a wide mouth of square white teeth peered two large yellow eyes. They blinked at him. Edward did not know if he should be frightened or reassured by its appearance—it was something of a cross between a chubby wolf and a furry bean bag. And those white teeth smiling (snarling?) at him, none of it gave any clear indication of the beast's intentions.

Edward waited in silence, holding Super Joe before him like a talisman. And then the beast did something else unexpected—it spoke! In a gurgling voice, as if speaking from the bottom of a pool, it said, "Come ex-plorin', did it? What does it want?"

Edward frowned and looked around. Was it talking to him? Edward had never been refered to as an 'it' before. In a weak voice, he ventured, "Are you talking to me?"

The beast jumped back, startled. With wide eyes, it asked, "It speaks? A greeder speaks, now that makes for silly con-versation!"

"Who—what are you?"

"Sogga-Moffin, that's my name. And that's what I am; I eats the greeders' toss-aways. Do greeders have names? Something to eats?"

"My name is Edward." He hesitated, then added, "You don't plan to eat me do you?"

A sound like a clogged garbage disposal echoed around the chamber. After Edward realized that it was laughing, he calmed down a little. It said, after it had finished its grating laughter, "Silly Edwards; why would a Sogga-Moffin eats a greeder? Then Edward give no more eats, Sogga-Moffins go hungry."

Edward breathed a sigh of relief. Spying the coffee cup on the floor, he pointed to it. "What about that? Do you eat those?"

The shaggy beast turned its head, and upon seeing the cup, it opened its wide mouth, revealing three rows of blocky white teeth. A slimy tongue ending in three little knuckle-knobs unfurled from behind the teeth. With this strange and disgusting appendage, Sogga-Moffin lifted the coffee cup to its mouth and began chewing slowly like a cow.

Edward shook his head, half amazed, half disgusted. "Where is this place?"

The bristly brows above its dark eyes knitted together in what looked like a frown. It continued chewing for several long moments, and then let out a moist and fragrant belch. "Not polite to talks while Sogga-Moffin chews. Where, greeder asks? How it comes to Dis-kardia and doesn't know where it is?"

"Diskardia? I've never heard of such a place. Do the janitors know it exists? I always thought they just emptied the garbage cans."

Sogga-Moffin looked at him quizzically. "Sogga-Moffin doesn't know 'jan-i-tors', doesn't know gar-bage cans. Sogga-Moffin takes greeders to the Drain-Snipes. Maybe they knows." The beast wheeled around and scuttled off into the darkness, and to his own surprise, Edward followed. Much, much better than a fashion store, Edward thought to himself.

(part III coming soon...)

The stories which grow with each reading

2007-04-20T21:46:00.000-07:00

Among the very best experiences one can have with a favored story book is to read it again at different ages. Ideally suited for such readings are the fairy tales, which have one thing to share with the limitless fountainhead of the child's imagination, and even more to share as one re-reads it through the color of experience and wisdom. In the re-reading, one remembers the wonder of the first reading, bringing with it an upwelling of that same fountainhead, which mixes with all that has transpired since. In the fairy tale, the child encounters truth as a wild, unpredictable creature that grows more familiar, more beautiful, and more profound with each re-reading.

I recently finished the English translation of The Neverending Story, written in the late 70's by Michael Ende. I grew up loving the movie. The Rockbiter on his huge trike, the Swamps of Sadness where Atreyu loses Artex, the roiling cloud of Nothing, the Childlike Empress, the incomprehensible name which Bastian yells out the window into the storm. And of course, who could forget Falkor, the Luckdragon?

Now, having read the book, my mind is reeling with the wonders I encountered there. I have a new book to add to my greatest-books-of-all-time list. Not only is the book even better than the movie, it is much, much longer. The events which take place in the movie barely extend to the 100th page of the 370+ page book. And while I still consider the movie to be solid and powerful, it pales to the richness of the symbolism and maturity of the written work.

Is it a children's book? Yes and no. This is one of the few works which stands in the place reserved for very few stories. It is a true fairy tale in every sense of the word, one that grows with the re-telling and the re-reading. I cannot recommend this one highly enough. If you have young children (perhaps as young as six), give them a wonderful gift: read this story to them. It will take them on a journey that will exhilarate them for months. And when they return to the world years later, perhaps reading it to their children, that same sense of joy will come again, only deeper this time, and more wonderful.

So, for those of you who are keeping a record, here are the very best in this rare category of fairy tale which grows with each reading:

Tolkien's Lord of the Rings
Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia
Ende's Neverending Story
MacDonald's The Golden Key
Andersen's The Snow Queen

Last, but not least, it might interest some of you theologically astute readers to know that the German title for this book is "die undendliche geschichte". Not quite the heilsgeschichte, but that perhaps, as Lewis said, is the one true myth.

The Spirit and the bride say, "Come!"

2007-04-16T09:10:00.000-07:00

Revelation 22:17 reads:

The Spirit and the bride say, "Come!" And let him who hears say, "Come!" Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life.

Especially among the newer, younger churches, there seems to be an emphasis on these words of Jesus to all who would come to Him and seek the gift of His transformative love. I find it amazing that in this Scripture text it mentions those who give the earnest, profound invitation: both the Spirit and the "bride". Where else does a wounded sinner belong but in the arms of Christ, and by extension, in the arms of His bride, the church, where can be found a company of the redeemed? But among the redeemed there can be found also the company of the seeking-sinner, who has not yet glimpsed the redeeming grace, who has not yet tasted the water of life. And therein lies the problem. Consider a recent post by Ben Witherington:

I once had an odd experience while staying in Atlanta some years ago. I had run into a man in the hotel where I was staying who said he wanted to go to church with me in the morning. Said he was a regular attender back home in Kansas. I thought, well sure-- sounds fine. He then proceeded to tell me he was in counseling for child porn and for fondling children and was doing better. He was a doctor who had lost his job. At that juncture I had a dilemma on my hands. I didn't think I could decide for the church in question whether he ought to be there or not. I honestly didn't know what to say or do. The next morning I got up and went on to church early , and this man showed up as well. Well, I sat with him. We sang the hymns together, but I have to tell you I was more than a little distracted. I was watching him closely more than I was paying attention to the service. I am still not sure what I should have done, if anything.

And here we have the classic conundrum for the church. Should this man be welcomed into the fellowship of the church? At first, the answer appears to be yes, especially in light of the text that we looked at above. Where else could this man find the healing grace of unconditional love if not the church? Where else could he be known for who he is and not despised? Where else could he find the loving care and call to discipleship that could lead to authentic transformation?

But at what cost? If the church is filled with people less than fully formed into the likeness of Jesus, what effect will his presence have on their faith walk? Certainly, a Christian leader in the church, full of the Holy Spirit, could take advantage of this vivid opportunity to call others to be like Christ and accept him. But what of the family with small children, loving, yes, but deeply concerned about the consequences of a single episode of backsliding? That is to say nothing of the unchurched family whose mother brought them to seek Jesus precisely because as a child she was abused at the hands of a similar person. Again, a vivid opportunity for her to learn about the need for unconditional forgiveness.

But will she stay long enough to meet Jesus? Or will she run in fear from this group of (in her mind) fools who are too naive to know the corrupting power which has soiled this man's soul?

This story hit me hard as I find myself wondering how I would approach this man and how I would shepherd the faith community for which God has given me responsibility. My heart would go out to him, eager to show him the transforming love which I have experienced at the feet of my Savior. I would challenge others to do the same, to reach out to him and become for him a community of friends in which he could grow and heal while confronting the sinful nature which had driven him to such acts.

But what of the five families who would leave because they cannot bear that call to discipleship (at least not yet)? Is their fellowship and journey of faith worth less than his?

We make choices with every person we invite alongside us on the journey of faith. We cannot be all for the sake of all, as much as great men like Paul have tried. In the end, he was called to take the gospel to the gentile churches, leaving the Jews to others. I hope and pray that should God call us to such a radical opportunity to show His love, that He guide us as we seek a way to honor Him and His sending purpose.

"It was the whiteness of the whale that above all things appalled me."

2007-04-09T11:13:00.001-07:00

Though in many natural objects, whiteness refiningly enhances beauty, as if imparting some special virtue of its own, as in marbles, japonicas, and pearls; and though various nations have in some way recognised a certain royal preeminence in this hue; even the barbaric, grand old kings of Pegu placing the title "Lord of the White Elephants" above all their other magniloquent ascriptions of dominion; and the modern kings of Siam unfurling the same snow-white quadruped in the royal standard; and the Hanoverian flag bearing the one figure of a snow-white charger; and the great Austrian Empire, Caesarian, heir to overlording Rome, having for the imperial color the same imperial hue; and though this pre-eminence in it applies to the human race itself, giving the white man ideal mastership over every dusky tribe; and though, besides, all this, whiteness has been even made significant of gladness, for among the Romans a white stone marked a joyful day; and though in other mortal sympathies and symbolizings, this same hue is made the emblem of many touching, noble things— the innocence of brides, the benignity of age; though among the Red Men of America the giving of the white belt of wampum was the deepest pledge of honor; though in many climes, whiteness typifies the majesty of Justice in the ermine of the Judge, and contributes to the daily state of kings and queens drawn by milk-white steeds; though even in the higher mysteries of the most august religions it has been made the symbol of the divine spotlessness and power; by the Persian fire worshippers, the white forked flame being held the holiest on the altar; and in the Greek mythologies, Great Jove himself being made incarnate in a snow-white bull; and though to the noble Iroquois, the midwinter sacrifice of the sacred White Dog was by far the holiest festival of their theology, that spotless, faithful creature being held the purest envoy they could send to the Great Spirit with the annual tidings of their own fidelity; and though directly from the Latin word for white, all Christian priests derive the name of one part of their sacred vesture, the alb or tunic, worn beneath the cassock; and though among the holy pomps of the Romish faith, white is specially employed in the celebration of the Passion of our Lord; though in the Vision of St. John, white robes are given to the redeemed, and the four-and-twenty elders stand clothed in white before the great-white throne, and the Holy One that sitteth there white like wool; yet for all these accumulated associations, with whatever is sweet, and honorable, and sublime, there yet lurks an elusive something in the innermost idea of this hue, which strikes more of panic to the soul than that redness which affrights in blood…
…Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color; and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows—a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues—every stately or lovely emblazoning— the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge—pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?

Thus is the experience of reading Moby-Dick by the ascendant Herman Melville, of whom it is said: "Moby-Dick is now considered to be one of the greatest novels in the English language, and has secured Melville's reputation in the first rank of American writers."

They do not exaggerate. The book is one of the most challenging books I've ever read—which ought to be evident by the archaisms of the prose quoted above. Most challenging, and most rewarding. My appreciation of the book lies in Meville's ability to accomplish at once two things: first, his vivid depiction of all the authentic details and experiences of a 19^th-century whaling vessel, with all its accompanying boredoms and terrors. Here are written hundreds of passages which capture the yard-arms, the oakums, the spermaceti, the ship-calling trumpets, the smallest of the sail-maker's needles, all essential to the whaler's noisome task. To read Moby-Dick is to read a travelogue of the whaleman. And second, his ability to use such experiences (in all their minutiae) to explore the great frontiers of human experience. I mentioned a moment ago that the details and experiences are often realistic—the plot, the movements of the chief characters, the extended dialogue and soliloquys are not. But they serve Meville's purpose of thinking through the transcendant amidst the toils of the difficult task.

I could not have read this book with any enjoyment in high school. But now having read it, I know why it possesses the reputation it does. Anyone who loves the beauty of language and the outworking of philosophy embarks on a fortunate voyage when he steps aboard the ill-fated Pequod with Ahab and Ishmael. Fear not the 520 pages, press on, sailor, for the white whale calls!

Cascade Hills goes Youtube

2007-04-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

It had to happen sooner or later. As Easter approaches, I was looking for ways to help encourage our folks to be inviting their friends and family to the various good things going on all weekend at Cascade Hills. We realized that inviting people to church can be a little scary, and that we had some cultural realities in place we needed to overcome. After a bit of brainstorming, we decided to make a video about it, helping people to understand that it's really very simple:

Step one: Say "Hey, what are you doing for Easter?"

Step two: Hand them a flyer. You can use either hand.

I know, it's a breakthrough system. We may try to patent this critical invitation-to-church technology. We busted out a cheap digital video camera, committed this two-step process to digital posterity, and BANG! Cascade Hills has moved into the Youtube era. Who knew church could be this fun?

Happy Easter!

“Ssssh, They might hear you…”

2007-03-29T10:54:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, a young boy went to the shopping mall with his two cousins. They were both girls, a little older than him, with blonde hair and bright eyes. They liked nothing better than to parade him around the city, pretending as if he were their younger brother, or perhaps son, depending on what sort of game they felt like playing that day. The boy, who's name was Edward, especially liked it when they took him to the toy store with the glass cases where they kept all the rare and wonderful toys that couldn't be found at any other toy seller.

Each time they took Edward with them wherever they went, they remembered why Edward's parents were trying to get loose of him to begin with: he was a very loud and rambunctious boy, who, with no regard whatever for the sensibilities of two blonde teenagers, would skip around the echoing halls of the mall making frighteningly realistic fire engine noises at the top of his lungs.

On this particular day, it had not taken long for one of the girls to lose her patience with his shrill gambolling. She marched over to him and caught him by the wrist. Kneeling down, she whispered, "Sssshhhh, They might hear you. Do you really want Them to know you are here?"

Confused, the boy looked around. A few familes walked the mall, pushing strollers or carrying large plastic bags filled with shoes or albums or jewelry boxes. A straggly old man with a yellowing beard nursed a foam coffee cup. A security guard stared blankly from behind a desk set into the wall, one hand propping up his chin.

"No, not them. Them." The girl pointed a quivering finger toward the bulbous, silver-topped garbage cans. "Inside. They'll hear you."

"What are you talking about?"

"They live inside those garbage cans, listening. And if they hear you, they'll rush out from their lair, streak across the mall in a flash of black fur and razor-teeth, snatch you up, and you'll never come out again."

The boy stopped and stared at the garbage cans. They looked big enough to house such a creature, and as he looked around, everyone else was being very quiet. Come to think of it, the only sound at all came from somewhere near the ceiling: a dull, placid piano. He looked up at his cousin, who was standing above him now, holding his hand with a wide, proud smile on her face. Solemnly, he nodded.

The rest of the way to the teen fashion store, Edward walked silently, close to his cousins, looking up and down the wide walks for streaking black fur. Perhaps his shoes squeaked louder than others? Could they hear him breathing? Why were his cousins talking so loud? As they passed row after row of benches, each one had a garbage can on either side. The boy's eyes locked on each one, watching breathlessly for the tiniest sway of its topmost, silvery swing-door.

He let out a long sigh upon crossing onto the carpet of the fashion store, the girls' favorite mall destination. He hated the store; there was nothing to play with, only a thousand round racks filled with strangely colored clothing that made ridiculous anyone who touched them. Normally, he would remain outside the store, running around the middle of the mall among the collections of benches, fake plants, wide brown rugs, and (gulp) garbage cans. He hugged one of the plastic pillars at the entrance to the store, watching the five or six cans within sight. He was thankful for the sanctuary.

Reluctantly, Edward turned eyes back to the interior of the fashion store, the pink and purple heaps making him squint and frown. Bubble gum music oozed from hidden alcoves somewhere above him. Somewhere to one side, his cousins chortled excitedly with garishly dressed and clownishly painted attendants. "There has to be something fun to do in here," Edward said to himself.

Still shorter than most of the clothing racks, he wound his way between them to the back of the store, where the clothes no one wanted waited on dusty racks. He found a particularly full rack, and thrust his hands between an orange sweater and something made from lime-green taffeta, parting them just wide enough for him to climb inside. Bunching shut behind him, the circular clothing rack became his refuge from the store, a fortress from which he could think up something fun to do.

As he thought through his options, he glanced down in the dim light which filtered through the glass top of the rack. He noticed that on the dirty floor beneath him, right in the middle of the carpet, was what appeared to be a wooden trap door, complete with a gnarled iron ring set in its face. He had never seen anything like it, except maybe in an old story book or cartoon. He stared at it for a long time, as if waiting for something to burst forth from below. On a whim, he reached down, grasped the ring firmly, and pulled the creaking door upright. Suddenly, the smell of dirty water and old burger wrappers billowed his nose. The light was just strong enough for him to see the top rungs of an old wooden ladder which led down into the steaming darkness.

A voice came from somewhere outside the world of the rack, "Edward, where'd you go?"

He set one foot on the ladder, glanced up once, and then began climbing down…

(read part II)

A Shifting Stack of Good Books

2007-03-16T21:39:00.001-07:00

In the last few months, my diet of regular reading has taken me all over the place. In no particular order:

Ursula Le Guin's Changing Planes: Le Guin is best known for her Earthsea series of fantasy novels which are quite good. She has written a wide range of highly acclaimed fantasy and science fiction. She is counted among the best of the "soft" SF writers, meaning that she deals with sociological and philosophical questions rather than those dealing with the more usual sciences of SF. This book, more in a fantasy mode, is ideal for someone who hates airports and air travel in general. A woman discovers she can change planes (that is, dimensions) while waiting to change planes (that is, at the airport). All that is required is a terribly uncomfortable seat, a bellyfull of greasy fast food rotgut, and a few other specifics she never actually mentions. Chapter one relates her discovery of this mode of travel, then subsequent chapters go on to focus on one plane or another that she has had opportunity to visit. This is Le Guin's imagination at her best. Some of the planes are merely amusing (the Christmas™ plane) while others become powerful metaphors exploring human rites of passage, religious experience, family life, and more. Good, easy, fast read.

Annals of the Witchworld: Along with the Beastmaster series of books, the Witchworld series was Andre Norton's bread and butter. A visit to any used bookstore in the science fiction section will reveal a dozen or more books from one or both series scattered under "N". I read the first novel of the series, in which the main character escapes a deadly chase with Eastern European spy killers by stepping through an ancient doorway leading to who-knows-where. He ends up in "the Witch World", a place not quite science fiction, not quite fantasy, brimming with interesting characters, nationalities, magic, and gadgets. Not the best stuff I've ever read, but since it's older than 1980, it's better than a lot of stuff out there. Another easy, fast read. Not sure when (or if) I'll bother with others from the series. Probably would take a solid recommendation from someone I'd trust.

Moby-Dick: You guessed it, the monstrous white whale tale of every high schooler's english class nightmare. I'm not quite all the way through it, but I've been working solidly at it for several months. No doubt why this hefty tome has the reputation it does: profound, interesting, provocative, amusing, and horrifying by turns. Melville can make our language positively dance, and can even make an entire chapter devoted to an allegorical description of a sperm whale's tail fin interesting. I'm about 370 pages through the 550 or so in my cubic paperback edition of the book, and we haven't met the book's fearsome antagonist. Great stuff.

A Theological Introduction to the Old Testament: Four authors collaborated on this solid introduction to the Old Testament. Their aim was to produce a book which treats all the major areas of scholarship in the Old Testament with a broad brush, using the central task of understanding its theology as the unifying principle. I am working through this book slowly, letting the dense material make its way into the part of me that not only reads but comprehends and remembers. I can't recommend this one highly enough for anybody who wants to take the plunge into a fuller understanding of "the other half of the Bible" as Christians sometimes call the Hebrew scriptures.

Homer's Odyssey: I got a copy of Fagles' translation of Homer's Odyssey and read through the first four or five chapters. Fagles has a reputation for being not only a brilliant scholar of ancient Greek literature, but also a masterful poet, taking the difficult hexameter of Homer's greek text and rendering it beautifully into a powerful epic in english. All the concentrated beauty of poetry, the lyricism of language and vivid imagery in the service of a novel-length work. No wonder people have been reading this thing for 4000 years. Deeply rewarding.

Andersen's Fairy Tales: Classic fairy tales at their very best. I've only read a few from this collection, having picked it up several times between other works. Andersen stands at the headwaters of this tradition and has given us some of the stories which are nearly as much a part of our cultural consciousness as the Biblical stories once were. If you've got a dusty printing of this one laying around somewhere, go read "The Snow Queen." You won't be disappointed.

Missional Church: I've been revisiting this seminal work at the center of what's happening in American Christianity right now. Dwayne and I are re-reading it with our church planting mentors (this is their first time through), and we're finding a lot to discuss. This is another one of those works that has already become an important voice in shaping my thinking about the church and its role in the world, and I continue to ruminate on its theology. Can't recommend this one highly enough—this is one of the must-reads of our time.

Borges: I've returned to this gem of South American literature a half-dozen times since I bought it last year. This is some of my favorite literature of all time and I'm not even finished reading his Collected Fictions the first time through. These stories I savor, reading only one or two every couple of weeks. I want this collection of magic realism to last forever (and after reading his "Library of Babel", I think that, despite it's finite size, it just might).

Flights: Another great anthology to which I periodically return. I haven't read too many more since the last time I put it down, but I mention it here because I finally ran across something readable from Charles De Lint. He is a well known author of what is becoming known as "mythic fiction" though I think of him more as having taken fairy tale sensibilities and running through an inner city skate park. However, a De Lint story in Flights titled "Riding Shotgun" left me thinking about the story for quite a while afterward. It's good enough to make me actually pick up and look at his other novels again.

Treasures in Clay Jars: This is the "sequel" to the Missional Church. The same authors of the first volume take a set of well-defined criteria (a 40-page appendix in the book) and demonstrate how a selection of churches from varying denominational and cultural locations are living out a missional theology. Immensely more hands-on and practical than the first volume (which, in fairness, was almost exclusively theology), I found this book helpful and thought provoking. Not finished yet, but I'll be working back through some of its material for several church planting projects at Cascade Hills.

The American Fantasy Tradition: Another anthology, this one I picked up at random from the library. I've only read a few of its pieces, but it's a much different take on the fantasy story. The editor was looking for stories that uniquely illustrated what American authors have contributed to the genre of fantasy. A great collection with some well known works and some very good lesser known ones. I particularly enjoyed the compilation of stories surrounding Pecos Bill, a figure of American folklore that I'd heard of but never encountered in print. Excellent. I'll be returning to this book later with some further thoughts.

Strange Pilgrims: Lastly, I've picked up one of the authors with whom Borges is often compared: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, another South American magic realist. This is a collection of short stories, and I've read a handful of them. They are all exquisitely written but slightly outside my area of interest. Good enough to finish, but a far cry from Borges.

Tiny biplanes appeared in the skies

2007-03-05T08:25:00.001-08:00

Tiny biplanes appeared in the skies above the courtyard, flying long, slow sorties just beneath the branches of the spreading maple. So far as anyone knew, no biplanes had ever been sighted there before. They were very small, no more than eight inches in length, and had emerged just that morning from the nativity of their box. They had come not as biplanes at all, or so the instructions would indicate. But the boy, too young for legos anyway, had no patience for tedious instructions. These white and grey and red atoms of joy became rough-hewn flying machines in his tinkering hands, piloted by white knights of the sky visible only to the eyes of imagination.

Other toys made their sojourn to this courtyard, too, along with books about dinosaurs and pads of drawing paper. The boy visited here often, staying with his grandmother in a small apartment where she lived alone. Her door and six others formed a ring around that soft floor of green where the boy played. Sometimes he would visit his grandmother's neighbors, all venerable folk in their gowns and slippers, all smiles and shining eyes. He could not remember them ever leaving the cozy doorways which looked out upon that small green world.

