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I just want to live in a place long enough for the land to begin giving up its secrets.
A place where fathead minnows can be trapped in a wire-mesh cylinder in cutbank creeks of dingy water. A place where the Topeka shiner minnow, to preserve its mating practices, can grind a whole road construction crew to a halt. A place where, even in the upper midwest, enough green crayfish can be seined for a seafood boil, turning lobster-red the minute they hit the boiling pot. A place where scrambling, moss-backed snapping turtles rule the creek like demigods.
I just want to live in a place where the peaks and valleys of fish populations are passed like code words among stern-faced coffee drinkers. A place where crappies spawn among the rocks strewn by WPA workers in my granpa's day. A place where people campout along shorelines for spring walleyes. A place where farm ponds grow so thick with algae you think you can walk across it and where sunnies and bluegills bloom like silver dollars amongst the unnatural fecundity. A place where northern pike bearing long clouds of orange roe make their fall runs up the rock river to slackwater holes where they smack daredevils like candy. A place where hard-bodied perch can be taken by too many children crammed in too small a fishhouse, to be tossed on the ice to freeze, to freeze my hands when I scale them in the driveway, to turn crisp when my mother-in-law deep fries them, their eggs popping the oil wildly as they outswell the skin, to be eaten like the original fishsticks with rice on the darkest January night.
I just want to live in a place with prairie grass, with tall grass. A place where the big bluestem stretches skyward in a matter of hours in late July along roadside ditches. A place where, as tempertatures linger into the night and the humidity seeps from the atmosphere, its invisible root digs well past the shallow layer of life-supporting dirt and its crow's foot stretches like a crown above the pale gray of the common brome. A place where the wide head of switchgrass has so much promise mad scientists in antisceptic laboratories seek to turn it into fuel. A place where prairie cord grass raises its deep green seed heads in a heavy lash. A place where the story lingers of winding that grass into cords to burn because there was no wood amongst the tall grasses. A place where each week of summer gives up new wildflowers, even the butter-and-eggs that spurts along our frontage road, a transplant from Europe.
I just want to live in a place where the wind is always to be leaned into. Where the wind makes the trees are all of a gallop, bowing and waving, and where the house shifts and creeks as if its materials yearn to be set into motion like that once again. Where the northwester chills your bones and pulls at your clothes for two days straight, before a wind from the straight south reaches blows so hard and so long that you barricade yourself into your basement, but even there its voice chastises you in fits of high-pitched rage.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
What Happens to Idealism
Perhaps college is the time for idealism; perhaps that's one of college's gifts to society; perhaps it's particularly true in Christian colleges.
My roommates and I may have been above average for idealism, but I doubt it. I was idealistic about some vague idea about writing that would lead to something called "a writing life" which meant, as I had learned about Hemingway in Paris, that you got to stumble around the world and experience anything you wanted, which you then wrote about through your superior artistic sense so that others could also experience it.
Another of us was idealistic about being the most buff kindergarten teacher ever; actually, he was a football player who could have benched an entire kindergarten class, but he ended up going back home to manage his dad's ice cream shop.
Another of us was idealistic about a girlfriend he had; a youth ministry major, they were to marry and affect youth forever and forever. Didn't happen with the one he thought, though now he is married and in youth ministry.
The campus pastor's son was probably the most realistic of all of us. A poli-sci major, I think he wasn't embarrassed about wanting to make some money without losing his soul, and he joined the charitable donations section of a banking corporation.
Perhaps most idealistic of all was the pre-med student. Colombian born and adopted by a couple from St. Paul, his one vision was to be a medical missionary to his country of origins--a vision which in at least one manifestation, I'm almost positive, included martyrdom. At the time with the level of violence in Colombia, this part of the vision may not have been all that unrealistic.
Reality has been a lot different for my friend, the once pre-med student. When he didn't get into the med schools he applied to after his first two attempts, he took a somewhat roundabout path to becoming a doctor: med school at Ross Medical School on the island of Dominica in the Caribbean. This separated him from the love of his life and drove them even more together. Once they were wed, had six-figure debt, and meshed their callings--his wife had not been called to medical missions in Colombia--the vision shifted. The couple bought a house in Minneapolis--and watched the worth of it crash with the housing crisis.
Not to be daunted, he signed on as a physician at a clinic in an underserved area of St. Paul. The clinic serves a mixed community--black, Hmong, white, and Latino--and my friend is--a fact I find amazing and mystifying--the only male on staff, a testament to the fact that a certain type of doctor doesn't want to work there. That type? Most of them.
He also works with Healthcare for the Homeless, treating the poorest of the poor in the Twin Cities area. Both jobs put him in daily contact with the people whose healthcare gets bought and traded for political clout: at one point, he found himself shuffling his patients among city clinics so that they could get the care they needed, all because of politics.
Regularly, too, I hear stories about some of the difficult cases he works with: complications of diabetes patients where he is left to interpret the work of remote and expensive specialists; teen pregnancies and STDs that bespeak cultural anomie and desperation.
But of all of us, my pre-med friend hit the ideals--that the rest of us thought we had--best of all. Recently, he was named a finalist for a physician of the year award. This nomination came from the people he serves as well as the colleagues he works with. His personal statement regarding the nomination captures how he's been able to live out his vision:
"If my nomination brings attention to those usually left out of the best that medicine has to offer—the homeless, the uninsured, the poor here and elsewhere; If indeed my patients, colleagues, residents, and medical students begin to believe that greatness is not in separating ourselves from sickness, pain, and poverty, but in humbly involving ourselves in the lives of our patients, and that in doing so we heal not only them but ourselves; If even one more bright young medical student decides to give her or his great talents in service to the more vulnerable ones of our world, then I consider this nomination worth it. In the words of my friend and pastor, Greg Boyd, ‘To heal the sick you have to love the sick, which means you have to fellowship with the sick’ (Repenting of Religion, p. 197)."
