Nothing New Under the Sun

Oh look, my blog! I found it between the couch cushions, next to a bottle cap and a couple of pennies. I had to dust off the cookie crumbs, not to mention two, no, three impermeable gummy bears, plus hair that could be human or teddy bear. I tell you, one day, you put it down, and the next day it falls through the cracks and coats itself sticky with sugar. Well, I rinsed it off in the kitchen sink, because I found something familiar and needed to write about it. This is from Marilynne Robinson's Gilead. It describes the protagonist's mother, mothering in the late 1800s but still familiar today: 

"In many ways, she was a remarkably careful mother, poor woman. I was in a sense her only child. Before I was born she had brought herself a new home health care book. It was large and expensive, and it was a good deal more particular than Leviticus. On its authority she tried to keep us from making any use of our brains for an hour after supper, or from reading at all when our feet were cold. The idea was to prevent conflicting demands on the circulation of the blood. My grandfather told her once that if you couldn't read with cold feet there wouldn't be a literate soul in the state of Maine, but she was very serious about these things and he only irritated her. She said 'Nobody in Maine gets much of anything to eat, so it all comes out even.' When I got home she scrubbed me down and put me to bed and fed me six or seven times a day and forbade me the use of my brain after every single meal. The tedium was considerable."

If she lived today, she'd have a blog. I say this as someone deep in the careful parenting camp. And I'm sure the Internet makes her "health care book" look less like Leviticus and more like a book of nursery rhymes. I know I wield it like a weapon against any potential malady or sign of ill-health that could approach my daughter. And I'm sure a good portion of it is really healthy! Perhaps in a generation or two my daughter will laugh at this area and say "the tedium was considerable." But I hope she'll also remember herself as well-loved.

Speaking of which, you should read (or re-read) Gilead. I've just finished, and I haven't felt this way about prose since I read Breakfast and Tiffany's a couple years ago. I know Robinson is read and loved by plenty of literary connoisseurs, but for the rest of us, well, this book is a feast and there's no shame in being late for it. I won't say too much about it, because it's one of those books that's best left to speak for itself. I'll only mention a couple things. It's the letters of an aging pastor who knows he's dying to his young son. It's beautiful - more like a hike in the country than any sort of action film - with the most nourishing food for thought gently weaved into the narrative. And there's this quote: 

"For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I wasn't writing prayers, as I was often enough. You feel that you are with someone. I feel I am with you now, whatever that can mean, considering that you're only a little fellow now and when you're a man you might find these letters of no interest. Or they might never reach you, for any number of reasons. Well, but how deeply I regret any sadness you have suffered and how grateful I am in anticipation of any good you have enjoyed. That is to say, I pray for you. And there's an intimacy in it. That's the truth."

With this in mind, I intend to write more. 

Family Expressed

How do you express your family? I'm not sure if express is the right word, but I can't think of a better one. Let's see... those people who you live with and share genes and jeans and eat with and love and hurt and see and avoid and mess and clean. How do you present them to the world? After all, if you want the world - friends, colleagues, potential networking contacts, co-members, sports fans, and whomever else - if you want them to actually understand you, they need to understand your family, or at least the pieces you allow to show.

For this purpose, I often utilize that wonderful, free public relations platform called Facebook. There, we wash ourselves and dress up like birthday cakes and smile to create professional-looking photographs that are clearer than reality. They're so clear, they cause the blind to see. Or we get spontaneous shots of playgrounds, snowmen and Christmas presents, family happiness and instant memories. I'm writing with my tongue between my molars, but I do this, and I love it. All these things are worth celebrating like victorious children. Then there are other things beneath the pictures. Messes, tedium, delight, sin, forgiveness, sex, conflict, joy, and things only for the realms of pastors, therapists and bartenders.

To get a more complete family portrait, you need art. For his family portrait, Benjamin Hofer crafted ten songs which lovingly and resolutely fill out his first full-length album, Family History. A few items of business before I continue: Ben is a dear friend - he was the best man at my wedding, and I in his - so you should hear the bias in what I am about to write. His wife Lauren Shea Little on vocals and Wendell Kimbrough in the production chair are also friends. But please taste the free single and see for yourself. This is a good album, perfect for your Saturday-morning song list. (And for a quick overview of all the other useful information surrounding the album, visit Justin's blog)

Ben and Wendell layer vocals, guitars, banjos, percussion, whistling, and plenty more to create the album's thoughtful sound. The production itself is impressive, and it's a compliment to their work, the mastering, and the technology that the album sounds three dimensional, like the musicians are in the room with you and not next door. Most of the music is pleasantly subdued, which makes the title track more of a highlight when, as if releasing some pent up emotion, the musicians start rocking out and fill up every available space with sound.

But even more than layering music, what Family History does well is layer emotions. There are happy songs like "Man's Own Heart" or "We'll Be Laughing" (a personal favorite for me) that carry a splash of regret. Likewise, the sad songs like "Huron, SD" aren't joyless. It's so tempting to talk about family (or for that matter history, love, or politics) in one dimension, and Ben's emotional alchemy not only tells broader stories, it holds the listener to his or her better angels.

However personal Ben's songs are, you'll find yourself nodding, relating and humming along. I spoke with Ben today, and he talked about the joys and pains of sharing family history, but at the same time, he knows that these songs will mean different things to different people. Our families leave us our own scarred map of memories, and Ben's Family History might help shine a light on yours.

One more thing. We expect our entertainment to reach out and grab us. We need a little pizazz from the first page, scene, or song to convince us that we should pay attention. Most of Ben's songs don't reach out and grab us, and I mean that as a compliment. We're adults; we don't need to be grabbed. We have the ability to sit and listen, and that is a marvelous gift. Family History is full of songs like the title track,  "The Dream of Joseph Cornell" or "Huron, SD" that won't greet you at the door like a salesman. But if you sit and listen, you will be rewarded with rich stories told by rich music. As soon as you can, sit down and listen to Benjamin Hofer's Family History. It comes out on April 6th.

The Violinist (A Voice of Our Own)

My weekly journey to Stuttgart ends late in the evening. My last class finished, I walk briskly down Koenigstrasse. Stuttgart's great shopping street is nearly empty. The locals huddle in bars to watch the Wednesday night soccer games and dart in and out of clubs like shy gophers with cigarettes. The muscles in my legs burn with the pleasure of movement that contrasts nicely to the icy central-European breeze against my face. There's freedom in walking, freedom in knowing that the street, the sneakers, the buildings standing in attention all the way were designed to parade me to the train station and take me home, where my daughter sleeps and my lover waits. I am fast, but I don't hurry; I walk in an un-lonely solitude that I experience in big cities at night. 

