Enhancement and Envy

The New York Times op-ed page has two intriguing articles about (perhaps indirectly) competition and society. Judith Warner, presumably without any unnatural brain enhancements (no, I'm not above cheap jokes), is not convinced that cognitive enhancements will improve the world, though she gives a fair summary of the arguments in favor. I tend to agree with her. If we need drugs to achieve something through the frenzied haze of our lives, perhaps we need less frenzy, less haze. A few months ago, however, the Economist was already in favor.

Sonja Lyubomirsky explains why, in spite of our current recession, people are generally happy. Evidently, we are less aware of our objective status than our status compared to others. If everyone is in trouble economically, we tend to be happier than if we are moderately prosperous compared to the exuberant prosperity of our neighbors. Envy runs deep.

Indeed, It is a Narnia Christmas

Today, I considered whether I should write, “Merry Christmas” at the end of an email I wrote to a client. Christmas is the day after tomorrow. (It doesn’t feel that way. There is something in me that thinks that, for such a significant celebration, we should leave work, as we left school, a week ahead of time) The Christian association of the holiday is becoming increasingly offensive in our pluralistic society. Google’s ecumenical happy holiday pictures are cute, but lacking of any depth because they fail to celebrate the spiritual significance Christians remember shortly after the darkest night of the year: light stepped into darkness. I did not know if the client was a Christian. I had not met him in person. From a business perspective, it was more important that I retain his good graces rather than remind him that the people in darkness had seen a great light. I supposed we don’t like to be reminded that we are in darkness. In any case, like Google, I kept it professional and shallow, wishing him a good holiday as I signed off.

In a New York Times op-ed, Lauren Miller’s antidote is to honestly celebrate what perhaps motivates most Americans to celebrate Christmas, “a collection of everything yearned for: warmth, plenty, peace, family, conviviality.” She points out how most everything in the Christmas tradition is a hodgepodge of Christian tradition, pagan mythology, and Victorian fantasy, and these fantasies should not be a bad thing. They leave the holiday doors open to those who, like her, are not Christians.

Her example in all of this is none other than C.S. Lewis. Miller authored The Magicians Book: A Skeptic’s Adventures in Narnia, which I am now interested in reading. Miller is not a Christian, as I mentioned earlier, but she celebrates Lewis’ fantasies as she celebrates Christmas, and writes about her yearly ritual of re-reading The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, with its snowy forests, appearance of Father Christmas and the restoration of a land, which is “always winter and never Christmas.” To the annoyance of some of his friends, include J.R.R. Tolkien, Lewis’ Narnia series mixes myths as much as Christmas does. Sure, there is Christian imagery in Narnia, but there is also pagan creatures liberally borrowed from, among others, Greek, German, Druid and Nordic myths. He pulls good things from all of them, ties them together with love, and creates a beautiful story. Why not do the same for Christmas?

For some of those same reasons, she points out, some conservative Christians, such as the Puritans in Colonial Boston, banned Christmas all together. (I went to a Christmas party at Reformed Theological Seminary, who are the theological kin of the Puritans. I am happy to report that there were festivities and feasting. Even the lecture on “Christmas according to Ecclesiastes” was uplifting. There was no beer, but progress has clearly been made). Given the rocky relationship between Christianity and Christmas, why should modern Christians attempt to make Christ the centerpiece of the Christmas season, much less have the audacity to invite others to do the same?

We are blessed to live in a free society, and the mythological hodgepodge is inevitable. Amongst the shopping, the stress, the decorations, the parties and the presents, a majority of Americans are probably merely seeking a few days off to be with loved ones. As human beings, we have every freedom to be post-modern and make Christmas what we want it to be with the help of a choice buffet of fantasy. But if this is where the holidays end, then I find this decisively unsatisfying, and, I argue, C.S. Lewis would, too.

A central theme to all of Lewis’ work is that the best parts of myths point to something, or rather, someone. (For that matter, he argued that much of nature, in death and resurrection, points there as well) Miller argues that “what binds all the elements of Lewis’ fantasy together is something more like love.” True, but as John points out, God is love. Aslan is central to the story because he represents love incarnate. In Lewis’ world, not to mention his life, fantasy was never meant to be a vague affirmation of whatever we want to believe. These are sign posts to something greater. One can hear the resurrected Aslan’s voice proclaim, “There is more magic.”

In an interview in Rolling Stone a few years back, the reporter asked Bono why he was a Christian. To paraphrase, he said that he could not get over the idea that God himself would enter the world as a human to rescue humanity. It’s for good reason that we (in the Northern hemisphere, in any case) celebrate Christmas a few days after the longest night of the year. We were in darkness. A quick examination of any life, much less the pages of any newspaper, would reveal that sin has infected us with darkness, and we cannot cure ourselves. Rather than leave us that way, God sent his Son to enter the world as a human some 2000 years ago. He both taught and demonstrated the life abundant. Then he faced God’s wrath in our place, and he overcame death in his resurrection. Lewis called the incarnation, God’s Son becoming a human baby, the Grand Miracle. This is what we celebrate at Christmas. This is not something like love, this is love, in the flesh, in the arms of a virgin, adored by shepherds.

This Christmas, if you yearn for warmth, plenty, peace, family and conviviality, I sincerely hope you receive it. I hope our fantasies of Father Christmas, evergreens and cinnamon cookies help you on your way. Deeper still, I hope you can go beyond these signposts. I hope you can follow the shepherds to Bethlehem of old, where the Son of God, love incarnate, lay in feeding trough. I hope the thought of God stepping into the world makes you want to follow him. Otherwise, I fear that you will sit in the dark winter, surrounded by red and green decorations, always holiday, but never Christmas.

Some notes on hope and peace for Christmas

Looking for some hope this Christmas? Peggy Noonan offers some perspective for Americans, considering the challenges we face. Even deeper and more universal are Catherine Claire Larson's thoughts on peace on earth, good will to men. Catherine has authored a companion book to Laura's film on forgiveness and reconciliation after the Rwandan genocide (I am anxious to read it). In her work, she has seen forgiveness bring peace on earth in a very unlikely place.

Unicef Photos of the Year

Der Spiegel has posted Unicef's photographs of the year. These pictures are disturbing and humane at the same time, windows into worlds that for many of us are just headlines. These lead us beyond prayers of obligation and unfeeling acts of charity or protest. It allows our prayers, charity and protest to meet our hearts and our imagine. Thanks and congratulations to the brave photographers who visited these places of terror and found glimpses of hope and humanity.

Sojourner's Peace and Justice Christmas

Sojourners has put their own twist in their "subversive sing-along" to the tune of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." I'm sure you could sing it in your head as you read.

Have Yourself a Peace and Justice Christmas

Have yourself a peace and justice Christmas, Set your heart a-right.
Flee the malls and focus on Christ’s guiding light.
Have yourself a peace and justice Christmas, Give your time a way.
Share God’s love, And serve “the least of these” today.
Here we are, as we pray for peace,We’ll live simply and give more.
We care for those far and near to us,Which brings cheer to us, once more.
God brings down the haughty from high places, And lifts up the low.
God cares for the hungry and the humble, so –
Forget the stress and let the peace and justice flow!

Perhaps this is a good antidote to holiday consumerism (says the guy who typed this blog on his early Christmas present). In any case, Sojourners does have some practical tips for putting the words into practice, as well as a pledge to sign (I have never been a big fan of pledges or alter calls, though I appreciate their intentions). If you truly want to support peace and justice this Christmas, I suggest supporting orphans in Tanzania.