If this sounds too good to be true, it's not. That is, this friend of mine is not the superman that this makes him sound like. I know his warts--and he knows mine. I know that he struggles with being human in most of the same ways I do: difficulties with family, impatience with children, road rage. Perhaps it’s in these items, the personal flaws we see in the mirror every day, that idealism dies for most of us. But this friend of mine has been able to persevere; he does what he does in spite of the slivers in all of our personal lives--what we're all called to do with our ideals. That's why I say it's not too good to be true—my friend’s not superman; he's real.
I now teach Christian college students, some of them with loftier ideals than I had, some who just want a job and a good life, and many who think they want the former but will find themselves in the world of the latter. What makes the difference among those who truly pursue their ideals from those who sacrifice them?
In my friend’s case, I guess I would say some rather simple things--simple things that aren't really that simple: determination, humility, and love--the love of a good woman, love for the people of God's world, and the love--both of and for--God himself.
In a world where there's more and more spin, where there's more and more levels of cynicism to get through before we trust something as authentic, on this day I'm thankful for people like my friend the doctor in St. Paul and the light he shines in the darkness.
My roommates and I may have been above average for idealism, but I doubt it. I was idealistic about some vague idea about writing that would lead to something called "a writing life" which meant, as I had learned about Hemingway in Paris, that you got to stumble around the world and experience anything you wanted, which you then wrote about through your superior artistic sense so that others could also experience it.
Another of us was idealistic about being the most buff kindergarten teacher ever; actually, he was a football player who could have benched an entire kindergarten class, but he ended up going back home to manage his dad's ice cream shop.
Another of us was idealistic about a girlfriend he had; a youth ministry major, they were to marry and affect youth forever and forever. Didn't happen with the one he thought, though now he is married and in youth ministry.
The campus pastor's son was probably the most realistic of all of us. A poli-sci major, I think he wasn't embarrassed about wanting to make some money without losing his soul, and he joined the charitable donations section of a banking corporation.
Perhaps most idealistic of all was the pre-med student. Colombian born and adopted by a couple from St. Paul, his one vision was to be a medical missionary to his country of origins--a vision which in at least one manifestation, I'm almost positive, included martyrdom. At the time with the level of violence in Colombia, this part of the vision may not have been all that unrealistic.
Reality has been a lot different for my friend, the once pre-med student. When he didn't get into the med schools he applied to after his first two attempts, he took a somewhat roundabout path to becoming a doctor: med school at Ross Medical School on the island of Dominica in the Caribbean. This separated him from the love of his life and drove them even more together. Once they were wed, had six-figure debt, and meshed their callings--his wife had not been called to medical missions in Colombia--the vision shifted. The couple bought a house in Minneapolis--and watched the worth of it crash with the housing crisis.
Not to be daunted, he signed on as a physician at a clinic in an underserved area of St. Paul. The clinic serves a mixed community--black, Hmong, white, and Latino--and my friend is--a fact I find amazing and mystifying--the only male on staff, a testament to the fact that a certain type of doctor doesn't want to work there. That type? Most of them.
He also works with Healthcare for the Homeless, treating the poorest of the poor in the Twin Cities area. Both jobs put him in daily contact with the people whose healthcare gets bought and traded for political clout: at one point, he found himself shuffling his patients among city clinics so that they could get the care they needed, all because of politics.
Regularly, too, I hear stories about some of the difficult cases he works with: complications of diabetes patients where he is left to interpret the work of remote and expensive specialists; teen pregnancies and STDs that bespeak cultural anomie and desperation.
But of all of us, my pre-med friend hit the ideals--that the rest of us thought we had--best of all. Recently, he was named a finalist for a physician of the year award. This nomination came from the people he serves as well as the colleagues he works with. His personal statement regarding the nomination captures how he's been able to live out his vision:
"If my nomination brings attention to those usually left out of the best that medicine has to offer—the homeless, the uninsured, the poor here and elsewhere; If indeed my patients, colleagues, residents, and medical students begin to believe that greatness is not in separating ourselves from sickness, pain, and poverty, but in humbly involving ourselves in the lives of our patients, and that in doing so we heal not only them but ourselves; If even one more bright young medical student decides to give her or his great talents in service to the more vulnerable ones of our world, then I consider this nomination worth it. In the words of my friend and pastor, Greg Boyd, ‘To heal the sick you have to love the sick, which means you have to fellowship with the sick’ (Repenting of Religion, p. 197)."
If this sounds too good to be true, it's not. That is, this friend of mine is not the superman that this makes him sound like. I know his warts--and he knows mine. I know that he struggles with being human in most of the same ways I do: difficulties with family, impatience with children, road rage. Perhaps it’s in these items, the personal flaws we see in the mirror every day, that idealism dies for most of us. But this friend of mine has been able to persevere; he does what he does in spite of the slivers in all of our personal lives--what we're all called to do with our ideals. That's why I say it's not too good to be true—my friend’s not superman; he's real.
I now teach Christian college students, some of them with loftier ideals than I had, some who just want a job and a good life, and many who think they want the former but will find themselves in the world of the latter. What makes the difference among those who truly pursue their ideals from those who sacrifice them?
In my friend’s case, I guess I would say some rather simple things--simple things that aren't really that simple: determination, humility, and love--the love of a good woman, love for the people of God's world, and the love--both of and for--God himself.
In a world where there's more and more spin, where there's more and more levels of cynicism to get through before we trust something as authentic, on this day I'm thankful for people like my friend the doctor in St. Paul and the light he shines in the darkness.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Christian School Back Flip
Each year for at least the past three years, the local high school cheerleading coach has held a "cheer camp" for elementary school girls on a Saturday afternoon in February. For about fifteen bucks, girls from grades 1-5 learn a simple routine and some of them even make a tumbling run or two. Most importantly for them, they get a t-shirt and a chance to perform their routine at the halftime of a real basketball game. As one might imagine, on the night of the performance the gym fills up with moms and dads and grandpas and grandmas with cameras in tow. It is very cute, and I could very easily argue that the collective sense of worth and being part of a larger unit is very much worth it.
