Learning to Enjoy

I read Peter A. Coclanis' article about Study Abroad's Seven Deadly Sins with a knowing smile on my face. Not because his description of youthful debauchery abroad is my own college/travelling 20-something experience, per se (I went to a party school, yes, but my social life looked more like this than Animal House. No regrets.), but I've worked with students ever since, often in international contexts, and I've seen less dramatic versions of his bad apples. What's more, as an American living abroad, I'm sensitive to whatever image we Yanks have whenever and wherever we trapse around in other countries. We can do better. So, as a thirty-something with two daughters who will soon enough be skipping off on their own youthful adventures, I want to encourage us parents to read and think, especially this last paragraph:

Mature students with purpose and dedication will generally achieve the kind of personal growth so often heralded by study-abroad boosters. Immature students will not, for these programs do not so much build character as reveal it. A foreign country isn’t the place for a childish 20-year-old to grow up, especially when representing an American university. Students and parents, take heed.

Now, mistakes will be made, and these mistakes are often the best teachers (and make the best bar stories later). I, too, internationally open, mature-looking, tame, can look back on my own cringe moments. But even if Coclanis' list of sins are popular enough to forgive years later in the community of shared, laughable regret (I mean, who wants to be the guy at a table without a story to share?), there are dangers beyond hangovers and cultural faux pas. Also, the over-consumption and irresponsible use of good things like drink, sex, and technology isn't confined to foreign campuses. We parents can become good teachers before the teachable moments pile up too high.

So, for those of us raising children in a world of inflating choice, this is a chance to return to some thoughts about excellence in pleasure. I'll take two examples: drink and technology.

I had a professor who suggested making the drinking age 16 and the driving age 18 (that's how it is here in Germany, by the way). His logic was, once you try to bike home drunk, you'll never be stupid enough to drink and drive. Well, drunkenness is not famous for logic, and I question whatever definition of progress neighborhoods full of sloshed sophomores on BMXs fulfills, but I think he has a point for a different reason. Wouldn't it make more sense for young people to learn to drink at home: legally and under the watchful care of adults who know what they're doing?

Moreover, what if alcohol appreciation was a required part of 11th grade rather than a rare elective college course for over-21s? What if they understood much earlier the complexities of a good beer or how wine compliments food? What if they learned at an earlier age to view alcoholic beverages (in Chesterton's immortal words) as a drink and nota drug, that limitations enhance enjoyment and addiction can be avoided. America's blossoming beer culture and wine industry are showing the way already, while our kids our exposed to nothing but Bud commercials. (Note: There's a 16-year old boy in Germany fighting the good fight. Do any American breweries have apprenticeship programs for high schoolers?) Yes, anyone should be able to decline this course due to religious or conscientious objection, and by all means follow your conscience and teach your children to do the same, but treating alcohol like dirty secret only to be revealed as a cheap drug in far-away frat houses isn't doing young people, society, or study abroad programs any favors. And, after all, excellence in pleasure means not needing to rely on any pleasure for your happiness. A student, thus prepared, might find themselves abroad in a culture where the sauce is forbidden and still have the capacity for an enriching and enjoyable experience without touching a drop.

The same thing could be said of technology. Coclanis would ban smart phones if he could. He can't, and I think that's a good thing, but we can help him by raising our children to use technology well, and even when we're disoriented by the tech world's ever-changing landscape. My six-year old is growing up in a world that befuddles me more with every new adaption. My early-adaptor friend Justin has been evangelizing SnapChat to us old fogies who still think Twitter is modern, and for my daughters' sake, I'm starting to listen.

For my sake, I'd rather not. The only reason I knew about SnapChat, or at least knew SnapChat was the latest thing, is that I give private English lessons to teenagers. When I struck up a conversation about social media (an ESL trick is to explore topics of interest to elicit conversation without being boring), I quickly learned that Facebook is for dads, SnapChat's where it's at, and that I needed a different conversation topic.

What I've seen of SnapChat doesn't appeal to me, but I can understand it's appeal to teenagers. The temporary videos, the switching graphics, the crazy editing - it's like a digital house of mirrors. It's a ceaseless barrage of crazy images, which contrasts with my love of words, glorious bare words that leave the rest to the imagination (at least the Onion understands me).  This carnival atmosphere might explain SnapChat's generation and personality gap. As Facebook's grown from a playground for students to an adult-centered shopping mall with political graffiti, it makes sense that the young people want to run off to the carnival and use technology for regret-free silliness. I watch all the movements and get queasy; I feel the same way when I'm at a real carnival and I see teenagers devour chilli-dogs before hopping on the whirl-a-rama.