In the coming year, his infant sister would crawl upon that lush grass. Years after that, before it would ever see their home, the boy and his sister would bring their newly purchased guinea pig to that courtyard and set it free upon that garden of greens. And they would laugh, because it never moved more than a step from its cage, but rather sat and chewed, content there, the wide courtyard a world larger than it could imagine.

One narrow walk leads away from the courtyard, away from the solemn apartments, to the blacktop where the muscular Chevelle broods. It belonged to his grandmother, but now it only waits. It will not be long until the boy pilots that rough-forged iron machine to a nervous young woman's house, and there beneath the moon kiss her awkwardly, eagerly.

The grandmother is gone now. In the passing years, what strange feet have crossed that quiet courtyard of grass, what faces lurk behind the doors that guard it? No biplanes brave the skies beneath that spreading maple. The boy is grown, and the biplanes wait in the mind of his daughter. Perhaps this time they will be born anew not as biplanes at all, but delicate flying horses or glittering fairies visible only to the eyes of imagination.

Lent is long enough...

2007-02-28T09:02:00.000-08:00

…long enough to argue about whether it is to any great purpose in my spiritual life. Not having come from a church tradition which observes the Lenten fast, I found myself curious about this custom, and after learning a bit about it, I decided to try it. According to AmericanCatholic.org, Lent is a period of fasting, prayer, and almsgiving which precedes Easter by some 40 days. While some view it as an act of penance (a personal act of atonement for sin, acting in concert with confession and the reception of divine grace), many today are re-capturing its original sense of introspection, a time when we take an honest look at ourselves, searching for signs of persistent, hidden sin. 40 days is plenty of time to pass through all the cycles of interest, confusion, frustration, breakthrough, and quiet joy. I’ve seen all of these in the first week.

…long enough to miss the things I’ve laid aside for 40 days. I settled on two major areas of my life. First, I have laid aside my frequent visits to bookstores, my personal hell of lustful materialism. I love books, I love everything about books. I always want more books. I spend my coffee money on books, and that’s saying something. So, no bookstores, and no Amazon.com for 40 days. And with that simple act of “fasting”, it has brought into sharp relief my need to search and gaze upon new things to consume. In the absence of bookstores, now I want to go wander the aisles of BestBuy and ogle the software shelves at OfficeDepot. Sheesh, enough with the discovery of sin, already. I also have given up some portions of my diet, trying to focus on “real food”, but so far that’s been the easier part of the bargain. Except for the phenomenal apple pie Trevor and Jacque brought over last night for Home Community. 40 days is a long time to go without pie.

…long enough to outlast the initial “honeymoon” phase with a new spiritual discipline. I am a “spiritual disciplines” junky in the worst sense of the term. I grab on to new practices I haven’t tried in the hopes that they will be easier and more fruitful than others I’ve tried. And Lent is long enough for the glow to wear off and for it to become what it is: a discipline, which requires dedication and focus. Once this threshold is crossed, the real fruit begins as we consistently, patiently come before God with an earnest and growing desire to be cleansed and transformed.

…long enough to realize that this is a battle I cannot win. Over at First Things, the contributors there drew on the works of Cardinal Newman, saying this about the struggle the Christian experiences during Lent:

Is there any Christian who starts by taking Lent seriously on Ash Wednesday and yet comes to Easter Sunday who does not feel “bloodied by the contest,” caught up in the ganglia of sin coiling about the soul? But for Newman that’s just the point. For it is the struggle itself that teaches us how we stand before God. Reliance on grace is taught in the pedagogy of the struggle, and Lent is that pedagogue: “I am speaking of . . . what everyone must know in his own case: how difficult it is to command himself, and do what he wishes to do; how weak the governing principle of his mind is, and how poorly and imperfectly he comes up to his own notions of right and truth; how difficult it is to command his feelings, grief, anger, impatience, joy, fear; how difficult to govern his own tongue, to say just what he would; how difficult to rouse himself to do what he would, at this time or that; how difficult to rise in the morning; how difficult to go about his duties and not be idle; how difficult to eat and drink just what he should, how difficult to regulate his thoughts through the day; how difficult to keep out of his mind what should be kept out of it.” These are difficulties for all Christians, of course, but most especially for those serious about Lent.

This is all true, and already part of this first week of my Lenten experience. But quickly I realize the truth of this “battle”, this “bloody contest”: that this is a battle I cannot win. The language used by Scripture is one of taking up the cross, of putting sin to death, of putting on Christ. The battle is the Lord’s, and He is the one with the weapons to fight it victoriously. Were it not for Christ and His victory over the powers, I would squirm helplessly in the “ganglia of sin coiling” about my soul. “What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:24-25).

…and long enough to realize this isn’t a discipline to attempt alone. I came across some thoughts on Lent early this year which prompted me to consider undertaking the observance myself. Not sure enough of the practice to openly invite my church into it, I decided to give it a try this year alone. But once I had mentioned it, first to my wife and then to several other good friends, I quickly discovered that without their help I would have already quit the struggle. One more practice to be experienced only in the midst of a loving, supportive, prayerful community. One more stretch of the spiritual life which promises life-giving fruit, but only alongside my co-struggling brothers and sisters in Christ. One more reason to praise God for the gift of His church.

The death of the biographical adjective

2007-02-23T10:58:00.001-08:00

There is no such thing as Platonic love between a man and a woman.

Though some fervently disagree with Mr. Bush, few would suggest he has taken a Machiavellian approach to domestic policy.

American political candidates concretely espousing Marxist platforms do not fare well.

Calvinist. Darwinian. Newtonian. Tolkeinesque. Jeffersonian. Confucian. Cartesian.

Examples of biographical adjectives, born of earlier eras where authors were known only for their major works, works that were fixed in scope but deeply influential and widely read. And while intensive biographies written about these authors continue to argue over the precise nature of their thought worlds, influences, and character, the broad contours are well enough defined to become meaningful as a new category. Those who make such profound impact on the imaginations of their society are immortalized by becoming adjectives.

I wonder if the fluid world of online writing will bring about the death of the biographical adjective. The nature of the online world is never definitive, always "in conversation". From day to day, the moods of bloggers and authors change. And, as the author discovers more information, encounters aggressive and rhetorically persuasive counterproposals, and navigates the sea of non-substantive but emotionally rapacious comments, what effect will this have on the marketplace of ideas? Given the potential output of such thinkers over their lifetime, how much shift in thought might we detect? If Darwin had written a blog, would his views on his own discoveries have changed over time, especially in dialogue not only with sympathizers, but also with critics? In such a world, how would the impact he made differ?

Even in the traditional world of "old" media, you can sometimes detect this trend. Scholars who study Dietrich Bonhoeffer have a hard time figuring how a guy who wrote The Cost of Discipleship (a profoundly pacifistic call to obey Jesus' commands) went on to become part of a cadre of men who attempted to kill Hitler near the end of World War II. Even his later writings from prison differ markedly from his earlier works. And, judging from the way the man is known in our circles today, the impact of his more theologically provocative work is blunted because of this perceived wavering in perspective.

Other authors are well known for this. Michael Medved made the shift from political liberalism to an aggressive conservativism, recounting his journey in a series of books. The well known scholar of pastoral ministry, Thomas Oden, underwent a similar dramatic shift in transformation which he recounts in The Rebirth of Orthodoxy. I remember that as a seminary student, after reading this book, I wondered how much I could trust in his earlier works regarding pastoral theology.

As an aspiring author (both of fiction and nonfiction), I find myself daunted by the prospect of publishing. I find myself sympathetic to people like Brian McLaren, who, having written provocative statements and published them for all the world to see, now finds himself modifying statements he once made in an ever-evolving attempt to say something current. His language in his books is peppered with the concept of journey, and he openly admits he is figuring things out along the way. No matter the disclaimer, are not all his claims rendered more hollow merely because of the medium?

The medium of the written word, whether in print or pixel, comes with a radical permanence which frightens me each time I attempt an article. I will readily admit that some things I have to say are more refined than others. Some questions I have posed before have seen their answers. And yet there is much that is fluid in my thinking. What responsibilities do I have to my readers (and my hearers on Sunday mornings, my partners in Bible study, my children in the faith)? What eternal disciplines apply to expanding worlds of new communication?

As I write this, it occurs to me: do Jesus' words in Matthew 5:33-37 have anything to say to this?

Again, you have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not break your oath, but keep the oaths you have made to the Lord.' But I tell you, Do not swear at all: either by heaven, for it is God's throne; or by the earth, for it is his footstool; or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the Great King. And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make even one hair white or black. Simply let your 'Yes' be 'Yes,' and your 'No,' 'No'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.

I wonder.

But one thing's for sure. I seriously doubt we'll see Campbellian as an adjective anytime in the future...

Love story in 100 words

2007-02-14T10:46:00.001-08:00

As the blue moon rose huge and smiling over the calm Cabo seas, the computer nerd sat nervously on the sand with the black squad cheerleader, wondering what he was doing with a diamond ring in his pocket. She certainly had no idea. He had had to smuggle it to Mexico hidden inside a floss box (she was always very curious), and now she wondered what was making that rattling sound. Bathed in the silvery glow of the moon, he managed to stutter out the words, "would you be my wife?" Eyes wide for only a moment, she said yes.

* I entered a contest challenging me to write our love story in 100 words or less for Valentine's Day. It's no great piece of art, but it certainly was fun to write. It's also tougher than you think; try writing anything of the sort given only 100 words!

Asking the wrong questions

2007-02-13T21:22:00.001-08:00

All the books that are popular these days tell us that spirituality grows best in community. Once in a while, the popular books get something right.

This week brought us another opportunity for Home Community, a time when we gather together for the sake of intentionally building community, deepening friendships, and exploring our spiritual lives together. It's been a great year for our Home Community in general, and things seem to keep getting better week by week. We've been enjoying a provocative video series called H20: A Journey of Faith. Each week, we've been having great discussions ranging from the personal to the cultural, from the practical to the theoretical. All are participating, both in the discussions and in the prayers that support and follow the discussions.

Tonight was my turn for a spiritual revelation. I was admitting that I wrestle with some of Jesus' hard-to-pin-down statements like, "whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst" in John 4. What does that mean? What's the practical application? What does that actually look and feel like? How can I experience that? It isn't that I didn't understand the metaphor or appreciate the poetry of Jesus' words, it's that I wanted to try to apply it somehow, to get my arms around it and make it work in my life. That's what we're supposed to do with biblical texts, right?

Sometimes. None other than our own Tim Lewis helped me to get out of the maze of possible metaphorical interpretations and practical applications. Instead, he pointed to the fact that in the same text, Jesus was talking with a woman whose own questions revealed her lack of understanding regarding Jesus' identity. She kept asking the wrong questions, and Jesus kept opening her eyes with successive rhetorical moves until she finally saw him for who He was. And she was never the same again.

Tim helped me to see that I was trying to get the living water thing pinned down so I could count on it, control it, put my finger on it. All the while, Jesus has got His hands on either side of my head, trying to get me to look into His eyes and really get it. He gives the living water. It works on His terms. I can't pin it down or "count on it" the way I can count on the light coming on when I hit the switch. But I can choose to count on Him. That's a much different way of looking at Jesus' words. Thanks, Tim—way to let the Spirit work in community!

The door into darkness

2007-02-08T09:08:00.000-08:00

After saying goodnight and turning off the bedroom light, Mom forgot to close the closet door. Too old for Smurfs but too young for Miami Vice, the boy realized her mistake and stared at the gaping door into darkness.

By day, his closet contained mostly jeans, a pair or two of home-made slacks, and his prized parachute pants with the hole in the left knee. But something else also lurked among that trove of toys. Amidst the newer G. I. Joes, Transformers, and Starriors waited a much older toy, one from his earliest days as a child. The little boy had jumped for joy when his unthinking parents brought home the green monstrosity called Terron: the Beast from Beyond, thinking rightly that the little boy would love it (after all, it resembled a dinosaur!). But what would happen to the toy at bedtime?

He remembers that first night with the toy. When bedtime came, Mom grasped it by the wide spiky frill and set it facing the room against the back wall of the closet. The green, heavily armored beast with six beetle-like legs and a hooked beak stared back at him: silently, motionlessly. But he had watched it scuttle all over the ragged brown carpet of his home. Had Mom turned it off when he wasn’t watching? Or did it merely wait for its moment, the lights off, the closet door open just far enough, the boy helplessly asleep?

The boy lay there, his eyes wide in the dim light, able to see only the beast’s shadowy outline. Reflections from the yard mercury light filtered through the one window of his room, lending its ghastly purplish-white glow to the silhouettes of furniture. He dared not leave the protective covers of his bed quilt; the light switch remained too remote for such rash action; who knows if that hooked beak would hamstring him in the time it took for him to reach the switch?

He had only one chance. The foot of his bed came within an arm’s length of the closet door. If he could reach out one leg from beneath the covers and slide the closet door shut, he might seal that monster inside until the safety of the morning sun. Even if the monster caught him in the act, the worst it could do is to get his leg; the rest of him would be safe under the quilt. He was confident he could breathe the stale air under there till morning.

It was now or never. His heart began to pound. Over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, he swore he heard something brush past the comic books stacked on the floor of his closet. He slid down under the covers, feeling for the edge of the bed with his bare feet. His fingers and toes went cold and clammy as his feet left the comforter. A little squirming brought him into a clump of covers at the edge of his bed. His one exposed leg hit the cold wood of the closet door, groping wildly for its far right edge.

What was that? Something moved outside the fortress of his covers! He froze, one leg suspended in the cold darkness outside. Too frightened to pull his leg back to safety, he simply hung there motionlessly, waiting for the steel-sharp beak to cleave his soft flesh. It would all end soon!

But somewhere beyond the safety of the covers, a light bathed the room, a soft blue light penetrating the thickness of the quilt. He threw it back and saw his mother standing at the door, a quizzical look on her face. “What are you doing in here?”

The boy shot a glance at the closet. Terron, paralyzed by the light, crouched there motionless. Is that where Mom set it down, or had it moved? He turned back to her, “Could you shut the closet door?”

She smiled, crossed the room, and shut the door on whatever designs for the boy’s grisly demise Terron had entertained. “Go to sleep,” Mom demanded, turning off the light and shutting the door to the room. The little boy felt his heart resume its normal pace, thinking, is this how every night is going to be?

(For you toy buffs out there, Terron was the prize bad guy for the line of figures known as Super Joe, before G. I. Joe was a gleam in his mama's eye. I loved this toy dearly by day, scared to death of it by night.)

“A man had two dreams in the same night"

2007-02-02T20:58:00.000-08:00

The professor assumed his place at the front of the classroom. Only three students at the prestigious university qualified for the class. All three of them sat nervously in the front row. Taking firm grip of the podium, the professor began the first lecture of the term to his tiny class with this:

“A man had two dreams in the same night. In the first, he found himself in familiar surroundings imbued with a sinister aspect. As the mood of the dream darkened, so did the lights dim, until at last he could scarcely see at all, despite all his attempts with light switches, flashlights, and match sticks. Then the voice of the devil came to him from the shadows, questioning the sincerity of his faith, tempting him into the performance of dark deeds, threatening him with damnation. Terrified, he called upon the name of Jesus, the devil fled into deeper darkness, and the man awoke, sweating and frightened.

“Later, the same dream came to him again. But this time, when the devil approached him and he called out the name of Jesus, it seemed to the man that he had not spoken at all. Unfazed, the great liar sowed his confusions, the tempter proffered his wares, the lion threatened to devour. The man persisted, calling out the name of Jesus to no avail, until the man started awake, more frightened than before.

“Which of the dreams emerged from the man’s interior world, the dreamscape manifestation of his own hopes and fears, and which found its source beyond the man, in the realm of the spirit?"

The students glanced at each other, unprepared for such a question. Each thought, is this any way to begin a lecture? Have I wandered into the wrong class? But, having won the opportunity to sit at the feet of this man of great reputation, they would not abandon it so easily.

The first student to respond said, “The first dream emerged from within the man, since it represents the wishful thinking of a man desiring power. The invocation of the name of Jesus granted him the power he craved, and thus the desire was fulfilled. The second dream must represent cold external reality, since if there was an evil force in the world personified as Satan, why would the mention of its nemesis halt its power? Why would the man's inner world deny him that power?”

The second student countered, “No, the reverse is true. The first dream represents authentic contact with the supernatural. By his invoking the name of Jesus, the power of the devil flees, as was the promise of Jesus as recorded in the Scriptures and what the Christian believes is true. The second dream represents the conflictions of his own mind, since the fear opposing his limited faith overpowers it, rendering it useless in a dream of his own construction.”

Finally, after a reflective pause, the third student spoke, “It is clear that the framing of the question sets up an invalid either/or choice. There is too much subjectivity in the question to allow for such an analytical—in fact, digital—answer. There are no answers to such questions, and therefore the question is useless, except as the narrative experience of false abstraction.”

Each of the students awaited the professor’s evaluation, each certain that he had offered the most thoughtful answer. The professor gathered up his notes and walked across the room to the door. He said, “Come back tomorrow when you have discovered why you are here," and closed the door behind him.

Aumsville: A Portrait of a Small Oregon Town

2007-01-19T12:06:00.000-08:00

Aumsville is a town-let, the sort of place that never has had much life of its own, given the short eight-mile hop from the larger city of Salem. The long, wide corridor of highway 22 carves its way through the purple-blue Cascade Mountains, passing by unaware of tiny Aumsville away to the south.

If one noticed the exit off to the right of the highway and followed the short distance into the core of “downtown” Aumsville, one would find a town of mixed character: fine, newer construction set haphazardly among broken homes, their yards filled with the carcasses of old automobiles and the windblown yellow of overgrown grass. Walking or biking along the streets of town, one sees the scurrying teenage population wandering with the awkward poise and affected detachment that only junior high school can impress upon a person.

In some sense, the center of the town’s identity is anchored at the small, sparsely stocked grocery store at the center of town. Its parking lot is small and uneven, a few American-made cars and one or two expensive imports barely populate its fading yellow lines. Walking inside, the store is closer akin to a gas-and-convenience store than the one-stop grocery malls that provision our American suburbs. The store never quite has everything on the shopping list, and the outrageous prices ensure the dwarf-sized shopping baskets pushed by patrons are never quite full.

The patrons themselves are a mixed lot, just like the homes that spread out from the grocery store like worker bees from the hive. Some are well-groomed soccer moms trailing children who eye greedily the candy bar and toy displays scattered about the store. Others are older residents of Aumsville, those who have sustained its economy for decades and who are not about to leave town to save a few dollars on milk. A few teens hang out at the magazine racks, flipping through People and Guitar; long, black-haired and pimple-faced boys steal glances at the glossy contents of the latest Maxim. Here and there, a flannel-clad man with a baseball cap cradles a carton of eggs or a case of beer.

While the store maintains four or five checkout stands, one rarely sees more than two of them in operation, a cart or two waiting in line for a turn at the newly-installed debit card sliders or selecting a Scratch-It from the Plexiglas display. A corner of the store holds an equally small selection of VHS tapes and DVDs for rent. Most appear to be 80’s movies.

Along Main Street, down from the grocery store, run a discordant array of shops—the Pizza Peddler, a venerable gas station with a dozen owners in twice as many years, an established and respected veterinary clinic clearly serving more than dogs and cats, judging by the trailers and trucks along the driveway. A post office squats, bunker-like, between shops, a single glass door granting entrance to its blank brick face.

All along Main Street, one finds a short grid of streets venturing off into streets lined with homes, the same sort found in every American town. There are the older homes, the nicer homes, the cul de sacs, the parks with the fun but rusting merry-go-rounds and swings and the newer, safer, and less interesting plastic slides and climbers. Churches too dot the streets: churches too young for the mystery of stone and stained glass, too old for the hip-ness of multimedia projectors and espresso carts.

Nearer the edge of town, just beyond Aumsville’s claim to anything like an industrial area lies Aumsville Elementary School, a brick edifice of narrow aspect but impressive grounds. A wide gravel parking lot and a shifting row of yellow school buses throughout most days speaks to the vitality of the place, a congress of families who make up the core of the town.

In the distance, where Main Street and Aumsville Highway intersect, a larger than usual city park straddles the road that leads out of town. One side is a new, all-concrete skate park, well-appointed for a such a small town. The other side is the decades-older park which backs up to Mill Creek. The park, filled with tall pines and broad-armed oaks, awaits the summertime for the Corn Festival, the town’s best claim to solidarity and joy. There, between the two parks, suspended on a cable above the road, a lone yellow light blinks slowly. It is a thin curtain through which one may leave the veil of Aumsville for the green of rural Oregon.

Late night hacking

2007-01-16T20:34:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago I caught Katelyn using the laptop we bought her for Christmas. At first I thought she was just banging on the keys, playing the cheap ripoff of "pong" that came with it, but then I realized she had written a new operating system and internet browser over the pre-installed software. When I asked her about it, she said, "ditti wa moooo teeetoe!" which I took to be some reference to open source licensing.

I checked her upload history, and all she had done was trade in some pirated HD-DVD and Blu-ray codecs. I gave her a stern talking to about international copyright agreements, and she promised she would respect the current culture of intellectual property. She added, "Datteee moww lalalaa", which was either an apology or a statement of conscience against corporate greed. Either way, she's well on her way to following in her daddy's nerdy footsteps.

Poor kid.

Rainy day improvising

2007-01-05T10:13:00.000-08:00

This last Wednesday, I was called in as backup to help a couple of friends unload a engine-less Chevy blazer so that one of them could remove the transmission and make a few extra bucks repairing another vehicle. Pretty routine--my job consisted of pushing at the right time and in the right direction. Fair enough.

But when we rolled up on the hill across from the retirement center on Madrona, and I saw the trailer, I began wondering what I had gotten myself into.

The bruised and broken trailer, borrowed from someone else's loose acquaintance, lacked ramps with which to lower the vehicle. Instead, somebody brought along a couple of rotten planks, maybe that might work. Worse, the trailer did not have a floor. That's right, the wheels of the Blazer were precariously balanced on its metal frame, the holes in which were loosely covered with also-rotten planks of plywood. Sweet. Glad I'm not the brains of the operation here. I'm just here to push.

So then the deliberation began. Along with the rain. Standing alongside, I watched a few different options tried and abandoned. I ran up from the sidelines now and again to push heartily in one direction or another. After breaking a ramp-board and watching half of the Blazer fall off the back of the trailer and onto the street, the decision was made simply to pull the trailer out from underneath the Blazer. Sure enough, after some satisfactory metal scraping and chassis-bouncing, the Blazer was free. Several of us rushed forward to push the Blazer into the driveway and secure it with blocks. Mission accomplished. Soaking wet, but done.

Shaking my head and walking away, I asked myself how different the situation would have turned out if a professional towing company would have done the job. Quick, painless, clean. Deposited right where you wanted it. Heck, I wouldn't even have been involved. But towing is expensive when insurance isn't covering it. The whole point was to make money on the deal, not waste it on resources that would defeat the purpose. These guys improvised with workable tools at hand. The truck ended up in the driveway just the same.