As a fifth grader, this was our daughter's last year. She had her first basketball tournament in the morning but was adamant about going to cheer camp in the afternoon because--well, because she enjoys that kind of stuff, but also because she can tumble and she knows what that means: a spot in the limelight.
Thus, at the end of the tumbling runs the night of the public performance, Sommer did a round off back tuck. That's the term we use around our house, anyway, because that's what it's called in gymnastics jargon. For everyone else--including me two months ago--it's a back flip. She runs across the floor, plants her hands sidways on the floor, flips over them landing backwards on her feet, then uses that energy to back flip and land on her feet again.
When she made her run, the crowd literally "oohed" as one voice. To put it mildly, I was proud.
Of course, that back flip--I mean back tuck--didn't come from nowhere. It's an investment: 3 sessions of beginning gynmastics, three years of dance. I know the price tag on that back flip is significantly over $500, a middle class privilege.
Watching her do it, as I'll watch her again at this spring's dance recital, I have a hard time saying it's not worth it. It's a combination of grace and power that I think is beautiful, and it's something she loves.
However, in saying that, I immediately realize that it ties me into the narrative about parenting that drives my generation--or perhaps just my socioeconomic tier: For today's parents, "opportunites" are what matters.
And this is where the narratives get tangley, methinks, because I'm also a Christian school supporter. For if "opportunities" are what matters but if I also send my kids to a small Christian school where opportunities are limited, then I'm over a barrel.
No doubt this conflict used to be simpler. Opportunities mattered less than "the story" of Christian schooling. However, arguably "the story" itself forced this conflict, for "the story" of Christian schooling includes bringing "all areas of life" under Christ's Lordship. Unavoidably, however, there are "areas" that get preferential treatment in Christian schools: certain forms of music, certain forms of sports, certain other arts, as money allows and cultural popularity demands.
Over the years, the local Christian high school has lost a few students here and there to football, but that's been about it. Repeatedly, too, the local public school has asked to pair with the Christian school, to no avail. Why? Because of this emphasis on narrative difference: "the story" the Christian school tells is by nature unique.
That all changed this past winter when, in a move that was unprecented locally, the Christian school went to the public school about pairing. Needless to say, they accepted. For the first time this spring, public school students will be able to join Christian school golf and track teams, and the Christian school kids will be able to play softball and baseball with the public school.
What precipated this sea change? Long time teacher, coach, and athletic director Darrel Ulferts once speculated to me that "parents today just want activities for their kids." Part of the answer, then, is that the Christian school is trying to stop the bleeding. More students, it seems, are choosing activities over "the story." I know of two girls who will go to public schools in the name of gymnastics. Others are staying in local towns like Pipestone and Worthington because the activities plus convenience equal a package they can't refuse--one that they prefer over "the story."
No, that's not quite true. It's not that they're necessarily sacrificing "the story," but that they feel they don't need the school as institution to tell the story--they feel they can sufficiently tell "the story" within their family and church.
And so the move to pair by the Christian school is a move to survive, but it's also a move to redefine what "the story" is and how we tell it in the current culture. In greater Christianity as well, there is a move afoot toward "culture making," which happens to be the title of an influenial book by Andy Crouch, one that has found its way into the curriculum of Christian colleges. (I should know; I teach it).
With these trends abroad, I applaud this move by the local Christian school. If Christian schools are to survive in a climate where parents take seriously that all areas of life belong in the kingdom, then Christian schools will have to find new ways to allow students to move into multiple areas. However, they also must show how important their part in telling "the story" is.
So, back to Sommer's back flip--and, more importantly perhaps, to the cheer camp. In finding another place to showcase a talent, the school engaged both my daughter and a current cultural trend. However, equally as important is how they encapsulate that talent in "the story": there is a place for back flips in the Christian school not because parents are hyper-concerned that their individual child might have a "look-at-me" moment, but because all areas of life are created by God, all moments of human grace are part of humans being made in God's image.
But this narrative is communal narrative. And I say that the more people that are involved in it--family, church, and school community--the better. However, this is a case the Christian school must be able to make loud and clear as well, lest the clamor for activities that feature "my unique and special child" drown out the more important--the all important--Story.
As a fifth grader, this was our daughter's last year. She had her first basketball tournament in the morning but was adamant about going to cheer camp in the afternoon because--well, because she enjoys that kind of stuff, but also because she can tumble and she knows what that means: a spot in the limelight.
Thus, at the end of the tumbling runs the night of the public performance, Sommer did a round off back tuck. That's the term we use around our house, anyway, because that's what it's called in gymnastics jargon. For everyone else--including me two months ago--it's a back flip. She runs across the floor, plants her hands sidways on the floor, flips over them landing backwards on her feet, then uses that energy to back flip and land on her feet again.
When she made her run, the crowd literally "oohed" as one voice. To put it mildly, I was proud.
Of course, that back flip--I mean back tuck--didn't come from nowhere. It's an investment: 3 sessions of beginning gynmastics, three years of dance. I know the price tag on that back flip is significantly over $500, a middle class privilege.
Watching her do it, as I'll watch her again at this spring's dance recital, I have a hard time saying it's not worth it. It's a combination of grace and power that I think is beautiful, and it's something she loves.
However, in saying that, I immediately realize that it ties me into the narrative about parenting that drives my generation--or perhaps just my socioeconomic tier: For today's parents, "opportunites" are what matters.
And this is where the narratives get tangley, methinks, because I'm also a Christian school supporter. For if "opportunities" are what matters but if I also send my kids to a small Christian school where opportunities are limited, then I'm over a barrel.
No doubt this conflict used to be simpler. Opportunities mattered less than "the story" of Christian schooling. However, arguably "the story" itself forced this conflict, for "the story" of Christian schooling includes bringing "all areas of life" under Christ's Lordship. Unavoidably, however, there are "areas" that get preferential treatment in Christian schools: certain forms of music, certain forms of sports, certain other arts, as money allows and cultural popularity demands.