Even better than a blog

What could be better than a blog? How about a song sketchbook? Ben is posting rough "sketches" of new songs our pleasure and our judgment on the website of his band, the Northernness. He promises a new demo every Monday, and he already has posted two great ones. The current song is another online Advent listenable about Simeon's reflection after beholding the Messiah. Listen to it, and give him your suggestions, criticisms and shout-outs. 

Should this surprise us?

In yesterday's New York Times, Charles M. Blow notes, and perhaps mourns, that "hooking up" has surpassed dating as the predominant method of starting a romantic relationship among today's youth. His analysis, of course, is interesting. However, we should ask: now that we, as a society, have so successfully removed sex from the boundaries of marriage, should we be surprised to see sex removed from relationship as well?

Product Placement

I just noticed this, but when I linked to Bizarre Foods, guess who the sponsor was? Pepto-Bismol! 

She did it

I am a fan of the show Bizarre Foods, where Andrew Zimmern travels the globe and eats the strangest and most authentic foods of any local culture (one of the few reality shows I care to watch). It turns out my wife's friend April is just as brave. Check out her experience with live (well, almost) Octopus. 

Would you try it? The family vote is 1 to 1. I would, but my wife would not. 

Linked in

I added more links to the side of my blog. Take a lazy day, perhaps while it is raining and you are feeling reflective, and linger through these websites. Most of them are my friends. I've never met anyone from Over the Rhine, but you can listen to their beautiful music for free, and it goes well with rain and reflection. 

The Girl with Green Hair

Between the conservative suits of Washington, DC, the charcoal pants, the long black coats hiding lightly starched shirts and respectable ties, walked a girl with green hair. It was punk-rock green, the kind I saw in London, the kind I saw in high school. She had light, faded thrift-store jeans, and a short coat that clashed with her green hair (though I forget what color the coat was). No one had yet told her what everyone in Washington, DC knows. For the cause, for the campaign the last thing anyone needs is a coat that is not black. We need long black coats to cover our flawless suits. We need good posture, smooth faces for men and tasteful makeup for women. We need immaculate shoes that will never go out of style but bought new every time. We need tans without wrinkles and Hollywood teeth.

We need stylish hair of natural-looking colors. Certainly not green hair.

(Thank you for looking a little bit different, girl with green hair.)

Advent Listenables

If, at any point during this Christmas season you get tired of the same Holiday hits, escaping the speakers of shopping malls and easy-listening radio stations like a sweet, tiring smell, then I suggest visiting the Over the Rhine website. Their excellent Christmas album, Snow Angels, is currently playing on the OtR record player. Not only is the music exceptional, with whisky shots of bitter to even out the holiday sweetness, but they explore the themes forgiveness, hope and redemption - something worth thinking about between hustle and bustle. In particular, I recommend the songs "White Horse" and "Here It Is."

Thanksgiving Readables

If you’ll pardon the pun, the New York Times has two articles providing food for thought around Thanksgiving. Both are fascinating historical perspectives for us amateur history buffs. The first is more nostalgic, the second is thankful that parts of our past remain there.

This Thanksgiving, reflect on the wild, drink some French wine, pray for peace and, of course, be thankful for all God has given us. 

Economy, change of laws and culture are hitting the French cafes

I found this New York Times article very sad, particularly as someone who loves to drink strong coffee in dark, smoky places. 

 “The bar-cafes? They’re finished. Twenty years ago, people would go in the morning before work for a coffee and a cigarette. And now, it’s over. Young people don’t drink during the day, and when they drink, they drink to get wasted. Smoking is forbidden and they eat en route, with coffee in a paper cup. They smoke and drink at home.”

Maybe un till should have a logo

There’s a beautiful simplicity to a good logo. Or, for that matter, call it a brand or a seal. I like the thought of looking at a symbol and immediately seeing a story. They are open for interpretation, but powerful nonetheless. Our forbearers would see the seal from the king’s signet ring, or the hide-burns of a particular cowboy, and images, weight and emotion would meet you. These days, mighty corporations have mastered the power of the seal. You know you made it as a company when your company name does not even need to appear on the logo. Think of the Nike Swoosh on Cristiano Ronaldo’s cleats, or the glowing apple cutout on the other side of my screen.

Perhaps my favorite prominent display of brands is sports logos. They represent not just a franchise but also a city, a university or an attitude.  The best part is that it’s usually a combination of letters and colors that get people riled up. A white “n” and “y” overlapping a navy blue field makes a statement. In our civilized age where we celebrate our diversity and accept everyone else as fellow citizens, sports remain an outlet for our tribal tendencies. We wear our colors and paint our faces as cheer on our strongest champions as they wage battle against the tribe from another city.

Of course, the most prominent logo in the past months has been the Barack Obama “O.” The first time I saw it, I knew it was genius. It’s a modern day signet ring for the man who will be “the leader of the free world.” It inspires Obama’s emotions of change and hope without compromising patriotism and strength. Regardless of your politics, you’ve got to admire the marketing. The New York Times has a great interview with the man who created the “O.” I find particularly interesting his reflection on how they tried to avoid the candidate being “branded, in the sense of having an identity imposed on a candidate.”

Finally, I have to give a shout out to logos that start a conversation. My church has adopted what has been lovingly dubbed “the flaming pomegranate,” which Ben designed. I was living with him when he first drafted the pomegranate, and I saw it take several forms before there was a finished product. It is a less obvious brand then, say, a cross, or a more common church symbol such as a lion lying down with a lamb. However, I think this is a good thing. When people ask what it means, I get to explain how the pomegranate was an ancient church symbol for the Resurrection. Moreover, since a pomegranate has seemingly countless seeds packed in one fruit, it is also a symbol of church unity. Perhaps it is does not have the mass market potential as the “O” or the Swoosh, but in starting a conversation, it better helps fulfill the purpose of the church.

What do you think of logos? Do they “impose an identity” on the product/team/candidate? Do you have a favorite? 

The world looks to DC

Speaking of my fair city, between two Economist blogs there are three very telling posts about Washington, DC. Both are worth the read for all you travelers out there. 

Cyclists and Civilization

One of the Economist blogs, "Certain Ideas About Europe," considers whether a cyclist city is a civilized city. London, it reports, will be the site of another rent-a-bike program, modeled after the "Velib" bike program in Paris. My current home-town, Washington, has a bike program of its own. One of my co-workers uses it to pedal to a further Metro-stop. 

I am a fan of less cars, more bikes and more public transportation. DC has the best public metro-system I have experience (and I have been all over Europe). With bikes, however, I wonder if the civilization should come before the cycles. The primary reason is safety. Bikes in DC bob in-and-out of traffic, and DC traffic includes crazy diplomats who have immunity should something happen, and overly-stressed politicos typing on their blackberries as they drive. Local bikers are fearless; many are reckless. Near my office, a young woman was recently killed when her bike was hit by a dump truck (I should say, I don't know if this tragedy was due to recklessness on anyones part, or if it was simply a horrible misfortune).

The most civilized cyclist cites I have experienced are in Germany. Yes, there are still reckless drivers and bikers, but there are also bike lanes on every major street and clear rules for cyclers and drivers to follow. Indeed, a German biker risks losing his drivers' license if he breaks the rules. I applaud London and DC for initiating biker programs, but I this sort civilization ought to follow. 