A line of music breaks my thoughts like an unexpected visitor. Where have I heard that before? Oh yes. That's "Time to Say Goodbye" the song Andrea Bocelli sing's in my parent's speakers and in that Italian cafe I frequented in Freiburg. It's not typical of the violinist. She usually plays songs from movies. I usually hear her play the theme from Schindler's List or "My Heart Will Go On." 

The violinist is blonde, pretty and perhaps a bit too thin. She's young - a teenager? Her hair is straight and nearly tied behind her head in a pony tail that wags in a friendly manner as she movers her bow back and forth over her instrument. She's an amateur, no question, with only the occasional evening pedestrian for an audience. I like to think that she's Russian. I don't know of course, but my prejudice says that a blond girl with a violin must be Russian. Of course, I can't tell. She could be a local. She could have been born down the street from me in the good ol' US of A. Or anywhere else, really. 

Why does she play? Need? Charity? Hope? Hopelessness? I don't know. But as I pace by, I reflect how much she's like a blogger. It's one thing to play in our bedrooms or write in our journals - little pieces of us expelled from our minds with no listener or accountability. But the street and the Internet give us a voice. Regardless of our talent or depth, we get to say something that might be heard by anyone who happens to walk by our night, our street, our website. We may dream of Carnegie Hall or The New Yorker, we may reflect on what changes in history, education or genetics might have gotten us there. But that does stop us from playing and typing, pretending and expressing, saying something that may just cut through the noise of our busy minds. 

I continue home, "Time To Say Goodbye" fading behind my right shoulder. 

Feel free to leave some change in the hat. 

Whitney Houston and the Joyful Noise

It's a strange sadness, the sadness I feel at the news of Whitney Houston's death. I've never been much of a pop music guy, and I could never be called a real Whitney fan. I never bought an album, and I only know the songs that the casual radio listener would know. I remember my mother singing along to "I Wanna Dance with Somebody"in the kitchen back in the day - probably having a welcome respite to those incessant children's albums (as I am now all too familiar with). I remember being annoyed as a Middle Schooler when it seemed like "I Will Always Love You" was the only thing they played on the radio. Yet even with my distance and preteen attitude, Houston's voice always stuck with me more than her fellow pop divas and more than pretty much all the other voices that haunt my speakers.  

I think I know why. In several places, the Psalmist invites us to "make a joyful noise to the Lord." Houston sang with an unhinged joy, the kind of joy you see in a two year old girl when she dances to her favorite song. As far as I can see, none of her talented contemporaries had that. Maybe they could match her in attitude or showmanship or however else you measure divas, but they couldn't match her in joy. The joy recalls that famous scene in Chariots of Fire where Eric Liddell, the Scottish missionary who was preparing for the 1924 Olympics is accused by his sister Jennie of ignoring God's work to run all the time. He tells her, "I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I can feel his pleasure." (And for what it's worth, Ian Charleson beautifully captures Liddell's joy in the film)

Houston sang as if she could feel God's pleasure, and it was infectious. Yes, her problems were legion - a bad marriage, drug abuse and all the trappings of deification. I can't say I'd have done better. I can only pray the same prayer I pray for any of us: God have mercy on her. I can only hope that she has been found with Jesus, where her voice can soar with the joy of the heavenly hosts. 

Do Not Hinder Them

We ran some errands in downtown Plochingen today. We walked downtown – the weather was too beautiful not to do so. The sun, already autumn gold, warmed the ever-enchanting view of my wife and daughter ahead of me on the sidewalks. They looked like icons from an ancient Eastern Church.

After a few checks off the to-do list, our company parted. My wife would run to the little discount grocery store to buy a Knoedel for today’s lunch, and my daughter and I would stay in Plochingen’s pedestrian zone. The plan was to free my daughter from the confines of her stroller and let her little legs run up and down the street, as she had done in the past. But she wanted to go somewhere else. “Jesus!” she cried, pointing at the downtown chapel.

We were at the chapel the Sunday before. There was a children’s church service put on by the Protestant church. They sang wonderful little songs and learned about how, when Jesus was twelve, he stayed at his Father’s house. There were paintings of Jesus on the wall, medieval-style sketches from his life and death and life. At the front, like so many other European churches, there’s a statue of Jesus on the cross. (The comic highlight of the morning was when she pointed out that the Crucified One was “naked.”)

“Jesus!” she said again, matter-of-factly, still pointing at the chapel. At first I did not want to go in. Why go into a stuffy room with Europeanized Jesus pictures when we could still enjoy Germany’s September sun? “Jesus!” she insisted. Nervously, I looked at the stern sign on the chapel door warning people to be quiet and reverential while in the building. “Jesus!” she said. Then I remembered something Jesus himself once said: “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them.” I opened the door and we went in.

My daughter pointed to one of the paintings. “Jesus!” she said again. This time she was not insisting but acknowledging. She hurried down the center aisle to the statue of Jesus on the cross. “Jesus!” she said. “Cross!” she said, pointing. I had never heard her say the word “cross” before. My daughter excels at pointing and acknowledging. Perhaps, in this case, it was her own way of worshiping.

In some ways, I find it strange that a child finds Jesus so interesting. When I was a child, I knew Jesus was good, but I had to grow into him. I preferred more adventurous Sunday school stories, like David fighting a giant or Samson’s action-hero invincibility. It was only later that I realized how Jesus, in his ministry of reconciliation, was so much stronger than either. I don’t know if my daughter’s child-wisdom will remain. Maybe, with age and other distractions, her interests will go elsewhere.

What I do know is that one of my responsibilities as a father is to show Jesus to her - to tell her about Him and to teach her what he said. I am to model Jesus for her. For this task, I am insufficient; we both need grace. One day, she will decide for herself if she will live up to her Baptism, if she will live up to this moment in Plochingen’s downtown chapel, if she will abide in Jesus and participate in his ministry of reconciliation. One more thing I know: if she is truly interested in Jesus, at any point, the worst thing I could possibly do is hinder her.

A Mighty Fortress

I lived in Germany for two years, and it's been several months since I moved back here from Washington, D.C. But a couple weeks ago, I had an essential German experience for the first time. I was privileged to sing Martin Luther's majestic hymn, "A Might Fortress is Our God" in the original German with a German congregation. Not only that, but I was on worship team duties, so I got to be a part of the creating and leading process.