Of course, the whole episode got me thinking about church planting. I imagine lots of folks from established churches would look at some of the things we do at Cascade Hills and gasp. Rotten tools, rainy weather, a lot of extra work that is dirty and difficult. There are the people standing alongside to help, watching the "brains" of the operation puzzle out a workable solution which often involves scraping and banging.

But it gets done, because it must be done. Even with the startling lack of resources with which church planters work, solutions present themselves. Sometimes its difficult work, but we must work with the tools at hand. And the work gets done: people become connected to a faith community, hope returns to lives that have shriveled, lost sheep return to the fold of the Great Shepherd. Rainy days or no, what an adventure!

Looking at the past with cautious sympathy: or, Reading history with grace

2006-12-28T11:09:00.000-08:00

When we look back on the years that have gone before us, what do we think of them and the world they lived in? It is a peculiar and pervasive American phenomenon to look back on our mothers and fathers and think them quaint, backward, and ignorant—caught up in biases and prejudices that (thankfully) we no longer share. The New World colonialists began this national experiment with a desire to leave all of history behind them, and their descendents have lovingly—even fanatically—embraced that aspect of Enlightenment thinking.

As I’ve mentioned before, I am a recovering history-hater myself. And while I am thankful for an old coworker who offered me a work of history worth reading, the decisive blow to my view of history came in seminary. At the beginning of my first church history course, my professor Dr. Michael Weed took a moment to share a bit of perspective. We would be approaching the subject of the past with a cautious sympathy, beginning with the assumption that had we been there, had we been products of the times we would study, we too would very likely had made similar choices (and similar mistakes).

This stance of cautious sympathy guards us against our culture’s prevailing “progressivist” view of history, which looks down its nose at the preceding generations, naively assuming we have risen above their petty mistakes with a superiority born of the inevitable progress of civilizations. This progressivist view makes it impossible to take seriously the circumstances of the past, refusing to empathize with those in situations too complex for such easy dismissal.

When choosing my history books, I now look for those authors which share a sympathetic view of history. Not that I desire ones that are sentimental or that turn a blind eye to the evils or foolishness of the past, but rather ones that are fair-minded and that avoid the revisionist impulse to judge the past by the values of the present. This last month I have been reading just such a book: Robert Lacey’s The Year 1000: What Life Was Like At The Turn Of The First Millennium. Lacey’s book is one of the most even-handed books written recently on the subject of European history—specifically, the history of England around the year 1000.

Lacey takes great pains to describe what that life was like, and one detects a subtle mixture of wonder, puzzlement, admiration—with never a hint of condescension. Even difficult topics like the slavery-like system of serfs and lords called feudalism is seen through the lens of the times. Though he does not shy away from the evils and injustices created by such a system, he is one of the few authors in recent years which have clearly outlined the reasons why such a system developed and the numerous positive effects it had in a difficult and dangerous world. Interesting reading to say the least.

What’s more, from a secular journalist and historian, I was not expecting such an even-handed and fair treatment of one of the most prominent features of the times: the pervasive presence and profound influence of the church. When dealing with issues as wide-ranging as the dating of Easter, the competing theologies of the Eucharist, and the veneration of saints, Lacey is lucid, fair, and detailed. Not a whiff of condescension mars his study—which is an accomplishment, given modern Europe’s refusal to acknowledge the good in their religious heritage.

I could only wish such even-handedness in the younger generation of Christians who are beginning to take up leadership across the denominations. These days, it is all the rage to stand with Christianity’s cultured despisers and condemn the history of the church for all its abuses, vowing to champion the currently vogue values of the secular society as though they were the very words of Jesus. Perhaps a little more careful reading of the errors made by our fathers—and more so their faithfulness and triumphs—would lead us to a more sympathetic view of those who have gone before us. And perhaps such a sympathetic view will reveal to us the planks in our own eyes and lead us into new fields of history. After all, isn’t the future Jesus promised us forged from a redeemed present and past?

Christmas in the hands of God

2006-12-22T22:22:00.000-08:00

Christmas approaches on soft winters' feet, despite what the parking lots of Walmart might seem to indicate. From the close of a crazy loose-ends day like this one, I can gaze across the weekend and see Christmas Eve approaching in all its splendor and mystery, Christmas Day with all its joy and celebration.

I am glad that it is near.

These last weeks have brought some of the most difficult pastoral concerns to this young man who presumes to call himself a minister. I have just now finished the heavy lifting required to get them off my heart and into the hands of the God whose coming gave birth to this great holiday season. It was His heavy lifting of course, His gentle reminders echoing to me in the well-worn paths of the Lord's Prayer: "...for Yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, now and forever."

The burdens are mine to bear as a servant and fellow-sufferer with Christ, but they are not mine alone. They rest more fully in the hands of a merciful and subtly powerful God who is working things according to His good purposes, mysterious and dark though they be to these stubborn eyes.

Christmas approaches on soft winters' feet. May God bring joy and peace to you and yours this season, and may whatever burdens you bear rest also in the hands of God.

Merry Christmas.

Again great discoveries: Another month of NaNo come and gone

2006-12-04T08:54:00.000-08:00

I have learned a great secret. It was hard won, after a struggling month of NaNoWriMo interspersed with much reading of diverse materials—but it is a great discovery.

First, the background. With a bit more diligence and some creative energies, I fought my way to 32,233 words this year in my quest for a 50,000 word novel. This is more than twice as far as I made it last year. And, like last year, those thousands of words were an experience well worth the effort. I sharpened my fiction writing skills, especially around description and character development, two areas in which I need a lot of work. And speaking of characters, I had that experience some writers have claimed—having a character burst in on you through your own writing, coming as if from no where and introducing himself fully formed. Actually, four characters did that to me. I’m happy to say they are all well-met.

But more important than all these moments in the month of NaNo has also to do with what I have been reading. Having abandoned hope for the finding of decent fantasy written after 1980, I went far the other direction. I picked up a few works of George MacDonald, the primary influence on C. S. Lewis and his Chronicles of Narnia series. The books I've been reading consist of a collection of his (mostly short) fairy tales and one of his novel-length fairy tales for adults called Lilith. (His best work, in my opinion, is the short story "The Golden Key.") It is clear why MacDonald had such a profound influence on C. S. Lewis—his writings are filled with poetic imagery and subtly woven moments in which the reader catches fleeting glimpses of the Other World. It is this world which captivated the attention of C. S. Lewis, compelling him to explore it through his Chronicles of Narnia. It is this World which is seen like sunlight falling through trees in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. It is into this World we stumble along with Alveric in Dunsany’s The King of Elfland’s Daughter. And it is about This World that I want to write.

What is the great secret that I have learned? After many years of frustrated searching and thinking, I’ve finally discovered what it is that draws the line between the fantasy writing which I love and that which I end up putting down (or selling back) after a hundred pages. Allow me to use an analogy which some friends helped me to put into words after much discussion. In your usual real time strategy game (such as Age of Empires, Warcraft, or Command and Conquer), the player begins in a small stretch of “known space” in which he can see the terrain around him. Beyond that is blackness, waiting to be explored in the search for resources and competing players. As the game progresses, more and more of the map is revealed until the player uncovers the lay of the land and discovers what he must do to seize victory.

This is a good picture of what happens in most fantasy stories—we are put down in a strange world with a conventional character with whom we can identify and relate. He sees dimly around him a fantasy world we do not know, where anything is possible. As the story progresses, more and more of the world is revealed, and we discover friends and enemies along the way to a great conflict with the darkness of evil. It is as if the “map” begins black and we piece it together as we explore around toward some final goal.

The secret I have discovered is the Other World, the reason to bother in the first place with the journey of exploration. With a great many authors, the “map” that is uncovered is merely an exercise of the author’s imagination, a carefully thought out world populated with thoughtful magic systems, clever political systems subtly commenting on our own world, and colorful flora and fauna with which the characters can, well, usually fight.

But with some authors the world uncovered in the journey is not so much woven from the author’s clever imagination but from his own spiritual journey. When an author has experienced glimpses of Truth, Goodness, Beauty in the real world—glimpses of Another World close to this one and breaking in upon certain moments—and that author takes those experiences as the raw stuff from which his fantasy journey is told: that is when the author has transcended cleverness and stolen through to the divine.

I must say that this discovery came as quite a revelation to me. I confess that I have been approaching much of my thinking around fantasy writing as an exercise in world building much as I would approach the building of a world for a role-playing game adventure. The DM (i.e., the author) knows everything from the beginning, arranges a twisting and exciting series of episodes through which the players (i.e., readers) move toward an exciting and rewarding culmination. This is merely an exercise in cleverness, of marshalling the well-known fantasy tropes into an entertaining yarn.

If I am to follow in the footsteps, however feebly, of those heroes of literature I mentioned before, then I have chosen a different and more difficult path. I cannot hope to know everything from the beginning, for who can hold the divine in the palm of his hand? How can I plot out a series of moments in which the divine breaks through from Somewhere Beyond into the world of the reader, catching his breath and causing in him a momentary recognition of the One for whom he was made?

Yet it is possible, for some have gone on to do so. Perhaps not to plan for such occasions or to pretend to cause them to happen, but to keep writing, exploring that world through words and symbols until such a moment occurs, until that which is divine in our own experience and broken vision appears. This is quite a different project than the one to which I first set my pen.

Now I take a moment’s breath after a long month of writing and consider. I read after my betters: Tolkein’s On Fairy-Stories and MacDonald’s The Fantastic Imagination. I seek those moments which Tolkien calls the “good catastrophe”:

The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous “turn” (for there is no true end to any fairy-tale): this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well…In its fairy-tale—or otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur…giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief…It is the mark of a good fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind, that however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it, when the “turn” comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears….

And above all, I continue on the journey for which I was made—that journey after the One who broke through from That World into our ours, and with an outstretched hand, beckons me forward and upward.

Only nine more days to go, more than halfway done.

2006-11-21T08:31:00.000-08:00

So the 21st has come, and I'm a bit behind, but nothing I couldn't make up (especially if I was writing there instead of here), but I felt I needed to drop a note to my dusty blog. Just a few more days to go, and 50,000 words and a finish line will be my rest.

Just for fun, here's a snippet:

In every city built by men stand unfinished constructions, broken skeletons of wood and steel standing behind warnings: do not stray too close! But in the small hours beyond midnight, when the vagabonds rule the streets with their creeping shadows, sometimes one will ignore the warnings, venturing beyond the barricades.

Treading on unsettled stones and naked beams of wood, he finds that it is all a lie--that mad minds have framed the wood and stone with no intention of raising any sane structure at that site. No, because in the heart of the work, where in other places one might find a furnace, or the stone floor of a kitchen-to-be, one instead finds a rough-hewn wooden plank covering a yawning darkness leading down.

When the plank is drawn aside, in the small hours beyond midnight, the path leads into the depths, into darkness not born of the absence of light only, but the absence of much more besides. Such paths never lead below the city, mind you, but below everything, into places for crawling and striving, places beneath creation itself, leading elsewhere.

Ahem. Back to work.

Ramping up production: 4 days into NaNo and still kicking...

2006-11-04T22:29:00.000-08:00

Phew. I've had precious little time for blogging lately--I've been writing furiously every day to stay ahead of my 1700 word-per-day quota for NaNoWriMo. So, far, so good. In fact, I'm a whole day ahead as of tonight.

And the best part is, I'm having more fun than last year. The idea of writing smaller, disconnected snippets is working really well. I am finding myself daily fleshing out character ideas, action sequences, descriptive elements, and plot concepts in ways I would never have thought possible. After more than thirty of the snippets so far, I'm finding myself returning to interesting themes, adding more to a small set of characters that are fueling my imagination, and circling around broader themes that I've had rolling around in my head for months. This is just too fun!

Just for you fellow NaNo participants out there, you may have missed this little detail. Neat little useless decorations for your blog. Like you need more distractions from your word count frenzy...

NaNoWriMo, here we go again.

2006-10-29T19:42:00.000-08:00

Alright, I decided I'm going to go for it. The peer pressure from others is too great and I have folded. Once November begins, I'll be madly scrabbling to crank out my 1700 words per day on my way to a fully completed novel at the end of the month.

Last year, I managed to generate some 15,000 words of text. I started with a more or less complete outline of the single story I was trying to write and simply started writing it. As I went along, I discovered that I didn't start in the right place, so I started over several times. After a while, I just kept writing, leaving scenes dangling as I moved around trying to find a place to hit traction.

This year, I'm going to start with exactly this premise. I will not be writing a conventional novel. Rather, my NaNo project is simply to write unconnected scenes, character sketches, narratives of description, collections of dialogue, and who knows, snippets of poetry. I have a general idea of the grand story I want to write some day, but this is an experiment in "taking snapshots" of this world, playing with the pallette, making sketches. We'll see how that turns out.

And while I'm at it, here's just such a snippet that dropped in tonight to visit. It's not 1700 words, but it's good practice. And no, I can't use it to get a head start. When November 1 comes, it will bring with it a blank page...

A GATHERING DARKNESS:
A CRITICAL REVIEW OF THE CLOSING OF THE FLORÆCARIAN WORLDS

Fourth Edition

PREFACE
The present work draws upon the accounts of my former treatise A Macrohistory of the Floræcarian Worlds (5 vols.), supplemented by my travels post terminus to those worlds, further reading and reflection on the consummation of their histories, and audience with the closing Master Builders. The former volumes grew out of a passion for making known the beautiful and courageous work of the Master Builders and their Guild that our Communion has nearly forgotten in these days of introspection and self-doubt. This passion became a desire to see these accounts laid down according to the best traditions of scholarship. In these latter years of my career, now that the pride of youth and the pleasure of academic accomplishment has given way to seeking a lasting and worthy legacy, I return to this, my life’s work and ask of it critical questions that I believe important for our precarious times.

Let the reader be warned: this most recent work is one of warning and sincere desire to stem the tide of wrongs that is rising in the darkness of the Outlying Worlds. While the general aim of the Builders is well known and their contributions to the vitality of the Communion unequalled, it is not generally known that the Builders are sometimes called upon to close worlds that have fallen into violence and dissolution. While such closings are rare, it is not well known the process by which this takes place or the forces at work which bring a world to such an end. I hope to show in the course of this work that the closing of the Floræcarian worlds represents a breaking of the traditions of the Elder Builders and a dangerous development that may indeed threaten the future of the Communion.

I have no illusions that this work will be well-received by fellow scholars, or by the Builders for that matter. This is no gathering of pleasant facts to sooth the mind of the Communion citizen in these tumultuous times. And while I have tried to make the essential facts accessible to the general reader, the internal machinery of the Prefecture of Building remains a mystery to most, as does much of what takes place beyond the pale of the Communion’s so-called core worlds. Thus, the reader is asked to be patient and to hear the fullness of the account before judgment is rendered. After all, is that not the creed of the Master Builder before she, in her exalted wisdom, is called upon to close a world that is beyond hope of peace?

Far future cities and the fall of the mighty king: or, read anything good lately?

2006-10-24T21:50:00.000-07:00

In between books, again, I've been reading some shorter fictions and finding some great pieces of work. A few weeks ago, while sifting through the newest shelf at the Salem Public Library, I ran across a book and author I had never seen before: M. John Harrison's Viriconium. The book is a collection of three shorter novellas and a series of short stories, all set in and around a fictional city called Viriconium. The first story, The Pastel City, is one of the best stories, short or otherwise, that I have ever read. In it, we meet tegeus-Cromis, one of an aging but capable remnant of the Methven, an elite brotherhood of knights that protects a young queen ruling the city of Viriconium.

Quickly Cromis is caught up in a desperate battle to defend the inexperienced queen against gathering hordes of northern barbarians. Sound a little familiar? It might be, until you realize that Viriconium is the last flowering of humanity, who is in its last fitful throes at the end of history, and when it falls, not even the barbarians will survive. The battles involve impressively ancient and barely-understood technologies mixed with horses, cavalry, and swordplay.

While Cromis rushes with other interesting and colorful characters toward the crisis point, he is beset by a mechanical vulture (we are told one of the arcane creations of the Afternoon cultures, no longer understood and now only feared). The creature warns him not to fear the barbarians, but rather to abandon his quest on behalf of the queen and flee south to Cellur. Fear not the barbarians, it pleads, fear the geteit chemosit. Slowly we learn that this conflict truly is the last of humankind's, and as shadows fall through the climax of the story, the reader learns that the machine-bird's plea is all too true.

This is a wonderful, deeply moving, haunting story. Harrison's prose is equal to the very best I have ever read: lyrical, precise, perfectly shaped for the mood and tone of the epic it relates. The remainder of the stories in the book are terrible. The author, apparently unimpressed by his work on its own terms, proceeds into the realms of metafiction, returning at random in dreamy prose to various other events in the last histories of Viriconium. The best I can winnow out is that he wanted to take the decay and fading glory of the first story and push it into the subconscious, somehow reflecting in the plot dissolution itself the quiet death of human history. Someone truly interested in postmodern, nihilist art for its own sake might bother trudging through the plotless, murky narratives that follow The Pastel City, but not I. Still, the first story alone is worth the price of the book.

While I was at it, I read another story or two from my favorite collection of Robert E. Howard's stories, The Coming of Conan of Cimmeria. Though there are many great stories among those I've read so far, I really enjoyed The Scarlet Citadel. This story begins with King Conan near the end of his life just having lost his crown through treachery at the hands of those who were once his allies. Conan's army is defeated, his crown and capital city seized, and he is hauled off to meet a grisly fate in the dark, monstrosity-infested pits of an infamous sorcerer. This is a great story, Howard at his finest.

And, while I'm at it, let me recommend this same book to any aspiring authors out there, since it contains a rare, wonderful gift. In it, we find the very first of Howard's published stories of the world-famous and iconic Conan, called The Phoenix on the Sword. This in itself is useful to the aspiring writer, because we see the short, tight, and simple story which started one of the most successful characters in all of fantasy literature. But what's more, we also find the first submitted draft, just as Howard wrote it on his typewriter. Compared to the published work, this first piece of fiction is just plain bad. It shows just what can happen when a writer with a great concept meets an obliging editor.

And with NaNoWriMo coming soon, that's no small gift.

Take someone you know out for a round of mini-golf!

2006-10-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

It's a rare day when I'm willing to shell out the usual $8 per person to play a round of mini-golf. So, in the interest of free entertainment, I'm posting a digital alternative. This was sent to me in email by an old friend from Texas, and he labeled the game "addictive." Careful, he's right. Warning: if you are one of the many sufferers of coulrophobia, you should know that this mini-golf game is not certified clown-free.

Seeing Christian theology from the outside

2006-10-11T20:15:00.000-07:00

I ran across an interesting bit of journalism recently: a self-proclaimed athiest's thoughts and reflections during a multi-week membership class at a conservative Lutheran church.

Well, I did it. Last Thursday night I went to the first (of 15) classes in a series offered at a local Lutheran church. I’ve written up the first class experience below; to cut to the chase (for those who want the Cliffs Notes version) it was educational in exposing me to: conservative Christians who aren’t evangelicals, some questions Christians ask in a class like this, the sensation of having asked a question that the instructor does not like what seemed like an odd (imo) combination of appeal to historicity and fact, followed by denigration of rationality and logic, and generous use of (what I saw as) a logical approach I don’t “buy”, which I’ve heard called “Appeal to consequences of a belief”. I do plan to go back, though if the pastor stares at me every time he mentions the Devil, it may get uncomfortable. (Truth be told, I have already sinned in his eyes: I have read ahead in the text booklet, which we were warned not to do. But I did it after class.)

I found her analysis fair, incisive, and tremendously helpful in remembering where a lot of folks are coming from the first time they step through the doors of Cascade Hills. In all honesty, had I attended the same class, even as a believer, I would have thought a number of the same things at the same times. The detailed step-by-step approach Eliza takes to her reporting resonated with me, and though I find myself with different convictions regarding the claims of Christ, I imagine we might have found a lot to agree with had we shared a conversation following the event. Eliza, thanks for being forthright and honest!

A whole new world

2006-10-01T22:40:00.000-07:00

I am already old enough that I can walk on the Oregon beach, full of my own thoughts and concerns, and fail to notice the crash of the waves on the sand, the rushing of the wind above the sea, the whirling of sea birds with their fretful calling. I have seen and heard these things many times, and it is strange how the beauty of our favorite things can become lost in simple familiarity.

But each time when I hold the tiny hand of my daughter (or rather, she clutches one of my fingers), her presence shakes the familiar back into shades of wonder. It isn't quite that I am experiencing them anew. Rather, I am captured by a new, higher joy: I have been granted the supreme privilege of introducing her to things which have brought me wonder, and the still greater joy of seeing her eyes widen, her mouth fall open in awe at the simple beauty of the ocean's pulsing waves, the roar of the wind, the call of the birds

It is a new world of joy to be a father. What higher joy is there that could best the curl of her cold, wet hand around one of my fingers, her not knowing which way to run next, each step carrying her into the world of God's majestic creation?

Questioning authority: Reality comes knocking on utopian doors

2006-09-18T20:03:00.000-07:00

Multiculturalism is that self-evident truth of the modern liberal state that asserts all cultures are created equal and not to be criticized, not least by the imperialist West who has no moral ground upon which to stand.

Or so goes the prevailing winds of popular culture throughout Europe and, to a lesser extent, the United States. The increasing pressure that Islam is bringing to our cultural world is beginning to expose areas of weakness. You can almost hear the questions being asked for the first time in broad daylight: "are all ways of doing things really equal and beyond criticism?" Can you see the shadow of Islam, the berkas, the AK-47's, the car bombs, falling over these questions?

Multiculturalism is finding its true test in the Islamic communities growing rapidly throughout Europe. Consider this story about a teacher in England who once dared to say that immigrating Muslims should learn to be British (for which he was fired and received death threats). He is too angry to be amused that now the British government is echoing his sentiments 20 years later, now that those decades of utopian multiculturalism has led to the threatening of the very foundations of their communities.

Are there lessons to be learned here with regard to the silly utopian visions currently in vogue among the social engineers in our academia, mainstream media, and popular culture?

A bit of work on the fiction front

2006-09-11T21:05:00.000-07:00

After glancing at my blog for the first time in weeks, I realized how dusty it had become. To add to the usual busy-ness of a husband, father, and church planter, I have been furiously working on a short story (which has really taken up virtually all my free writing time I often devote to blogging...).I am now finished with my second complete short story ever. It is not good, but it is finished. It is a fantasy story relating events surrounding a reunion of a group of friends, one of whom has fallen ill in a distant citadel. It is populated with characters I dimly recall from around the Dungeons and Dragons table of my youth. The story was easy and and fun to write, and I was glad for the practice.The finished product weighs in at a bloated 9000 words, so I won't be posting the whole thing here. Suffice this for a sample:

Dawn came hot and dry to the cracked slopes of the Alzerdan Fortress. The liquid gold of the waxing sun alighted majestically upon the ancient walls of the War-City, as if to pay respect to its long vigilance against the verminous hordes that threatened from the southern jungles.
Today, two riders approached along the precarious path to the city. In front, upon a dappled stallion, rode a flamboyant youth called Aravir, sitting anxiously forward in his saddle as if to urge his fearful mount ever faster along the narrow path. The youth’s brown locks were swept up and back from his brow by a rising hot wind that threw itself against the canyon walls they climbed. Most times would find a wry smile and bright eye upon Aravir’s face, but today it bore the shadow of grim tidings.
His companion, a Correan Exarch called Valin, rode some lengths to his rear to avoid the dust and grit kicked up by Aravir’s courser. Valin sat tall upon a snow-white charger, the simple traveler’s linens he wore snapping vigorously in the updrafts. While less accustomed to affectation than Aravir, an expression born of great sadness also darkened Valin’s eyes. In the sharp angles of the dawn sunlight, his noble features and oft-kind face instead looked to be carved of stone.