Over the years, the local Christian high school has lost a few students here and there to football, but that's been about it. Repeatedly, too, the local public school has asked to pair with the Christian school, to no avail. Why? Because of this emphasis on narrative difference: "the story" the Christian school tells is by nature unique.
That all changed this past winter when, in a move that was unprecented locally, the Christian school went to the public school about pairing. Needless to say, they accepted. For the first time this spring, public school students will be able to join Christian school golf and track teams, and the Christian school kids will be able to play softball and baseball with the public school.
What precipated this sea change? Long time teacher, coach, and athletic director Darrel Ulferts once speculated to me that "parents today just want activities for their kids." Part of the answer, then, is that the Christian school is trying to stop the bleeding. More students, it seems, are choosing activities over "the story." I know of two girls who will go to public schools in the name of gymnastics. Others are staying in local towns like Pipestone and Worthington because the activities plus convenience equal a package they can't refuse--one that they prefer over "the story."
No, that's not quite true. It's not that they're necessarily sacrificing "the story," but that they feel they don't need the school as institution to tell the story--they feel they can sufficiently tell "the story" within their family and church.
And so the move to pair by the Christian school is a move to survive, but it's also a move to redefine what "the story" is and how we tell it in the current culture. In greater Christianity as well, there is a move afoot toward "culture making," which happens to be the title of an influenial book by Andy Crouch, one that has found its way into the curriculum of Christian colleges. (I should know; I teach it).
With these trends abroad, I applaud this move by the local Christian school. If Christian schools are to survive in a climate where parents take seriously that all areas of life belong in the kingdom, then Christian schools will have to find new ways to allow students to move into multiple areas. However, they also must show how important their part in telling "the story" is.
So, back to Sommer's back flip--and, more importantly perhaps, to the cheer camp. In finding another place to showcase a talent, the school engaged both my daughter and a current cultural trend. However, equally as important is how they encapsulate that talent in "the story": there is a place for back flips in the Christian school not because parents are hyper-concerned that their individual child might have a "look-at-me" moment, but because all areas of life are created by God, all moments of human grace are part of humans being made in God's image.
But this narrative is communal narrative. And I say that the more people that are involved in it--family, church, and school community--the better. However, this is a case the Christian school must be able to make loud and clear as well, lest the clamor for activities that feature "my unique and special child" drown out the more important--the all important--Story.
Monday, February 27, 2012
And It Was Very Good
I have a picture with my new bride standing in the natural light of the sun as it pours through one of the stained glass windows of our church. It’s a stunning picture, even if I am a little bit biased.
Almost two years ago now, under the direction of the deacons and the building committee, our church approved the renovation of the stained glass windows of our church, forking over a significant amount of cash to do so. Perhaps it never was at issue, but I suppose a pragmatic approach to the window problem might have been to “update them”: to pop those ancient things out and put in some “normal” windows that would no doubt have been oh-so-much cheaper.
After all, stained glass in a protestant church! Are we the heirs of the Puritans or not? A significant amount of effort was expended in the Reformation to steer away from the ornate iconography of the Catholic Church, and what often came about as a result was a certain pride in plainness. So what’s the story with our ornate little church raised on the prairie, with its lovely yellowish stone and stained glass windows?
I’m not sure, actually, about the story of the building itself. I have no idea. But I for one am glad that someone saw to it that a beautiful little structure was raised at First Edgerton, and I’m also glad that we didn’t bat an eye when it came to the stained glass windows.
The Church, the body of Christ, is not a building; we all know that. Anywhere two or three are gathered we have the Church, structure or not, freedom to worship or not. And, anyway, our church is not a perfect structure by any stretch of the imagination. Still, it seems to me we did right in preserving something of the beauty of the church.
In his book Surprised by Hope, N.T. Wright has a chapter entitled “Building for the Kingdom” in which he outlines several areas of work that Christians can think of in terms of “building for the kingdom.” Of the three areas Wright outlines—“justice, beauty, and evangelism”—only one is surprising. “Justice” is something that we as a church know we are to be part of. Recently, we’ve considered our part as a church in the struggle for justice for the unborn as well as considering what justice means in regards to the Belhar confession. And as for evangelism, we are reaching out far and near to try to spread the good news of the kingdom of God.
But beauty? Christians are to work for beauty? Of the three, clearly beauty is the most questionable. Why does beauty matter? And beauty according to what standards? Isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? Isn’t it skin deep?
These are all legitimate questions and ones that make this idea that Christians should work for “beauty” certainly debatable. Wright’s point, however, has to do with craftsmanship, has to do with preserving what is good in a world that was originally very good. Wright’s point has to do with the cultural mandate of Genesis 1:28, the command for us to go and make something of the world, and it has to do with the vision of a New Jerusalem that will not be a disembodied world of harps and angels but the city of God come down to earth.
And this is where our stained glass windows are good Protestantism—nay, are good Reformational Protestantism. For surely the ability to craft something of beauty, something that lasts and is a testimony to future generations, is a gift of God, and Reformed Protestantism is all about reclaiming everything—especially work and craftsmanship—for God. And in a world that often crafts things selfishly for today since “tomorrow I won’t be around anyway,” or crafts them pridefully as monuments to ourselves, or crafts them only functionally because we can’t imagine a greater world, perhaps we Christians could impact the world significantly if we thought more in terms of the Godly beauty that we might bring to the world through our work, through making things that are beautiful in God’s eyes.
After all, He is the author of beauty. The creation story makes sure that we’re clear on that. “God saw all that he had made, and it was very good” (Gen. 1:31), we’re told at the close of the story.
As the image of our Maker, may we make the same way He did. And, every Sunday, may we find rest from and enjoyment in that beautiful work.
Almost two years ago now, under the direction of the deacons and the building committee, our church approved the renovation of the stained glass windows of our church, forking over a significant amount of cash to do so. Perhaps it never was at issue, but I suppose a pragmatic approach to the window problem might have been to “update them”: to pop those ancient things out and put in some “normal” windows that would no doubt have been oh-so-much cheaper.