Why I am a fan of my church

At Justin’s invitation, I have become a “fan” of my church. This does not mean I have sat in a stadium with 89,000 other church fans and rooted for my church to defeat another church on some sort of ecumenical playing field. I have not screamed as my church’s electric guitar player strummed – slowly, as if savoring good-tasting and sexual at the same time – those all-too familiar chords of the song the most people agree are the strongest. My church has not authored one of my top-ten favorite books, nor has it starred, directed, produced or cinematographized (I know, I’m really reaching) a film that I have been trying to tell my friends about (though, I hasten to point out, a church member has). My church has not rallied me to believe that by electing it to a higher office, the American dream would be made more possible, not just to me, but to all of our citizens.

As you can guess, I struggled with this. Being a fan is a superficial activity. A church should not be superficial. It’s about Christ, his body, his sacraments. Being a fan comes across as tribal. Church is about overcoming tribalism and loving everyone, regardless. I am not always good at overcoming my tribalism and my superficiality, and sometimes churches are not either. By God’s grace, we move in this direction. So how can a be a fan?

My new status as church-fan is an electronic proclamation via Facebook, and therein lies my justification for church fandom. Yes, much of Facebook is about identifying yourself in groups, and much of this lies between superficiality, randomness and nerdiness. I reached the height of nerddom when I joined a group about dinosaurs. But one of the redeeming factors of the younger generation is how we can reveal a subtle realness behind things superficial, random and nerdy. I think we’ve learned to do this growing up under a barrage of electronic advertising. Between all the silliness, we can shout something real across the bluish landscapes of Facebooks. I belong to a community of people who are seeking Christ. We are led by people who have studied the scriptures, and from there, they give us direction, admonition and encouragement. We meet in the evenings, sing, confess, read, listen, pray, proclaim, eat bread and drink wine. We study, reach out, and seek to live like we believe the Spirit of God is within us (as our recent study in 1Corinthians has emphasized). We are not perfect, and we are aware of it. Everybody is invited.

And our new website is going to be pretty cool.   

Feel the Love

Now that Barack Obama has gained the presidency, the rest of the world (with the possible exception of Pakistan) likes us again. Even during our recent troubles, the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung made a list of reasons why the rest of the world can’t get enough of us. Since some of those who read these words are unable to read German, I’ll provide a list right here, in English, with my own commentaries (after all, it is my blog).

1.     Fashion

Okay, I don’t know why this is first, since Britain and Italy are more renown in this area. And, as any woman in my life would affirm, it’s not my forte, either. I’m told Sex in the City influences fashion and causes women to buy things. Hopefully the current financial crisis will promote savings instead. In any case, the world must like the way we, (well… some of us) dress.

2.     TV Series

My wife and are just finished up the 4^th season of Lost, and we are eagerly awaiting season 5. As a rule, I remain addicted to only one show at a time. The article sites West Wing, Frasier and Malcom in the Middle as some of their favorites. I can only speak to the second, which I like. 24 has kept my attention in the past, and Homer Simpson remains one of our biggest ambassadors.

3.     Rock Music

Amen, amen, amen. True, Great Britain has contributed almost as much (and thus more per-capita) to rock and roll. But in every American town, you can find the love affair between boy and guitar, producing beautiful music, much of which you will never hear. Today’s indy-rock scene is no longer what dominates top-40 radio, but scratch below the surface, and some amazing stuff is growing. Fresh grown rock was noticeably missing from Germany. The FAZ writer mentions Vampire Weekend as one of American rock’s current torch bearers. I’m going to recommend a couple of friends. For some good tunes, check out the Tortoise and the Hair, the Northernness and Andy Matchett. For good measure, the Oaks, are friends of friends, and are quite good as well.

4.     Love for children

Evidently, we treat our kids good here. We do produce some pretty good toys, although Denmark is home to Lego.

5.     Literature

A Nobel Prize judge recently said that no good literature is produced in America. The FAZ debunks this, citing Philip Roth and John Updike. For those of you who have not read him yet, I’m going to recommend Wendell Berry (though I don’t think he would approve of blogs).

6.     Film

Plenty of great indy movies have come from America, but Hollywood is king – and a huge ambassador to the world. As much as the artistic type in us may want to bash it, I’m sure we can all think of a star-studded Hollywood flick we love. I was in Germany when The Last Samurai came out. German critics blasted Tom Cruise’s film as un-historical, saying that its homage to the Samurai ideal would be like writing a film on church history based on the ideals of Christian love. Ok, I have to agree, The Last Samurai was a horrible film, but it does illustrate that Hollywood is often more about the ideal than about reality. Just like America. That may bristle at times, but it is not always unappealing.

7.     The Debating Culture

Interesting that the Germans would say this – they love a good debate, though these are often longer, more abstract affairs. However, the article pointed more to the comedy that came out of the debates – Stephen Colbert, Jon Stewart and Tina Fey. I have to say, our political satire is second-to-none.

8.     Universities

Okay, we do rock the top university lists. I did not go to an elite university, but they do look good on resumes. One thing that we have that many Europeans do not is the campus. Some of the best moments in college were sitting in the grass between brick buildings, playing guitar, reading and talking to those who disagreed with me.

9.     Friendliness

I’m from the south, and there is an appeal to the southern charm. However, I do find the unabashed honesty of the Germans (or even more so, the Chinese. They will honestly let you know if you’ve gained weight since they last saw you) is quite refreshing.

10. New York

Don’t get me wrong, New York is great. We hope to bus up there soon. But don’t let that be the only part of America you see. There’s so much more.

11. Basketball

I like basketball too, but I am homesick for the Michael Jordan era. Now, the most interesting part of the NBA for me is how international the sport is becoming. Indeed, probably the only reason it is mentioned in a German magazine is the rise of Dirk Nowinsky. If you want to try a truly American sport (ask any Canadian where basketball was invented), check out college football. I know the typical European complaints. They stop and every down, the action is not constant. True, but once the action gets started again, anything can happen: Hard hits, stunning displays of athleticism, and piles of bodies all over the field. Moreover, as one college football commentator said on a radio show, football is the only sport where every person is involved in every play. Blocks down the field effect how far a ball will travel. I was in Paris when France won the world cup. But I was also in Tallahassee in 2000 when the recount stopped for the Florida State-Florida game. FSU won, and the victory propelled us into the national title game. A college football rivalry in the south has an electricity not duplicated elsewhere.

12. Indian Summer

I think I lived in Florida too long for this one, and D.C. is not far enough north. Sounds nice though. 

I'm sure you were looking for some more post-election thoughts...

On Wednesday, we were out of the house at 9:00 AM. I was called for jury duty, which meant I could sleep in a little later. 9:00 AM, as was widely reported, was too late for history. I had naively hoped a Washington Post would be available to me, as had many other Washingtonians. The newspaper boxes were empty and ugly in appearance. Newspaper boxes without newspapers look particularly soulless.

Tuesday night, the cars honked; there were spontaneous eruptions of joy as Cable News anchors reported election results. It reminded me of Paris in 1998 when the French won the world cup. Fewer firecrackers, more shouts. My wife and I sat quietly in our apartment watching results pour in. I was quiet, because I was in awe of history.

I wish I had something new to add to all the commentaries regarding Barack Obama’s achievement. I didn’t cry, because I never felt I would be denied the presidency or any other office because of my appearance. Now, less people feel that way. After my work in New Orleans after Katrina, I appreciate this much more.