But in a few teensy years, my daughters will be exploring the carnival themselves. It's helpful, then, if I also know what's out there, so that I can help them navigate these pleasures with excellence. I've had a lot of helpful conversation with other parents whose kids are already of smart phone age, and it is a challenge for those of us who grew up with AOL and Gateway computers. But it means a patient, loving engagement, not to spy, but to understand the world they're entering, and help them use it in a way that it doesn't use them.

The marketers and the adults are descending on SnapChat, so I figure by the time my kids are old enough it'll be passe and the carnival will have moved elsewhere. But it will be there, and I pray I'll be able to help them use it well.

Humans, learning, and morality are complex, so there's no guarantee that any of this will spell maturity in travelling twenty-somethings. Sometimes it takes a horrible mistake for us to actually learn, so it's not all hopeless. It's a worthy pursuit. Excellence in pleasure, in this world, means "walking in the light" as the Apostle Paul instructs us. Coclani's description of fleshy immaturity reminds me of another phrase from Paul, this time condemning: "their god is their belly." What other gods have we been invited to follow, day in and day out? Excellence in pleasure suggests there's another.

We Are Known

"Nothing that is covered up that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known. Therefore whatever you have said in the dark shall be heard in the light, and whatever you have whispered in private rooms shall be proclaimed on the housetops."

I.

I couldn't help but think of this Judgment Day prophecy as I read about the Ashley Madison hack. The Judgment Day isn't here yet, but millions of families are experiencing their own smaller version. This week's Economist frets: "People will lose their jobs. Celebrity magazines and gossip columnists will have a field day." It's been worse, tragically. Despair has apparently driven some of the customers to suicide. The newspaper continues: "But perhaps the greatest significance of this episode is that it illustrates, more vividly than ever before, the woeful state of internet security." Well, yes, Ashley Madison is the umpteenth dead canary on the subject of cyber safety, and maybe this one has given the tech industry a jolt of urgency that will keep our data safer in the future if that's possible. Ashley Madison itself is surely ruined, and if the hackers have tossed this horrible website on the digital ash heap, then something good beyond improved data security has come about.

Meanwhile, and I think more significantly, we are warned, by the hack and by that repellent prophecy: Things have a way of coming to the light, and one way or another, they will.

II.

The Economist's editorial echoes the prophecy: "No doubt some people signed up on a whim, while going through a rough patch in a relationship, or while drunk. In the past, the mere contemplation of infidelity left no physical traces. But now millions of people's thoughts and deeds are open to public scrutiny." Proclaimed on the housetops.

Technology's brought the housetops closer, hasn't it? A hacker with a grudge could easily publish my digital profile - how I spend my time and money, where, when, and what I click. Companies have that information and use it for advertising, but it could also be used for embarrassment or worse. I find that thought as horrifying as the Bible verse. Sure, I try, in my tweeting and posting, to shape the image of the thoughtful, funny, family man who occasionally has something interesting to say. But my inner thoughts and behaviour are more than this, much of which I would like to remain covered, even if there are plenty of corporations and government agencies who (if inclined) could piece all of these together and click post. To be so fully known and not on my terms but on the terms of some anonymous institution or prankster is a hellish thought, and the network of machines I'm writing on has a much better memory than we do.

III.

Ironically, Ashley Madison's customers were probably driven by a desire to be known. It's a tension we all feel. We're petrified of being found out, and we're disturbed by how much soulless corporations, government agencies, insurers, and employers have on us, what someone with the computer know-how could dig up on us - even if we have, more or less, nothing to hide. There are intimate thoughts and feelings that belong to our inner selves that, if someone knew, could be used as cutting weapons to the most fragile part of our beings.

Still, we want to be known. We want eyes that see, hands that touch, hearts that feel these parts of us and acknowledge, understand, affirm, correct, forgive, and love. That's what we're to do for each other. That's what friendship is for, and that's also what marriage is for.

I suspect that most adulterers are in it for more than carnal passion (as delightful as that is). The Biblical euphemism for sex is "to know," and that hints at the truth that sex is, or is meant to be, a deeper knowledge of someone, that souls entangle themselves together as bodies do, oneness in a deeper sense. That's why we holy rollers keep insisting that sex and marriage are one in the same and physical unity consummates spiritual unity. The search for sex elsewhere, then, even if it's just pictures or mental images, could be a search for deeper knowledge, whatever we tell ourselves otherwise.

IV.

The author of Hebrews writes that sin "easily entangles us." How true, and this includes infidelity, which can be the results of "series of bad decisions" anyone can make, including creating an Ashley Madison profile "on a whim, while going through a rough patch... while drunk." Ashley Madison is designed to make this deadly entanglement easier. (It's ironic that a website designed as a platform for infidelity couldn't be faithful with its own users' data) The downfall of the website, of course, won't end a human failing that's old and popular; it's supply for an insidious, common demand. But there's a better way of knowing and being known.