After all, stained glass in a protestant church! Are we the heirs of the Puritans or not? A significant amount of effort was expended in the Reformation to steer away from the ornate iconography of the Catholic Church, and what often came about as a result was a certain pride in plainness. So what’s the story with our ornate little church raised on the prairie, with its lovely yellowish stone and stained glass windows?
I’m not sure, actually, about the story of the building itself. I have no idea. But I for one am glad that someone saw to it that a beautiful little structure was raised at First Edgerton, and I’m also glad that we didn’t bat an eye when it came to the stained glass windows.
The Church, the body of Christ, is not a building; we all know that. Anywhere two or three are gathered we have the Church, structure or not, freedom to worship or not. And, anyway, our church is not a perfect structure by any stretch of the imagination. Still, it seems to me we did right in preserving something of the beauty of the church.
In his book Surprised by Hope, N.T. Wright has a chapter entitled “Building for the Kingdom” in which he outlines several areas of work that Christians can think of in terms of “building for the kingdom.” Of the three areas Wright outlines—“justice, beauty, and evangelism”—only one is surprising. “Justice” is something that we as a church know we are to be part of. Recently, we’ve considered our part as a church in the struggle for justice for the unborn as well as considering what justice means in regards to the Belhar confession. And as for evangelism, we are reaching out far and near to try to spread the good news of the kingdom of God.
But beauty? Christians are to work for beauty? Of the three, clearly beauty is the most questionable. Why does beauty matter? And beauty according to what standards? Isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? Isn’t it skin deep?
These are all legitimate questions and ones that make this idea that Christians should work for “beauty” certainly debatable. Wright’s point, however, has to do with craftsmanship, has to do with preserving what is good in a world that was originally very good. Wright’s point has to do with the cultural mandate of Genesis 1:28, the command for us to go and make something of the world, and it has to do with the vision of a New Jerusalem that will not be a disembodied world of harps and angels but the city of God come down to earth.
And this is where our stained glass windows are good Protestantism—nay, are good Reformational Protestantism. For surely the ability to craft something of beauty, something that lasts and is a testimony to future generations, is a gift of God, and Reformed Protestantism is all about reclaiming everything—especially work and craftsmanship—for God. And in a world that often crafts things selfishly for today since “tomorrow I won’t be around anyway,” or crafts them pridefully as monuments to ourselves, or crafts them only functionally because we can’t imagine a greater world, perhaps we Christians could impact the world significantly if we thought more in terms of the Godly beauty that we might bring to the world through our work, through making things that are beautiful in God’s eyes.
After all, He is the author of beauty. The creation story makes sure that we’re clear on that. “God saw all that he had made, and it was very good” (Gen. 1:31), we’re told at the close of the story.
As the image of our Maker, may we make the same way He did. And, every Sunday, may we find rest from and enjoyment in that beautiful work.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
CSI Epistemology
It came to me suddenly why we're enamored with all the CSIs and SUVs (or SVUs, as one of the Law and Order franchise is labeled), with all the Criminal Minds and Mentalists and Psychs. I was reading Stephen King's short story, "Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption" in which he turns the premise of those shows on its ear. King does this almost too easily really: he sets up motive, evidence, and outcome for the main character to kill his wife and her lover. Everything points to the main character's guilt except for one thing: he didn't do it. The lesson, I suppose, is how easily we can be deceived, how easily the truth can be made a lie.
Meanwhile, of course, the above shows' collective premise is that "the evidence never lies." In fact, I think that was the slogan of the head agent in the original CSI: Las Vegas--that is, the head agent two head agents before the current head agent on that show. Since the time of that head agent, these shows have proliferated like none other, all of them with this premise: the evidence doesn't lie.
Oh sure, Psych and The Mentalist have added more peripheral evidence like psychology, and my wife's favorite show, Castle has even added a writer to emphasize, perhaps, that violent crime is always wrapped up in a story, but at base they're still all about the truth of 20th century epistemology: the evidence never lies.
Because that's what these shows are about: objectivist, scientific, logical positivist epistemology. In a world where people get bludgeoned to death nightly, at least we can follow the trail of bread crumbs that becomes so clear and overwhelming that the perps will confess every time. They are shows, really, about trails of bread crumbs. And in this way they are somewhat logical positivist and naturalistic: the universe they set up is determined and I suppose just in a mechanical sort of way. It is also an amoral world filled with little joy or true festivity, where the best we can hope for is the capitalist dream of some property and some parties.
It wasn't always this way. Remember the trend of supernatural cop shows, epitomized by the X Files? That spat of Twilight Zone spinoffs even included Baywatch Nights. Notice. It didn't last. With the loss of Lost a couple of seasons ago, logical positivism and "the evidence never lies" seems to have triumphed completely. The idea that human characters can navigate a more unpredictable world based on virtues and our sense of a larger story than evolutionary science seems to have bitten the dust.
On the horizon now, however, is the Inception spinoff Awake, where the lead character can't tell his real life from his dream life. The premise of Awake is no doubt driven by psychology, but it's no Lost. In fact, it looks like it's kind of revisiting Descartes "Evil Genius"--how will the main character know which world is true? Perhaps by recognizing his most "clear and distinct perceptions," the foundation for Descartes cogito ergo sum ("I think, therefore I am"). In the end, if the show bends toward this kind of answer, it will fall into the camp of enshrining our logical positivist epistemology.
Mass culture is a fascinating thing. Our collective impulses tell us how our moral and, even more to the point, our epistemological compasses--how we've conditioned our minds to think--are oriented. While the challenge of postmodernity has put some terribly interesting stories in front of us, like Lost, in the largest category of mass culture we still seem to tend toward the modern, a tradition which stretches at least from Descartes to CSI: the evidence never lies.