I had never before heard the German version in its entirety (unlike some other famous German hymns like "Praise to the Lord the Almighty," sung in English and German at our wedding, or "Fairest Lord Jesus"), but it was a divine experience. The good news for English speakers is that Fredric Henry Hedge's translation is an excellent piece of work - near word for word perfection. Hedge added a couple of notes and syllables to the original to work it out, but it's very well done. (I was previously unaware of the other translations - I grew up singing Hedge's versions, but I hope I am speaking as someone who knows both languages well rather than as a sentimentalist when I say that the other translations I've read don't capture Luther's text nearly as well)

"A Mighty Fortress is Our God" is nicknamed the "Battle Hymn of the Reformation," but paradoxically, I find it a hymn of great comfort. It's a very familiar hymn for many of us who grew up in a Protestant church, and because of it, it's easy to miss the intricacies. Look at it again. It concisely outlines our weakness against the devil's schemes but then celebrates our Advocate, "the Man of God's own choosing." In light of our Lord Saboath's triumph, this Christ-centered hymn ends in a glorious call to repentance:

Let good and kindred go; this mortal life also

The body they may kill; God's truth abideth still

His Kingdom is forever

The best hymns and songs manage to confront the various emotions of Christianity. Luther's hymn goes through fear, faith, comfort, triumph and conversion. Because of this, whether singing or leading the congregation, there are two modern tendencies worth avoiding. The first tendency would be to skip a verse or two. We do this with most hymns to accommodate the modern attention span (myself included), and it's a trade-off that all of us make (especially with those 17-stanza marches in the hymnals). We always lose something when we do this, but verse skipping ruins the flow and scheme of "A Mighty Fortress." This is one of those songs where the whole is more than the sum of its parts. Besides, it's only four verses, so hang in there. Sing the whole thing.

The second modern tendency is more in a personal level. The combination of the hymn's familiarity and the hymn's unblushing reference to spiritual warfare can tempt us to remain "above the fray", so to speak, as we sing it. It's easy to mouth the ancient words without letting them penetrate mind, heart or will. Read it again. See for yourself why that would be a shame.

Is the Hundertwasser House Germany's Answer to Dr. Seuss?

The most beautiful building in the small city of Plochingen is St. Ulrich's, the Protestant church that presides over the Neckar River with the majesty of an aging monarch overlooking his court. The second most beautiful building is St. Konrad's, Plochingen's handsome Catholic church that lies just down Hindenburgstrasse from my in-law's house. But if you visit Plochingen's official website, the first image you see is a fuzzy-edged picture of the city's own Hundertwasser House.

In the early 90s, the famous Austrian architect and artist Friendensreich Hundertwasser (his name means "Reign of Peace Hundred Waters," though he was never a basketball player) agreed to design a masterwork for this sleepy Swabian town. The house, which is a high-walled courtyard containing apartments and cafes and an enormous "Rain Tower" which may or may not collect rain, stands proudly in the middle of downtown.

The purpose of this courtyard is to convey Hundertwasser's distinct characteristics: "happy colorfulness, round forms and playful balconies." Also, Hundertwasser planted a live trees in the balconies and roofs. These "tree renters" serve as an important testament that not only people, but trees live in apartments.

The other night, my sister and I made an investigative visit to the court yard to, just like a certain bear who went over a certain mountain, see what we could see. It is playful and colorful, without a doubt. The visit confirmed my suspicion that Hundertwasser, much more than an esteemed architect, is the German speaking world's answer to American children's book author Dr. Seuss. To my eyes, the best way to describe the Hundertwasser House, with it's playfully scattered windows, generous reds and sparkly blues, randomly drooping colorful drops (evidently to make it look natural), wonderfully loopy corners and curves, can best be described as Seussville. In fact, now that I regularly read Dr. Seuss's ABC book with my daughter, I was surprised to leave the courtyard without seeing a Fiffer Feffer Feff (with his four fluffy feathers) or the Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz. It would be the perfect place for Thing 1 and Thing 2 to chase the Cat in the Hat in father's ten dollar shoes. They did not serve green eggs and ham, but this didn't surprise me as it would have clashed with the color-scheme (Red Fish and Blue Fish, however, would fit right in). I should also say that I don't know anyone who lives in the apartments, so I can't report whether or not they would object to being called "Whos."

Anyway, I can only approach the Hundertwasser House with the fun and humor, but as the Germans say, nothing for ungood. It's clever, quirky, but very unique. And it makes sense that it is featured on the website; every town in Germany has at least one beautiful church, but who has an avaunt garde apartment complex that will turn heads (for better or for worse) of all the people who commute into Stuttgart? The rain tower sticks out of Plochingen's houses like a balloon salesman sticks out of a crowd of children. The Grinch leans out of it to hear if we are still singing.

The Mountains Declare

If you ever hike the Alps, don’t be surprised if you see, perched between hay fields and pine forests, small alters to the Crucified Savior. There seems to be one for every grassy field that creeps around the feet of these mountains. They’re like large bird houses, except the front is open and has a small painted statue of Jesus on the cross. Sometimes he is alone; sometimes he’s flanked by Mary and John. At his feet are pieces of grain, flowers or candles, small offerings and prayers.

It’s as kitschy as a Hallmark Card and probably stained by superstition, but in some ways, you can’t blame them. In central Europe, religion is for two people, children and country folk. Children, to get a little culture and values training before they have to take on the real world, and country folk, because, bless them, what do they know about reality?

But, really, you can’t blame them. I know I can’t, because today I hiked the Alps. I hiked, with my wife beside me and my daughter strapped to my back, little creatures on a country path surrounded by a congregation of mountains. The Alps are a congregation, that’s the best way to describe them. These ancient giants stand in a position of wizened and lively worship, and they beckon all who crawl on them, however lost and diminished, to join in.

Worship. Worship beckoned me, hiking the Alps. The Alps are glorious, jagged in a way that comes across as both random and purposeful. They stand as proud equals to the clouds, some bald, some defying July to wear patches of glistening snow. Unending pine trees grow bravely upwards until the point that the mountains are too high and they can no longer grow. They form an evergreen skirt around each mighty hill, a quilt of needle and bark to measure the years. The congregation sings, joys and sorrow, celebrating the summer sun until evening winds cool the daylight passions into meditations of wisdom.

Worship beckoned me. “Heaven is a place that everybody here believes in. Why we have every reason,” wrote American folk singer Pierce Pettis about a town of country folk in Alabama. Hiking the Alps, I could relate to the country folks. I wanted to build an alter or at least find two decent sticks to make a pine cross. I wanted to lift my hands and sing the words of an anointed shepherd. I recognized the handiwork of a Creator, and I knew enough about myself that I knew I needed the Creator to be a Redeemer. I knew that the woman walking next to me, the girl strapped to my back and the passing strangers in hiking boots were his handiwork too, and in the presence of the mountains, my loves for them deepened in their various paths, like the streams of melting snow that carves the wrinkly face of an ancient hill.