V.

I'm a Christian, because to be a Christian is to revel in being known and deeply loved. The Psalmist sings:

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!  

You know when I sit down and when I rise up;    you discern my thoughts from afar.... 

Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You hem me in, behind and before,  and lay your hand upon me.

If this is true, then it is either extremely scary or unspeakably joyous. I don't know how it makes you feel, but the Psalmist rejoices, and I do to. This knowledge isn't for maximising customer service, and it isn't to sell to a third party. It isn't for a list of enemies of the state. It is not to commodify us or use us or manipulate or hurt. This is the knowledge of Love himself, who is the ultimate Lover, because he knows us like no other, because he made us. He sees and delights in his workmanship, our talents, our potential, our joys, our humour, our place. Yes, he is well aware of our wretchedness. He knows the extent of our unfaithfulness, whether or not we find our names on hacked spreadsheets. Still, in his love he has drawn near, and we're invited to turn away from all that has warped us and delight in his love and, in doing so, be what we're created to be.

If this is true, then all will be known, one way or another, even the parts they haven't managed to digitise. This should discomfort us, except that, though we're known, but we're also loved in places nothing on this earth can reach.

VI.

There's a reminder here, not only for the married, but for anyone in relationship. As far as appropriate and possible, let's know our colleagues, our friends, our family members, and our spouses, and love their wonderful parts and do so in spite of their horrid parts. For those of us who are married, this means pursuing and receiving intimate knowledge with our spouses and not nurturing hopes to find it elsewhere. It means going on the difficult, patient, and wonderful journey of knowing and loving another person, and in doing so, giving them a foretaste of the love of God.

Surviving the German Winter Part III: Don't Get Sick

This is part III of a four-part series on surviving the German winter. You can read part I here and part II here. 

The most important thing about the winter? Don't get sick. Ban disease from your presence. Avoid it like.... ok, I won't finish that sentence. Winter sickness is spawned in the floors and desks of kindergartens and elementary schools all over the world, where it's then carried to bus drivers, parents, grocery store workers, office drones and government employees. If you have kids, then, or if you know someone who has kids, or, if you're vaguely aware of the presence of children within a fifty-mile radius of your front stoop, then you need to take the appropriate defense measures.

First, flu shot. It's just a pinch, folks! Then, the teas. Here in Germany, flu shots are under-girded by liters upon liters of Gesundheitstee. Gesundheitstee comes from the German words, Gesundheit, which, you probably know from sneezing, means "health", and Tee, which is how I spelled the word "tea" in first grade (someone should probably point this out to the Germans and get back to them once they corrected their documents). Most of them taste like hot, piping vegetable liquid, which is to say they're delicious. Also, innovate Germans like my wife make tea using real ingredients. You know those tea bags full of ginger and honey flavoring you can get at the grocery store? Well, here's a breakthrough - for roughly the same time, cost and effort, you can make ginger-honey tea using... wait for it... actual ginger and honey, which is a heck of a lot healthier than whatever it is they put in those other teas. Ahh... warm hot tea is just what you need after a day of your daughter using your sleeves as a hankie. Put in a spoon full of honey and open a Charles Dickens book if you're really feeling wild. You can also bathe in the stuff, or try to breathe it to relieve your throbbing sinuses. Just remember, don't drink the tea you bathe in.

Then, vitamins. Vitamins, vitamins, vitamins. Germans have many vitamin-enhanced products, often things you fizz up in water or pills or vitamin-enhanced tea, with various combination for every situation or stage in life. Then, Der Spiegel told us that the Pharma industry was lying to us (the title of the piece translates: "The Vitamin Lie," but they should have taken a page from Dawkins to call it "The Vitamin Delusion," which would have been snappier) and that we could get all the vitamins we need from food. So now, I'm eating less vitamins, except the vitamins that I'm getting from food, which I'm told is plentiful.The way to do this is buy those tennis ball crates they use for practice and fill them with oranges. An orange a day keeps the sickness at bay. At least, until you get sick. I don't recommend using the tennis ball shooter though, at least if you want to use the oranges.

Then, of course, there's prayer. I can't say if prayer gives me some sort of psychological advantage in the face of disease, but that's not the point. I wish prayer worked like a magical incantation, where I get to use supernatural forces to bend the world to my whims. Otherwise, I would have waived my wand to straighten my teeth like Hermione Granger did instead of suffering through five years of braces. It works like this. I pray for my health, which could affect my family's health, or finances and much more, and I find myself trusting God with these issues. This introduces peace into my life. Then, I pray for the health of my wife and my daughter. My wife has been sick this winter, and my daughter could easily get sick and get us sick. But I trust God with this. Some more peace, usually, but even better, praying them leads to think of them more, realize my thankfulness for them, think of them more than I think of myself, and love them in ways even deeper then before. This happens as well when I pray for those in our community, especially for those who've gotten sick.