Ah, but it does and it can. But a bigger truth than logical positivism can break into the world and reorient it to a larger, less tyrannical truth. What can be a bigger truth?
The Word.
Meanwhile, of course, the above shows' collective premise is that "the evidence never lies." In fact, I think that was the slogan of the head agent in the original CSI: Las Vegas--that is, the head agent two head agents before the current head agent on that show. Since the time of that head agent, these shows have proliferated like none other, all of them with this premise: the evidence doesn't lie.
Oh sure, Psych and The Mentalist have added more peripheral evidence like psychology, and my wife's favorite show, Castle has even added a writer to emphasize, perhaps, that violent crime is always wrapped up in a story, but at base they're still all about the truth of 20th century epistemology: the evidence never lies.
Because that's what these shows are about: objectivist, scientific, logical positivist epistemology. In a world where people get bludgeoned to death nightly, at least we can follow the trail of bread crumbs that becomes so clear and overwhelming that the perps will confess every time. They are shows, really, about trails of bread crumbs. And in this way they are somewhat logical positivist and naturalistic: the universe they set up is determined and I suppose just in a mechanical sort of way. It is also an amoral world filled with little joy or true festivity, where the best we can hope for is the capitalist dream of some property and some parties.
It wasn't always this way. Remember the trend of supernatural cop shows, epitomized by the X Files? That spat of Twilight Zone spinoffs even included Baywatch Nights. Notice. It didn't last. With the loss of Lost a couple of seasons ago, logical positivism and "the evidence never lies" seems to have triumphed completely. The idea that human characters can navigate a more unpredictable world based on virtues and our sense of a larger story than evolutionary science seems to have bitten the dust.
On the horizon now, however, is the Inception spinoff Awake, where the lead character can't tell his real life from his dream life. The premise of Awake is no doubt driven by psychology, but it's no Lost. In fact, it looks like it's kind of revisiting Descartes "Evil Genius"--how will the main character know which world is true? Perhaps by recognizing his most "clear and distinct perceptions," the foundation for Descartes cogito ergo sum ("I think, therefore I am"). In the end, if the show bends toward this kind of answer, it will fall into the camp of enshrining our logical positivist epistemology.
Mass culture is a fascinating thing. Our collective impulses tell us how our moral and, even more to the point, our epistemological compasses--how we've conditioned our minds to think--are oriented. While the challenge of postmodernity has put some terribly interesting stories in front of us, like Lost, in the largest category of mass culture we still seem to tend toward the modern, a tradition which stretches at least from Descartes to CSI: the evidence never lies.
Ah, but it does and it can. But a bigger truth than logical positivism can break into the world and reorient it to a larger, less tyrannical truth. What can be a bigger truth?
The Word.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
My Cankle
I've said things like, "It reminds you that you're alive," and "Everybody should sprain their ankle at least once in their lives." I guess I stick by that claim: spraining your ankle is one of the most intense things a person can do, where "intense" means "overloaded with sense experience, in this case, pain."
Ankles may be evidence that a certain level of pain is built into the fabric of things. Ninety-eight percent of the time, ankles allow us to be dextrous and lithe, enable an incredible combination of power and grace on a beautifully willowy structure. Still, while there may have been no curbs in the Garden of Eden, there was uneven terrain. Where uneven terrain and ankles meet, sprains are sure to happen. Research shows that sprains happen at only a slightly higher rate in "athletes" than in other people. Okay, I made that up. Still, I do have anecdotal evidence: the same week I sprained my ankle playing pickup ball, my wife's coworker stepped missed a step in a dark garage to the same result. Sprains happen. To anyone.
But ankles sprains heal. This, too, may be evidence of creational design to sprained ankles: the wonder of how bodies repair themselves. I'm not sure what's been stretched or pulled, what's wrenched away from bone under the skin of mine. All I know is I've had one "cankle" for over a week now: the injury has accumulated fluid that reminds me to take it easy. Of course, as my physical therapist wife reminds me, I also want to get that swelling out of there if I want to return to normal function. This is a problem in my creational vision: who would've told Adam and Eve to "RICE" their ankles--Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate?
Well, what do you think they talked about with God on their walks through the garden? How the creation--including their bodies--worked.
Age also threatens to dampen my theory. I'm into this sprain a week and am frankly a bit worried about bounce-back. Of course, this, too, can be explained by the garden: I am, realistically, on the clock for this body, and so perhaps I'm mending slower. Still, I'm not willing to say our new bodies won't include the possibility of sprained ankles: they're too good in that creaturely sort of way. And I stick by my claim that they intensify life.
Here's how I know: over a week later, the moment it happens remains indelible in my mind. We were down by one at 10-9, meaning if they scored--game. My player, a good shooter, had the ball. Their post came out high for a ball screen. I trailed my player on the dribble, and my teammate slid into position to stop the drive momentarily while I could recover, meanwhile the screener was rolling toward the hoop. I jumped to try to block the inevitable pass and came down on my teammate's foot, forcing my ankle to ninety degrees. I felt the ankle bone hit the floor and an internal "pop" so famous to ankle sprains.
Maybe not the repeated slow-motion close-ups the camera loves to provide of twisted and broken leg injuries, but you get the picture.
Then--I'll admit it--I writhed in pain like I was dying. I laid there and beat the ground, bit my thumb, pounded the floor--all the unmanly things I could think of besides crying.
But I wasn't dying. In fact, according to my own personal ankle philosophy, I'd never been more alive, nor would my body let me forget it. So I laid there with my philosophy: "Everyone should sprain their ankle at least once in their lives"; "sprained ankles let you know you're alive."
I understand that there's something flawed about my logic; I understand that equating pain with being alive is somewhat of the logic of cutters. Still, I stick by the idea because of the wonder of creation, because the idea of escaping a painless universe into utter bliss seems more akin to nirvana than to something as real and intense as the fine-strong leg joint known as the ankle-bone. And even as I think of "perfected bodies," I'm nervous about our vision of them as floating through walls, of our tendency to see them as more disembodied than embodied. There's something wonderful and earthbound about how the ankle allows us to push off, to turn a corner, to leap however finitely, and, yes, even how it allows us to come up against boundaries. With ice on my ankle, I've been reminded of those boundaries now for the past week.