Has busyness, disenchantment, noise, pollution or just plain pride left you disconnected from God? Are you hurting from hope, weary of faith and unable to love? Are you doing just fine, convinced that you’ve mastered your life with no pressing need to look up. Hike the Alps. Or the Appalachians. Or the Rockies. Catch a ride to the closest mountain range. Find a path that graciously allows you to climb something much larger than you, something that has been around much longer than you or your family or your city. Hike with your eyes open. How, then, could you not join the congregation? How could you ignore beckoning worship? How could you not relate to the country folk? How could you not become a psalmist, singing, “The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,” “What is man, that you are mindful of him” and “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name above the Earth!”

The Italian Barber

Somewhere between packing, catching diseases, moving countries and being a family man, I forgot to get a haircut. In college, and during both of my years in Germany, I simply let my hair grow. The style around the turn of the millennium (if you can recall to those days of Y2K scares and mobile phones without screens) was for a man to have each of his hairs shorn tiny and combed forward so it came to a single point at the front. Everyone respectable had it, which bothered me for some reason, so I let my locks grow. I cut it short and pretty again every time I needed a desk job, but as a student or missionary I played Sampson (without the muscles). Some Women protested (though when long hair became fashionable again half a decade later they protested when I cut my hair), but sometimes my hippie hair invited comparisons to Jesus, John Lennon and Vigo Mortensen's version of Aragorn. Not bad company, if you ask me. Of course, I was also cast as a mental patient and a hobo...

I spent my last half-decade as a respectable DC urbanite with a matching haircut, and here in Germany, I need hair that assures anyone I meet (an immigration official, for example) that I'm ready to have a place in society. So, I went to a barber.

My in-laws recommended the Italian barber their Uncle Helmut frequents. Uncle Helmut lives across the street and used to worked at the town's brewery before he retired (sadly, the town's brewery also had to retire). His hair always looks distinguished, so I agreed. Plus, you don't need an appointment for this particular Italian barber.

Many barbers in Germany are Italian. In my German course during our Freiburg years, we once practiced our auditory understanding by listening to a funny story about a German housewife charmed by her Italian stylist. Many of them immigrated to Germany with their families in the 60s and run barber shops and restaurants today. Yes, as Texas is a good place to find Mexican food, southern Germany's not a bad place to find an Italian restaurant.

When I opened the door to the barber shop, I felt like I had walked into a retirement home. The men (even though the sign outside said they cut ladies hair, the posters, the magazines, the clientele and the barber were clearly masculine) ahead of me and behind me in line were long in the tooth, to say the least. Their short hair suggested they visit the barber shop every week (where my roadkill toupee look suggested other priorities), but, at least while I was there, it lacked community of the classic neighborhood barber in the States (not that I would really know about that with all my visits to Hair Cuttery - I only know it from books and movies). If the old men were regulars, they did not acknowledge one another. Part of me would have enjoyed a waiting room filled with old men telling stories, but it's not in the German nature to talk to strangers, at least not without a couple liters of beer in the belly. Instead, everyone sat in their chairs looking as if their previous appointment was for a root canal.

The Italian barber, veteran immigrant that he is, adopted the German custom of not being talkative, but his lips were curled in a constant Cheshire Cat smile. His movements and features, though not animated or (to northern European/North American eyes) overstated, betrayed his heritage. His forearms had almost as much hair as some of his clients. I watched him over my borrowed copy of Geo, Germany's answer to National Geographic. He worked with concentration, intensity and excellence - the sort of way I imagine the classic Italian artists working. Each of us received a run-of-the-mill men's haircut - no colors or frills, but the results, including mine, were somehow classier and much more attractive, then they would be had we visited a bored stylist who wished he could be sculpting the locks of the new Dutchess of Cambridge, much less a national haircut chain. It was as if each one of my hairs were given love and attention needed to become a better part of a whole.

So, if you are ever in Germany and in need of a haircut, let me make one suggestion. Go Italian.

A Poem Worth Reading, Especially This Week

I randomly bought a book of Gerard Manley Hopkins poems at a used bookstore (a dangerous place for me to carry cash). Many of his poems are a chore to read and don't conform a lifestyle of glowing screens and busyness, but every time I practice concentration to read one, I find it well worth the effort. They were full of complexity - complex verse, complex thoughts, complex Christianity. I wish I could say I read him more often, and I won't see my book again for at least six weeks.

Fortunately, one of my pastors posted a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem, both a chore and a joy to read, that is better than anything I read in my book. It's especially worth reading this week (which is why he posted it), as we remember death darkest, resurrection and new life. Read it.

Love Songs for Grown Ups

Not quite a decade ago, Over the Rhine was finally coming to Orlando, my hometown. I was still there at the time, and I couldn't wait. The state of Florida can be a geographical inconvenience for smaller indy-bands, not worth the gas and the effort to travel all the way down the peninsula somewhere between Atlanta, Athens, Birmingham and New Orleans. Besides, Orlando doesn't quite have the cool indy reputation for such acts. This time, however, with the wind of their epic record Ohio filling their sails, husband and wife duo Karin Bergquist and Linford Detweiler were heading to the sunshine state.

Then, before the tour came to any palm trees, they sent an email out to all of their fans. Their marriage was suffering, and that was more important than concert-hall serenades. They cancelled the remaining shows went back to their southern Ohio home to work, to talk and to reconcile. Once again, no Orlando concert (and when they finally came a couple of years later, I was across the sea and literally over the Rhine), but ever since that season of forgiveness, reconciliation and redemptive love, Over the Rhine's music aged like French wine. Their love songs, already some of the best on the market, grew up, taking on new dimensions of desire, regret, pain, healing and beauty.

There have been several albums since, and the latest manifestation just came out on February 8. Some albums, I like at first listen and then later realize we have less in common. There are other albums that feel uncomfortable at first but win my heart as the CD spins and I begin to understand. I have loved The Long Surrender since I first heard a few clips on an NPR interview and continue to do so after saturating my work and my leisure with every track (you can listen for free by clicking the "record player" link on their website. Let me know if you agree - hopefully my enthusiasm hasn't damaged impression by way of expectation).

Working with producer Joe Morgan for the first time, The Long Surrender is full of musical adventures not previously explored on Over the Rhine records. Keys are pressed, strings are plucked, percussion instruments are tapped, tickled, pattered and beat in places new and refreshingly unexpected. The feel of the album is an old Paris nightclub full of smoke and expatriates. Or perhaps a 1920s Cincinnati speakeasy, full of jazz, smoke and women in flapper hats. In fact, I think that cities and municipalities should lift their smoking bans whenever Over the Rhine roles into town, just to give their concerts a proper ambiance.