In the absence of a regular local tavern where those who know my name gather, Facebook provided a guide of reactions to my Diaspora of friends. A man in my father’s church wrote on his status line, “now, when my son says I want to be president, I can tell him he can and really mean it.” A girl my sister’s age wrote, “we have a black president!!! I love my Jesus!!!!” Some of my more conservative friends made expressions between reservation and despair about what they view as an onslaught of socialism in our country. But Joshua wrote a great post on Facebook, reprinted here in Angela’s blog, from the perspective of a Republican who truly appreciates the gravity of these moments.

McCain still did exceedingly well among Evangelical Christians, winning on a 4-1 margin with Obama making slight gains over Kerry in ’04 (according to Christianity Today) on both sides. Both sides have written with such moral certitude that I think it is healthy to read and understand the other side. Donald Miller’s political journey from Reagan to Obama is a worthwhile read. Here is a good article from Touchstone pleading the case for the unborn, probably the main reason more did not vote for the president-elect. If you are reading this, I hope you find these links useful in understanding both sides.

I am privileged to live in our nation’s Capital at this time in history. I am in awe – not of a man; America’s political system with checks and balances help us remember that even the greatest of our presidents are human. Obama is not Jesus, as my very sensible wife points out. Indeed, many may end up disappointed. But on my shoulders, there is enough of the weight of history upon me for feelings of awe. Awe belongs to a God who redeems humans, families and nations. The girl my sister’s age said it best. We have a black president. I love my Jesus.

Beer continues to get religion

I'm taking a church history graduate class right now, so I have been reading much more than writing. Of course, not all of my reading has been class related. Here's a great article on religiously themed microbrews that I found courtesy of the good folks at Get Religion. Enjoy. 

100 Years of Spiritual Guidance in Hotel Rooms

I believe it was somewhere around springtime, when the first warmth opened café doors and bathed the candy red cobblestone of downtown Freiburg with sunshine. The warmth blew secretly through the town like an angel of life, passing around smiles to all of her residents, weary of winter’s darkness. On such days, I wanted to be downtown, where Kaiser-Josefstrasse met Bertholdstrasse and old women bought bread and young women shopped for trendy clothes. One such day, I saw a group of old men engaging people with a special sort of consistency. They wore old suits that were comically colorful – not even the kind of old suit my grandfather would have worn, but rather, the kind of old suits unstylish old men in movies wore. As I approached them, one of them handed me a small book, bound in a cheap, green leather-imitating cover. No question what it was – a New Testament, a gift of love, from the Gideons.

According to one of the blogs on the Economist website, this year marks the 100 anniversary of the group. 100 years of distributing Bibles, without apology, without desperately grasping at cultural relevance, intellectualism or marketing strategies. 100 years of weary travelers knowing an unstylish, comforting spiritual guidance lay in the top drawer, right next to the bed.

In my experience, they use the old translations – King James for English and Martin Luther for German. It is a bit of a comfort-food evangelical outreach, successful through faithful persistence, trusting that if they make God’s word widely available to everyone without cost, the Holy Spirit will deeply bless someone.

It is casting a wide net. I wonder if the old men in Freiburg ever really saw the fruits of their labors. Perhaps they sometimes feel like Sisyphus, pushing the rock up the mountain with no end goal in sight. Probably, they feel more like the story of the boy on the beach, tossing starfish back into the ocean before the dry out.  When told by an adult that he would never be able to save all of the starfish, he smiled and said, “I just saved that one.” I know they did not see me, later on in an Irish Pub between glasses of Guinness and Paulaner (would they have approved of this?), I looked up 2 Corinthians 5 so I could explain to an unbelieving German the ministry of reconciliation in his own language, and how he too, could be reconciled to God.

I don’t if my German friend truly understood it. But what I do know, and what the old man in the unstylish suit knew, in our persistence, was that if you make God’s word available, good things can happen. Reconciliation can happen. Gospel can happen.

Happy birthday, Gideons. 

Peregrine 2

I was back at Peregrine Espresso today for my litmus test: the single cup of coffee. Black, of course – no sugar or cream to to hide the flavor. The music was on today – more Sufjan Stevens, less Rilo Kiley.

The drip coffee is manual. They do more than measure proportions of grounds and water and flip a switch. The filter is placed on the top of a cone/funnel, which itself rests in a hole in the middle of a small counter-shelf. The mug, with the up-side-down “e” logo, waits underneath for the magical brew. The girl at the coffee bar lovingly pours the steaming water, evenly taking advantage of every, fresh ground.

They put this much care into your normal, no frills, cup of coffee. It was excellent. She recommended the Thunguri Micro-Lot coffee out of Kenya, which has a naturally sweet flavor, rich, brewed with the right amount of strength.

Three cheers for Peregrine! If you live in the Hill, this is the place for a cup.

Peregrine's Progress

Ever since Murky Coffee fought the law on Capitol Hill, there has been no reason to leave my apartment for a cup of my favorite dark liquid. Murky still exists across the river in Arlington, but one of my wife’s own hand-crafted espresso with a touch of cinnamon renders the Metro ride to our southern neighbor that much more unappealing.

Don’t get me wrong, there are several decent coffee shops on the Hill, with nice places to sit and lose yourself in conversation or in the New Yorker. But the coffee all across the board is sub-par, even when it is organically grown, fair trade or supporting Christian relief efforts. Generally speaking, the quality of coffee in the district has been disappointing since I moved here. I am not enough of a coffee snob to abstain from the corporate chains or the (blessedly) free coffee I drink at work to feed my caffeine addiction. But considering the significant Ethiopian minority in the District, you would think there would be tastier options. (As an aside, I could simply be on the wrong neighborhood. The Northwest does seem like a better place for a coffee culture, and I know of a genuine bean roaster who goes to our sister church).

Murky was, as they said it, “the best damn coffee in Washington D.C.” Until, of course, the taxman came to the door with a bill to hefty to keep the shop open. It was good coffee, run by genuine coffee snobs who wanted you to love coffee as much as they do.

This weekend, Murky’s long awaited replacement has arrived. I won’t go into the details with their story, but I encourage you to read about Peregrine Espresso on their blog. Coffee snobs have returned to Capitol Hill, in the same cramped strip on Eastern Market. Since Justin is home in Michigan, I thought I’d pinch hit and write a (much wordier) review.

My wife and I missed the opening festivities, but we took time this Saturday come on by. Peregrine means pilgrim, which is appropriate, since we have been waiting with religious fervor for the place to open. As I write this review, however, I cannot escape comparing it to its predecessor.

I have mixed feelings about the atmosphere. Murky had a disorganized since of freedom that the best college roasters have. The workers were a colorful crew of funny, young coffee snobs. Chairs and tables were less uniform. Rilo Kiley (along with an assortment of music that the kind of people who like Rilo Kiley would listen to) would add to the noise of coffee orders and banter, yet would not distract you from your reading. There was the eclectic mix of people that made Capitol Hill on a weekend beautiful.

Peregrine in contrast is rather uniform. The mugs and furniture seemed all selected from the same catalogue. It was generally less colorful, and if there was music playing, I don’t remember. My wife prefers it that way. It has Ordnung. But I enjoy the colorful craziness. That being said, they owners say there is more decorating to be done.

Of course, the disorganization led to drawbacks. Half the time at Murky, I could not find a seat. Peregrine’s use of space was much more efficient and therefore more comfortable. There was room to breathe, room to sit. Hopefully, this noticeable step towards organization will mean all the bills will be paid, and that they will be on Capitol Hill a long time.