Neither had spoken a word until at last they reached the top of the Alzerdan Road and answered the hail of the lone gatekeeper. When they had reached the third gate and stood within the innermost courtyard of the War-City, they dismounted in the presence of perhaps two dozen Bronze Falcons arrayed in the burnished panoply of steel and brigandine for which they were famous, their helms each a unique visage of the raptor from whence they drew their name.

In times past, the Falcons had been the pride of the Skara Cities, their ablest warriors and the heroes of the land. But in these days of corruption and decay, few among the ducal court spared tribute for the Skara Kings to maintain the noble bastion, and so their numbers had fallen to less than four score.

As a single groom led away their horses, Aravir and Valin strode forward to grasp the hand of Dhomen, the Captain of the Guard, a broad shouldered, raven-haired man who was stern of face but quick-witted and beloved of his men.

After exchanging terse greetings, Dhomen said, “It is good that you have come so quickly. I have sent for Graxx and the one called Chlorroh as well, but they’ve not been spotted by any along the southern roads. I only hope that they arrive before the fever takes Yakute.”

Before Aravir could reply, he caught sight of another soldier running down a stair just beyond them. From the darkness within emerged a scarred and ugly but never
unwelcome face. “Kainen!” cried Aravir, as he rushed forward to embrace the amber-cloaked man.

Valin waited for his turn to greet his old, scarred friend, smiling openly at the wicked array of weapons which were ever-present upon Kainen’s black-enameled armor. Whatever injury or sorcery had made a nightmare of the left side of Kainen’s face had also turned his voice to a rasp—but to the ears of his friends, it was a pleasant sound. In broken speech, Kainen said, “You waste no time; Dhomen only sent for you a week ago and here you are.”

Aravir replied, “Aye, good fortune found me in Skara Cam when I received his summons. Our friend here,” Aravir indicated Valin with a nod of his head, “who knows by what ways he travels or where he came from (it could have been Carthiem for all I know), but he met me on the road only yesterday. Perhaps he calls the desert wind to carry him.”
Valin paid no mind to Aravir’s jibe, but rather smiled at Kainen and said, “Desert wind or no, I came when I could.” He turned to Dhomen and said, “Lord Captain, if you would be so kind, I should like to look upon our stricken friend.”

Now that it is finished, I am free to pursue my next story idea, which already is taking shape in my mind. Too fun when the muse takes hold!

Hitting consistent pay dirt: Enjoying Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell

2006-08-20T20:15:00.000-07:00

These days, I seem to have done a respectable job of clearing my bookshelf of trash and increasing the greatness-of-story- per-linear-foot. With the exception of the weak Riddlemaster Trilogy (Patricia McKillip), I've gone from one good book to the next, the latest of which is the formidable 800-page Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. This book, said by Neil Gaiman to be one of the best of fantastic literature in the English language, is a sheer pleasure to read: full of vivid narrative, sharply and memorably drawn characters, and nostalgic period touches. What is it about? Here's the jacket copy:

English magicians were once the wonder of the known world, with fairy servants at their beck and call; they could command winds, mountains, and woods. But by the early 1800s they have long since lost the ability to perform magic. They can only write long, dull papers about it, while fairy servants are nothing but a fading memory.

But at Hurtfew Abbey in Yorkshire, the rich, reclusive Mr Norrell has assembled a wonderful library of lost and forgotten books from England's magical past and regained some of the powers of England's magicians. He goes to London and raises a beautiful young woman from the dead. Soon he is lending his help to the government in the war against Napoleon Bonaparte, creating ghostly fleets of rain-ships to confuse and alarm the French.

All goes well until a rival magician appears. Jonathan Strange is handsome, charming, and talkative-the very opposite of Mr Norrell. Strange thinks nothing of enduring the rigors of campaigning with Wellington's army and doing magic on battlefields. Astonished to find another practicing magician, Mr Norrell accepts Strange as a pupil. But it soon becomes clear that their ideas of what English magic ought to be are very different. For Mr Norrell, their power is something to be cautiously controlled, while Jonathan Strange will always be attracted to the wildest, most perilous forms of magic. He becomes fascinated by the ancient, shadowy figure of the Raven King, a child taken by fairies who became king of both England and Faerie, and the most legendary magician of all. Eventually Strange's heedless pursuit of long-forgotten magic threatens to destroy not only his partnership with Norrell, but everything that he holds dear.

Pure gold. There are very few books which inspire me to keep reading past the 400-page mark, and this one kept me raptured long after that. If you fancy the idea of pouring Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales into a blender along with Jane Austen's victorian England, then you will love this book.

While I'm at it, I might mention a new reading habit I've picked up. Between longer books, I like to dawdle a while with collections of short stories, several of which I have found to be excellent collections and well worthy of sustained interest. Here are a few:

The Avram Davidson Treasury: I've mentioned this one before, and it bears repeating. Covers fantasy, science fiction, and mystery all with equal success. I have yet to come across a more accomplished master of the short story form, and his engaging, humorous, and bizarre styling in such compact form is sheer artistic genius. Get this one as soon as you can.

The Essential Ellison: Harlan Ellison stands with giants like Ray Bradbury and Alfred Bester as masters of the early science fiction world. His short story "Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman is worth the price of the (very, very large) collection.

The Short Works of Jack London: Wow, I love short stories written in early 1900's. Surprisingly, the author of famous works like "Call of the Wild" and "White Fang" shares a lot in common with fantasy writers like Conan-creator Robert E. Howard. London is a great writer of short stories, some of which have some quite fantastic elements, including the discovery of a lost world beyond the Yukon complete with wooly mammoths.

Blood Curdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre: This is the best collection of H. P. Lovecraft yet published, including nearly all of his best work. Lovecraft was the father of modern horror, and while displaying a restraint and refinement uncommon to modern works of that sort, these tales will most certainly haunt your dreams.

Flights: Extreme Visions of Fantasy: This collection is more uneven than some of the above, but it contains one of my all time favorite fantasy short stories, a terribly shocking and moving piece called "Six Hypotheses" written by Joyce Carol Oates. I don't know how much fantasy/horror she writes, but this is one powerful story. Lots of other good stuff in this collection as well.

Even when we don't deserve it

2006-08-16T15:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, on my way to meet Dwayne for a ministry meeting, I was in a hurry to get out the door. Talking on the cell phone with one hand, starting the car with the other, and talking with Melissa while rolling down the window, I was my usual flurry of multi-tasking silliness. Before I pulled out of the driveway, Melissa handed me a wad of checks (four of the five checks already endorsed) and asked me if I would deposit them on the way home. I promised I would, backed out of the driveway, and headed for my meeting with Dwayne at Fred Meyer Starbucks.

Fast forward two hours. I am idling in the parking lot of First Tech Credit Union, getting ready to deposit those checks using the drive-up ATM. Where did I put them? Needless to say, my memory isn't good to begin with (mind you, it's too full of movie lines and obscure theologems), and it is even worse when trying to remember one thing amid five others I was doing at the same time. I shut off the car, dug around in the console. Emptied my pockets, no checks. Check on the dash. Inside the console box. Glove compartment. Mild fear sets in, where did I put those checks?

Stopping for a moment, I focus on what I was doing when Melissa handed them to me. Talking with one hand, driving with the other. The vague impression comes to me that I had folded them and put them in my lap, waiting for a more opportune moment to put them safely in my pocket. Which I must have done before going into Fred Meyer, didn't I? Didn't I?

Tear the car apart once more. If they were in my lap, maybe they fell between the seats. Check all the usual places again, this time more carefully. No, they are not hiding between the stack of stale graham crackers mashed up in the console. No, they are not folded between the static-cling window shades shoved against the emergency brake. I stand up again, step away from the car. Mild fear has now given way to real fear. More than $500 in checks, all but one endorsed. I can't find them. Melissa is going to kill me. Why can't I be more careful?

Stay calm. Look one more time. Nothing.There is a time when you resort to prayer out of instinct. This is the foxhole instinct, the "GOD! HELP!" I realized I wasn't bleeding and that I had gotten myself into this mess all by myself, thankyouverymuch. I realized it was only money and that it was probably right in front of my face, but I prayed anyway. "God, I have to find that money," I said silently and sheepishly. As I dig around, a slow realization begins to dawn. I better go back and check Fred Meyer.

As I'm driving, I am already giving up hope. God cares for me, I know. He answers prayer, I know, but I was being stupid and careless. Part of my mind begins to sift through images of God--stern, distant, helpful-only-with-spiritual-stuff. Another part of my mind starts calculating how to explain this to Melissa. Still another, what I can do to minimize the loss and survive the rest of the month without the money.

I pull into the Fred Meyer parking lot, find a parking spot down from where I was earlier. I step out of the car into the afternoon sun, at first appreciative for the breezy day, then remembering that, God forbid, if I had dropped the checks in the parking lot, they were as good as gone. I glanced around the parking lot to see pieces of trash blowing briskly between cars. I swallowed and walked quickly back to where I thought I had parked earlier. As I approached, I kept looking back and forth between the spaces and the door, trying to remember which one.

Then I stopped. In one empty spot (which would normally have been covered by a parked car) was a little piece of paper. I shot forward and picked it up.

Folded checks.

A thrill of relief, fear, and guilt ran through me as I looked at Melissa's familiar signature right there on the checks. If someone would have seen them... But wait, there were only three. Plummeting into panic again, I frantically look around. Another scrap of paper across the way. Another check! And there, just a little further on, was the last.

I stood there, blinking in the bright sun and cool breeze, looking incredulously at the answered prayers I held in my hand. All of them. So simple. A thankfulness toward a whimsical God wells up within me like the evening tide, swelling and covering everything. I shake my head in disbelief as I walk back toward my car, legs shaking.

How careless I am. How easily I resort to begging God with silly prayers to get me out of messes of my own creation. And then how quickly I am to doubt the faithfulness of a God who gave what He did for undeserving people like me. And especially when we don't deserve it, right in the middle of an ordinary life, here comes the whisper of Grace.

Training her up for the good life

2006-08-03T11:32:00.000-07:00

This last week or so has been a great chance for Melissa, Katelyn, and I to spend some time laying down the intense work of church planting for some much needed rest and family time. We spent two nights at Nehalem Bay near Tillamook on the Oregon Coast doing our best to train our daughter in the ways of outdoor living.

She took right to it. At the time she was not walking (much changes from week to week in the life of a 1-yr-old), so Melissa cut up a pair of my socks and put them over her knees so she could crawl around in the thistles and gravel. I suppose one might call these contraptions the baby hiking boot. (Come to think of it, I ought to start selling Gore-Tex versions at REI for $189 a pop...)One afternoon, we took Katelyn out to the bay and played on the sandy shoreline there, sheltered from the Nehalem wind by the graying driftwood trees. For the first time, she enjoyed the sand--didn't try eating any of it either--and generally had the gleam of wonder and discovery that so often graces the eye of the very young. She was particularly fascinated by the "where's your toes game." A real puzzler...

But mostly we stayed near the tent reading, snacking, and napping. We had nothing to worry about, since Katelyn viciously guarded our tent. Here's to training her up for living the good life of the Oregon outdoors!

The strange world of a current liberal fear: Is America becoming a theocracy?

2006-07-25T11:12:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday at Cascade Hills, we talked about a central idea in the book of I John: that what we believe to be true drives what we do. It's obviously important, then, to seek out and thoroughly explore what is true, and equally important that we consciously shape our actions to line up with that truth. As part of my sermon, I mentioned a quote from Adam Kirsch from the New York Sun: "All of America's great strengths - our diversity, tolerance, pragmatism - finally depend on our ability to keep public reason and private belief strictly separate. [more]" I went on to mention that Kirsch is attempting to protect the concept of separation of church and state, but that such thinking has gone far beyond mere separation. In today's culture, it is easy to see that (Christian) faith is not welcome in any public sphere. Any value or moral stance, and certainly actions that derive from those values, that has root in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus is simply inadmissible at the social gathering, the marketplace, the courthouse, or the congressional floor.

Given this current cultural reality, I am utterly mystified by the fears that America is somehow becoming a theocracy espoused in some political realms. I mentioned this a while back in another blog post inspired by reading The Nation. I have since seen the proliferation of titles on display near the entrance of Borders: American Theocracy: The Peril and Politics of Radical Religion, Oil, and Borrowed Money in the 21st Century; The Baptizing of America: The Religious Right’s Plans for the Rest of Us; and others. The centerpiece of this new genre of literature is the equating of the Bush administration with the Mullahs and Ayatollahs of Jihadist Islam (and thus the fun picture at the head of this post.) Here is a sample of the genre, written by Rabbi James Ruddin (who is the American Jewish Committee's senior interreligious advisor):

“All government employees—federal, state and local—would be required to participate in weekly Bible classes in the workplace, as well as compulsory daily prayer sessions,” as would employees of any company or institution receiving federal funds. There would be a national ID card, identifying everyone by their religious beliefs, or lack thereof—and “such cards would provide Christocrats with preferential treatment in many areas of life, including home ownership, student loans, employment and education.” Non-Christian faiths would be tolerated, “but younger members . . .would be strongly encouraged to formally convert to the dominant evangelical Christianity.” Gay sex would be prosecuted, and “known homosexuals and lesbians would have to successfully undergo government-sponsored reeducation sessions if they applied for any public-sector jobs.” Political dissent would be squashed, religious censors would keep watch over the popular culture, and “the mainstream press and the electronic media would be beaten into submission.”

Once again, the clear-thinking folks over at First Things have explored and soundly answered the sort of thinking behind this trend. While I am still flabbergasted that anyone could seriously entertain these silly fears, at least now I see how silly they really are.

No, America is not a theocracy, has never been one, and is not becoming one. Yes, those who profess to walk in the way of Jesus and to know the truth that He reveals--should we not allow that truth to inform every area of our actions, including those actions we claim for ourselves as people who constitute a democratic society? Should we not allow what we believe to be true to drive what we do?

But even if that were true of all Christians who are also Americans, there would still be no worry of becoming a theocratic society, since the way of Christ is foolishness to the world of secular America and a stumbling block to our culture, for it is the way of the cross. Ours is not a kingdom of legislative victories and cultural imperatives, ours is the Kingdom of the Crucified One, the One who overcomes by laying down His life for those who hate Him. Ours is the way of Jesus.

Let It Never Be Said: The Western Inability to Decry Muslim Atrocities

2006-07-18T14:24:00.000-07:00

More lovely news from our friends in Enlightened Modern [Muslim] Europe:

For Derya, a waiflike girl of 17, the order to kill herself came from an uncle and was delivered in a text message to her cellphone. “You have blackened our name,” it read. “Kill yourself and clean our shame or we will kill you first.” more...

This terrible incident reminds me of a question that I have not understood for some time. I know that no one in the United States would look upon this as anything other than an atrocity. No matter their political stripe, social traditions, background, or upbringing, no one would ever say that this girl did what she ought, or that the uncle in this case was doing right in helping her to choose the right course of action. The conservative Christian would rightly decry the sin against human dignity, and the radical feminist would hold this up as an example of gross misogynism and gender tyranny.

What I do not understand would be the inability of the radical feminist to associate this behavior directly with Islam. Since the vast majority of the feminist crowd would charge Christianity with fundamental misogynist features and denounce orthodox Christian faith as immoral, hateful, and oppressive, why do they not do the same with Islam?

There is a strange reticence in the media and in virtually all public circles that will not decry Islam itself. There is a startling inability to attribute terrorist activity to its roots in various strains of Islamic faith, and a refusal to note the human rights abuses commited by nearly every predominantly Muslim nation on earth. Now, when prodded, no doubt someone would say that not every Muslim would approve of the behavior in the above article. When prodded further with evidence in the form of vast numbers of Muslims that hold these sorts of attitudes and practice these sorts of behaviors, someone might be tempted to say, yes, but that cannot be attributed directly to the Muslim faith, but only to uneducated or unrelated social practices that do not bear on Islam itself. Perhaps one might be tempted to grant this on philosophical grounds, in the interest of not assailing what might be considered a worthy cultural institution and heritage.

Perhaps. But why the reticence on the part of Islam, but never on the part of Christianity. Cannot the same defenses be made concerning the Christian faith? The media and public voices routinely attribute the views and practices of some Christians (i.e., the Crusades) to all Christians. The Christian faith is almost never seen as "a worthy cultural institution", but rather a legacy of oppression and violence. All the while, the beauty of the "Religion of Peace" is never soiled by the usual practices of life under Islamic Sharia.

Why the disparity?

The road less traveled, and the six-lane highway: Do I have to choose?

2006-07-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

I'll admit, right here in digital print, that there are certain tendencies in me that would relish uprooting my family and moving to an Amish community. Wouldn't life be better simpler? Wouldn't I be more holy and happy living among disciplined, community-oriented people who live a life closer to the created world and further from the mechanization of man? More to the point, wouldn't it be nice never to answer a cell phone or update my online banking balances ever again?

Last Sunday at Cascade Hills, we celebrated the beauty and majesty of God's creation with a series of worship stations. Sunday turned out to be a beautiful day, and one of the "worship stations" took people outside to look east toward the foothills of the Cascades. With such a vision before us, it is tempting to malign the works of man: to look at our city of Salem and turn our noses up at the concrete and steel, the crowded highways, the denuded hills upon which ever-larger homes will spring, the discarded trash trail of a hundred thousand self-absorbed consumers.

But, lest ye go from this page to this one to purchase a horse with which you can ride to the open fields of Amish Ohio, consider the book Anthony Sacramone is considering writing: The Great Indoors: Why Going Outside Is Vastly Overrrated. (and read the rest of his satire here. It's a good cureall for those Amish itches.)

Still room for heroes even in this culture: Or: why I was wrong about comic book movies

2006-07-09T20:19:00.000-07:00

I really didn't think it could be done. I really had given up after dozens of disappointments and false hopes. In general, I really didn't think any comic book movie could ever again produce the kind of good feelings, excitement, and genuine cheesy grin that I had watching movies when I was younger. And specifically, I didn't think the new Superman movie could be done in this culture without some serious changes made to the way he is portrayed.

Oh, how wrong I was, and how thankful I am to admit it.

Superman was the first comic book movie in a long, long time to give me goosebumps. No, it was not from the overwhelming action scenes or from over the top battle sequences. It was because the new Superman had a kind of meaning that no recent superhero movie has.

Spiderman represents an ordinary kid, to whom many of us could relate, but who gains extraordinary powers. We journey along with him, experience what he experiences as he grows into his powers and is challenged in exciting and visually stunning ways. Batman is a tour de force in dark heroism, a distant and strange person passionate about crushing the injustice about which we all feel so frustrated and helpless.

But Superman comes off in the movie as a hero. He is a towering figure of good whom we look upon and wish we could be like. We can't relate to him but we instinctively want to rise to his example. We look at him and say, "that is how people are supposed to act!" More than any movie of its kind in many years, this is a movie about a guy that the world needs.

I really didn't think it could be done, not in this culture. Ours is a world of cynicism, where the least act of heroism is quickly picked apart for selfish motives. Heroes are not heroes as they have been in the past. This is a world as The Incredibles describes--ones in which superheroes are sued for collateral damage and for offending the sensibilities of villain-victims. Bryan Singer and the team which produced Superman are to be congratulated for their daunting task: taking the classic figure of Superman in all his unspoiled goodness and placing him in our cynical world in such a way that our world comes out looking as hollow and corrupted and soulless as it actually is. That is a grand, perhaps even superhuman, achievement. And that is why I am profoundly grateful for this newest movie.

(Finally) discovering PowerPoint for preaching: Adventures in the life of an angry prophet

2006-07-03T13:35:00.000-07:00

Despite years in the corporate world, exposed to thousands of bad and a handful of good powerpoint presentations, I have never quite gotten a handle on how to use them effectively for preaching. That is, until I stumbled onto a method that has worked very well for a recent series of messages I preached at Cascade Hills, straight from the book of Jonah. I put every verse on a slide (usually only a sentence or two per slide), and had it behind me with an accompanying image to help establish what was happening at that point in the story. Then, I simply told the story in my own words, with the Scripture there for everyone to follow.

The sermons ended up being very narrative in style, with most of the sermon time taken up with simple (theological) storytelling. At the end of each sermon, I would ask the congregation what this text was asking of us, and spend a bit of time helping to unpack some of that. I found these sermons very easy to preach (after a lot of exegetical work up front to give substance and depth to my storytelling). I also found them to be very hard hitting. Boy, you can count on Scripture to say the hard things! All I had to do was do my best to open it up to the congregation. What a privilege to preach the Word of God in the midst of our faith community!

Truly timeless fantasy: Jack Vance's Tales of the Dying Earth

2006-06-28T11:32:00.000-07:00

There is a reason why some fiction stands the test of time and others do not. So far, I have found the Fantasy Masterworks series a reliable guide to what is worth reading and what is not. My most recent acquisition was of the Dying Earth series written by Jack Vance, compiled in one volume.

Set in a future so far removed that earth is within decades of being consumed by a degenerating sun. Humanity has risen and fallen many times and artifacts of such alien power created in ages past still linger about, creating a world more familiar to a fantasy audience than to one of science fiction. And clearly Vance is a fantasy writer (despite occasional nods to technophiles looking for hints of recognizable technology). His creations are landscapes populated and imagined for the purpose of exploring logic puzzles and what-if games. The novels (four in all) are mostly collections of short stories loosely connected by the world itself and sometimes by related background characters. Otherwise, there seems to be no unifying plot other than the sheer joy of seeing what in the world will happen next to these strange characters in even stranger situations.

One story revolves around a golem-like creature made by powerful magicians, who, though wise and skilled, still make mistakes. The golem creature, a beautiful woman named Tsais, was perfect save for one flaw--she cannot perceive beauty or goodness in any form. To her, the vast sum of existence is an affront, a vile and putrid mass of unfortunate events, horrid creatures, and deplorable spaces. She is confronted with her twin, Tsain, which cannot perceive evil in any form, and a number of conceits and story plots revolve around their interactions.

There are a number of other interesting bits as well. One longer story involves a relentlessly curious character who is sent out of his village on account of his persisting in the bad habits of a 2-year-old: always asking "why?" He pursues more and more interesting mysteries, finally ending up at the vast sum of all knowledge, a great technological library, the last and greatest of the artifacts of Dying Earth. Great story. And there is Cugel's Saga, the cunning but selfish fool who ends up constantly digging himself into deeper and deeper trouble by following his base nature without the benefit of foresight.

I wholeheartedly recommend the Tales of the Dying Earth to any lover of fantasy. This book is at the headwaters of a long tradition of great stories--and interestingly enough, was also one of the most significant influences on the early development of the Dungeons and Dragons roleplaying game. People familiar with the game will catch dozens of amusing references. If you are looking for enjoyable, action-packed, beautifully written--and most impressively--truly timeless fantasy, pick up a copy of Vance's Dying Earth. You won't be disappointed.