The problem starts when the prayers turn into actions. I had a roommate who hated prayer. He was from Mexico, and he believed the church there just prayed about problems instead of taking steps to solve them. That hasn't been my experience. The best pray-ers I've known, the ones who've really done it and stuck with it, have been the ones who were quickest to put love into actions. That's why a friend of mine got sick. While another friend and her husband suffered through the flu, my friend took care of their daughter and caught whatever bug they had. I think she's near recovered, but as I write this, my wife is watching her daughter while she's at the doctors office. With such actions, my wife's liable to find herself sick this winter. Which is no fun. I pray she doesn't get sick she's been fighting a cold already. But giving your body for love has a president in Christian history.

Bilingualism and Technology

Here's the scene. My wife sits at our dining/living room table curiously manipulating an iPad. My daughter bounces around the room, as two year olds do, curiously manipulating toys, books and the occasional strange grownup thing like a couch pillow, junk mail or stray administrative document that we'll probably need later. Without any apparent reason, my daughter points to something outside of the window. The following conversation ensues:

Daughter: Baum! 
Wife: Yes, that is a baum! And what does Papa say?
Daughter: Papa says, "tree!"
Wife: Exactly! Mama says baum, Papa says tree.
Daughter (pointing to the iPad): iPod!
Wife: Actually, this is an iPad.
Daughter: Papa says, "iPod!" 

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. 

Some Observations After My Facebook Fast

Ok, brace yourselves everybody! Lent is over and I'm back on Facebook. It dents my pride to admit how much I missed a glowing blue social network that was first designed for college students, but I did miss it. Logging in was a bit like coming back to the ol' neighborhood after a long trip. Only a bit.

Every generation is confronted with technological change, and the Internet is our biggest revolution. (though I'm still holding out for Star Trek style teleporters. Beam me anywhere, I'll be back in a minute!) And every generation asks, do we really need this? And with the Internet's capacity for public naval gazing, the question gets asked more and more and more. The answer is mostly no, but on average, I'll take our present hyper-connected world to a pre-Internet age. It's just so interesting, and there's so much stuff I can look at and read for free.

I missed Facebook, because I miss my friends. My travels are among my treasures, and I have several places I could call home, but this means that no matter where I am, there's someone I miss, someone whose face I would like to see, someone who I experienced in a new way and can't experience again in the same way, but we can share a knowing smile, even if the moment is shallow or the joke is no longer funny. Facebook, besides being an outlet for posting clever links and public relations for my family, is public nostalgia and a great excuse for smiles and fondness. The danger of course, is that we fail to be rooted with those around us, that we ignore family, friends, work and place. I fasted in part to distance myself from this danger and to tame the impulse to avoid work or confrontation or other unpleasantries by hungrily scanning my feed for something I like. This helps connect me to the corner of Swabia where I get to live. And if it's God who brought me here, then why not close the browser and pay attention to where he has me? Why not take additional time to celebrate his Fast, His Passion and His Resurrection deepening my local connections, especially to Him. 

Now that Easter has come and gone, here are some (random) observations:

1. I still have a long way to go to be localized. It's to be expected in a foreign culture, and I've noticed that the more I move, the more time it takes for the to sink in and reach a place where the soul is sustained. 
2. The desire to numb my brain on Facebook has not gone away, and let's face it, there are good times to numb the brain (as long as we don't go overboard, now). 
3. However, my desire for attention has been weakened - I fine myself caring much less how or if people respond to something I post - this is freeing, and I'm thankful. 
4. A pleasant side-effect of the fast was a sense of quiet - there was less buzz. What I mean by that is fasting from social networking meant that I was less compelled to hastily follow events that I really had no control over. Whatever is the latest in politics and elections, culture and scandal, however important and compelling, there's a certain freedom to not be "in the know," much less to see them as opportunities to promote my little agendas. 
5. I can't stand timeline. I'm not on it yet, but every time I go on Facebook, I get an apocalyptic warning that it's going to be forced on me. I've normally been in the pro-change team whenever the site updated itself, but timeline pages are confusing, unattractive and disorienting. The pages manage to look (and this is not the fault of the individual users) both less personal and more narcissistic. I get that Facebook is looking for our information (it's kind of flattering - they want to know me!), and that's why we get to use this wonderful tool for free, but can they at learn our basic desires for advertising revenue without the headache-inducing split-screen? Is MySpace too organized now? Really, if you want to know my preferences, just ask nicely. 
6. On a related note, wow, things change quickly in Internet land. One of the things I noticed was how different everything looked - not greatly, but enough to notice. It's like a child you haven't seen since last summer - my how he's grown! Plus, I got bombarded with invites to games and apps I never knew existed. I'm too old for this people - I still think emoticons are clever... #oldmansittingontheporchwaivinghiswalkingstick