It opens with a call of sort: in "Laugh of Recognition" Bergquist sings out: "C'mon boys! Time to settle down/What do you think you'll gain from all this runnin' around?" The journey of love, relationship, pain, hope and brokenness continues. And of course, a major theme is their own marriage: honest love songs to and for and about the other. Yet their story, unique as it is, is full of universal thoughts and emotions, left unexplored in so much of today's art about love. In interviews, Bergquist and Detweiler remark that while most love songs are about the beginning of a relationship, theirs are about what happens next. And the truth is, what happens next is a majority of the time. Those of us in what happens next need songs, stories, support and celebration.

It would be easy for such art to be lovey-dovey kitsch. It would be just as easy to focus on the darkness, to despair of marriage, relationship and long-term love. As I've alluded to before, the art that appeals to me is complex enough to include for better and for worse. Thankfully, somewhere between Disney and films like Revolutionary Road stand mature songs like "Undamned," "Oh Yeah, By the Way" and that deliciously wordy history of the Berkquist/Detweiler marriage, "Infamous Love Song." These songs are balm for those of us who believe marriage is so much more than a piece of paper from the city hall, for those who believe marriage is beautiful, earthy, spiritual and sacramental, for those of us who believe it is God's artwork: wonderful, full of depth and sadly tainted by the fall. We rejoice with relief when in "Days Like This," we hear Bergquist sing:

"All I wanna do is live my life honestly/I just wanna wake up and see your face next to me/Every regret I have I will go set it free/It will be good for me."

Given all of this, it shouldn't surprise us that grace is another reoccurring theme. The album's closing anthem, "All My Favorite People," is the sort of song you can sing waiving a Bible or a bottle of beer. Book or beverage, we sing along:

"All my favorite people are broken/Believe me, my heart should know... All my friends are part saint and part sinner/we lean on each other/try to rise above/We're not afraid to admit that we're still beginners/We're all late bloomers/When it comes to love."

One of the most honest lines you'll ever hear is the title and chorus of the song: "Only God Can Save Us Now." The song is inspired by the nursing home where Karin Bergquist's mother lives. "Only God can save us now" was the exclamation of one of her mother's fellow residents. The song describes the crazy antics of the seniors and reflects that there's a good chance that will be our final stop as well. When we get there, we remember there are some things only God can do.

The Long Surrender navigates the joy and pain of love honestly and carefully. With its detailed production, I will say it lacks the spontaneous power of Drunkard's Prayer, the 2005 album that was born when they stopped their tour before I could see them in Florida. Drunkard's Prayer, along with the German worship music of Andrea Adams-Frey and Albert Frey (another married music duo), helped me to take courage and begin the journey of my own marriage. (The title track if that album, incidentally, has one of my all-time favorite lines in song: "You're my water, you're my wine/You're my whisky from time to time.") But, The Long Surrender makes me root for Over the Rhine as a band, because their songs speak to thing in ways so many others don't express, in ways that continue help me. It since they lay it all out there, The Long Surrender also makes me root for their marriage, for my marriage and for other marriages, infinitely more important than any music a marriage may produce.

And whenever I root, I pray. I can't help it. I believe, as much as I believe the chair on which I sit will continue to hold me, that our Lord entered this world and sympathizes with our weaknesses. All his favorite people are broken, because, we all are. We lean on each other, and we all lean on Him, to rise above. And He, the ultimate lover, love incarnate, intimately understands the joys and pains of love, in marriage or otherwise.

List Nauseum

The following is my end of the year list. Now, before you navigate back to your Facebook page, let me at least say that this list is different then all the other lists you've read. For starters, Kanye West's new album is nowhere on it.

First an introduction (no seriously, don't go to your Facebook page just yet). My favorite end of the year list is David Brooks' annual "Sidney Awards," where Brooks' mines the best magazine essays (this was a particular gem) of the past twelve months. I would like to do something similar, but with my own twists and biases. I would like to introduce you to my friends. At least some of those who have an online presence. I want to highlight their best 2010 writing to bow out the year. I found their words edifying, and I suspect you will as well. Trust me, it'll be worth the time, as you recover from your New Years party, college football in the background.

Following Christ is a growing-up process that involves and a lot of falling and a lot of grace. It often feels clumsy, Spiritual Klutz is a weekly reminder, via personal stories, of grace and redemption - big, small and always relatable. If you are new to Spiritual Klutz, I highly recommend his series about forgiving his father. However, if his own statistics are any indication, I suspect what you're really interested in is the series on singleness.

Hyde Park Heroes follow E. (or is it L.?) and her husband M. as they take on the Second City (that's Chicago, if you're still wondering). Working in an urban non-profit, E. (or is it L.?) has a good word, with links to resources, on poverty and Christianity. Or, for something more light hearted, you can read about their trip to Chinatown, where the fish are, somehow, worse than the Washington Monument.

With Clearspring taking off (become a customer by clicking the orange button with a plus sign to the left of this page), Justin has not put a lot of updates on the Oatmeal Stout blog (c'mon buddy, pick up the slack!), and the last update to his food blog was written by a rather untrustworthy guest. I can, however, recommend his relatives. In fact, Via his dad's blog, you can read about a family who embraces the online life. Plus, his future wife has a great blog on art, craft and small business.

If there were any good spiritual ideas on Un Till, I probably got it elsewhere. Take a moment to check out my pastors' new blog, or learn all about my father's church in O-town.

Finally, no Kanye, but I do have some musical recommendations for you. Ben is back in Washington and writing some great indy rock. (You should also check out his wife's, Lauren's, paintings) Crowds and critics eagerly anticipate Wendell's new album in 2011, but you can preview his new stuff via YouTube (for example). Tortoise and Hair made in on the radio with a great series of interviews and songs. These videos brought back plenty of fond college memories (I lived with the Tortoise during my junior year).

If I left you out, it's because I forgot, so forgive me for goofing. Go ahead and link to your blog in the comment section. Plus, I'd love to meet the online versions (and maybe even the real versions) of your friends. It is, of course, different than meeting them in person. But if read an essay or listen to a song written for art, processing or fun, you will know a part of an author you may have otherwise not discovered. Send me your recommendations. I hope you had a great 2010, and I wish you blessings, peace and God's love in 2011.

A Place for Everyone

I resonate with Makoto Fujimura.

When I meet someone on a plane and I tell them I am an artist, I almost always have to go into “explaining mode” to answer the same common questions: “What kind of art do you make?” “Why do you do it?” “Can you make a living?”