If that's what ankles and their spraining means--boundaries--then here's to boundaries.
Ankles may be evidence that a certain level of pain is built into the fabric of things. Ninety-eight percent of the time, ankles allow us to be dextrous and lithe, enable an incredible combination of power and grace on a beautifully willowy structure. Still, while there may have been no curbs in the Garden of Eden, there was uneven terrain. Where uneven terrain and ankles meet, sprains are sure to happen. Research shows that sprains happen at only a slightly higher rate in "athletes" than in other people. Okay, I made that up. Still, I do have anecdotal evidence: the same week I sprained my ankle playing pickup ball, my wife's coworker stepped missed a step in a dark garage to the same result. Sprains happen. To anyone.
But ankles sprains heal. This, too, may be evidence of creational design to sprained ankles: the wonder of how bodies repair themselves. I'm not sure what's been stretched or pulled, what's wrenched away from bone under the skin of mine. All I know is I've had one "cankle" for over a week now: the injury has accumulated fluid that reminds me to take it easy. Of course, as my physical therapist wife reminds me, I also want to get that swelling out of there if I want to return to normal function. This is a problem in my creational vision: who would've told Adam and Eve to "RICE" their ankles--Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate?
Well, what do you think they talked about with God on their walks through the garden? How the creation--including their bodies--worked.
Age also threatens to dampen my theory. I'm into this sprain a week and am frankly a bit worried about bounce-back. Of course, this, too, can be explained by the garden: I am, realistically, on the clock for this body, and so perhaps I'm mending slower. Still, I'm not willing to say our new bodies won't include the possibility of sprained ankles: they're too good in that creaturely sort of way. And I stick by my claim that they intensify life.
Here's how I know: over a week later, the moment it happens remains indelible in my mind. We were down by one at 10-9, meaning if they scored--game. My player, a good shooter, had the ball. Their post came out high for a ball screen. I trailed my player on the dribble, and my teammate slid into position to stop the drive momentarily while I could recover, meanwhile the screener was rolling toward the hoop. I jumped to try to block the inevitable pass and came down on my teammate's foot, forcing my ankle to ninety degrees. I felt the ankle bone hit the floor and an internal "pop" so famous to ankle sprains.
Maybe not the repeated slow-motion close-ups the camera loves to provide of twisted and broken leg injuries, but you get the picture.
Then--I'll admit it--I writhed in pain like I was dying. I laid there and beat the ground, bit my thumb, pounded the floor--all the unmanly things I could think of besides crying.
But I wasn't dying. In fact, according to my own personal ankle philosophy, I'd never been more alive, nor would my body let me forget it. So I laid there with my philosophy: "Everyone should sprain their ankle at least once in their lives"; "sprained ankles let you know you're alive."
I understand that there's something flawed about my logic; I understand that equating pain with being alive is somewhat of the logic of cutters. Still, I stick by the idea because of the wonder of creation, because the idea of escaping a painless universe into utter bliss seems more akin to nirvana than to something as real and intense as the fine-strong leg joint known as the ankle-bone. And even as I think of "perfected bodies," I'm nervous about our vision of them as floating through walls, of our tendency to see them as more disembodied than embodied. There's something wonderful and earthbound about how the ankle allows us to push off, to turn a corner, to leap however finitely, and, yes, even how it allows us to come up against boundaries. With ice on my ankle, I've been reminded of those boundaries now for the past week.
If that's what ankles and their spraining means--boundaries--then here's to boundaries.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Racial Linsanity
It's a good story in the same way the Yankees losing is a good story. It's a good story for the same reason that the Mavs winning the title last year was a good story. Of all the professional sports, the NBA can feel the most scripted, the most predetermined. And in a league where players are anointed as the next big thing as teens and preteens, no one saw this coming: that an undrafted second year player from Harvard would suddenly burst on the scene and almost single-handedly resurrect a multi-million dollar franchise.
So it's a cinderella story, make no mistake, and that means that what we love about college basketball--that any hardworking, no name team might have their "shining moment" (wow basketball fans love cliches)--has made it's way to the next level.
I personally haven't evaluated Jeremy Lin's game. In fact, I've only seen a handful of highlights, including a game-winning three pointer against the Raptors. Of course, no one needs me to evaluate his game. But this is another truth about the NBA and it's style of play: not only are players to "produce" within the individualistic, one-on-one set ups that the rules have been built to foster, these players are to do it in a way that makes a highlight reel, in a way that can be described as a "style."
The greatest "stylist," in this sense, was Michael Jordan, or that's the cliche that people believe. Arguably, Bird and Magic were as good if not better stylists; and I've no doubt people like Pistol Pete Maravich and Oscar Robertson were probably better stylists still though they come before my time. People think Michael Jordan was a stylist when he was just physically dominant, arguably the perfect basketball body--for a certain type of basketball. Jordan was that combination of size, strength, quickness, and athleticism that came together to make a special player, no doubt. Sure, Jordan added to this package by honing a jump shot that was often above average; Jordan played defense in a league where you don't have to; Jordan knew when to dish to his white jumpshooters camping at the three-point line. In short, Jordan did the right things to make himself a legend, he worked at it.
But what I want to argue is that the physically dominant player has had a monopoly on the NBA for far too long. The type we've been looking for, the Jordan type, is only one style of play, one style of player. Now, it was interesting for a while because we kept wondering "who the next Jordan" would be: Vince Carter? Nope. Kobe? Kind of but we can't love Kobe because of his high pedigree. Lebron? An improbably athlete come out of the ugliness of Cleveland and then disses that city and can't win anyway.
So it's no wonder that people aren't sure what to make of Jeremy Lin. Even though he must be a one-on-one player, he's not that kind of one-on-one player. He's not transcendent that way.