The Train to Stuttgart

One of the best parts of my weekly routine adventure is Wednesdays, when I take the train from Plochingen to Stuttgart. It starts with a brisk, 10-minute run to the train station (hey - I'm a parent and I happen to enjoy breakfast) where I'm usually just in time to catch the Regional Express. The Regional Express only stops three times along the Neckar river before we hit the Swabian metropolis. Sometimes I hit the Jackpot and land an Interregional Express, which is a nonstop trip to the mighty Hauptbahnhof (main train station).

I love speeding through past the Neckar hills as they wake up to the gentle glow of the Eastern sun. The hills and the buildings and the trees get thicker as we approach Stuttgart, a testament to Germany's lively effort to weave nature and civilization. I love that I'm not driving so I can watch them. I love that I can read the enormous book that I got at the library and that I'll regret bringing later as I lug my backpack down Koenigstrasse (hmmm... Kindle?..nahhh). I love that I can go through my prayer cards, which help me better love all of those who I think about and who are not on the train. I love that I can see the people.

People on the train are the best. Students buried in their iPods. Hippie punks with dread locks, patches and tattoos. Businessmen with ties and glasses and important newspapers. A bouncy Japanese woman with bouncy hair who bounces her son on her lap while singing a bouncy Japanese song. It's a strange thing about public transportation. During the commute everyone is equal, united in a sense of purpose and destination. Everyone is close. Sure, we try to be far away, choosing the seat furthest from any possible contact with strangers, especially if we have strategies for when we arrive and which car we take. But eventually, the train fills up and people from every tongue, tribe and nation are packed together like a game of human Tetris. It's awkward, funny, uncomfortable and humanizing. And it sure as heck beats vehicle Tetris on your local highway.

Of course, the camaraderie ends at the train station. That's the moment we stop, well, ok, many moments before, we race to the door like it's a fire drill, everyone aware of the trouble each day has and how everyone else should learn patience.

But before that, there's the serene moment of speeding with a book, a prayer and so many flavors of human to look at. The train speeds ahead like a mechanical wild horse. We run parallel with another train, this one carrying cargo cargo instead of human cargo. It's hard to tell which train is faster, but they both seem to be enjoying the chase. I imagine that they greet one another with a sunrise smile, glowing that they're doing what they were created to do.

The Tall One and the Short One

In a flash of spiritual inspiration, I gave up Facebook for lent. On Fat Tuesday, after an orgy of status updates, link sharing, photo tagging and friend stalking, I closed the blue f-tab for the last time until the Feast of the Risen Lord, during which I will open the tab back up and frantically share every funny thought that occurred to me during the previous forty days. The tab was closed, and I moved my neck. Up. Down. Right. Left. Roll the neck. Look around. Evidently, the computer is at some sort of table designed for eating (judging from the crumbs on the keyboard). There were three chairs - the one I was sitting on, white and wooden, an identical one next to it, and, across, a funny-looking chair with long legs, a small seat, and it's own individual table.

My steps away from the computer were tentative. Everything was strangely non-digital. There were colorful playthings on the floor and bookshelves much like the ones I see in the backgrounds of literary blogs. The difference was that it was so three-dimensional and there's a feeling of touch to it. It felt like I was imposing myself.

Suddenly, I heard a noise! It was the light, clumsy rumbling of little feet. A very short human person came running at me with a peculiar smile on her face (from the dress, hair and other appearance indicators, I am assuming "her"). I made gestures to indicate that I came in peace and that she should take me to her pigmy tribal leader, or at least a representative from the nearest Consulate. The little person simple smiled, grabbed my leg and said "pa pa pa pa," and some other phrases in broken English, including "story," "pretty," "I'm a Little Teapot," "Jesus," and "Elmo."   

Then, what I will now call the "Tall One" entered. She (and I am sure she was a she) was not especially tall per se, but she was significantly taller than her babbling companion, whom I will now refer to as the "Short One." The Tall One seemed to be the matriarch of the... well, where were we? Clearly indoors (as indicated by the large wooden door and several windows that couldn't be clicked)... However, unlike the Short One, she did not speak the language I'm accustomed to on Facebook but rather the one they use at studiVZ. The Tall One spoke to me in a familiar manner, something involving food and plans for the evening, but I was relieved to see that I understood her. My translation function was working away from my profile (though I haven't been able to test other languages).