Of course, all of this is just window-dressing. What truly matters is the coffee. I regret to say that I was so craving the soy macchiato (my regular drink at Murky) that I forgot my normal litmus test for a coffee shop: a regular cup of black coffee. If they do that right, they will do other things right. I will have to report on this later. In the meantime, the macchiato was superb. My wife loved her cappuccino. It was worth leaving my apartment for.  

Collectivity and Its Discontents

Last night, between saying our final farewells to those “go world” visa commercials, my wife and I sat in our hotel room and watched the closing ceremony from Beijing. Instead of watching the opening ceremonies, we had watched Batman: Dark Knight in the theater, and it seemed like everyone else, from students to colleagues to NBC broadcasters were gushing about how great it was.

The Olympics have been a joy to watch this year. Phelps & company produced enough drama and made me excited about non-league sports in a way I probably won’t be again, at least until I am schlepping my own kids to swim practice and track meets.

Before the Olympics began, David Brooks gave me some food for thought. Or, to write it better, he focused a swarming group of thoughts that I already had by putting words to them (writers I like tend to do this for me). Brooks writes that China is showcasing an alternative to the more individualistic American Dream. The great nation is presenting a vision for a people based on collectivity and harmony.

The closing ceremony, as well as the highlights of the opening ceremony that I managed to see, argued Brooks’ point for him. This astounding show proclaimed a unity to form that the best marching bands could only dream of. Thousands of drummers drummed at once with purpose and power. The dancers moved in grace, the colors were red, gold, beautiful and Chinese. There was no one star, even when China’s most celebrated gymnast flew to the top of the stadium to light the torch, he, dressed in red and gold, was one of many, among drummers and dancers. It was something different than the surprise appearance by Mohammed Ali in Atlanta twelve years ago. Parkinson’s or not, he stood out from us as “the greatest,” and we wanted to be like him, to talk his talk and put our fists where our mouths are. China, in contrast, beckoned, if not demanded us to admire the collective dance of a great, ancient people. Everyone drums, dances, knows their place, and the whole is more beautiful than any of us.

Community is in our lifeblood. We need each other for survival. It is deeply spiritual as well. One of the reasons I am a Christian is that Jesus offers a ministry of reconciliation, based on love of God and of each other. He beckons us to lay our own lives down, as he did, in so doing loving our creator with all we have and loving each other as we love ourselves.

These primal and spiritual urges add appeal to the narrative of collectivity and community. Indeed, ever since I moved to Washington, I have attended a church that is more liturgical than what I am used to, simply because liturgy celebrates community in ways many modern evangelical churches do not. Prayer is beautiful, but it is lovely when we say the same prayer, together, acknowledging that we all need God’s will to be done, on earth as it is in heaven. What could be more pleasing than being one people?

Of course, China is a massive and present-day illustration to the historical difficulty of community. What happens when someone does not wish to confirm to the norms of the community? The collective identity ends with this non-conformist. What if a Chinese person wishes to worship in a church that doesn’t parrot the state sponsored religion? What if he thinks the Chinese claim to the land of his religious heritage was unrightfully made?

I know people who have boycotted watching the Olympics in memory of such non-conformists. Collective identity loses its beauty to those who no longer desire to be part of it, worse so for those who find partaking of it impossible. Ironically, when societies attempt to smother these non-conformists, they either lose the collectivity, or make the society dangerous, brutal and un-livable (see North Korea).

There is much to criticize about American individualism. We do need each other, and we wannabe-cowboys would do well to learn it. However, community cannot be forced. Often, it must be endured; it must be allowed to change us to make us better so that we can truly reconcile to those around us. It takes time, patience and an often-unsavory amount of bearing with one another. A top-down enforced (violently or otherwise) collectivity, where there is only one drumbeat, is not a good alternative.

One part of the closing ceremonies stood out to me. To represent the transition of the Olympic games from Beijing to London, a double-decker bus appeared. Before western celebrities (David Beckham among them) ascending from the bus’ roof, out of the doors sprung a group of dancers, evidently representing London residents. They were different colors, skin colors and clothes colors. Even though there was chorography, they did not move in a way to celebrate mass collectivity. Rather, they crept, jumped, ran and crawled in ways that celebrated a loosened sort of freedom that was noticeably lacking from the remainder of the show. And that I found very appealing.

Melancholy, Reviews and Religious Adherents

The professor who lives in my neighborhood has moved on, leaving the pale pink pages of the Financial Times Arts & Weekend for scavenger readers to pillage. Of course, with the internet, one really doesn’t need to raid the front porches of neglectful neighbors who forgot to forward their publications. However, August has been unseasonably mild, and in such good weather, the only way to read the newspaper is the old-fashioned way, which is what my wife did last weekend in the Bartholdi flower garden as I took a refreshing, Olympics-inspired run on the National Mall.

Sunshine and good cheer aside, I have always had a bent towards melancholy, lurking behind my eyes like a heather-gray wraith, keeping more colorful emotions from exposure. Thus, this FT article caught my attention when I returned, huffing and puffing under the open blue.

I like the tongue and cheek opening of the article describing dissatisfaction driving our economy. Indeed, I have been impressed as I have watched the Olympic coverage this weekend how the (mostly excellent) commercials have created a since of inspiration while subtly hinting I won’t be happy until I bought their product (proud sponsors of the Olympic games). It’s a lesson we all should have learned in all those anti-climatic Christmas morning moments, five minutes after the biggest present has been open, this surprising whisper that owning a Lego castle is not the closing chord of a symphony, resolving dissonance and achieving, finally, satisfaction. Perhaps an appreciation of what we have above what we want (what we feel we “deserve”) could do much to end credit card debt. Of course, our economy would take a huge hit.

Of the books reviewed in the article, the one I would be most interested in reading would be Julian Baggini’s Complaint, because, to my great interest, he brings up religion. “Baggini’s arch-enemy is religion,” writes FT, “all the major variants of which teach us to accept our miserable fate as God’s will. Christianity, for example, tells us to turn the other cheek.” Baggini writes “Complaint is a secular humanist act. It is a resistance against the idea… that suffering is our divinely ordained lot and that we can do no more than put up with it piously.”

I’m curious if Baggini’s sense of theology or history is as bad as the review (unintentionally) makes it out to be. Indeed, it seems that a large complaint against religion, by it’s other “arch-enemies,” is that the faithful are trying to make changes to the system and to others, not only now, but throughout history, in varying degrees of severity (and, I would argue, morality). The Christian right dares to involve itself in politics. Al Qaeda and its cohorts have not been turning the other cheek. Some of the most effective positive social change in the past century have been religiously driven (Gandhi, King, Tutu).

The famous “turn the other cheek” passage, interestingly enough, is from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, the very text which inspired King and Gandhi.  Dan preached a sermon on it a couple months ago. The Sermon on the Mount, he argues, teaches an effective, moral middle way between the weak, opiate religion Baggini and Marx criticize and the fanaticism of fundamentalists from the barking Brother Jed to the biting Osama Bin Laden.  To turn the other cheek is to neither back down, nor result to violence. It does not ignore reasons to complain. Martin Luther King understood this, and he stood up to racial inequality without resorting to violence, and he led others to do so. James understood this too, when he wrote, “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” Religion, when done well, is active and peaceful.