Reading Sherlock Holmes for the first time: Discovering the icon of human reason

2006-06-12T17:19:00.000-07:00

I find it fascinating that simple creations of the human imagination can become such ubiquitous features of a culture. Very few people of my generation have actually read any of the classic Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but virtually all of us know who he is and the major features of his character. That's an amazing achievement most writers spend a lifetime failing to achieve.

I recently finished reading the very first story in which the eminent Holmes appears, A Study in Scarlet. Aside from being a simply excellent story and an enjoyable read, we meet Holmes for the first time and are introduced to his peculiar talents and formidable command of both observation and deduction. Holmes, in these passages, reveals himself to be an icon on nineteenth century thought, that is, a celebration of human reason and a symbol of what the human mind might be able to accomplish through discipline and study. At one point, Watson remarks on his studious command of certain branches of science, and his total neglect of other pursuits.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.
"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."
"To forget it!"
"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
"But the Solar System!" I protested.
"What the deuce is it to me?" He interrupted impatiently: "you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."
...He said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to him.

Such an interesting and iconic figure Holmes makes, with single-minded pursuit of the work of criminology. And how symbolic of the times in which his character was celebrated: to have the contents of one's mind supremely at the fingertips, to carefully manage one's intake of knowledge so that all one knows is subject to one's own control, and therefore can be brought systematically to bear against the subjects of one's choosing. What mastery of the human intellect! What a celebration of the faculties of reason! What problem that man faces can long stand against the due application of logic?

When I read Holmes, I can't help but think of more modern experiments with the concept, such as Spock from Star Trek--logic rules his faculties as well, and he cuts a superhuman figure because of it. How interesting, men who function like machines. Wasn't that Freud's project too, to map the inner recesses of the human mind and thus lay its technology bare for the use of the modern project?

How utterly unlike reality and how woefully diminished an image of the human creature. Part of me loves Holmes for the alien creature he represents, but part of me recoils from his cold logic and his inability to embrace the unknowability at the horizons of our world. What a dry and cold life such a creature must lead.

And for all the talk about postmodern abandonment of such thinking, I find myself wondering. True, reason is no longer a privileged way of knowing, often pushed behind other methods such as intuition and emotional appeal. But when I look at our fascination with technology and our incessant pursuit of control over every aspect of nature, subjecting every experience to digitization and storage on the hard drive, I wonder how much Holmes is a still-current symbol of our desire for mastery and control.

Ah, to embrace the mystery of our world, our own limited capacities, and to surrender ourselves to the One who dwells in the unknowable beyond our experience or reason. To be a Christian: that is the truly human pursuit.

Everything is meaningless: The postmodern essay generator

2006-05-16T12:24:00.000-07:00

If you are one of the strange few that actually reads about postmodernism and its cultural trends of relativism, pluralism, and anti-institutionalism, you'll love one of my favorite sites on the internet. It comes out of the academic study of language, and a somewhat cynical and nihilist view of human culture that begins with the premise that all our language ultimately amounts to meaninglessness. (kinda reminds you of a certain Hebrew poet and sage, doesn't it?)

The site is an essay generator, something like Dilbert's Mission Statement Generator. But more than that, using some sophisticated tools of linguistics, language theory, and deconstruction, they actually built a mathematical algorithm that builds the essay rather than slapping together random quotes. After you follow the link, hit refresh on your browser a few times and it'll keep generating new essays, complete with quotes and bibliographic sources. The sarcastic beauty of the essay generator is that, in a way, it is the technology of Ecclesiastes: it's all as meaningless as the content of each mathematically generated essay. Depressed yet?

Here's a short sample:

Dialectic predeconstructive theory and socialism

I. Jean-Francois Dahmus
Department of Literature, Carnegie-Mellon University

Thomas Z. Hubbard
Department of Politics, Massachusetts Institute of Technology

1. Burroughs and subconceptualist patriarchial theory

If one examines Lyotardist narrative, one is faced with a choice: either accept subconceptualist patriarchial theory or conclude that art is capable of significant form. The closing/opening distinction prevalent in Burroughs’s Nova Express is also evident in The Ticket that Exploded. “Society is meaningless,” says Baudrillard. However, many theories concerning posttextual Marxism exist. The subject is interpolated into a dialectic predeconstructive theory that includes truth as a whole.

Okay, enough meaningless words. Here's the generator.

Catching up on some reviews

2006-05-07T22:08:00.000-07:00

I've been a bit distracted to post much about what I've been reading, so I thought I'd take a moment and catch up on my fiction reviews.

Jack Vance, Tales of the Dying Earth: This brick of a book collection of Vance's four famous Dying Earth novels (The Dying Earth, The Eyes of the Overworld, Cugel's Saga and Rialto the Magnificent) was good enough to merit its own review, so suffice it to say this. Vance's novels comprise a fountainhead of fun, thoughtful, and endlessly creative fantasy in this loosely related collection of novellas and short stories. One of the best in the genre. I stopped after reading the first two novels, but plan to return to Cugel's Saga in the future.

The Avram Davidson Treasury: One of the unknown masters of both science fiction and the short story form, Avram Davidson is somehow still largely unknown. I ran across him in an older science fiction anthology, tracked down some of his other works, and ended up getting this hefty collection of all his short works. I've plowed through hundreds of pages of short (5-7 page) stories, none of which fell short of excellent. Some were amusing, some profound, some strange and beautiful--all worth reading. If you don't want to buy this worthy treasury, find yourself an anthology which has Or All the Seas with Oysters. Great stuff.

David Brin, Sundiver: Disappointing. I stopped after a few chapters--not my cup of tea. Not bad as far as science fiction goes, but I find my tastes don't go the way of technical descriptions of dolphins being trained to speak (and then becoming spacecraft pilots) or in-depth discussion of how a ship might be designed to fly into the sun on a research mission. Realistic but uninteresting descriptions of all kinds of aliens, too. I'll pass on the rest of the Uplift Saga.

Dan Simmons, Hyperion: Wow, what a book. This one too deserves its own review. For now, let me say that I have read very few books this well put together, this imaginative, and this artistically sound. Unfortunately, the content is quite off-putting at times, turning what might have been a flawless artistic work into something more baudy and more gruesome than its worthy subject matter required. Still, for a discerning and mature reader, I point to this work as one of the most moving and most challenging in all of science fiction. I'll be venturing into Fall of Hyperion once I've built up sufficient stamina.

Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere: I've been meaning to read something by Gaiman for some time, but for some reason I never quite got around to it until recently. Once I began, however, I was treated to a wonderfully enjoyable urban fantasy with none of what usually makes the genre unpleasant. Neverwhere was filled with memorable characters, an eminently likable protagonist (strangely rare in fiction these days), a rapid pace, and a world which kept me turning pages long after I should have gone to bed. Not a profound book, but I've been reading too much of that anyway. I'll be moving on to Anansi Boys and American Gods--Gaiman is a blast.

Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers: And this brings me up to my current read, the classic adventure tale by one of the masters of the genre. Complex, populated with numbers of fun and interesting characters, fast paced and action packed, romantic and humorous--Dumas delivers in every category. No wonder people have been reading this book for nearly hundred years.

Grace meets stunned wonder: ACU in loving disagreement with LGBT activists

2006-04-27T16:02:00.000-07:00

One of my friends and fellow ministers at Cascade Hills had the distinct pleasure of graduating from Abilene Christian University in Texas. I had the opportunity to visit the school several times while I was in Texas, and it was clear that it was a great place. I have come to see many of the professors there as strong, important voices in today's rapidly changing landscape of American Christianity.

Recently, a group called SoulForce asked to be allowed on campus to engage others in public dialogue about the cultural world of the LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender for those of you who have not yet run across the pervasive acronym). ACU was one of the very first schools to allow them access to the student body, despite their convictions about the lifestyle choices made by those who make up SoulForce. ACU went far beyond access, engaging them in a number of large public forums, welcoming them warmly, listening to their concerns and agendas, and responding truthfully and appropriately. This is the singular best example of openness mixed with conviction I have ever seen, and I am proud to be associated with the Christian tradition which ACU represents. Read the full details on the visit here.

Understanding differing political points of view

2006-04-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

I admit that I don't go in for much of the political hubbub these days. About as close to overtly political commentary that I read would be the daily blogs put up by the folks over at First Things. Richard John Neuhaus and the folks at that fine publication do a nice job of thinking through the role of religion in the public square, often chiming in on various important moral implications of public policy.

This week, I've peeked in on some new territory for me. I stopped in at The Nation, one of the progressive movement's flagship publications, just to see what current events might look like from their point of view. (For those of you who might not be familiar with the landscape, you might think of this as the liberal counterpart to the conservative Weekly Standard. For something somewhere in the middle, try The Economist.)

I have to say that I found some great information about something that I've been wondering about in recent months. As a Christian who is serious about his faith (and serious about ways in which it might inform the various areas of my life, including the political), I have gaped in disbelief as various folks from the Democratic party have been trumpeting fears about America becoming a theocracy. Now, having read an informative, if brief, outline of the fears, I can at least understand the point of view of folks that are making these claims. Allow me to reserve a more detailed commentary on this essay for another blog article, but for now, suffice it to say that The Nation opens the door on a world that I scarcely recognize. Standing between such voices and those from the opposite end of the increasingly strange political spectrum, perhaps I might learn more about what concerns the souls of my fellow Americans.

"Take up your cross and follow me..."

2006-04-19T09:15:00.000-07:00

Cascade Hills has come to a new milestone in its early life. Since the earliest days of our new church, we have been talking with others about steps along the journey of faith. Recently, a number of folks have grown more intentional about their faith (some recovering faith that had grown cold, others experiencing it for the first time) and we have begun talking with them about baptism.

As several of us from Cascade Hills have been looking together at the Scriptures where baptism is discussed, I noticed something I hadn't before. In several of the verses, Paul uses the terminology of being baptized "into Christ" (Romans 6:3, Galatians 3:27). As we're explaining some of what is happening in baptism, this terminology has become very helpful. A person is "putting on" Christ, participating in His death, burial, and resurrection once and for all.

In contrast, I have heard the terminology of "inviting Jesus into my heart" used in some circles, and I am noticing a critical difference between the two phrasings. The first invites Jesus to come into my life, to meet me where I am, to become a part of my life. This is a very important step of faith that many people must make on the journey toward making Jesus Lord, but it is not the whole of the disciple's life. Rather, we take a much more radical step when we enter into His life, leaving the whole of our old life behind in the waters of the baptistry. The old has gone, the new has come. I have moved past the self-centered thinking of inviting Jesus into my life and I place Him at the center, answering His call to follow, entering fully into His life.

What a blessing to invite others to consider radical discipleship, for along that road we walk with Jesus!

So much for our newest pet...

2006-03-20T19:57:00.000-08:00

With our daughter rapidly growing older, we thought it might be a good idea to get a new pet to add to our family. Jasmine, our elusive blue-eyed feline, has not shown much interest in Katelyn other than making sure that she maintains a constant ten foot safe zone between her and the baby.

So we decided to get something friendly, you know, something that we knew would take right to the baby. We talked with some experts and decided on an African pit viper. We picked one up, named her Edna, and set her free right there in the living room. We thought it might take Katelyn a little while to build up an immunity to the hemotoxins in the viper's venom, but she didn't give Edna the chance to find out.

Thinking old school, new school: Larry's gems from the Book of Acts

2006-03-16T21:09:00.000-08:00

There's nothing quite like a fresh look at the Book of Acts. As a minister working within the Restoration tradition, I've got a special place in my heart for the book that has had such a dramatic and far-reaching influence on our traditions and practices as a church. While the notion can be taken too far, I would venture to say that churches could stand to look a little more like the ones we see growing and spreading throughout the story of Acts.

A good friend and mentor of mine, Larry Deal, recently exhorted a group of us to look again at the book of Acts as we go about the task of starting "new churches in new places for new people." This last is a slogan of sorts for Kairos, the support organization that has helped us at Cascade Hills get up and running. Larry opened our eyes to the fact that we could see that same slogan lived out in Acts by those early Christians. Those bold, Spirit-led Jews preached the gospel, forming new communities of faithful Christians in new places outside of Jerusalem and Palestine, to new people other than Jews.

And, to top off an already excellent message, Larry added another helpful observation that is very close to my heart. Gathered in the same room listening to the message were folks from older, conservative churches as well as young Christians passionate about their faith but from a generation who is reacting strongly against anything that looks like traditional church. To these saints gathered in the same room, Larry exhorted them to do what the early church did in Acts: start new churches in new places for new people, but absolutely not at the expense of the older churches. He pointed to the fact that the Jewish Christians (led by Peter and James) maintained many traditions which were manifestly not a part of the gospel, but treasured and valued nonetheless. These thoroughly Jewish churches were exhorted by their leaders not to malign the new churches being planted which did not observe the same traditions but were born out of the same gospel. And, at the same time, the new churches were not to malign the ways of the old churches, since they too were born of the gospel.

Different churches, different traditions, honoring one another as they boldly proclaim the gospel of Christ, living it out in the midst of a lost and dying world. That is a vivid picture of the living church seen in Acts. May the God who poured out the Spirit on the church move us faithfully forward to new places for new people, all the while deeply honoring those which preached the gospel to us imperfectly and faithfully.

Struggling to understand American race identity: Reading Richburg's Out of America

2006-03-09T17:25:00.000-08:00

Just how do the words “African” and “American” come together to form a race identity in this country? What does a person mean when they claim to be an African American?

I must confess that this is not a topic with which I am intimately familiar--I might be called a Scottish-American, but only because of my last name and because it's the largest slice of my multi-European ethnicity. Still, a friend recommended a book to me which was immensely interesting and more than a little disturbing in many ways. The book, Keith Richburg's Out of America, is a "personal journey into African-American identity", a memoir of an African-American journalist's tour of duty in various countries in sub-Saharan (i.e., black) Africa.

As a memoir, the book is an intimate reflection on Richburg's experiences throughout black Africa and the struggle he had with finding roots of his identity there. As a correspondent in Somalia during the Blackhawk Down carnage, in Rwanda during the worst of the genocides there, and elsewhere in Kenya, Zaire, and South Africa, Richburg could find very little with which he could find commonality outside of brute DNA. Commonly mistaken for a native African (and consequently in great danger), Richburg would have to merely open his mouth and say five words to instantly reveal himself as an American. And, having seen the abyssal depths of corruption, totalitarianism, violence and utter disregard for human life (let alone human rights), Richburg concluded that he was much more American than he was African.

This is where I found the book to be most useful and revealing. Richburg struggled enormously with this tension of identity because of what it means to be a black man in America. For him, it meant to have experienced a kind of insipid and constant cultural alienation regardless of one's determination to rise above it. Richburg tells some darkly humorous stories of his childhood, the likes of which I cannot relate to at all. In one, he follows his white friend to a bank and forgets to take his hands out of his coat pockets and to remove his sunglasses once inside. The bank teller sees a black teenager following a white teenager into the bank and immediately hits the panic button, assuming the black to have a weapon in his coat with which he was forcing the white boy to withdraw money. A large police force arrives and the situation resolves peacefully, they laugh about it afterward, but it clearly left a mark on Richburg. The amazing fact is simply this: no matter what alienation a black man might feel growing up in America, it was infinitely preferable to the carnage and barbarism marking the cultures of Africa.

Again, to someone like me, all of this seems reasonable. What is the more difficult is the defensiveness with which he writes, conscious that such a preference of being American over being African carries with it a wholly different sort of cultural alienation--that of the liberal left, and specifically of black liberalism and the academy of African studies that is present at all of our major universities. For Richburg to embrace his American roots over his African is tantamount to siding with America's history of slavery and racial oppression. To illustrate the kind of hatred Richburg faces, read this quote from a review on Amazon from someone who did not read the book:

When I read the title of this book I could tell it was going to be negative. The previous reviews written by Africans need to first kick themselves for not putting a proper balance on the book's content. First of all, Africa has always been portrayed as a god-forsaken place and called the "Dark Continent" and the last thing it needs is to have a Black American attempt to corroborate this lie. HOW DARE this BLACK author have the nerve to demonize a continent without realizing that EVERY continent has its evils. And to add insult to injury, he even implied-oh strike that- STATED gratitude of his ancestors' slavery to America, as if thankful that they were brought from a barbaric land to a bright one when it was really the other way around! He might as well have supported antebellum pro-slavery arguments! And as far as being brought to a "civilized" country, AFRICANS MADE America civilized, with their skill, intellect and talent. Everyone's so ready to give accounts of African atrocity -of African war lords having mass killings, crooked presidents or tribal genocide - BUT WHERE OH WHERE is the corresponding EUROPEAN versions of massive crime?! For all of the white readers who have given this book a "good" rating they and the media always neglect to shine light on EUROPEAN drug lords, of EUROPEAN slavery, of EUROPEAN rape and genocide and of EUROPEAN government corruption. For every violence in Africa there is an equal version in Europe, Africa is no more dangerous than Europe. HOW DARE EVERYONE (who has written a review) support the continuation of painting this diverse, cradle of civilization as a horrific cesspool! The only reason why this bunk is highly rated is because of the narrow minded, socially predisposition-to-consider-Africa-negatively, brainwashed, white and-hold on to your seat- RACIST people who will of course support this jargon! The author is certainly an uncle tom who is having an identity crisis and is adding fuel to the fire of Eurocentrism. No, I have not read the book nor do I need to because I do not have to see the wind in order to know that is blows.

Wow. He didn’t even read the book.

After seeing Africa through Richburg's eyes, I am mystified by the currently fashionable idea that all cultures are equal. I can understand how Richburg might choose to root his own identity in the cultural traditions and values of America, taking the good while not minimizing the bad. The mystery that remains is why people would choose to revile Richburg as evil while at the same time celebrating the culture of Africa which produces and perpetuates ruthless dictators, totalitarian regimes, and nepotistic bureaucracies.

It all depends on where you stand

2006-02-27T08:06:00.000-08:00

Julian Beever is a chalk artist who has so thoroughly mastered the art of perspective that people have a hard time walking over the vivid, three-dimensional images he works into the city street. Given the image above, I can imagine walking up to this little Sony Vaio and trying to check my email.

The interesting thing about these images is that they only make sense if you are standing in the right place and from the right perspective. Otherwise they seem distorted and strange:

How true this is for much of the life we live in the here and now. Where we stand makes all the difference to us in terms of what makes sense, which truths are expedient and useful, and which are distorted and strange. For the Christian, the life of following Jesus makes for a profoundly different place to stand.

Standing where He is, that is, following in His footsteps, simple truths such as "treat others as you would want to be treated," "love your neighbor as yourself," and "blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" are put into their proper perspective and can be seen for what they are: simple truths.

I wonder how often we miss the simply true because of where we are standing?

~ ~ ~

Inside the mind of the secular state: Liberalism looks in vain for public faith

2006-02-16T08:38:00.000-08:00

From First Things:

There was a big confab this week on liberalism and religion. Held at Columbia University, it involved luminaries such as Michael Kazin, author of the recent biography of William Jennings Bryan, Mark Lilla of the University of Chicago, and Alan Wolfe of Boston College.

Adam Kirsch writes in the New York Sun: “What to do about the hole in the soul was the number one item on the agenda. A group of speakers who unanimously identified themselves as liberals and Democrats addressed the gulf between religion and liberalism not just as an object for study but as a pressing political problem to be solved.” Wilfred McClay of the University of Tennessee, a regular FIRST THINGS contributor, also spoke, and I’m not sure whether he quite fits Mr. Kirsch’s description.

At the event, E.J. Dionne of the Washington Post said that “Two electoral defeats have concentrated the liberal mind on God.” It’s not the most elevated reason but, if that’s what it takes, maybe we shouldn’t complain.

Kirsch summarizes the meeting: “All of America’s great strengths–our diversity, tolerance, pragmatism–finally depend on our ability to keep public reason and private belief strictly separate. That was the most important lesson learned at Columbia on Friday.”

The other half of the electoral climate of America is starting to think about its own religious heritage and how that might play a role in the transformation of their party. The cynic in me wonders if they are jealous of conservatism's ability to capture the moral imagination of a broad segment of middle America. As Mr. Neuhaus says in the article, perhaps there is no bad reason for someone to stop for a moment and look to God.

But it seems the "confab" has come to nothing, at least, nothing which might enable faith to play a role in liberal politics, since the result of the meeting was the refusal to allow it the light of public discourse. I am simply mystified by their "most important lesson" learned. Is it not self-evident to say that faith is hollow and empty if it does not impact our public life? Is it not the Christian confession to say that Jesus Christ is Lord, a profoundly political and social statement as well as one of "private belief?" Ought not such profound convictions lead to a changed way of life?

~ ~ ~

Discovering Latin Treasure: On the discovery of Jorge Luis Borges

2006-02-05T22:40:00.000-08:00

Allow me to confess my utter astonishment.

First, I must confess that I may have become a card-carrying literati. I have discovered a modern author of so-called literary merit with whom I have become instantly enamored. This is such a rare occurrence that I felt compelled to record the event here. The author is Jorge Luis Borges, one of the new literary literaries, the likes of which have replaced (much to my chagrin) the western classical literature in today's classroom and academia. For the first time in encountering such a figure, I find myself wholly in agreement with the sorts of hyperbole surrounding Borges:

Undeniably one of the most influential writers to emerge in this century from Latin America or anywhere else, Borges (1899-1986) is best known for his short stories....Many of the stories return to the same set of images and themes that mark Borges's best known work: the code of ethics embraced by gauchos, knifefighters and outlaws; labyrinths; confrontations with one's doppelganger; and discoveries of artifacts from other worlds (an encyclopedia of a mysterious region in Iraq; a strange disc that has only one side and that gives a king his power; a menacing book that infinitely multiplies its own pages; fragmentary manuscripts that narrate otherworldly accounts of lands of the immortals). Less familiar are episodes that narrate the violent, sordid careers of pirates and outlaws like Billy the Kid (particularly in the early collection A Universal History of Iniquity) or attempts to dramatize the consciousness of Shakespeare or Homer. Elusive, erudite, melancholic, Borges's fiction will intrigue the general reader as well as the scholar.

Second, I must confess my awe at the ability of Mr. (Dr.?) Borges' translator, Andrew Hurley. Borges is an Argentine writer and composed his work entirely in Spanish. I am most definitely not reading the original works. Hurley has done the hard work of making the totality of Borges' fictions available to the English speaking world. But here's the thing. Part of what makes Borges' fiction so amazing is its uncanny ability to take you, quickly and precisely, to a tangible place with his use of language. In his first collection of stories, A Universal History of Iniquity, Borges recounts a series of pseudo-histories of evil men and women. Each of these stories are short, tight works that take you instantly into the world of the time--everywhere from Imperial Japan to the Wild West to gang-ridden turn of the century New York. That Hurley can translate Borges' work and maintain this same quality of language and fiction is nothing short of astounding.

Third, I have to confess my narrowness of mind. Reading Borges has revealed a glaring pride in my English-speaking heritage. When reading Borges, and when thinking how difficult the work of translation must have been, I found myself having a hard time picturing an Argentine man achieving the sort of erudition I have only ever imagined belonging to the likes of William Makepeace Thakeray or John Steinbeck. Perhaps that is part of the reason why high school curricula is now featuring the likes of Borges.