And he's Asian.
Saturday Night Live did one of the funniest race-line crossing skits of all time last night, exploring the stereotypes that exist in the NBA--and in America--regarding white, black and Asian (http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/linsanity-postgame-cold-open/1386272/). Four sportscasters, two white and two black, were evaluating Jeremy Lin's game. While three of the announcers could throw around all the Asian stereotypes they wanted, when the one white guy tried to join the fray with black stereotypes, he got shouted down and then fired.
Unfortunately, most people, I think--most white people anyway--will read this skit as the double-standard that blacks are allowed, which is precisely missing the point. No, most often white people can't "join the fray" with black stereotypes because they most often don't get the historical and structural part they have played and continue to play in what often remains a divided America when it comes to white and black. Of course, as is shown in the skit, this so-called "race card" can be played as a card to justify bad behavior on the part of individual blacks.
But the point of the skit is how, while we're aware of and sensitive to black stereotypes, we're not aware of our stereotypes of Asians. Thus, the skit goes so far as to dub over an interview of Jeremy Lin (yes, he speaks English; he was born and raised here) with an English translation that includes references to kung fu moves.
No doubt people are buzzing about the skit this morning. However, this is nothing new. Frank Chin, editor of an Asian-American Literature anthology called The Big Aiiieeeee!!!!! has written about how mangled our sense of Asian-Americans is--filled with ideas of bizarre cultures based in superstition, harsh discipline and collective goals that are thought of us un-American, but also individual stereotypes of the Asian skillset that sets Asian-Americans apart as truly other: exotic and quirky but ultimately somewhat weak and easily marginalizable.
And so, predictably, people won't know what to make of the skit. But Jeremy Lin is still the best story in the NBA--perhaps in sports--this year because he breaks so many of our preconceived notions. He's the hope for pickup players everywhere, breaking the stronghold of the pre-ordained players with only one type of skillset. But he's also a wrench in the works of the conversations on race in America, bringing to light another group that has been here since the beginning--Asian-Americans--but who still often get written out of the American story because we've dubbed them "other."
So it's a cinderella story, make no mistake, and that means that what we love about college basketball--that any hardworking, no name team might have their "shining moment" (wow basketball fans love cliches)--has made it's way to the next level.
I personally haven't evaluated Jeremy Lin's game. In fact, I've only seen a handful of highlights, including a game-winning three pointer against the Raptors. Of course, no one needs me to evaluate his game. But this is another truth about the NBA and it's style of play: not only are players to "produce" within the individualistic, one-on-one set ups that the rules have been built to foster, these players are to do it in a way that makes a highlight reel, in a way that can be described as a "style."
The greatest "stylist," in this sense, was Michael Jordan, or that's the cliche that people believe. Arguably, Bird and Magic were as good if not better stylists; and I've no doubt people like Pistol Pete Maravich and Oscar Robertson were probably better stylists still though they come before my time. People think Michael Jordan was a stylist when he was just physically dominant, arguably the perfect basketball body--for a certain type of basketball. Jordan was that combination of size, strength, quickness, and athleticism that came together to make a special player, no doubt. Sure, Jordan added to this package by honing a jump shot that was often above average; Jordan played defense in a league where you don't have to; Jordan knew when to dish to his white jumpshooters camping at the three-point line. In short, Jordan did the right things to make himself a legend, he worked at it.
But what I want to argue is that the physically dominant player has had a monopoly on the NBA for far too long. The type we've been looking for, the Jordan type, is only one style of play, one style of player. Now, it was interesting for a while because we kept wondering "who the next Jordan" would be: Vince Carter? Nope. Kobe? Kind of but we can't love Kobe because of his high pedigree. Lebron? An improbably athlete come out of the ugliness of Cleveland and then disses that city and can't win anyway.
So it's no wonder that people aren't sure what to make of Jeremy Lin. Even though he must be a one-on-one player, he's not that kind of one-on-one player. He's not transcendent that way.
And he's Asian.
Saturday Night Live did one of the funniest race-line crossing skits of all time last night, exploring the stereotypes that exist in the NBA--and in America--regarding white, black and Asian (http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/linsanity-postgame-cold-open/1386272/). Four sportscasters, two white and two black, were evaluating Jeremy Lin's game. While three of the announcers could throw around all the Asian stereotypes they wanted, when the one white guy tried to join the fray with black stereotypes, he got shouted down and then fired.
Unfortunately, most people, I think--most white people anyway--will read this skit as the double-standard that blacks are allowed, which is precisely missing the point. No, most often white people can't "join the fray" with black stereotypes because they most often don't get the historical and structural part they have played and continue to play in what often remains a divided America when it comes to white and black. Of course, as is shown in the skit, this so-called "race card" can be played as a card to justify bad behavior on the part of individual blacks.
But the point of the skit is how, while we're aware of and sensitive to black stereotypes, we're not aware of our stereotypes of Asians. Thus, the skit goes so far as to dub over an interview of Jeremy Lin (yes, he speaks English; he was born and raised here) with an English translation that includes references to kung fu moves.
No doubt people are buzzing about the skit this morning. However, this is nothing new. Frank Chin, editor of an Asian-American Literature anthology called The Big Aiiieeeee!!!!! has written about how mangled our sense of Asian-Americans is--filled with ideas of bizarre cultures based in superstition, harsh discipline and collective goals that are thought of us un-American, but also individual stereotypes of the Asian skillset that sets Asian-Americans apart as truly other: exotic and quirky but ultimately somewhat weak and easily marginalizable.
And so, predictably, people won't know what to make of the skit. But Jeremy Lin is still the best story in the NBA--perhaps in sports--this year because he breaks so many of our preconceived notions. He's the hope for pickup players everywhere, breaking the stronghold of the pre-ordained players with only one type of skillset. But he's also a wrench in the works of the conversations on race in America, bringing to light another group that has been here since the beginning--Asian-Americans--but who still often get written out of the American story because we've dubbed them "other."
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