Among Christians, there will be a sense of melancholy and dissatisfaction. We possess an awareness of how the world is fallen and how it should be.  Our complaint is against the world, the flesh and the devil. Our hope is in Christ, who gave his life to overcome them. We work to reverse the effects of the fall, in ourselves, in the world’s systems and in each other. Theology of an inactive stoicism or violent fanaticism, whether from religious teachers or from critics, is bad theology, and disregards a rich history of Christian activism.

But is he patriotic if he drinks their beer?

In college I majored in international affairs. I lived in Europe and I married a Schwaebin. As you can imagine, the perspectives foreigners have on my own country have always fascinated me. A good and well thought-out example is this editorial by Christoph Peters, a German author, in the July 17^th New York Times on Barak Obama’s impending trip to Berlin. 

Saturday Reading on Immigration, Religion, Sex and Vampires

While I am at it, I thought I would post the links to two interesting articles in today’s New York Times. First, a fascinating story about the intersection of the pastoral and the political, as illegal immigrants seek refuge in a Roman Catholic Church in Iowa.

Second, Gail Collins wrote an interesting commentary about youth, sex, gender and society after reading a high school, romance, vampire novel by a Mormon stay-at-home mom. For a better discussion of chastity and sexuality, however, I would recommend Lauren Winner's book, Real Sex: The Naked Truth About Chastity. 

Under with Undershirts

When I spent a summer working and ministering in Yellowstone National Park, there were quite a few European students who had traveled across the pond for their American mountain adventure. Being a student myself at the time, a popular topic was the differences in atmosphere between European and American universities. I remember a French girl whose face lit up with a smile of disbelief when I explained that it was not unusual for girls in my school, to show up for class in their pajamas. “If I did that, everyone would talk about me!” she laughed in her disarming French accent.

In truth, I was not taken aback myself by the casualness of the American student. Indeed, I have found it natural and refreshing, a statement to the world that appearance, smooth faces, combed hair and pressed shirts don’t matter. However, perhaps showing my age, as well as the conservative, professional attitude of the city in which I live, I have noticed the rise of a fashion that is too casual by even my low standards. It is now cool among young men to walk around in their undershirts, without an overshirt to hide them.

I understand part of the appeal. They are very inexpensive, they breathe well (any material that thin and cheaply put together breathes well) and, for those who have it, they don’t hide the shape masculine broad shoulders and big biceps (though this is not a precursor to most of the young men who wear them).

However, these thin shirts are designed to be sweat-catchers, and nothing more. These sweat-catchers prevent, sometimes in vain, us men from fouling our offices with body odor or turning our nice work shirts a putrid shade of tan. Moreover, they are not designed for modesty. The unsightly man-nips can be seen, particularly when the classroom air-conditioning is cranking to combat the summer heat. Chest, armpit and even back hair sprout through the translucent  material like weeds through a city sidewalk. Any sign of sweat turns even the freshest white shirt into a shade of fleshy pink.

Undershirts also give an aura of mediocrity. It is by far the most un-creative of clothes, surpassing even tighty-whities. The white blandness simply lacks personality. Most rebellious fashion statements – tattoos, piercings, heavy-metal T-shirts – gave the wearer a sense of color and character. An undershirt that is not under anything seems to drain the wearer of all of these things. This does not mean our white-clad young friends are as colorless in their minds as they are in their clothes. However, our clothes, even the most mundane and casual, are a great way to express the quirky parts of our personalities that we don’t always get to put into words.

This is particularly troubling given the wide and cheap availability of T-shirts. Indeed, we are living in a golden age of cheap cotton garments. There are hundreds of competing websites where aspiring casual fashionistas can submit and sell their design or joke. The best ones usually end up in Justin's collection. Moreover, every event, sports-team, university and politician will have a cool T-shirt just for you. On Thursday night, I saw the Capitol Hill athletes of the DC soft-ball leagues. They were having their post-game drinks at the Southeast Capitol bars. The shirts were creative and had cool colors and pictures.  My favorites were a team called “big in Japan” and had an ancient, Asian-looking fish on the front. As I write this, I am wearing one of my favorite T-shirts: a kelly-green shirt from my Katrina-recovery days. Good work, good color, good memories, not to mention, much more exciting than any of my barely-threaded sweat-catchers that I wear under my button-downs.  

Forgiveness and Reconciliation in the Washington Post

This past April, I had the privilege of seeing Laura Waters Hinson’s excellent film, As We Forgive, on forgiveness and reconciliation in Rwanda. See the film, buy the film and tell your friends. This past Saturday’s Washington Post wrote about Laura – not just the film, but about how the lesson of forgiveness and reconciliation met her on a very personal level. Read all about here. As We Forgive should inspire all of us to a Christ-like forgiveness. His ministry was of reconciliation to God and to each other. It's beautiful to read how it started with the filmmaker herself.  

Jesus in Colorado Springs

While I was working in New Orleans, some of my colleagues were listening to a Mo Leverett live CD. Between spiritually laced folks songs, Mo argued that New Orleans was the kind of place where Jesus would hang out. I wish I remembered precisely what he said, but the gist was that Jesus was attracted to the “sinners” and the marginalized. Because of this, New Orleans is more of a place for Jesus than Colorado Springs, the "Vatican of the evangelical movement". I have been inclined to agree with him. 

The Civilians provided me (along with a few friends) some good food for thought, however. I had never heard of the Civilians before, but I love their concept of theater. They develop "original projects based on creative investigation of actual experience." As anyone who has darkened the sleek glass doors of a mega-church could attest to, they did this very well in This Beautiful City.

This Beautiful City explores the evangelical political movement in Colorado Springs, as well as those whom they rub up against, and those who feel left in the margins. If I understand it correctly, the characters in the play are Colorado Springs residents they met, interviewed, dined with and went to church with. It included Air Force cadets, church members, political activists, ministers, a transvestite and fallen pastors. One of the fallen pastors was none other than Ted Haggard. His scandal of homosexual prostitution and meth addiction broke during their visit, which, of course, gave a very public dose of reality to an already interesting backdrop.

The six of us who visited the play were all Christians, and I noticed we laughed more than many of those around us. They were knowing laughs. The stage was set up like a mega-church with two screens on either side of it - during one of the sequences, words to the songs appeared on them.  We laughed knowingly as songs, inspiring words, calls to stand and technological savvy attempted to create a space for spiritual experience. There was a Pentecostal church called RHOP whose members saw visions of demons in every corner and prophesied whatever seemed to come to their mind. They reminded me of some of the Pentecostals who were in New Orleans after Katrina, such as the preacher who excitedly promised that every one of the dilapidated houses would have a big screen TV. It is a strange disconnect - yet these were the people who were the first to risk life and health to recover the city. 

There were a few things that were foreign to me. Politics from the pulpit is something I rarely experience. Seeing this play, one would think that is the only thing that New Life Church preached (I wouldn't know). 

Yet, behind the politics, behind the very human stories of those who felt abandoned and judged by the church, behind the nervous apologetics of inarticulate evangelicals, there were some dim lights of Gospel. One of the most compelling characters was a mother and New Life Church member. She loved her father deeply, in spite of his homosexuality and his abandonment, in spite of protests from other family members. The Gospel of Christ seemed to encompass her, because of and in spite of the church community. The Gospel and church community helped her and her family overcome drug addiction, to work and provide for her children. As she did with her father, she was out to love those whom others rejected. She wanted to create a group in New Life about loving homosexuals, but only two people came. My biggest criticism of the play is that they did not explore this character further. Her scenes are all before the Haggard scandal broke; I was hoping to see her reaction. 