"Yes, do the pureed peas come with fries?"

2006-02-01T17:02:00.000-08:00

We enjoyed a little time at Red Robin with Melissa's family this week, as it was her sister Karen's birthday. Katelyn put on her big-girl act and grabbed the nearest menu. We were a little embarrassed when she ordered the most expensive thing she could find and then didn't leave a tip.

Kids these days.

More classic science fiction: Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination

2006-01-29T22:09:00.000-08:00

Few authors are able to handle cultural and sociological complexity well, and fewer still can manage to create a simple story in the midst of such complex material. Perhaps this is why Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination is a well-known classic of science fiction, since Bester is able to do exactly these things.

Bester's story is three things at once. First, it is the story of a sprawling society spread throughout the solar system, slowly giving in to a major military conflict between the outer and inner planets. The future as we might imagine it has gone through a massive upheaval by a single event: mankind has learned how to jaunte. That is, to spontaneously transport oneself across up to 500 or so miles instantly. Jaunting is accomplished through willpower alone, and thus is not the usual product of science fiction technology. The ability to jaunte has radical impact on the way society orders itself, and these details provide part of the backdrop to the novel.

Other authors might have found jaunting to be an interesting enough idea to center around, but apparently this was not enough for Mr. Bester. He writes a character driven story against this backdrop, centering around the very interesting and very strange Gulliver Foyle. He is one of the best known of classic sci-fi characters, a defining pillar of the rags-to-riches archetype. Gulliver "Gully" Foyle begins the story as a clueless, uneducated, unmotivated ship's mechanic barely smart enough to carry a wrench. Catastrophe befalls him and he is forced, little by little to rise to the occasion of survival. After managing to survive more than six months in a coffin-sized locker in an otherwise gutted spaceship, Gully looks like he's about to be rescued. When the ship scans him but then leaves him stranded, Gully undergoes a terrible transformation. The searing need for revenge against the soulless villains who leave him in deep space to die re-creates Gully into a driven, powerful, resourceful man. By the end of the book, Gully is the most wanted man in the universe (and richest, and most desirable, under others of his public guises).

The story of transformation is the center of The Stars My Destination, and is thoroughly explored through Gully's slow search for revenge and what that does to him and those around him. From sloth to driven, from lax unrealized potential to motivated venomous purpose, Gully becomes the perfect revenge creature. At the resolution of the novel, Gully is offered the opportunity to pursue his course of revenge to its natural climax--not only the destruction of his enemy, but the full animal transformation of his predator personality. But as he takes up the spoils of victory, including both material and political power, he catches a glimpse of what he is becoming. It shakes him. He asks the question, why must the "driven" men have all the power, simply because others are unwilling or unmotivated to take it from them? Gully then takes his accumulated power and jauntes all over the world, scattering it among the common people in a thousand places.

The Stars My Destination succeeds on many levels. It is an entertaining and fast paced story, filled with ingenious and well thought out technological and sociological texture. The characters are memorable and interesting, some of the best in all of science fiction. At its core, it is a story of multiple transformations, ending with a suitably science fiction image--that of an embryonic messiah readying himself to lead mankind through another upheaval and into their next stage of destiny. It is a powerful image, and one suited for the culture of Bester's times. It is a story of faith in democracy taken to its most logical and frightening extreme--unlimited power in the hands of the unwashed and clueless masses.

Anchor points

2006-01-23T21:41:00.000-08:00

When securely anchored, I have no fear of heights. Climbing and rappelling is a passion I began enjoying in college. On my very first trip to the cliffs, I discovered quickly what a difference a rope makes in your confidence on cliffs. Without a rope, I am limited to extreme caution and long trips around the rock face. With a rope, I am freed to enjoy the straight route--straight up or down, that is. Certainly there is still a surge of thrilling fear when looking over the edge, but the fear itself becomes part of the fun when I know I am securely anchored.

It is an oft-repeated pop culturism that faith in Christ is simply a crutch for people too weak to face up to the real world. I have found it just the opposite. Faith is the secure anchor to something beyond us, someone beyond us, who has guaranteed our future. Faith frees us to live as we were meant to live, in reckless pursuit of loving God and loving others. In faith, the Christian may look over the precipice into the chasm of the world's greatest dooms, and experience them as a momentary thrill of fear as we confidently pursue what is right and good.

When securely anchored, I have no fear of heights.

Dallas Willard's The Spirit of the Disciplines: Understanding How God Changes Lives

2006-01-16T16:02:00.000-08:00

This year is already off to a great start in the "good reads" department. In fact, this is one of the very best books I've ever read on the topic of the disciplined Christian life. Dallas Willard is a recognized expert on the subject, and his book, The Spirit of the Disciplines, is a simply excellent study on the purpose and practice of the spiritual disciplines. And, in keeping with my intention to further study and internalize great books like this one, here is my attempt to distill some of what I have learned.

Living a life that reflects the character, actions, and attitude of Jesus is the central goal of those that call themselves Christians. And it is a curious paradox that very few Christians, if asked, would claim to be living such a life. Many who undertake their discipleship seriously would say that they were trying in various ways to follow after Jesus, but very few say that they are in fact very close to their goal. Such claims may be attributed to humility or a desire to exalt the life of Christ. But at their core, do Christians believe that such a life is even possible?

Regardless of what today's Christians may think, the New Testament regularly exhorts the Christian to precisely such a life using startlingly realistic language. It is clear that figures such as the Apostle Paul believe that such a life is possible and indeed to be expected of those who are growing in maturity and faith. But how is such a life attainable? Why do today's Christians live such a disconnect from the life of the One they claim to follow? It is certainly lack of awareness of the problem and it is not unwillingness—many, many Christians desperately want just such a life. Willard claims that that such a life is not only possible, but within the grasp of every person who follows Christ.

The key idea that Willard spends a book unpacking is simply this:

The secret of the easy yoke…is to learn from Christ how to live our total lives, how to invest all our time and our energies of mind and body as he did. We must learn how to follow his preparations, the disciplines for life in God’s rule that enabled him to receive his Father’s constant and effective support while doing his will...It is the intelligent, informed, unyielding resolve to live as Jesus lived in all aspects of his life, not just in the moment of specific choice or action. pp. 9-10

In contrast to another outstanding book on the disciplines, Foster’s Celebration of Discipline, Willard spends the vast majority of his book developing a theology of the human person, the power of sin and the power of the cross which breaks sin’s bondage over the human. Originally intended to image God and to be active agents in realizing his rule and gracious love over creation, we have fallen far, far short of that goal. We instead exercise great power and freedom to exalt ourselves as kings and queens, destroying ourselves and each other in the process. “…the biblical conception of the spiritual is that of an ordered realm of personal power founded in the God who is himself spirit…” Thus, the salvation Christians can experience through the cross is a life given over to the exercise of spiritual power oriented again toward it’s original goal: the realization of God’s rule and love in the here and now.

After turning from a theology of the disciplines, Willard spends time looking at historical conceptions of the disciplined spiritual life and attempts to recover the realistic, within-your-grasp language used by Jesus and Paul (and others) throughout the New Testament. Citing dozens of examples throughout the New Testament, Willard is convinced that Jesus and Paul both assumed that Christians would obey their teachings, and that their teachings included rigorous spiritual disciplines.

Specifically, Willard outlines two categories of spiritual disciplines: those of abstinence and those of engagement. “…the disciplines of abstinence counteract tendencies to sins of commission, and the disciplines of engagement counteract tendencies to sins of omission…. Abstinence, then, makes way for engagement…A proper abstinence actually breaks the hold of improper engagements so that the soul can be properly engaged in and by God.” While being sure not to make any exhaustive or precise list, Willard lists specific examples of each type of discipline. For abstinence, he includes solitude, silence, fasting, frugality, chastity, secrecy, and sacrifice. For engagement, he includes study, worship, celebration, service, prayer, fellowship, confession, and submission.

Willard has left me with a challenge. In order to live the life to which God calls me--that is, to live a life that imitates the character, actions, and way of life of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ--I need to adopt not only knowledge about him, but the overall way of life he practiced that enabled him to be intimately connected with the Father. Thus engaged with the saving work of Jesus, I am free to live a life in which the Kingdom of God is more fully, more richly realized. In this way, I participate in God's saving work in the small world in which he has placed me.

The beauty of a book well-read

2006-01-14T15:57:00.000-08:00

2005 has come to a close, and with it the experience of reading many good books. In the short years since my sojourn in the hallowed halls of the academy, I have become an eager consumer of good books. From classical fiction to science fiction and fantasy, ministry and church helps, theology and great history, anthology and digest, cultural commentary and practical how-to, I just plain love good books.

And having read a pile of them over the last few years, I am starting to want to read them more fully. I have developed the habit of getting in to a good book, really enjoying it, but then forgetting about it as soon as the last page is turned. Most of the books I consider "good" are worth remembering, and many of them contain a lot of wisdom I'd like to put to good use.

So this year, one of my New Year's resolutions is to slow down a bit and reflect more fully on the books I am reading. Even before grad school, I'd been in the habit of keeping a reading journal--noting provocative quotes and rabbit trails the author generated in my mind. But this year, I am going to take this practice to the next level. After finishing a book, I am going to attempt a short synopsis of the book and attempt to concisely capture the most important discoveries along the way.

Books are a way of sharing wisdom and experience with another. I wonder how much of the wisdom and experience of others I've hurried past, chasing the back cover of the book? This year, perhaps I'll find each book's treasure less a fleeting notion and more a part of who I am.

This season's great read:Octavia Butler's Wild Seed

2006-01-07T01:34:00.000-08:00

This last holiday season left me with a little extra time for reading, and I sank my teeth into this excellent piece of science fiction (fantasy?) that comes recommended by Orson Scott Card. I found out about this story because Card quotes large portions of her introductory material in one of his books on writing. I was intrigued enough by his quotation to seek out the source material, and I was not disappointed. Just for your enjoyment, click here to read the first page.

Octavia Butler's Wild Seed is one of the best I have ever read in the genre. It is a character-driven story, centering around two unusual people and their interactions through a long slice of history. The story begins in the late 1600's and finishes just before the dawning of the 2oth century. Both Doro and Anyanwu are one of a kind people with strange powers. Neither has ever met another with exactly the same powers as they do, but both share one trait: their "differences" render them immune from natural death.

Doro, the protagonist, is some sort of spirit-creature who leaps from body to body, killing the original host in the process and inhabiting the body until it falls apart. This happens whether he wants it to or not (if someone were to sneak up behind him and kill him, his spirit would leap to the nearest person and take them over, killing them in the process). He can also do this at will, something he does with cold regularity. We come to meet Doro thousands of years after he has discovered and accepted his lot. Doro is an unstoppable killer.

Anyanwu, the antagonist, is a shape-changing creature with the ability to control every aspect of her body. She can take the shape of any person or animal, heal herself of any disease, render herself immune to poison, and heal herself almost instantly of any injury. More than this, she is capable of producing antibodies and complex compounds after touching others who are injured. Anyanwu is a talented healer.

The plot of the book centers around these two strange figures, their interactions with each other, and their interactions with various short-lived people around them. At its core, it is a story of the redeeming of a darkened, cold hearted killer by slow patience, submission and resistance, and undeserved love.

A very enjoyable read, raising interesting questions in my mind about how the mind, body, and spirit interrelate in the human person. Highly recommended for those seeking interesting characters, thoughtful reflection, and provocative insight into the mutability of the heart.

The Lernaean Hydra of American Christianity

2005-12-28T11:49:00.000-08:00

In Greek mythology, the half-god hero Hercules was sent to kill a legendary beast called the Hydra, who dwelt in the Lake of Lerna. The hydra was a venomous, dragon-like beast with many heads. As if such a creature were not formidable enough, each time a head was cut off, two new ones grew up in its place.

As I consider the history and current state of American Christianity, this image from classical mythology immediately came to mind. While it is certainly the case that Christianity has always been possessed of different expressions, in the wild frontiers of America it seems that expressions of faith multiplied into truly Darwinian variety.

Why the comparison with the Hydra? What happens in a consumer-driven, individualistic society when things don't go my way at church? I go across the street and start my own. Where there was one assailed by the sword of conflict, now there are two, ad nauseum. This is different than faithful reproduction, which preserves the form of the original and grants it autonomy to live its own life. The hydra is not reproduction, it is multiplication of the problem.

As the problem has progressed, we now have more than thirty different expressions of Christianity right here in the smallish town of Salem (which, remember, is the capital city of the most unchurched state in the nation).

This drives people crazy. As we have been reaching out to people in Salem, we have discovered that one of the inevitable questions (from Christians and everyone else) is, "what denomination are you?" To this, we reply, "We're non-denominational." This is of course true in the strictest sense--churches of Christ (and indeed all Restoration churches) claim no official, central governing body which determines their forms, doctrines, or practices.

But in a sense, we're giving them only half the truth, since we usually know why they are asking the question. Buried in the "what denomination" question is a variety of other notions lurking just out of consciousness: are you traditional? do you resemble any other church with which I've had bad experiences? are you one of them? as in, one of those the media lampoons as prudish, judgmental and narrow-minded (all great sins in today's culture).

There are probably more lurking in there, but the point is, we come from a tradition, just like all churches do. There is much good and true about our tradition and much we claim as our own, and there is also much that is rotten, moldy, and just plain wrong. And yet we are a church of Christ, and we will remain so as long as I have a part in the leadership of this fledgling community of faith.

And now we come to our struggle: given that it is each generation's great burden to take up what is graciously given them by their forebears and press forward, how does one remain what one is and at the same time purge that which is useless, wrong, or false? How does one determine which practice or form?

To return to our original metaphor, how do we keep the pressures of conflict from causing us to become yet another fleeting form, defined by what we are not and warring continually against the others? In what way can we keep from multiplying the problem (inventing new traditions from scratch, heedless that they bring their own problems not yet born)? How can we be an authentic product of the natural process of reproduction, an image of our parents, autonomous yet of a fine lineage?

I wonder.

NaNoWriMo: thoughts on a failed (?) experiment

2005-12-22T21:12:00.000-08:00

November has come and gone, and just under 10,000 people crossed the finish line to become champions of mercurial novel-writing. 2005 had its winners, and I am sad to say that I am not one of them.

And yet this experiment in writing at breakneck speed was not without its fruits. In nine sessions of writing, I was able to complete more than 15,000 words. That is by far the most text I have ever produced in such a short time. The obvious question, was any of it any good?

Laughably, my first inclination is to say no. I went back after a few weeks and read over some of the bits that I wrote and I am sad to say there are no glimmering shards of greatness hidden within less interesting passages. My main impression in reading over what I had written was that of "why did I bother writing that? This isn't important to the story I was trying to tell..."

And that's the most significant thing I learned while writing furiously for my NaNo project. It's very, very hard to figure out what needs to be written and what can simply be left out of any particular story. That's the job of the editor. But here's the thing: you have to have text in order to edit it.

That's where NaNo comes in. In order to develop my skills as a writer (and to work out a story in particular), I needed to just turn on the fountain of words and begin to shape what emerged. I started my story in three or four places, never quite being sure where the best place was. Then, even with each scene, I found myself skipping around, trying to find a place where it ought best to begin. There is simply no way to work through this without the labor of creating text.

That, friends, is the beauty of NaNo. You have no other choice but to keep writing, stringing sentences together, dropping scenes and picking up other ones, moving along until you find traction. The more I wrote, the easier it became to find starting places.

As I continue to sculpt my skills as a writer, watching and shaping what emerges, I count NaNo a successful experiment and a lesson learned on my path toward writing.

They really can do anything on the Big Screen

2005-12-15T15:01:00.000-08:00

Last night, after a bit of a slow start, I was drawn in to Hollywood's latest rendition of King Kong, America's favorite monster movie. After spending twenty minutes in New York meeting strange vaudeville characters, I knew this was going to be a long movie. Nevertheless, by the time the young Conrad-infatuated lookout started shouting, "Wall!", I was ready for action. And action we were supplied!

There were several excellent sequences in Kong. I was genuinely horrified by the meeting with the savages, alternating between the chillingly alien and the violently frightening. The trance-rapt women of the tribe and their undulating celebration of foreign sacrifice was disgusting and appalling--more authentic to the intention of the original films than I would have expected by Hollywood's PC culture.

Even more disturbing was the filthy, creepy encounter with the grotesque vermin living in Skull Island's mud bogs. Enormous cockroaches, spiders, centipedes, and leeches (!) streamed out of every crack to torment the crew and the audience. The scene where Lumpy has his face eaten by the protruding jaw-jelly of a giant leech was one of the nastiest things I had ever seen on film (and makes me want to go see Slither too...).

But nothing in the film topped the best monster fight sequence ever: Kong confronting not one but three full-grown T-Rexes (and Ostrom's utterly fictitious warm-blooded dinosaurs to boot). This, more than anything Revenge of the Sith or even Lord of the Rings ever put to film, convinced me that the filmmaker's ability to realize visual effects is limited only by his imagination. To quote one of my favorite bloggers, this entire sequence was comprised of awesome! Much like Terminator 3 was the first to make CG characters look like they actually had mass, King Kong managed to make ferocious monsters look like they actually were three stories tall. The sound of the T-Rex jaws snapping shut was nearly enough on its own. This is the best large-scale fight sequence ever "filmed." Amazing.

* * *

Still, I felt much the same after watching King Kong as I did after watching the technically and artistically fantastic Batman Begins. After a little preliminary reflection (it was 2:00am when I finished watching Kong after all), I think I've finally come to a realization why I feel consistently underwhelmed by films like these--and also why I am so frustrated with films that are rehashing old ideas. It comes down to this: I've already seen Kong and Batman.

Neither of the original films were done as well (arguably) as their newer, more advanced and more intelligent counterparts. But I've already seen them. The basic films are thematically and substantively identical to their originals. Yes, they reinvent and deepen aspects of the context. And yes of course the subject matter itself is more fully realized. But they are the same films.

The beauty of King Kong is the dramatic boldness of its imagination: a film crew goes to an island where there are prehistoric monsters roaming about--and they bring one back. That's a cool idea! And there is a brilliant tragic subtext: nature's wonder destroyed by a fickle humanity that went in search of it then destroyed it out of fear. None of this changed in the remaking of the film, and thus I have missed out on the watching of the film. It was merely a re-watching.

My plea for Hollywood is to risk creating something as new and brilliant as the original concept of Kong. Use what has been learned in the realization of films such as this and lead my imagination into fresh fields.

Experiments with growth acceleration in infants

2005-12-12T21:37:00.000-08:00

Yep, I started her early. We were sitting in Starbucks waiting to head over to a Cascade Hills service project and I ended up with an extra-big (that's venti for you insiders) coffee because of a mix up. So there I was, sitting with my daughter on my lap, enjoying the delicious flavor of a little Christmas Blend, when I noticed that Katelyn was rather interested in the large red object that kept passing just over her head on its way to my mouth.

So I figured, hey, if she wants a little, I might as well give her a taste. Big mistake. Now, some of you might have heard the old saw about caffeine stunting your growth--it's simply not true. Shortly after this picture was taken, Katelyn gulped down the rest of my coffee, mumbling something about mellow, smooth notes. She jumped down off my lap, jogged over to the counter, ordered a triple mocha to go, and then asked for the car keys on the way out the door.

Who knew?

New home, new routines -- new opportunity!

2005-12-06T22:27:00.000-08:00

I once read an article outlining the biggest stressors a person can experience in his life. According to the article, moving was one of those stressors, and after finally finishing the last load of boxes in our cross-town move, I can agree. Moving is both physically and emotionally draining, especially for somebody who enjoys having his work space in some semblance of order.

Part of the reason for the stress is that moving deeply upsets routines. I'm not one particularly given to routine, but it does make the day quite a bit more difficult when simple tasks like brushing your teeth involve a search through boxes just to find the required equipment.

One of the upsides to moving is the fact that it does upset routines, because not all of my habits and routines are good. For the last several months, I have been desperately trying to recover a healthy practice of the spiritual disciplines (commonly called quiet time), but it has been nothing but struggle. I'm looking forward to settling into some new morning routines and a fresh approach to the challenge of spending time with God. I've even dug out a good book on the topic, Dallas Willard's Spirit of the Disciplines, just to spark some interest and fresh thinking on the subject.

The refreshing part of change is the opportunity to change for the better. Here's to the pursuit of a deeper intimacy with Jesus!

Putting down roots...again

2005-11-24T20:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday marked the eighth move Melissa and I have undergone in the last five years. This one, like several other cross-town moves, has consisted mostly of heaving random items into anything that remotely resembles a box and flinging them headlong into every trailer, trunk, or glovebox that's available.

When you travel cross country, you are compelled to pack carefully and deliberately. Cross-town moves, however, are an exercise of my inherent tendency to avoid planning and foresight. Who cares how many car loads it takes? Who cares how many times I have to drive back to the other location to find the one piece of the item that didn't make the last trip? Who cares that everything takes twice as long?

Yep, it's time for Melissa and I to get used to yet another temporary (i.e., rental) living space on our search for a stable life. Since we aren't quite sure what's going to happen during the transition from outside support as church planters to inside support as a brand new congregation's minister in a few years, we aren't quite sure what our financial status will be. We've already been burned once by short-term home ownership, so buying a house was out. But, once Katelyn begins walking (which I am convinced is only seconds away), we were beginning to feel the constraint of a one-bedroom house.

So after looking half-seriously for the last six months, we found a great place very near to the elementary school where we meet as a church. We already love the new place--it has more than one drawer in the kitchen, and what's this? A new-fangled modern contrivance called a dishwasher? And our greedy friend the in-sink erator (that's a garbage disposal for those of you who have never read the arcane text on the little metal ring in the middle of your kitchen sink...) Yes folks, Melissa and I have moved out of the 1940's and back into the modern world.

At least it will be modern once our cable/broadband is installed next week.

But we don't mind, we'll hardly be done dragging carloads of cat hair, empty pop cans, and rickety furniture by then. Once we are settled, you can expect an invitation to our new home. Heck, we may be able to seat more than three people comfortably in the living room!

Rescued by Dwayne and Tim: The Cold, Cold Month of NaNo

2005-11-15T21:34:00.000-08:00

Dwayne and Tim talked me down off the ledge today.

Yes, this morning I had left the house with every intention of quitting my NaNoWriMo project, with half a month to go. But I joined these stalwart men for a cup of strong coffee and they talked some sense in to me. Actually, Dwayne just made fun of me, and then Tim said he had only 6,000 words and he's not quitting. The shame and self-loathing (and the bitterness of the coffee) brought me around.

So here's what I face: in less than 15 days I have to write a little more than 38,000 words, or just over 2,500 words per day.

The pressure is on, ladies and gentlemen. Let the craziness that is NaNo continue. For now.

NaNoWriMo gets more fun all the time!

2005-11-09T23:52:00.000-08:00

This is the most fun I have had writing in a long, long time. And it is my second most productive writing project ever, weighing in at just under 10,000 words (or 43 pages manuscript-style). All that is in black and white in the picture above, a screenshot of the newest feature of the NaNoWriMo web site to keep authors distracted from what they are supposed to be doing...