If I said I was an electrical engineer, explaining would not be necessary. But tell people, particularly Christians, that I am an artist and I am immediately regarded with suspicion and thoughtless dismissal: “You don’t paint nudes, do you?” “I don’t understand modern art.” “You make that weird stuff that my kids could paint and then call it ‘art,’ don’t you?”

No wonder artist types sit in the back of the church and leave as soon as the music ends, if they come to church at all. Church is for successful people, for respectable folks with real jobs.

Now, I am not an artist, I have a "real job" and sometimes I am good at playing the respectable insider at church. But I have an artist's leaning and an artist's sympathies, and among my regrets is the wish I had patiently nurtured these inclinations, particularly in high school and college. I attempt to do this now. This blog is an outlet for my creative and thoughtful side, and I take particular joy in leading worship at my church, because I get to be play a creative role in genuine Kingdom work. Thus, I am encouraged when Fujimura goes on to describe how blissfully artistic God and many of his chosen people are. Like the typical artist in the back of the church he describes, I have often felt left out in church settings where the artist's gifts and sensibilities are unappreciated.

This train of thought reminded me, however, of a post by John Mark Reynolds in First Things' Evangel blog. Reynolds reminds us that, whatever her flaws as an artist or a philosopher, Ayn Rand sticks up for the businessman. I would argue with anyone who treats productivity as the highest virtue, but it is a virtue, and so much of what's good about our country was built on the back the business folk who produced things, with efficiency, in an effort to maximize potential. Rand stands out, Reynolds notes, because so much art and entertainment treats business types with contempt. But it is these types who create wealth, jobs and prosperity, and make a real contribution to art and flourishing.

So, both the artist and the businessman feel under attack. Anyone else? Perhaps the traveler, or the domestic? The lawyer? The politician? The athlete? The un-athletic? The academic? The less educated? A particular class? Gender? Race? Background? Interest? Political persuasion? Personality type?

The good news is, the church has a place for you. John writes in Revelations that every tongue, tribe and nation will be represented. He might have added that every occupation and Myers-Briggs letter combination will be there as well. Strange, isn't it, in light of our continued sad divisions? Strange as well, even in churches where the people seem relatively uniform, we can feel isolated in our interests and inclinations. Perhaps an artist can sit next to a businessperson in the pew, both wondering if they are judged, if they are among the left out?

I don't think the answer is more niche-market churches - we will spend an eternity together (which will indeed be heaven and not hell), so we should learn to make everyone feel welcome. We certainly need the likes of Fujimura and Reynolds to remind us how our types, strengths and indeed our very diversity reflect our Creator. When we go to church, we need to find those who are like us, who understand us and who we understand. They will be water for our souls. We also need to find those who are different, and learn from them. If done well, with genuine love, honesty and openness, they will strengthen us. They will point us in the right direction to make the church as it should be. As it will be.

My Father's Robe

It's been edifying to read Valley of Vision, a collection of Puritan prayers compiled by Arthur Bennett. Puritan prayers are great because the puritans are of the "Big God party," and each word is carefully and generously bathed in His wonder and majesty. They really believed that God is eternal, present and very involved, and reading them helps me to do the same. I commend it to you - try a few prayers on for yourself see if love and holiness, grace and truth are, to your senses, larger and nearer.

The book is divided into sections under different themes (Trinity, Redemption and Reconciliation, etc...), and I have assigned a different theme to each day of the week. The reason I do it this way, rather than just read the prayers straight through, is I do not believe I could survive reading the "Penitence and Deprecation" section all at once. As it is P&D are confined to Tuesdays. A fair criticism of Puritans and personal difficulty (among several) I have with them is that in their emphasis on Total Depravity, there can be so much self-flagellation that the reader forgets that by another's stripes we have been healed. It is worth and necessary to weep and morn in our repentance, we cannot taste Grace and remain somber.

But on this particular Tuesday I prayed a beautiful prayer that I wanted to share, mostly for the imagery. Feel, for a moment, your sin as garments caked with filth indescribable (at least in a family-friendly blog), and feel yourself washed clean, and clothed in the Father's robe (if you own Valley of Vision, it's on page 76):

"I am always standing clothed in filthy garments, and by grace I am always receive change of raiment, for thou dost always justify the ungodly

I am always going into the far country, and always returning home as a prodigal, always saying, Father, forgive me, and thou art always bringing forth the best robe.

Every morning, let me wear it, every evening return in it, go out to the day's work in it, be married in it, be wound in death in it, stand before the great white throne in it, enter heaven in it shining as the sun.

Grant me never to lose sight of the exceeding sinfulness of sin, the exceeding righteousness of salvation, the exceeding glory of Christ, the exceeding beauty of holiness, the exceeding wonder of grace."

Questions for "The Social Network", or Billionaires Are People Too

As a film, few have anything bad to say about "The Social Network." Critics and audiences love it (HT Ross Douthat for the link). The actors, writers and director are excellent, I read. I haven't seen the film yet, and I would honestly like to, more to be a part of the conversation than to think that I would enjoy it. (I've seen much less films in the theaters since my daughter was born, so I may have to wait until it hits my local library)

The haunting previews made me wonder if the film's marketers thought I would be attracted to a take-down of Facebook's wildly successful founder, Mark Zuckerberg (though I love the boy's choir version of "Creep" by Radiohead). He comes across as part Shakespearian tyrant and part insolent teenager with enough computer geek thrown in to remind you of what he does. This probably does not paint the whole picture, of course. News services are doing their due diligence about "The Social Network's" accuracy. I've read mixed reports as to whether or not Zuckerberg himself will see (or has seen) the film, but I'd understand it if he didn't. Imagine if those who disliked or did not understand you made a film inflating the worst parts of your character? Would it help that the critics were salivating?

Given the city I live in, perhaps this bothers me too much. Politics and everything public are a dirty sport, and those involve can expect to "make a few enemies" as the film, smirking, points out. But I can't help but wonder if, what if I were the subject slanderous books describing my childhood, or with protesters carrying my portrait with superimposed Hitler mustache. Yes, the film probably won't ultimately hurt Zuckerberg. He has enough money to stuff his mattress with thousand dollar bills and completely retire from public life. And yes, I'm sure his rise to the top isn't without story and controversy. But I hope the biopic is fairer than the previews and critiques indicate. Whatever the sins and temptations that come from wealth, success and influence, they do not shield us from humanity. Those who make films, write columns or scrawl unaccountable words in cyberspace should keep that in mind.

Technology and Humanity

I'm a huge technology fan (duh - the blog), and I count myself happy to live in the age of the internet. It's wonderful, and the opportunities of daily exploration are nothing short of miraculous. So I wonder if it's ironic that I resinate so much with Bob Herbert's beautiful column in today's New York Times.