In an effort to bond with the Tall One and the Short One (no telling what they would do if they turned on me), I tried sharing a clever commentary from the New York Times website. I couldn't post it anywhere on the walls, so I simply held up the computer and used gestures to point to the still open tab, highlighting a sentence that I found especially pertinent. But I got no response, no effort to re-share - not even a thumbs up. Well, I thought, if they weren't into insightful observations, how about humor?

I held up a series of funny, tongue-in-cheek pictures about how various strata of society - the media, my parents, the education system - see personal bloggers. I found the pictures hilarious and was secretly comforted by the thought that anyone sees me at all, but no dice. Neither the Tall One nor the Short One Got it. In fact, the Short One wanted to draw on my pictures. I suggested she use the keyboard to type, but the Tall One intervened.

Then it dawned on me why I wasn't getting through to them. I hadn't sent either of them a friend request, and with my privacy settings, that means they wouldn't be able to see what I shared. I wasn't sure how to do this without the Internet, so I improvised. I found a couple of pictures of myself (for some reason, there were several of them, along with pictures of the Tall One and the Short One framed by polished wood). On the back I wrote "Un Till would like to be your friend". The Tall One frowned and put hers back in the frame. The Short One drew on the picture until the Tall One took it away.

My last hope was an ancient socializing technique called "poking." Cautiously, I drew closer to the two companions. I extended my index finger and poked each one in the belly area. The Tall One gave me a bemused look, but the Short One shrieked with childish laughter. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Facebook has a lot to teach them about bonding.

Elmo Among Other Monsters

When it comes to Sesame Street, my daughter is following in my footsteps. I love Sesame Street, still do. It was the only show that I was both consistently allowed to watch and enjoyed watching. The show's educational, yes, but not only did it "make learning fun," but it captured the joy of learning things, a joy so many of those drab hygiene and physical science videos we watched in school never had. Add in smart pop culture references and characters kids and adults can care about, and you've got yourself a fine piece of television. So in this new age of the Information Super Highway, one of my first acts as father was to plop my kicking baby in my lap and watch YouTube videos of classic Sesame Street. She loved it so much I can't open up the lap top to do something important (like write a blog or goof off on Facebook) without having my daughter run up, grab my leg and in her best "melt papa's heart voice" say: "Letter B?"

There has been, however, a cultural shift since my childhood of sitting on our plaid-green couch to watch a show brought to you by the letter "K." You see, one of the biggest appeals of Sesame Street was that it was always a little rough around the edges. The street itself appeared a bit dirty, the characters lovable but gritty, the pictures and film had sort of a Public Television residue that smelled of cheapness and passion and authenticity. But this has changed. Sesame Street looks gentrified. Take a look at the website. You won't find smoother edges in Buckingham Palace. It's as clean the surgery ward. There's been a change, and I can sum it up in one word: Elmo. 

No question Elmo is the Street's most popular character. No question. If you visited the website, then you were greeted by his sweet furry face. That same face makes the little icon on the URL. He's everywhere, including my daughter's crib and coloring books. He's ingeniously designed for maximum cuteness and cuddliness. The cute one with a cute voice, and his cuteness has spread all over Sesame Street like a funny picture on Facebook. When I was home for Christmas, my mother wanted me to go to the local art house theater to see a documentary about Elmo's mover, shaker and speaker, Kevin Clash. His story is a powerful, feel-good, American-dream story of the best kind. No doubt he's a genius at his chosen career, and if there's a puppeteering pantheon, then he will sit with Jim Henson and Frank Oz to judge us all. But I couldn't see the film. There were some scheduling difficulties that explained this. But the truth is, I hold a grudge against Elmo. I miss the old furry monsters, like the ones in this old "C is for Cookie" video. 

It's not that the old monsters have been fired. Cookie, for one, still plays a prominent role (though the good folks at Sesame Street are reigning in his gluttony to help confront America's childhood obesity problem). And if you look through the website's list of muppets, you'll find characters like Herry, Frazzle and the Two-Headed Monster, all monsters of the old school. The old-school monsters weren't like cuddly kittens. They were more like your crazy uncle's biker friends. You know who I'm talking about. They were rough. They drove American-made motorcycles, drank beer from the bottle and had powerful, meaty arms. In fact, they may have both showed you your first tattoo and given you your first sip of beer. Your love for them was mixed with fear. They weren't ones for snuggles, but if you ever had a problem with a bully, needed repair work on the tree house or were threatened by a rabid dog, you knew you could count on them, just like you could count on old-school monsters. Now, not only are they crowded out by Elmo and his relentless sugartooth, but they're in a sad state. Look at their pictures on the website. They look like they've been thoroughly scrubbed and shampooed by a child-marketing expert. 