I'm feeling good about this NaNoWriMo stuff even though I am a bit behind. It is everything they say it is: fun, crazy, difficult, tiring, and rewarding. Now, if I can just crank out some overtime text, I might just cross the finish line.

Here's to a very lame first draft of The Breaking of Carcerei!

From knowing to understanding: The missional work of Sundar Singh in India

2005-11-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

Sundar Singh, a preacher in India in the early 1900's, and the people of Cascade Hills have a lot in common. Specifically, we are all domestic missionaries, born in the local culture and radically changed by God's intervention in our lives. Having named Jesus Christ as our Savior, we have joined Him in His mission to reach out to a hurting and broken world, starting with the people immediately before us: the people across the street, in our marketplaces and neighborhoods.

In a recent article over at Christian History & Biography, an article talks about Sundar Singh and the radical impact he made on the people of India. It was because of his ability to take the radical message of the gospel and make it indigenous--that is, not bound up in the cultural trappings of Western Europe:

In hundreds of villages where he preached, this connection between local religious traditions and the Christian gospel made a crucial difference to his audience. In one instance, nine Hindu listeners, now ready for baptism after seeing and hearing him, stood and proclaimed, "We knew all about Christ for the last 20 years from the European missionaries; but now we understand truly that He is the only Savior."

Right here in south Salem, we find people with very much the same difficulty: they have heard just enough about Christ to think they want nothing to do with Him or his church. This is the old saying about our culture being "innoculated" against Christianity. Like a vaccine by which the body builds up an immunity against a virus through exposure to its weak and dying form, many people in our culture have been exposed fleetingly to a weak and dying form of Christianity, causing them to reject it as having anything to do with the real world or their own lives.

Like Singh, it is our task at Cascade Hills to take the radical message of the gospel and make it real. That means that we must hear the gospel again for the first time, not confusing it with the cultural trappings of 20th century American Christianity (which is merely one example of gospel-meets-culture). May we be useful instruments in the hands of a God expert in confronting and transforming all the cultures of this world, and may He establish among us a lasting community that reflects the power of the gospel!

Scary when your face is reflected in great pool of the internet...

2005-11-05T19:21:00.000-08:00

Apparently Tim and I aren't the only ones irritated with what's going on in Hollywood and their complete inability to generate any worthwhile, new ideas. I ran across this guy out there with an article nicely accompanied by movie poster pics, and I'm pretty sure I've seen posts very similar to his variously attributed to those in my blog ring...

It's a wide world out there. And apparently it's pretty much the same as in here.

Somebody needs to figure out how to bottle this stuff...

2005-11-04T23:23:00.000-08:00

The ancient asian cultures theorized that the matter all around us was composed of five basic elements: fire, water, earth, wood, and metal. Whether or not this is true, with Katelyn's latest antics, I have discovered a sixth: elemental joy.

She has recently learned a whole range of new vocabulary, and we were becoming accustomed to seeing the startled look on her face when a brand new sound left her lips. But it was another thing entirely when she discovered she could laugh--that might have been the most amazing sound I have ever heard! I could have sat and made my little girl laugh until Kingdom Come.

It is said the simplest things in life are always the best. Whoever said that must have had a little girl, too.

Writing the hero's journey: Towards a plot plan for NaNoWriMo

2005-10-22T18:23:00.000-07:00

For those of us undertaking the adventure of writing a complete novel in 30 days, I am certain that prior planning will make the difference between a reasonable chance of success and no chance at all. National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is rapidly approaching, and we've only got a little time left to prepare our Great American Novel.

I've sought out a little help from some writing books, one of the most helpful of which is The Writer's Journey. In it, Christopher Vogler has given us a concise distillation of the Hero's Journey from which to understand and develop our own unique plot lines. I plan on shamelessly using the 12 steps of the Hero's Journey to plot my novel. Since I've never written a complete novel before, the approach seems like an excellent exercise in thinking through all the things that need to happen structurally in a story and in filling the roles for the major players every story has. Besides, if I ever actually finish this project, I'll have a little experience in the basics from which to explore new ways of doing things, should I decide to go forward writing more novels. But that's getting ahead of myself.

According to Vogler, here are the 12 steps of the Hero's Journey:

1. Ordinary World
2. Call to Adventure
3. Refusal of the Call
4. Meeting With the Mentor
5. Crossing the First Threshold
6. Tests, Allies, Enemies
7. Approach
8. Supreme Ordeal
9. Reward
10. The Road Back
11. Resurrection
12. Return With the Elixir

For a little description about each of these stages in the journey, check out this site.

Now, to round out the cast of character archetypes/roles that can be found populating the narrative of the Hero's Journey:

1. Hero
2. Mentor
3. Threshold Guardian
4. Herald
5. Shapeshifter
6. Shadow
7. Trickster

For a brief, if psychoanalytical, overview of these archetypes, check out this site.

The next step is to go through with a basic premise (sometimes called the 3-sentence plot summary or the back cover copy) and then flesh it out by describing the stages and archetypes and how they'll fit together in the story. Stay tuned...

Gearing up for NaNoWriMo: Borrowing wisdom from the Hero's Journey

2005-10-21T12:20:00.000-07:00

Staring down the prospect of cranking out 50,000 words is not for the faint of heart. That's a lot of text; even if I just sat down and typed 2,000 words, pure stream of consciousness, every day for a month, I'd still probably wither before finishing. That's where planning, encouragement, and dedication come in.

As far as planning goes, I'm going to work with a few of the folks around here to plan out where my novel is going. I recently purchased a copy of Vogler's Writer's Journey, a much shortened version of Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Vogler has taken Campbell's massively overwrought work, trimmed it substantially, and applied it directly to the craft of writing stories. In a forthcoming post, I'll outline his basic concepts (that is, the 12 steps of the hero's journey and the character archetypes and functions within the framework). With this as a basic structure, a simple plot line, and a chapter-by-chapter outline, perhaps I'll have a better chance of writing 2000 words per day that actually move the story forward.

Already, I am receiving encouragement merely by the fact that several others are going to undertake this ridiculous project with me. Dwayne, Eric, and Tim are all signed up, as well as a crop of others. Perhaps some groan sessions around some Fred Meyer Starbucks may provide a bit of the boost we'll all need to cross the finish line.

Lastly, in terms of dedication, I am planning to try getting up a bit early and writing first thing in the morning each day before Katelyn and Melissa wake up. This, combined with a few catch-up days, may get me into a regular enough rhythm to stay focused.

The plague of the media mindset: Re-making the world in TV's image

2005-10-20T22:26:00.000-07:00

Reality requires heavy modification to work on TV. People have to be skinnier, talk more concisely, and look more impressive than they ever would in any other medium. Ever seen public access television? Local cable broadcasts of council proceedings? Boring as they may be, without editing for television, they are a sure-fire way to cure insomnia.

Remember the song Video Killed the Radio Star? They weren't kidding. Artists that didn't look like the consumate pop icon just didn't make it. (Good thing Meatloaf got his fame in before all that hit.) In order to feed the public's appetite for sensationalism and vicarious hedonism, every detail of the artist's life must be created and managed by a team of marketeers and image consultants.

Since I don't go in much for the pop culture scene, the Jessica Simpson phenomena doesn't bother me too much. Every aspect of her life since she stepped into the music scene a few years ago has been carefully formed into the multi-million dollar industry that is Jessica Simpson. TV has remade her, and the public is consuming at record rates--at least for now.

But when people start thinking real life needs editing for television, then the red flag goes up. When people's TV expectations start warping important pillars of our society, such as the legal system, my level of concern increases. According to a recent article on Reuters, the hit C.S.I. family of shows has begun causing problems in criminal court cases:

Jurors schooled in crime investigations through watching TV dramas expect prosecutors to show them sophisticated forensic evidence -- even in white-collar trials -- making it tough for the government to prove cases, two federal prosecutors said on Friday.

Now jurors want everything dumbed down for them just like it is on TV. Much like the soundbyte has destroyed any semblance of meaningful political discussion in the American public square, the short-attention-span, lowest-common-denominator effect has come to the American courtroom. Unless it looks like it does on C.S.I., I'm too bored to be bothered. As if the courts didn't have enough difficulty prosecuting difficult white-collar cases to begin with. And in light of these kind of changes, can we ever expect anyone without a rich, media-trained lawyer to ever prevail through *gasp* actual jurisprudence again?

Gotta love T.V.

It's time to take up the challenge...

2005-10-18T21:05:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines. Or, perhaps, crack your knuckles. November is NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. All over the world, men and women will take up the challenge of writing a complete novel, 50,000 words in length, in one month. That's right, 50,000 words of narrative joy, cranked out in 30 days.

Step 1: sign up at the web site
Step 2: get excited for November to get here
Step 3: sweat and bleed over your keyboard for 30 days
Step 4: upload your novel to the site
Step 5: you win! (provided it's 50,000 words or more in length and isn't a product of ctrl-V)

I have no idea if I could get anywhere near a coherent novel, never having written much more than blog articles, research papers, and a single short story. But the challenge is just too much to resist!

Come this November, I'm going to give it a go. 1667 words per day, here I come.

I wonder what my novel will be about?

Why does it make so much difference? Opening the doors at Cascade Hills

2005-09-26T22:17:00.000-07:00

The day has finally come to officially open the doors for public worship at Cascade Hills. This Sunday, October 2nd, Cascade Hills will become in the minds of many a "real church." We've been working toward this goal for a long time now, and we are very excited to see what God is going to do.

I wonder, though, why does this Sunday seem so different than those that have preceded it? Our ministry teams have been very busy for the last 12 months doing real ministry. We have served our community, gathered for worship together, and called many others to join us as we follow Jesus. There are some who have answered that call and are taking steps of faith even in the midst of this community's God-ward journey.

We have been a church for some time now--since a church is merely a gathering of those called out to serve God, to proclaim the good news of Jesus, to embody the hands and feet of Christ in the world.

But something is different. Many have expressed interest in what we are doing, but we have heard time and again that people will "check us out when we open." Even in my own mind, I have in some ways been working toward this Sunday all this time. It has given us time to discover our unique personality as a church, to grow in our faith, and to let God form us into a people ready to be evangelistic "go-getters."

Perhaps most importantly, launch gives us a milestone, a visible threshold from which the future days of Cascade Hills will be marked. My heart races when I consider what the future of Cascade Hills might hold. Five, ten, twenty years hence, what lies beyond that threshold? What moments of joy, what tremors of fear, what glimpses of glory lie beyond those open doors? Whose lives will be transformed forever, whose despair will turn to hope, whose bondage to sin will fall before the work of God that began before us and will continue after us?

There is nothing different about this Sunday. We are already a church struggling to be faithful to God's calling to be heralds, witnesses, disciples, servants. That will never change. And yet everything is different about this Sunday. This church will stand together early this Sunday morning and pray. We will spend a long, silent moment before the threshold, looking forward to what is to come. And we will welcome God's work in our midst even as we pass that threshold to the moments of joy, tremors of fear, and glimpses of glory which lie beyond.

Drawing deeply from our heritage: The church-planting history of churches of Christ

2005-09-20T20:38:00.000-07:00

There come moments when, in the midst of remarkable events, one finds himself pausing, looking around in wonder, amazed at the history-making words and deeds occuring in his presence. I wonder if the six witnesses who signed the Last Will and Testament of the Springfield Presbytery shared one of those strange moments in the summer of 1804. Quite intentionally, they were opening the door for a new way of doing church, truly revolutionary in its day. In only a few short years, this church tradition would become the fastest growing group in the U. S., planting churches that would make an indelible mark on American Christianity and around the world. This is the heritage of the churches of Christ.

The above picture is of Robert Richardson, an editor and theological thinker closely associated with Alexander Campbell. Campbell, along with B. W. Stone and a handful of others, is widely considered to be the founder of the Restoration Movement. Richardson was the editor for many of Campbell's writings and was considered by him to be an invaluable resource and a brilliant thinker and writer. Consider one of his contributions to this heritage of thinking:

"...the present Reformation proposes an immediate return to the broad and original platform of Christianity, as well as of true Protestantism; and urges, accordingly, the claims of the Bible alone, as the source of Divine truth for all mankind; and pleads for the exercise of man's inalienable right to read and interpret the Sacred Volume. It seeks to establish a unity of faith, instead of that diversity of opinion which has distracted religious society; and to restore the gospel and its institutions, in all their original simplicity, to the world. In brief, its great purpose is to establish CHRISTIAN UNION upon the basis of a SIMPLE EVANGELICAL CHRISTIANITY.
Having thus given you a general statement of the purpose of this religious movement--a purpose which cannot fail to be approved by the truly pious of all parties--I now proceed to lay before you the important distinctions and truths which have been developed during its progress. And in this place I would remark, that, as the character of prevailing errors always determines, in advance, the issues which are to be made by the advocates of truth, so, certain fundamental points of great importance have been thus forced upon the attention of the friends of the Reformation, as matters requiring, in the very first instance, to be elucidated and determined. Among these I would mention--1st. The distinction between FAITH and OPINION. 2d. The distinction between what may be emphatically termed THE CHRISTIAN FAITH and doctrinal KNOWLEDGE. 3d. The true BASIS OF CHRISTIAN UNION. [ref]"

This text, and what follows, helped Campbell and others lay down a new foundation for Christian unity across the (already) fragmented denominational lines of his time. This focus on unity of faith and acceptance of a diversity of opinion is one of the things that originally attracted me to the churches of Christ. That sectarian divisions and a rigid, detailed orthodoxy over a vast sea of minutiae are to be found within our churches today is a solemn testimony to how far we have drifted from the original purpose which fueled the Restoration Movement's explosive growth.

Then, as now, the plea for unity and simplicity in faith found willing listeners among the faithful as well as those seeking the face of God for the first time. To be in the midst of such men, willing to fly in the face of the accepted sectarian religious practice for the sake of the Kingdom of God, must have been an exhilarating experience.

After returning from a meeting of church leaders in St. Louis recently, I find myself wondering if the seeds of something similarly radical were there amidst the discussion, worship, and prayer that I shared with nearly a hundred other Christian leaders from this same heritage.

This meeting, sponsored by Kairos Church Planting Support, was called "Seek the Future Summit." This Summit was an attempt to gather together influential leaders in churches of Christ from across the United States for the purpose of discussing the state of our churches and where we might go from here to best serve God. There, we were challenged to remember our heritage: that unity for the sake of God's Kingdom lie at the very heart of who we are. We are a church-planting movement founded on the simple gospel of Christ, and our future depends on recovering this profound heritage.

Could the Restoration Movement find again the impetus to seek unity for the sake of those outside the kingdom? Could we again see brave men and women lay aside the accepted sectarian religious practice of their day and take up a fresh, Spirit-led proclamation of a simple Christian faith? Could we see again thousands taking up the responsibility for calling others to enter the Kingdom of God? I pray I live to see such seeds blossom into a wondrous harvest.

Messages from home, missing my daughter

2005-09-18T21:31:00.000-07:00

I just recently returned from a trip to St. Louis, Missouri that required that I remain away from my growing-like-a-weed, 3-month old daughter. Not ever having been away from her for that much time since she was born, I found myself missing her and her mother terribly.

I wasn't entirely without contact with her or Melissa while in St. Louis. Melissa took measures to make sure that I could hear Katie giggling and cooing in the background whenever I would call during the week. Hearing her little voice over the phone probably just made things worse. But it wasn't just the phone calls.

To sidetrack for a moment, before I left, Katelyn was having (to put it diplomatically) a bit of difficulty moving things along in her digestive tract. Melissa and I were both mildly concerned, though it never seemed to affect Katie's good humor. Thursday night marked the seventh day with no appropriate diaper activity on Katie's part, and Melissa mentioned she was going to try the old standby: prune juice.

Meanwhile, I was in St. Louis with almost a hundred other ministers, elders, and theologians from across the country, discussing ways we might bring about a revival of church planting in the churches of Christ. Our time was spent listening to short presentations, gathered around tables for tackling some of the concerns around church planting, interspersed with times of worship.

At one point during the day, after nearly an hour of worship, prayer, and powerful singing together, I looked down at my phone (set to silent mode, of course). The small red blink indicated I had a message waiting. Amidst the quiet prayers being offered around me, ministers kneeling and praying all over the room, I quietly flipped open my phone to see the source of the message.

Turns out it was a text message from Melissa, reading, "BABY HAD A POOP!!!"

Needless to say, my laughing out loud followed by slapping a hand to my mouth and looking around the room sheepishly didn't add to the worship ambiance. I promptly showed it to Dwayne, who himself contributed to the broken silences.

Sometimes you just gotta smile at the simple things in life.

Advanced research reveals the blindingly obvious: Why people aren't going to the movies

2005-08-30T11:29:00.000-07:00

A while ago, I noted a few reasons why I'm increasingly underwhelmed by Hollywood's theater faire. I knew from a lot of prior conversations that I wasn't the only one who thought so, but I am always pleasantly surprised to see that there are (many) others who apparently are feeling the same way about Hollywood passing off such films as The Fantastic Four.*

What did amaze me, though, is that there are firms out there using pretty sophisticated technology to find out what people think. The question was asked by some dumbfounded theater marketing manager, "why aren't people going to the movies anymore?" No, this marketing manager didn't conduct surveys and collate responses, but instead hired a marketing consulting firm who culled data from what people are already ranting about. An article on Reuters has the story:

Brandimensions searched 1.9 million Internet blogs and chat rooms where users were discussing the box office slump. Relevancy algorithms were used in choosing 1,350 posts to dissect by using software coupled with human data analysts. The result was a 16-page analysis.

Part of me thinks that this is a pretty amazing way to collect and analyze information. It's sort of like hiring thousands of invisible eavesdroppers at coffee shops and living rooms, listening to people's opinions about pop culture stuff in order to better serve up more of the same.

What cracks me up is that the findings merely confirmed what could be read in plain text in any one of the blogs analyzed by the high-tech "relevancy algorithms." The result of the 16-page finding? That people think Hollywood is churning out garbage and they won't pay good money for it anymore.

This is a triumph of our society's love of the professional expert, whose stamp is needed on plain common sense in order for corporate America to buy in to it. Perhaps they ought to spend a little more time really listening to two or three ordinary people and a little less time writing $20,000 consulting checks to companies like Brandimensions.

Sound obvious? Yes, but then perhaps this blog, even now, is being analyzed by other firms who are deciding whether or not to hire a similar service. Such is the world we live in.

Fields of Discovery: The Spirituality of the Human Imagination

2005-08-22T08:24:00.000-07:00

A recent article on Christian History quotes George MacDonald (one of C. S. Lewis' key influences) in his attempt to understand human creativity in light of our having been created in the Image of God:

"Everything of man," he insists, "must have been of God first." So what the poet "creates" he really only "finds." The patterns are already present in the mind of God, awaiting our discovery. Indeed, we, too, are the products of God's own imagination, and whenever we have a genuinely "creative" insight, there is an important sense in which we are "rather being thought than thinking." The ideas are God's first, and ours only by grace. It's as though God has hidden a rich store of secrets in the world he has made, and leaves us to find them out. "The man, then, who, in harmony with nature, attempts the discovery of more of her meanings, is just searching out the things of God." And it is our imaginative capacity that enables us to do this.

This isn't the first time I've run across this concept. I've got The Mind of the Maker (Sayers), Music Through the Eyes of Faith (Best), and Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (L'Engle) on my bookshelf, all of which explore a biblical theology of creativity.

I am fascinated by MacDonald's idea that we are discoverers, rather than makers, of ideas; that there is a rich trove of creative treasure to be uncovered, hidden carefully by a loving and mysterious God throughout His creation. When an artist succeeds in rendering into form some angular reflection of God's magnificent imagination, a note is sounded in our hearts, "This is Beauty!"

This is an increasingly prominent theme on the leading edge of Christian practice these days. As a friend recently put it, the church is experiencing a sort of second Renaissance, in which the once-suspect streams of art and creative expression are being woven together again with the streams of logic and rational thought celebrated throughout the last several centuries. Systematic, three-point sermons have given way to artists who stand beside the preacher. While one renders with words God's gracious acts, the artist renders to canvas the same message.

Without question, the rendering to canvas brings a greater richness to a world that respects art and the visual media as evocative and meaningful. But, in a culture that is taught by its highest institutions that art is beyond ethical or moral considerations, it is worth considering the nature and value of the creative mind.

The human imagination (and thus all its products) is corrupt, a churning amalgam of God's goodness and our own sinful passions. But so is every other aspect of our being, including our reason and logic. Indeed, the notion that reason is somehow a pure entity accessible to humanity is one of the perverse idolatries of the late modern era. I am thankful for this "second Renaissance" in which the whole person is seen for what it is: created by and for God and infinitely valuable to Him, but at the same time fallen, broken, and corrupted by sin.

That the creative, imaginative Maker came here to re-make His creation, offering a way for it to be restored beyond its original beauty, is the Gift of gifts and a wonder that can sustain a man for all his days on this earth and beyond. I am glad to see the imagination being embraced again as a legitimate avenue through which we can make sense of this world, experience God, and participate in His renewing work.

Well on her way to becoming an extrovert

2005-08-08T11:01:00.000-07:00

Katelyn is well on her way to becoming an extrovert. Starting about a week ago, we've had a lot of relatives and friends visit, each of which needed to take a turn holding her. Shown is my cousin Nicole. Nicole (bless her heart) had only seen Katelyn twice, and both times, she was in her beloved zonked-nap state. Nicole, who has spent a lot of time raising litters of kittens, asks, "Will she have her eyes open by Christmas?"

After the parade of cousins, Melissa and I left Katelyn with her grandparents for a few hours to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary (again, asleep like a stone for four hours, despite tickling and zerburts).

This last weekend was a teambuilding weekend for the staff of Cascade Hills, and Melissa "shared" holding-Katelyn duty with nearly everyone there. She loved it! And to top it off, we had a lot of guests at church yesterday, and Melissa kept having to look around to see who was holding Katelyn.

If every time an infant opened her eyes, she saw a different googling face for three days straight, I suppose she's probably going to end up a people person. Either that, or have a very confused grasp of the word "mama".

History is written by the victors: Theodore Judson's Fitzpatrick's War

2005-07-25T22:59:00.000-07:00

Winston Churchill is credited with the saying, "History is written by the victors." In Theodore Judson's masterful science fiction future history Fitzpatrick's War, this concept is explored in detail. Rather than trusting the well-worn device of a fictional biography, he goes one further. This is a fictional work of scholarly history, in which a professor of history is "setting the record straight" on the problematic memoirs of the fictional Robert Mayfair Bruce.

Bruce is one of the close associates of a prominent figure of this future history and one uniquely suited to writing his biography. The problem is, that the fictional historian's view of the Fitzpatrick legacy doesn't line up with Bruce's firsthand account, and the book is this "scholar's" attempt to qualify and explain what seems to him to be lies that Bruce has written as history.

All of this may sound rather wooden in the description, but the author pulls it off with quick wit, a well-drawn world, and literary devices that quickly and firmly set you down in a distant and believable world.

Fitzpatrick's War is set in the 25th century after a series of major worldwide upheavals and changes in the balance of power and cultural supremacy. The world is now ruled by the Yukon Confederacy with the help of a secretive organization called the Timermen. Through the latter's arcane technology, no electrical technology is possible on earth and power is kept firmly in the hands of the Yukons. This results in a strange mix of steam, chemical technology, and dependence on clockwork mechanisms.