"Tweet Less, Kiss More" caught my attention the day after I opened my first Twitter account, mostly to actually experience how it works. Mr. Herbert reminds us that:

We need to reduce the speed limits of our lives. We need to savor the trip. Leave the cellphone at home every once in awhile. Try kissing more and tweeting less. And stop talking so much.

Listen.

Other people have something to say, too. And when they don’t, that glorious silence that you hear will have more to say to you than you ever imagined. That is when you will begin to hear your song. That’s when your best thoughts take hold, and you become really you.

Of course, Mr. Herbert is not the first to to point out the dehumanizing effects of technology. Wendell Berry is my favorite critic of blind technological advancement (famous for his essay, "Why I Am Not Going to Buy a Computer," yes, more irony, read it on your computer. This link includes the letters to Harpers, I believe, where it was first published, and Mr. Berry's witty response). Bob Herbert's column calls to mind a passage from Jayber Crow, which I read last fall, in which Jayber buys a an automobile (I wanted to quote directly, but I forgot that I had lent my book to a friend). Mr. Berry describes Jayber's growing impatience with anything moving slower than he was, particularly on the road, as he drives the car in post-war rural Kentucky, and this attitude eats away at his moral character. Knowing he does not truly need the car, he eventually gets rid of it. I believe somewhere in Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis is less moralistic, but nonetheless on the same train of thought, where he notes that, being born before the invention of the automobile he could better appreciate the nature in his own limited space.

Of course, this question of technological advancement and morals was around well-before the modern era. The Economist describes this story:

IN 1492, the same year that Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic, a Benedictine abbot named Trithemius, living in western Germany, wrote a spirited defence of scribes who tried to impress God’s word most firmly on their minds by copying out texts by hand. To disseminate his own books, though, Trithemius used the revolutionary technology of the day, the printing press.

I can imagine that the scribes of old had a sort of patient, devotional and spiritual experience lost on many of us today by daily copying scripture. But, as we all know, the printing press put eventually put them out of business and brought God's word to everyone else.

The Economist article I linked to reviews a book about troubles with modern technology (social media), and suggests that the answer to troubles with technology is moderation, or "old-fashioned self-restraint." Bob Herbert suggests the same.

One of the essential problems of our society is that we have a tendency, amid all the craziness that surrounds us, to lose sight of what is truly human in ourselves, and that includes our own individual needs — those very special, mostly nonmaterial things that would fulfill us, give meaning to our lives, enlarge us, and enable us to more easily embrace those around us.

One caveat with this sentence. Whenever we talk about "what is truly human in ourselves," we can forget that the opposite of whatever we're talking about may be just as human. Technology enables and is enabled by our drive to achieve, our joy in production, our escapism, our fear that we are missing something, our anxiety that we are not keeping up, our need for connection, our appetite for information. Whatever is positive or negative about these traits, they are fully human, keeping phones and computers within arms reach, wherever we go.

Old-fashioned self-restraint means restraining a very human part of us. If it means closing the laptop to pay attention to my wife or my daughter (more irony: as I write this, they are sitting behind me), it means suffocating a very human part me to allow them (or my friends, or my job, or my church, or a piece of art, or ultimately God Himself) to shape me, and make me a better human.

10 More Books

Some prominent, professional bloggers have taken up David Frum's challenge to post ten books that have influenced their worldview. (I first found out about this reading Ross Douthat's list) The rules are to go with your gut feeling, and not necessarily mention your favorite books. As a non-prominent, non-professional who occasionally updates his blog (and who often fantasizes about prominence and professionalism), I am going to list mine. Fair warning: anyone reading this will probably be more edified going to the pages of these pros, and my books will be less wonkish by comparison, but for what it's worth (in no particular order):