I don't mind Elmo's existence. Cuddles are necessary, and I wonder how many of today's conflicts could be solved (or at least eased) by a good snuggle. But life has rough edges, and Sesame Street's greatest strength was that it could acknowledge this and still take joy in singing, laughing and learning. 

Of course, the Elmo promotion is on to something. My daughter loves Elmo, the same way she loves puddles and pretty dresses. With no prompting (certainly by me), she was drawn to them. Among her army of stuffed animals, she has two Sesame Street dolls: Ernie and Elmo. Ernie was my favorite growing up. My daughter likes Ernie, and Ernie is my daughter's main sleeping partner, because by chance we threw him in the crib when it was dark outside and she needed a friend. But as much as she may try to hide it, Elmo is her favorite. She just sees him first. Elmo's like that gregarious kid in your third grade class that always made your teacher smile in a way she never could for you in spite of your obvious superiority in both behavior and grammar. Whenever we watch that old "Letter B" video, her next request is "Elmo." Doesn't matter which Elmo video, and there are lots to choose from. And, given time and mood, I indulge her. But I use my fatherly authority to throw in some old-school monster videos too. After all, there's more to fatherhood than snuggling. 

Nones and Lovers

I've been wanting to write about Eric Weiner's New York Times column on Americans and God since it came out in December, but I've been busy doing other things, like trying to work for a living and thinking up warm-weather holiday songs. And the truth is, I wanted to give it some thought, because I think it's worth responding to as a Christian. Weiner represents a form of non-belief that is probably more prevalent than the faith of convinced atheism. He's undecided, a self-described "None." What's a None? Well, here:

We Nones may not believe in God, but we hope to one day. We have a dog in this hunt. Nones don’t get hung up on whether a religion is “true” or not, and instead subscribe to William James’s maxim that “truth is what works.” If a certain spiritual practice makes us better people — more loving, less angry — then it is necessarily good, and by extension “true.” (We believe that G. K. Chesterton got it right when he said: “It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.”) 

I suspect that Nones number even more than the increasing number of people who check "none" on the surveys. I bet that many who cross "Catholic" or "Protestant" or "Muslim" or whatever belief are practical Nones, the cultural inheritors of a religious faith without significant bearing on their thoughts, decisions or prayers.

Weiner's "Noneness" is more nuanced than the None who just hasn't thought much about the afterlife between work and family and recreation. After a "health scare", this "rationalist" began to explore faith. In doing so, he went on a literal spiritual journey, traveling the world to sample the varieties of religious experience, which he chronicled in his book Man Seeks God: My Flirtation with the Divine. At this point, I should make clear that I haven't read Weiner's book, and answers to the questions and criticisms  I'm about to write may be found there. Nevertheless, his Times column has made a statement about the Nones' view of religion in America, and it's worth addressing.

For starters, let me say "amen" to the None's strong discomfort with the cross-pollination of piety and politics. While there have been times when the church should have done much more (I don't think Weiner would argue with Dr. King here), and I've wrote here before how unimpressed I was by large Christian gatherings using lots of (self-serving?) superlatives in their marketing. It's the sort of thing that would have made me want to clutch Noneness like a life-preserver had I not already been spoken for.

Weiner himself thinks humor is important, and I agree with him (note my heading). He thinks that "precious few of our religious leaders laugh. They shout." Yes, I hear them shouting too. I hear them shouting every time CNN talks to the latest loudmouth to draw a crowd or some doomsday prophet gets much more media attention than they deserve. But I can testify that while every church will have its sour-faced mice, much laughter can be heard between the pews. I grew up in a laughing family, surrounding by laughing people, and all of them thought you could know the Lord personally and would be happy to talk about it. We Christians run the whole gamut of emotions if you take the time to get to know us. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and disagree with Weiner's Chesterton quote: "It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it." Well, every religion can be joked about, and the best jokes come from within the ranks. Rather, it is the individual's jokes that are the test of his own character. Are they capable of joking? And when they do, is it in the right time and place for the best effect? Or are their jokes there for reasons of poison, to prey on the innocent and to build themselves up at others' expense? As some religious guy wrote somewhere, for everything there is a season. If you're a None genuinely seeking God and you visit a church that seems incapable of humor (and I've been there), give it one more week to make sure that your perceptions aren't clouded by a bias against the kind of people who show up there every Sunday (I have to watch myself there too). But once it's proven that the jokes are either unavailable or inappropriate, run (don't walk) to the exit. Bad humor's a good reason to find another church, but it's be a poor reason to try and put distance between yourself and God.

If Weiner has distance between himself and God, humorless blowhards have contributed to it. He needs a new kind of religious leader. He writes:

The answer, I think, lies in the sort of entrepreneurial spirit that has long defined America, including religious America. 