"This Beautiful City" showed that even in a city with so many churches and Christians per capita, there were still "sinners" left in the margins. I wonder if Mo Leverett was wrong. Jesus came and loved those in the margins. He healed diseases, forgave sins and changed lives. He was no stranger to religious authorities, often rebuking them and warning of hypocrisy. Judging by the play, he might feel right at home in Colorado Springs. But not necessarily in the parts one might expect. 

Two Cheers for Soup!

My wife has introduced me to the pleasure of soup. Of course, I grew up with soup, but it was rarely associated with pleasure. My mother lovingly cooked wonderful meals and baked wonderful desserts, but whenever we had soup it was more of an afterthought - a quick meal before we needed to hurry somewhere or something to heat up to fight the flu that would hit our household like a hurricane every winter. (One notable exception to this - mom made, and still makes, a killer split pea soup) It was a quick can of Campbell's that had too much water and not enough substance. It didn't taste bad, but it was never something to savor.

When my wife makes soup, it is a brew of imported German spices and bullion, combined with enough noodles to make spaghetti jealous. I love watching her cook, combining an artist's intensity with a bird-like quickness and a very German sense of purpose, none of which covers up, indeed it highlights, the fact that she is pouring love into the concoction for its final perfection. When she is finished, soup is no-longer an afterthought or an efficient source of vitamins. It is a meal, hot, steaming and worth savoring. When I eat it, usually frazzled after a long day of work, I can feel its minerals healing my body, my wife's love awakening my heart (as the adage goes) through my stomach.

Soup isn't an American factory product that comes in a can. It is an art. Justin tells me that young French chefs are tested by the professionals on their ability to make soup. Daniela understands this.

Clemens, who has been married at least a quarter century, tells me one of the joys of marriage is if you are patient and adventurous enough, you can continue to explore your wife and discover nuggets of beauty that amaze you. Daniela's soup is one that I found early.

Song, Resurrection

On Easter, I wrote a song. At church, we played the song for the first time. It was an exhilarating moment. I had hoped it would be exhilarating, and I still wonder if that kind of hope is wrong.

The word resurrection is in the name of my church. The resurrection is something I never doubted. It was never that difficult to believe. If you can have incarnation, resurrection is not that much of a stretch. Yet, I have been struck by the number of people who have denied it, and have expended much energy trying to deny it. There are all sorts of apologist kind of debates, which became familiar to me growing up around evangelical circles. However, when I was in Freiburg engaging people in evangelistic discussion, the question was not about proofs. There seemed to be an overall consensus, right or wrong, that something so long ago could not be proved for certain, though the evangelicals are right in saying that the testimonies and behavior of the Apostles are worth noting. The question was more whether we need to believe in the Resurrection. Is it something truly so important? Can it be a symbolic myth, that folks could choose to believe if they are comfortable with it? It seemed to them an unnecessary and divisive miracle.

It occurred to me that, in a fashion not untypical to evangelicalism, I had lost the theology and the beauty of the Resurrection in the apologia. Easter was a holiday of uncomfortable clothes and sugary pastels. We sang beautiful songs about the cross, but the songs about the Resurrection seemed comparatively shallow.

Easter, while attending a church that purposefully celebrates the Resurrection, inspired me to write a song about it. I wanted to write a song that would manage to capture a drop of the rapturous joy, rich theology and weighty consequences that convinced Paul that any theology without it is hopeless. We will follow our Rabbi, our King, from death to life, and that joyful thought should be a sobering, happy weight on our hearts that we cannot ignore.

If my song (or the words above) could catch a drop of that endless waterfall, it is by God's merciful grace. These were my thoughts as I wrote it, and I hope they were holy, as much as they could be so, and I hope that these were words that God could smile on.

I wanted to share it with my church, and dread set in. It seems arrogant to want to even write something about it, something almost too beautiful to utter. I worried that the song structure would not be compatible to group singing or that my theology would be off. I wanted it so badly to be accepted that I spent too much time worrying. Not exactly a Resurrected way of looking at things, free of pride and fear.

In any case, we sang it, and it went very well. People sang and seemed to truly worship (as did I), which is all a praise song can ask for. I reveled in it a bit, fantasizing about selling the rights to Chris Tomlin and growing rich off the royalties. I have always dreamed of being some sort of artist, and I wonder if others, particularly Christian artists, struggle between worry and pride, to the point where the beauty of the message is lost in self-reflection (the blog itself perhaps is an attempted to exorcise this). C.S. Lewis seemed to know this. Biographers marvel at how humble he managed to stay among is fame and success. He wrote that God wants us to be the kind of creatures that can make a cathedral or symphony, know very well that it is good, take joy in this goodness, and go along our way. He said that true humility dispenses with modesty. As little creators we can revel in the joy of the Creator, in as long as we are learning to reflect him, as long as we are learning to follow Christ, out of pride and into art, out of self and into Him, out of death and into life abundantly, resurrection.

Wine, Quickly

Once again wine makes for interesting conversation and cultural commentary. Good New York Times article by Roger Cohen:


Of Wine, Haste and Religion

Hirshhorn

There were two things that especially struck me at the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden. I almost bought one of them.

We braved Sunday's storms to take advantage of D.C.'s free pieces of culture and made it there with soaked ankles and a couple of soy-based granola bars, courtesy of a storm that did not apologize for danger, excitement, wetness and inconvenience, and some hippies who did not apologize for believing the world would be safer and cleaner if we all ate more soy.

Hirshhorn is in a cylinder-shaped building with bronze sculptures dancing in the grass all around it. They did not seemed to mind the rain, and I tried to follow their example. The building is also skirted by a convenient roof so we could enjoy the wet, delicious air and watch the hippies run for shelter as we squeezed rain out of our pant-legs.

The first thing that struck me was a current exhibit called The Cinema Effect: Illusion, Reality and the Movie Image, Part I: Dreams. According to the Hirshhorn website, Dreams "addresses film’s ability to transport us out of our everyday lives and into a dream world. Using a series of artists’ installations, the exhibition moves us through the different stages of consciousness and dreaming, from those moments between wakefulness and sleep to the darker recesses of the imagination and fantasy. Dreams is curated by chief curator Kerry Brougher and associate curator Kelly Gordon."

It succeeded for me, and it seemed to succeed for other museum goers. The darkness of the whole exhibit, each installation, kept me in a constant, isolated feeling between awake and asleep. (Incidentally, the effect gave my wife a headache, but she was nice enough to wait for me while I meandered through to get the whole effect) These were not Disney dreams, but honest explorations of the subconscious. Parts were strange, fascinating, morbid, beautiful and frightening. It explored isolation, fear, sexuality, violence, desire, love, abandonment, and many other abstract echoes from the deep that we have all felt waiting for morning to approach. Each installation was a piece of film, set up by artists from all over the world (most of whom found their way to New York, London or Berlin). The use of film, screen, sound, light were all different. Some were interactive, some were traditional. In "You and I Horizontal" the viewer feels himself to be part of the light of the film itself (I won't explain it more than this - see it yourself). My favorite film was called "Eight," which follows a little girl in a dream-like loop through a party (her eighth birthday, perhaps?) drenched by a dark storm. Ok, it's better than I'm making it sound. I'm looking forward to part II.