The story relates the rise to power of Fitzpatrick, his massive-scale war he conducts against the remaining world cultures, which results in the state of affairs in the book's "present", that of the worldwide Yukon cultural, economic, and military supremacy. The plot is not exactly action-packed, but is filled with charming and despicable characters, frightenly real politics and intrigue, and enough imagination to keep me interested for all 500 pages.

The writing style, the world itself, and the believable future history might have been enough to keep me reading, but the book's pseudo-scholarly tone, complete with detailed footnotes, combine to create a thoroughly enchanting book. The author's treatment of political power, the historical inevitability as well as regretability of war, and the role culture and religion can play in such a mix is even-handed, fair, and as I said before, very believable.

I enthusiastically recommend this book to someone who is interested in political science fiction, what-if historical novels, and philosophical science fiction that deals with such questions as historiography and cultural anthropology. The book's scholarly literary device will charm nearly anyone who has spent time poring over dusty tomes of history, theology, or biography or who has a little healthy skepticism about the academic establishment. Three cheers for Judson!

New research proves conclusively: Parental sleep and newborns are compatible!

2005-07-22T10:48:00.000-07:00

This just in: the oft-quoted remarks about new parents falling dangerously behind on sleep have been found to be wholly false. While some newborns may impede some normal sleep functions for intermittent periods in the course of the first months of birth, some parents seem to be able to sleep while employing certain snuggling techniques as yet unexplored by research scientists.*

* Note: the persons in the photograph shown above are not actually sleeping. This photograph was staged in an effort to illustrate conclusive findings that are certain to arise out of the ongoing work in this field. Research scientists have yet to actually reproduce the results described above, but they are hopeful for a breakthrough any day now. Please send donations for this worthy cause to The Foundation for Sleep Recovery.

Spanning generations

2005-07-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

Captured in one picture, four generations. That's my grandma Elizabeth holding my daughter. It's been a few weeks now (Katelyn's a little over three weeks old) and we've started getting a few more visitors.

It was a real blessing to have my Grandma up from Eugene to visit Katelyn and spend some time with us. We are thankful to have so many of our family members here close by and we look forward to little Katelyn meeting the rest of the family in the coming days.

Writing your own music ticket

2005-07-17T20:49:00.000-07:00

Back in 1995 while I was in college, I wrote a short story that included a little bit of science fiction tom-foolery related to the music entertainment world:

I walked along the road for about twenty minutes until I could flag down a ride into town. It was an old, wrinkly transport pilot that gave me a cigar. He played loud music through the system. It was a bassy random that the system had come up with to suit his mood. It thundered along with a beat faster than I could run. It was just loud and rough enough to suit my mood too.

I have always thought the idea of a music service that knew your mood and could adjust what's playing to suit your tastes would be a top seller in today's self-possessed world. As far as I know, they haven't yet come up with publicly available technology that will actually generate music for you, nor technology that can accurately assess your mood (hook your MP3 player up to your galvanometer, anyone?).

What I have found, however, are some very interesting offerings that allow you to create a radio station, commercial free, that will play random music based on a list of your current favorite artists. This music service, called Rhapsody, is free for Comcast cable internet customers.

Here's an example: I wanted a little raging instrumental guitar rock to listen to while cranking out some emails. I entered in only three names: Joe Satriani, Eric Johnson, and Steve Morse. It then treated me to a variety of songs that were somehow related to these, many of which were not written by any of these authors. And, true to my hopes, it produced songs that had one major thing in common: excellent guitar.

Incidentally, while I was trying to figure out some other authors I could plug in, I found another amazing site which helps with exactly this. Called Music-Map, this site allows you to trace threads of commonality between artists and find others who are related. What a great tool (and a great marketing tool to get more money out of my wallet...)

A foolish samurai warrior...

2005-07-13T21:23:00.000-07:00

"Long ago in a distant land, I, Aku, the shape-shifting master of darkness, unleashed an UNSPEAKABLE evil.
"But a foolish samurai warrior, wielding a magic sword, stepped forth to oppose me.
"Before the final blow was struck, I tore open a portal in time, and flung him into the future, where my evil is law.
"Now the fool seeks to return to the past, and undo the future that is AKU."

Melissa, darling wife that she is, bought me the first season of Samurai Jack on DVD. I had only seen a few episodes before, but I have fallen head over heels in love with this show. This might be the best cartoon released in the last ten years, and perhaps the best action cartoon ever drawn. I'm looking forward to the second season now (which I recently purchased at Walmart...)

Celebrating the children in our midst

2005-07-12T12:36:00.000-07:00

At Cascade Hills, we have known from the beginning that children and children's ministry would play a huge role in the sort of church God is calling us to be. And despite such knowledge, we've had a hard time making this concrete and specific in our first few months as a team. We were able to carve out time for kids during Cascade Hills Summit, but during our home community gatherings and our Sunday morning worship encounter, we've struggled a little bit knowing how to involve children in our community life.

Now, much of that is beginning to change. We have a person on our team that has the time, resources, experience, and training to help this become a reality. This Sunday, we will be gathering together to worship God, and in that context, we will challenge one another to champion the spiritual formation of our children, whether we are parents or not.

One resource that has been valuable for our team is Postmodern Children's Ministry, written by Ivy Beckwith. Drawing on years of experience, education, as well as ancient practices of faith, Beckwith encourages us to emphasize the role of the family in the spiritual formation of children. To this end, the church community has a role in supporting, enabling, and empowering families to take up this critical task. This is precisely the kind of community we want Cascade Hills to be.

"While the church community can--and certainly should--be a safe haven for children, it simply cannot compare with the sheltering safety of the family. Families provide unique models of God's love, justice, and forgiveness." Ivy Beckwith, Postmodern Children's Ministry, p. 111

In the future, when your son asks you, "What is the meaning of the stipulations, decrees and laws the LORD our God has commanded you?" tell him: "We were slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt, but the LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand. Before our eyes the LORD sent miraculous signs and wonders—great and terrible—upon Egypt and Pharaoh and his whole household. But he brought us out from there to bring us in and give us the land that he promised on oath to our forefathers. The LORD commanded us to obey all these decrees and to fear the LORD our God, so that we might always prosper and be kept alive, as is the case today. And if we are careful to obey all this law before the LORD our God, as he has commanded us, that will be our righteousness." Deuteronomy 6:20-25.

At Cascade Hills, children belong in the midst of our community--they are not merely welcome. They bring value and richness to us and enable us to participate in great conversation of faith that has passed from person to person, from elder to children, for thousands of years.

May God empower us to be faithful in supporting our families as they take up the awesome responsibility of passing on the ancient faith to our children.

Public Broadcasting gets the Emerging Church bug

2005-07-11T17:27:00.000-07:00

PBS is running a series exploring the phenomenon of the emerging church, a once-fledgling movement of mostly evangelical ministers seeking to reach a postmodern audience with the gospel. The movement has gained momentum over the last several years, and key names (such as Brian McLaren and Solomon's Porch) have become common parlance among many younger ministers. True to its younger, media-heavy culture, the emerging church even has a wikipedia entry.

Several people on my church planting team have read books that would fall within the circles of the emerging church: More Ready Than You Realize, The Church On The Other Side, Blue Like Jazz, Postmodern Children's Ministry, The Emerging Church, SoulTsunami, AquaChurch, and others.

Though we rarely agreed with everything written, these books have provided endless fodder for discussion and have helped us to understand new ways of talking about ministry in our context. On the up side, the so-called emergent conversation is a thoughtful corrective on some of the failures of modern thinking to address our culture effectively with the gospel. On the down side, things said in these circles can sometimes be seen as too loose on important areas of theology.

I find it interesting that a movement arising out of our institution-averse, authority-shy postmodern context would organize itself with a board of directors and president, which is precisely what the emerging movement has recently done. With a more unified front, this once scattered, loosely defined cadre of like-minded individuals will now be called upon to define itself more rigorously against its critics.

I would be disappointed to see these external pressures force the emerging church into an institutional mode, falling back into systematic (and modern) patterns for its preservation and defense. Needless to say, the emerging conversation is one I will continue to watch as it unfolds.

Living up to my reputation

2005-07-10T21:47:00.000-07:00

I've had the reputation of being nerdy for quite some time, and today was one of those shining days when that reputation was confirmed and upheld.

At 6:30 AM this morning, I was sipping my mug of Starbucks coffee at my dining room table. Some of you may be thinking that this was merely another case of being up early with a new daughter in the house running the schedule.

While that would normally be the only reason I'd see that ridiculous hour, today was a bit different. See, with the miracles of modern technology, not only was I able to sit at my dining room table and sip Starbucks, but while I was sitting there with nothing better to do, I connected with the Southwest Church of Christ Sunday morning Bible class.

Yep, that's right, at 6:30 AM I was in a web conference in front of 300 Arkansas Christians, giving a quick update on what Cascade Hills has been up to in the last few months. Pretty amazing stuff, especially for that hour.

Out and about

2005-07-09T21:14:00.000-07:00

So apparently Melissa bounces back pretty quick from the wondrous (but painful and tiring) events of the last week. The day we brought Katelyn home from the hospital, we had half a dozen relatives over for my birthday. Two days later, we were out with Jake and Summer at the fireworks in Stayton for the 4th of July. We've hit Walmart several times (see previous post). And today, we ran over to the Marion County Fair for some nasty fair food.

Now, if Melissa could just get more than two hours of sleep at a time, we could start Katelyn on that four hundred mile Pacific Crest Trail trip we keep talking about...

Walmart: über-successful department store chain or the devil incarnate?

2005-07-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with Walmart in Texas.

Living in Walmart-protected Portland while the Walmart phenomena had moved to Oregon, I had never visited the store more than once or twice before moving to the Lone Star State. Needless to say, I was unprepared for the level of adoration people held for their beloved super-cheap buy-everything department store.

But after trying every other department store in Texas (and every grocery store, to boot), I too was an easily converted fan. Living in a town of 4,000 more than an hour from Austin, I quickly joined the local populace in celebrating Walmart as a legitimate place to recreate. Heck, Melissa and I almost always ended up at Walmart on our weekly date nights. (absolutely no comments allowed insinuating that we have become an old married couple... *smirk*)

Now, a few years later after my conversion to Walmart-fandom, I find it difficult to understand the massive hatred people hold for the most successful department store chain in capitalist history. I suppose it's a little like the universal hatred (and fear?) of Microsoft. Both are the 800-lb gorillas in their respective fields, and it is nearly impossible to compete directly with them and expect to survive another fiscal year.

And thus the venomous campaigns aimed at fighting Walmart with the only force that is larger, more bloated, and more beaureacratic than Walmart itself: the United States government. Yes, just like Microsoft, the losers in the capitalist game resort to haranguing the ref, attempting to incite Uncle Sam to throw a few swings in the underdog's favor.

No doubt there are legitimate complaints about the business practices of Walmart. But I do find it hard to believe they are doing anything too terribly different than any other business in America; they just happen to be doing it a lot better, and are thus attracting the mud-slingers.

God knows I'm no raving fan of stark, unregulated capitalism, but neither have I ever been a fan of parasitic labor unions trying to bankrupt their source of income by raising minimum (as in, "not living") wage and forcing Walmart to offer part-time employees comprehensive health coverage.

Besides, if the beaureacrats won, my toothpaste would jump from $0.37 to $0.72. And I'm not sure I could live with that.

A viper through a white picket fence

2005-07-07T10:37:00.000-07:00

Again today the seething morass of terror, always lurking below the surface, entered the land, snaking its way through our delusive attempts at security like a viper through a white picket fence.

And again, it struck and killed our children, our wives, our husbands, our grandparents, going about their days in a white-washed world.

I am reminded about an article to which a friend recently directed my attention regarding the war in Iraq. As weeks and months of complacency bear weight on our resolve to halt the depredations of evil men around the world, I found myself awakened again to the reality of our culture's struggle. We face an enemy the likes of which we have never known, and on a scale that frustrates what we have come to call our modern might.

Think what you will about the war in Iraq. I confess a complexity of feelings and thoughts on the subject. But still I feel as though the article, linked below, is oddly prescient and worthy of a second look.

It was good to hear the commander-in-chief remind people that this is still the war against terror. Specifically, against Islamo-fascists who slaughtered 3000 Americans on September 11, 2001. Who spent the eight years before those atrocities murdering and promising to murder Americans — as their leader put it in 1998, all Americans, including civilians, anywhere in the world where they could be found.
It is not the war for democratization. It is not the war for stability. Democratization and stability are not unimportant. They are among a host of developments that could help defeat the enemy.
But they are not the primary goal of this war, which is to destroy the network of Islamic militants who declared war against the United States when they bombed the World Trade Center on February 26, 1993, and finally jarred us into an appropriate response when they demolished that complex, struck the Pentagon, and killed 3000 of us on September 11, 2001.
That is why we are in Iraq. (more...)

Instinct-rich or instinct-poor? Nature, human constitution, and the will

2005-07-04T14:49:00.000-07:00

I'm learning a lot about people by watching my new little daughter, Katelyn, take her first few metaphorical steps in this wild world we share. Though she has a relatively narrow spectrum of behavior, it is easy to see that most of what she does is driven by nature as opposed to learned reflex or conscious will.

She reacts to hunger by turning her head, opening her mouth, and making smacking noises, as if to call Melissa by pantomime. If her needs are not met, then crying begins (and the same is true for other needs, such as dirty diapers or any other general dissatisfaction or discomfort). At this stage in her life, she is more or less a creature of instinct, controlled by the whim of her tiny growing body.

What I did not expect was for Melissa's body to respond to instinct in so many ways. The birth itself set up a series of major changes in Melissa's ability to nurse, each perfectly matched to Katelyn's nutritional needs on a day-to-day schedule. Melissa's body, in a strange sort of mother-daughter synchronization, will wake her a few minutes before Katelyn wakes, in preparation for nursing. What I found most remarkable is that the simple sound of Katelyn crying causes Melissa's body to ready itself (sometimes dramatically) for nursing. Even as adults, we are under the influence of powerful forces.

In this day and age, our culture values the base and animal natures we all find at work in our bodies. As evidence, I would cite the dozens of variations on such advertising slogans as just do it, do what feels right, and obey your thirst. After a culture that had exalted human reason and will for so long (indeed, we founded a country on such ideals), we have let much of the notion go in favor of "being true to ourselves."

In the case of our care for Katelyn, going with our natural instincts has done much to fill in our lack of knowledge and experience. Melissa's body has done a lot of the work for that her mind or will could not, and we do a lot of "trusting our instincts."

Where our instincts fail us is in the area of moral responsibility. Is Melissa being more true to herself by obeying her body's reaction to Katelyn's crying, or by obeying her body's desire to go back to sleep?

This is where the will comes in, a will informed by reason and experience, under direction of God's designs for human life. It is the will that commands Melissa's body to rise from bed. Or mine, depending on whose turn it is, "turns" themselves being a construction of the will arising from a sense of justice (again, formed by God's designs for human relationships).

Who would have thought--all we needed to care for Katelyn, here in our midst: our created natures, our constitution and experience, and our will, formed by God's designs.

Soaking in supercooled liquid kryptonite

2005-07-02T15:18:00.000-07:00

In my last blog article, I conjectured that Melissa might have revealed some sort of latent supergene that will lead her to put on some silly costume and go crime-fighting by night. Well, it turns out it was true. Melissa is what Professor Xavier likes to call "trans-normal" and he is currently recruiting her for the X-Men.

But what I hadn't expected was that Katelyn's super-powers would be so quick to manifest. She would obviously do so someday, since everyone knows supergenes are dominant and will run in our family for generations. But sheesh, I walk back in the hospital room from getting Melissa a tall sports bottle full of icewater and Katelyn is flying around the room and lasering anything that might be used to take her temperature or pulse.

It was twenty minutes before they could call in a pediatrics nurse with a chloroform-deploying portable enticement snare (disguised as a rubber-ducky). A few minutes later, they had her soaking in supercooled liquid kryptonite for the rest of the evening.

Don't believe me? Here's proof:

Okay, so maybe she hasn't manifested any superpowers (yet), but we did have to stay one extra night in the hospital because her bilirubin count was too high (producing jaundice, common in days-old newborns). After an unpleasant night in the UV basinet, we got to take her home today.

We'll keep you posted on any "unusual" abilities we notice.

Unfair distribution of equipment

2005-06-30T17:12:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a day and a half since our smirkey daughter was born and we're taking it an hour at a time. Melissa is on the fast track to healing: she's already switched from nasty hospital gowns to her own sweats and shirts and has been up and around a lot today. (After what she went through in the delivery room and how quickly she's recovering, I really do think she's going to wake up one day and find out she's some kind of unknown superhero kind of like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable. If she was a Marvel superhero, she'd have Shift Y healing factor, but that's another blog article entirely...)

It's been a lot of alternating care of little Katie, since neither of us know what we're doing and we wear ourselves out trying to accomodate her eating, sleeping, and strenuous-arm-flailing episodes. But we're slowly learning all the myriad ways of caring for our little one and she seems to be getting to know us as well.

And speaking of getting to know us, Katelyn is really "latching on" to one of us, if you catch my drift. They've been spending a lot of time together nursing and it's awesome to see them work together to learn how (apparently, this is something that takes a lot of technique--who would have thought?).

And despite the unfair distribution of "bonding equipment", Katelyn seems to like her daddy. I read her the rhyming Dr. Seuss book I read to her in utero and she was totally focused on my voice. Her little eyes search my face and I can stare at her little smirks and blinks for hours. I even got her to mimick sticking out my tongue!

Or was that gas?

Small signs, big changes...

2005-06-28T04:46:00.000-07:00

It was 12:23am when Melissa stood over our bed and went through her usual nightime routine. After taking a sip from the water glass next to our bed, she changed the flip-calendar to Tuesday, June 28. The verse for the day was Psalm 139:13-14:

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.

It was 2:20am when Melissa's water broke and we headed to the hospital.

Sometimes you have to keep your eyes open for the little signs that mean big changes.

Nine months: the perfect amount of time...

2005-06-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

God has this whole pregnancy plan pretty well worked out. Nine months is exactly the amount of patience first-time parents have before going crazy waiting for their baby to arrive.

I went through different phases as the months of Melissa's pregnancy went by. The first was the "whoa, what's it going to be like?" phase, followed by the onset of pregnancy symptoms in a cranky wife phase. From there we went on to the first and second ultrasounds, which led to our discovering the gender of our baby, which led to the selection of a name. This leads to the baby starting to gain an identity in our minds, and the seeds of curiosity are planted.

As delivery approaches, after the get-everything-ready phase, we are at the "hurry up and get here" phase! Everything is ready, we have no idea what we're in for, but we don't care. We just want to meet our daughter.

Nine months: just enough time to get really impatient for her arrival, just enough time for our hearts to burst when we see her for the first time and hear her tiny cries. Too much longer, and I think we'd go crazy...

Crazy eyebrows and all, that's my dad!

2005-06-19T20:08:00.000-07:00

Father's Day is cool. As I was headed with Melissa over to my cousin's house in east Salem, I had to stop for a minute and think how cool my dad is. This is a world where many, many people do not know their fathers (and still others wish they didn't). I am very blessed to say that my dad is awesome.

In a day when it seemed all my friends had divorced parents, my dad stuck by my mom. He worked his tail off to start a business to support our family, allowing my mom to stay home and take care of us kids. And he took time away from even that important work to be an amazing person who would seriously engage his son in dialogue about which is better: to be a navy seal or to work in the general's bunker. (Yes, that was a real conversation, passionately argued for months over the dinner table).

And plus my dad is just plain crazy. When other dads are out having mid-life crises, buying expensive sports cars, and generally falling apart, my dad decides to build a tank. And it gets on the news. In India.

On a day set aside to celebrate fatherhood, I find myself blessed with a father who loves me, is involved in my life, and is an example to follow. If I've got those crazy genes in me, bring on mid-life, I can't wait to see what happens!

(And besides, I'm heir to those eyebrows someday!)

3 A.M.: Not the best time for jokes...

2005-06-18T23:28:00.000-07:00

So here I was, deep into a REM sleep cycle, probably riding my tricycle and blowing up aliens in some far flung corner of my subconscious mind. Into this blissful sleep-world comes the sound of a noisy crash. One eye pops open to see Melissa's silhouette, standing, next the bed looking down.

I attempt to mumble, "You okay?" which more likely came out "mmphlphf". The other eye managed to get with the program and Melissa's outline gained a bit more definition.

She says, "My water broke!"

This is where the laws of relativity break down. Faster than those three words could transmit electric signals to my brain, my bloodstream was filled with adrenaline and I was half out of bed (and only half out because I had blasted out of bed, bounced off the wall, and landed half back in bed; or at least I think that happened; REM sleep can linger a while after you are "awake".)

Needless to say, Melissa had the sum total of what passed for my attention at 3 A.M. "Wha..., your water broke?!"

She giggled and said, "No, I broke my water. I dropped my water glass."

This didn't go over well with my endorphin-charged, half-asleep mental state. I'm lucky I didn't fall out the window that's next to our bed. All I could muster was, "You broke your glass? Is there glass everywhere?"

More giggles. "No, it was plastic. It just spilled."

I think Melissa must have night vision, because she must have seen the seething chaos running across my face. "Just go back to sleep."

And in five seconds, I was out again. I don't recall the dreams I had under the influence of that level of adrenaline, but I'm sure those aliens were running for their lives. 3 A.M. is not the best time for jokes, especially when your wife is due to go into labor at any minute.

I must be tired... Reactions to Batman Begins

2005-06-16T13:02:00.000-07:00

I must be tired of comic book movies.

Anywhere between the ages of 8 and 20, I would leap out of my seat every time I heard an announcement that a new action-packed science fiction, fantasy, or superhero-type movie was in the makings. I was really excited about Keaton's Batman, strange and different as it was. Heck, I even felt a little tingle when I heard they were making the Punisher (at least until I heard Dolph Lundgren was going to be in it. Even at that age, I wasn't falling for it...)

Now, after dozens of terrible comic book movies (The Crow, Daredevil, Spawn, Elektra, The Shadow), several fair comic book movies (Blade, original Batman, Hulk, the new Punisher), and even some outstanding ones (Spiderman, X-Men, X2), I reacted with a sigh and detached disinterest when I heard they were making a new Batman movie. That's a sure sign that I must be just plain tired of comic book movies, since Batman has always been in the top five of coolest superheroes.

I just sat through an impressive one last night. This newest revision of the Batman story, Batman Begins, was rich and complex, had some excellent acting, and even some new twists on the Batman mysterie that were visionary and well-told. They chose new but still interesting (and downright frightening) super-villains, and generally did a great job putting a superhero with a difficult-to-tell-without-cheese story together.

Still, I could not find any trace of the excitement with which I saw X-Men or even the subdued appreciation I felt for the excellent Spiderman released recently. Is it because movies just don't hold much punch for me anymore? No, I came away from several movies this year having enjoyed them immensely. Is it that it wasn't "new"? No, I came away from the new Star Wars enjoying it considerably and it wasn't anything new. Was it because the filmmakers failed in some way? Probably not, since my favorite movie reviewer raved about this film. So what in the world was it?

I dunno, I guess I just must be tired.