1. The Bible - Jesus. Church. Holy Spirit. Make disciples. I know, forgive the pat Sunday-school answer. But I've truly found it worth believing. It is the one book I have read, in very small parts, nearly every day since I was fifteen. Different parts have meant more to me in different seasons - the Psalms, the Gospels, Romans and Philippians have all featured prominently, and I am, lazily but beneficially, reading through 1 Peter at the moment. Sermons preached directly from its pages have influenced me as much as any of these books. A list of books that influenced me without the Bible would be a dishonest list. When I read some of the "high points" - the Sermon on the Mount, John 14, Romans 8, Psalm 40, what can I say? If only it influenced me more.
2. I just took a break for thirty minutes to find a paper I wrote in college on the Cyprus conflict. I could not find it, but it sites a book whose approach to history and international conflict is better imprinted on my conscience more than the name of the book or the author. (I think the name was something like Cyprus: Island in the Sun, my Google-search was not fruitful either. I remember that the author was British. In any case...) One of the difficulties researching the Cyprus conflict was to find a book that was not clearly biased to either the Greek or the Turkish side. This particularly nuanced book was the only one I found that could effectively explain and analyze both sides. It encouraged or affirmed my mistrust sources who fail to understand their opponents point of view. This affects my faith, my politics and my philosophy of evangelism.
3. Les Miserables, Victor Hugo - It's a 1400 page Gospel Presentation. The first seventy pages describe the character of a priest who only figures briefly into the main plot, and is a wonderful celebration of a Christian. It is blissfully long-winded, purposely poetic and edifying to the last page. If you are only familiar with the film or the musical, let me just say that if you have read the book, they will both come across as superficial. It's pages brought grace, healing and wonder to me in Freiburg's dark, smoky cafes.
4. "The Weight of Glory," C.S. Lewis - Ok, it's a sermon, not a book. But I read it in a book, and, unfortuately, I did not hear him preach it in 1940s Oxford. This serious meditation on heaven is an argument for Christian hope, and as its final paragraphs demonstrate, why Christian hope, true Christian hope, does not keep our heads in the clouds, but propels us to love others. Lewis haunts me with the fact that there are "no ordinary people," that everyone we encounter is either "an immortal horror or an everlasting splendor." This weight, paints the way I ought to treat strangers, colleagues, friends and family (with God's help).
5. The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien - My first epic fantasy, I braved Middle Earth when I was thirteen. Deeper symbolism I did not grasp at the time, but often overlooked in this epic is the theme of the unlikely heroes. More than any battles of good v. evil, Gollum's complexity or Christian symbolism in resurrecting wizards or returning kings, the little Hobbits give us the idea that in our own journeys, we can make it, in spite of our inadequacies (with God's help).
6. The Accidental Detective Series, Sigmund Brouwer - While we're all the subject of books I read in Middle School, here is one (or, ok, a series) that actually was written for Middle Schoolers. I read through these books like kids today read through the Harry Potter series. It is certainly not high literature, nor high children's literature like the Chronicles of Narnia or the Wind in the Willows (both of which I better understood as an adult). It did, however, show normal Christian kids living in community with other normal Christian kids that had two very important things: fun and humor. The fact that Ricky Kidd and his friends got into extraordinary situations did not undermine this. In it's own way, they lived out what C.S. Lewis said about merriment in "The Weight of Glory": "We must play. But our merriment must be that kind (and in fact it is the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously." So many children in other Christian stories suffered through dry, stoic lessons that made Christian orthodoxy and morality seem insufferable. At the same time, many of my friends in Middle School played in ways that were cutting and vicious. Brouwer's thirteen-year-old heroes played and joked in the Lewis way, and that example made no small difference in my very young view of Christianity, community and friendship.
7. War and Peace, Tolstoy. I read that Virginia Woolf once commented that War and Peace is a story that leaves nothing out. I agree. Not a page is wasted, not a word is missing. Read it, if you have not. If you are intimidated by the book's length, read it anyway, because it is actually easy reading. The prose is gentle and does not confuse (unlike Dostoyevsky), and it is divided into easily-digestible chunks. Tolstoy simply understands the human nature of each of his characters, and this, in turn, has helped me understand my own.
8. The Divine Conspiracy, Dallas Willard. Though I was raised in a Christian home and went to Bible-preaching churches all my life, I had never really heard much teaching from the Synoptic Gospels, including the Sermon on the Mount (outside, of course, the Passion and Christmas stories). I had plenty of Paul and John, of course. The Divine Conspiracy was assigned reading before I went to Germany, and I devoured every word of it. It taught me to understand and appreciate and truly believe the Sermon on the Mount, and I am indebted to Professor Willard, and Matt, who told us to read it. There may be better Sermon on the Mount stuff out there - my dad, who read it after my enthusiastic recommendation, thought it did not add anything new for him (though my dad has a Master's of Divinity). But no question it was my gateway to a deeper Biblical understanding.
9. Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller. Yes, I know. As a hip Christian, I should probably be over Blue Like Jazz, the same way hip people ought to get over anything that becomes too popular. But so much of evangelicalism seemed to exclude certain political philosophies, certain styles, certain areas of the country, certain lifestyles that Christianity never needed to exclude. In college and in my travels, I met all sorts of people who so needlessly rejected Christ's teaching for all of these reasons. Miller, in a kind, post-modern way, separated the Gospel from these unnecessary chains and looked lovingly at the excluded, saying, "I want Jesus to happen to you." A phrase worth repeating.
10. Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis. I could use a number of C.S. Lewis books for this last spot - the Narnia series, his apologetic works, the Space Trilogy, The Great Divorce. Till We Have Faces (along with Perelandra) was C.S. Lewis' favorite among his works, and for good reason. The best stories are the stories of a discipleship, and a reluctant, angry disciple making her case against God, what we so often do, finally surrendering into the arms of her Lord, is story I live and re-live so often. I love the scene where, in a solemn march to recover the body of her beloved sister, Lewis' heroine is seduced by the beauty of nature. She narrates, "You may believe I was sad enough; I had come on a sad errand. Now, flung at me like frolic or insolence, there came, as if it were a voice - no words - but if you had made it into words it would be, 'why should you not dance?'"

I am sure if I wrote the list again tomorrow, other books might be on it. The Father Brown Stories from G.K. Chesterton are a superb collection of Christian fiction (I really want to read The Man Who Was Thursday, but have not yet found it). Wendell Berry's essays challenge more than so many pundits. The Brother's Karamazov remains among my favorite books, and the brother's in question are three of the most compelling characters I have read. The Trial by Franz Kafka is such crazy paranoia that I could not stop reading (though I am not encouraged to re-read).

So, other non-professional, non-paid bloggers and internet surfers, what are your books? I hope my friends will make their own lists (perhaps Justin or Liz or Karin or Joshua).

Yes, I am an amateur

In high school and college, I was part of the swing-dancing fad. We used to go, wear khaki trousers and pay our cover fees and swing the cute girls from youth group all over the dance floor. But we remained amateurs. There was, however, a class of the professionals. I don't think these people had any sort of social life outside of swing dancing. They wore zoot suits, until zoot suits became too cool. Then they wore trendy, butt-enhancing jeans with tight t-shirts and Puma sneakers. Whatever they wore, their styles, combined with their excellent grasp of the "lindy-hop", communicated to all of us that they were the kings of the dance floor. I knew I could never live up to their standards, not without sacrificing any other extra-curricular activity that gave meaning to my soul. (that did not keep me from being jealous, as you probably already have guessed) Nevertheless, I still had fun as an amateur. Dancing remained beautiful, a way to connect and find your self in a rhythmic structure of artistic expression.

The other day I was described as a competent generalist, well read in all I do, but never an expert in any one thing. But the writers at Soul Shelter gave this comforting article on amateurism. I have been to jam sessions where I could play some rhythms on my guitar to keep from sounding cacophonous, but could never be on the in crowd. Yet, I love Soul Shelter's description of this folk festival. Yes, there were probably some amazing musicians. But there was a spirit that managed to celebrate everyone without excluding anyone. It appears loving and giving, where everyone, for the love of the music (or the dance, or the words, or whatever art form you choose), can still celebrate greatness, and have a part to play. It's comforting for an amateur who is well aware that his blog contributes nothing of professional value. But in my blog I can appreciate good writing, attempt to be a good writer, and celebrate, all for the love of the word itself.

Yes, I know. I'll keep practicing.

Creation Wedding

My wife and I shared a few laughs about the American wedding industry when we got married last year. As a woman, she wanted a beautiful wedding of course (and decried the outrageous cost of flowers in the U.S.), but as a German, she was immune from the idea, implicit in every bridal magazine, that the perfect marriage required the perfect wedding. Perfect does not mean, of course, the perfect amount of family and friends being blessed my Gospel truth and holy union. Perfect means that every decoration, cloth, cake and peace of food amounts to some sort of geometric ideal (which is quite expensive).

The dream of a beautiful wedding, with holy symbolism and holy union, remains, and I was encouraged when my wife forwarded me Luz's blog. In Luz's dream wedding, each of the bridesmaids represent a day of Creation from Genesis 1. The climax, of course, is day six, when God made man "in his own image his own image, in the image of God he created them, male and female he created them." The bride and groom, glorious and beautiful (I should point out, not naked as in the original account) emerge. Take a look at the drawings, and let me know what you think.

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.