The other thing that struck me was a book I browsed in the gift shop called Street: The Nylon Book of Global Style. Perhaps the title is a bit unfair. It only explores interesting fashion cities - New York, Paris, Berlin, Hong Kong, etc..., leaving important populations and styles unexplored. It really was not the style that interested me. I had never heard of Nylon the magazine before. Indeed, I am not that interested in reading the magazine itself, but I loved the concept of the book, nonetheless. They found interesting people, the kinds of people that I used to be drawn to in Germany as we would carry a tray of soggy salad and strange noodles to speak with isolated students about Jesus. They would take a picture each person and fill the page with it. They would ask them their name, occupation, what they were wearing and fashion icon (I can imagine the puzzled looks many gave at this one. My favorite answer was the young woman who said her grandmother). Many of the clothes were hand-me downs, many of the occupations were artists, many were too thin but attractively cool. They were pictures of people who cried for a spirituality, the kind of people I hope for, pray for, want to meet.

Vs. the DMV

I have never thought I would find so much joy in a functioning turn signal.

I brought my 200,000 mile Nissan Altima to the big city to live on Capitol Hill, one of my favorite neighborhoods in the world. Several temporary parking passes and several more parking tickets later, I am battling the system to keep my car on the streets. This is the story of some lessons I learned along the way.

My first attempt at parking legality was to get a 6 month parking pass. To get a pass, I need to own the car. Now, I bought the car from my father, fair and square. But who thought we needed to transfer the papers? We share two of three names. Besides, he needed to use my car while I was in Europe! Not so, said the (ahem) nice lady in the DMV.

The SW DC DMV was the only one open on a Saturday. I think people had been waiting there since last Saturday. The line seemed to snake as far as Union Station. Fortunately, there was a gate-keeper. Every DMV needs a gate-keeper. There are so many ridiculous rules to owning and keeping a car, that there should be someone you speak to before standing in line to make sure you are not waiting on a lost cause. The SW DC gatekeeper had glared over her glasses as if every soul waiting in line was a shivering display of pathetic incompetence. She was part castle-guard, part bouncer, part lunch-lady. Her glasses hung by a thread at the end of her nose, and she glared at every person with piercing, pitiless eyes that said, "don't try it, I've heard every damn excuse there is." I tried it anyway. I didn't own the car, my father did. She pointed that out to me. No dice, no parking pass.

I wanted to remain a Florida resident, as my housing was temporary and DC doesn't have a Representative in the government (so say all the license plates that I envy). That dream died when I found out my Florida car insurance doesn't work in Washington. They really should tell people these things. I think they were hoping I would crash so they didn't have to pay for it. I had reasons to be thankful - I had driven for over 6 months in the VA and DC area on insurance that would not have cut it. I bought some new, DC-approved insurance online on the recommendation of a colleague. Of course, I got another parking ticket while my car waited on me. I couldn't be a Florida resident anymore, however. I needed a DC driver's license, representative or not.

So I bit the dust and bought several trees worth of papers that proved that I am me and I live in DC to the DMV. I came away with my new DC drivers license. I even like my picture. Of course, the guy typing in my name was a trainee who kept messing up basic facts like my gender. This should have been a cue to read my license carefully before I left the building. My name was misspelled, I realized days letter. DC is a place where missing work brings you enough guilt as it is. It felt to guilty to miss work for this for more time on this. I sighed and decided I would change the license when I could register my car. Hopefully this will be before we elect our next president.

License in head, I was ready to make my next step towards legitimate parking: the inspection. I woke up early on a dark winter's morning so I could be in and out before work started. I got there to a line of cars also going into be inspected. I was reminded of a heard of cows outside of a Chicago slaughter-house. We were herded into four lines, and my car, being older than a '96, moved into a special line for AARP autos. My paint-job reveals my car's age from miles away, but that's another story. I was nervous about an old car passing inspection, but my colleague assured me that considering some of the clunkers on the road in this town, my car would make the cut. I drove into the tunnel where the moment of truth would take place. The wise-guy mechanic kid motion to me to get out of the car. "How many people you hit this year?" he asks. "None so far!" I was surprisingly friendly for that early in the morning. "You ran through the stop sign. You could have hurt somebody. Next time you come here, stop." There was a stop-sign on the left side, above the line of vision of anyone not driving a Hummer. I could have protested, but I had already ticked off the guy who I hoped would give my car a clean bill of health. I think you know the rest of this story.

As it turns out, all I needed was a new gas cap and a tail-light. Easy enough. Oh, and I needed to get rid of the tint on my car. That really turned my cheese. I had a feeling that part would be over-priced. In Florida, you need a dark tint to keep from killing your passengers in the middle of August. In DC, evidently, anyone with a tint darker than 30% is a suspected drug-dealer or terrorist (or part of an official motorcade. Or a diplomat). In the meantime, I had a light bulb to change

Leave it to me to mess this one up. The moment after I had changed the light bulb, my tail-blinker went out. I had another light bulb, but aparently the blinkers need their own special light. While trying to jam the wrong light bulb into the blinker, I broke the socket. Now, Discount Auto-Parts doesn't carry new sockets for Nissans. To save my car, I needed to go to the dealer. In the meantime, every time I used my left turn signal (which still worked in the front), it blinked at a fast and panicky speed, reminding me every time that it was broken. By this time, I was driving to work every day to avoid parking tickets. (I would prefer to take the Metro and help stop Global Warming)

Of course, the close dealer didn't have the part. The only one in town who did were way out in the wilderness of suburban Virginia. I guiltily left work early to make it their before it closed. The young man behind the counter was sleepy. They didn't have the part afterall, but they could give it to me tomorrow. No problem. I like driving on 395 in traffic with a bad turn-signal.

I returned the next day to what must have been the dealer alpha-male patrolling the counter. He was manly. He had long silver hair, an silver fu-man chu, grizzled silver stubble, and silver hair trying to escape out from his shirt collar and sleeves. If he anything leather, he would have bit it in half. I was wearing a shiny red shirt, a perfectly matching tie and trendy, square glasses. My face was humiliatingly smooth. At least I wasn't carrying a latte. Fortunately, I did actually know what I needed (after several attempts). I desperately did not want him to see my clumsy ignorance of auto-parts. He grunted as he gave me the part, which I accepted gratefully. Oh by the way, do you know a place where I could get the tinting removed? "Ask the boys outside," he said, pointing to a room full of Nissan salesmen, with smooth faces, bright eyes and crescent moon smiles. So I asked them, and they were refreshingly honest. It would cost me about $200. "Go to the home depot, get yourself a heat-gun and a scraper, take it off yourself. Be careful, the heat gun ain't no hair drier. It'll burn your skin." I decided to follow his advice.

Going into Home Depot made me feel more manly. There is something primal about being in a store full of metal designed to cut things. At an impulse, I bought a cutting plier for my guitar screens. I wanted to yalp like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I also bought the scraper and the heat gun, which is cool, but needed an extension chord. This plan would have worked perfectly, except my building does not have an external electrical outlet. Oh well.

Oh, and I found out that I could not take off my old socket by myself. The manly impulses dwindled at my failure to conquer the machine. Had I really been with William Wallace, I would have been the first guy to eat it after taking an English arrow to the face. Our Human Resource Director/Accountant/Office Handy-man managed to fix it for me. He's a good man. I got a fitted bulb for my tail-light just this evening. It was blinking correctly, and I was using my turn signal just for the fun of it. Joy of joys. I'll pass that inspection test for sure.

Driving home, it took me forever to find a parking place. There are too many cars in this area. I wish the city would do something about it.