We need a Steve Jobs of religion. Someone (or ones) who can invent not a new religion but, rather, a new way of being religious. Like Mr. Jobs’s creations, this new way would be straightforward and unencumbered and absolutely intuitive. Most important, it would be highly interactive. I imagine a religious space that celebrates doubt, encourages experimentation and allows one to utter the word God without embarrassment. A religious operating system for the Nones among us. And for all of us.

A Steve Jobs' of religion... sounds nice doesn't it? It sounded nice to me until I began to unpack the analogy. I'm a fan of Apple products, and I am using one to write this blog post. But as sleek, hip and user-friendly as they are, they aren't for everyone, as Microsoft's "I'm a PC" commercial slyly picked up on. Weiner's religious space wouldn't be something for all of us. It would be one more niche in a crowded market. Furthermore, high-technology is effective to the point that it is individualized, that I can sit alone in my computer which is my own electronic kingdom, filled with my apps and my favorites and my bookmarks and social networking sites where I can pay attention and ignore people at my own leisure without fear of boredom, pain or small talk. It's straightforward, unencumbered, intuitive and interactive because it's mine, made in my image and serving my purposes and, for the small price of targeted advertisement, I can be as spiritual and unspiritual as I want, I can experiment, celebrate my doubt or my faith with no book or leader to tell me that I might be in any way off base (and if they do, I can simply delete their comment). I can utter whatever the hell I want, because as far as I'm concerned, I'm alone.

Christianity, to my daily dismay and glory, has a different user experience. It involves other people. I go into a church and I sing songs and say prayers and listen to words with all sorts of people. People with the wrong politics, the wrong interpretations, the wrong family traditions, the wrong styles, the wrong jokes. Their flawed behavior is rarely intuitive and often encumbers me. It's interactive, alright, but the interaction involves me putting aside my desires and agendas to meet other people where they are. It can be very tedious and often takes years to fully feel like part of a Fellowship (and having recently moved, I'm feeling these bruises once again), but it is well worth it. To sing and pray together with someone else in the presence of Almighty God... to have actually done that makes it worth it to come back and drink from the fountain, again and again. Weiner contrasts the private and public nature of religion, but his conclusions are too individualistic. Spirituality is private and public, yes, but knowing God is a communal experience - it's community with Him and with everyone else who has taken the plunge. It's there that we "become more loving" and experience "human grace."

I sympathize with the Nones' desire to remain outside all of this. I sympathize, because I detect something in them that I know in myself: a fear of commitment. Let me explain by way of politics. I confess that I find it difficult to commit to a particular political viewpoint. While living in Washington, I knew people who delighted in this commitment. They had strong politics, and they could argue them so well that I would be convinced until I talked with my next friend who had a different view. Everyone was right, and they could prove it. Moreover, the incivility and ill-humor of our political leaders and the media's appetite for scandal and provocation makes me feel about politics the same way Weiner feels about religion. But at the end of the day, I have to vote. I have to check the box next to the candidate I think is best and which statue or bill sounds the most reasonable. If I don't participate, my voice is completely marginalized and I miss out on the privileges of representative democracy.

Much like politics, religions have their loud blowhards and people who take what I feel is an uncomfortable delight in having strong opinions. But the responsibility for my participation does not rest on them - it rests on me. Commitment to God is less like buying an iPad and more like getting married. It's all encompassing, and we don't get to sever our ties when confronted with suffering, discomfort, other people or the fact that it's often us that needs changing. But the reward, and Christianity's key selling point, if you will, is love. Indeed, the Bible says that God himself is love and that all of God's law is summed up in loving God and loving each other. We're invited into this love through an act of love. Jesus died on a cross 2000 years ago that we may experience God's love through communion and fellowship with him, even when we're humorless blowhards with bad politics. The question then, is not whether we have the right operating system. It's whether we embrace Love or none.

An Open Letter to My Daughter

Dear Daughter,

It's been a great 20-plus months. Your mom and I are proud of the way you're growing: walking, talking and fulfilling that divine duty of being unspeakably cute. However, now that you are freely running around and resolutely expressing your own opinions, it's time to set some ground rules.

1. Every morning, you are to eat nutritious oatmeal with little pieces of apple mixed in, not banana-chocolate chip muffins (like the four I ate).
   
2. You are not to walk in the street (as I often do, because I like having more space).
   
3. I know you like the YouTube videos of classic Sesame Street songs that we watch together, but goofing off on the Internet is a destructive waste of time. Oooo... someone posted a link on Facebook analyzing the challenges facing the Bears' offensive line.... interesting... stay there, I'll be back. (reads for ten minutes, then opens a political blog from a Twitter feed)
   
4. Speaking of glowing screens, relaxing in front of the television is not a healthy way to spend an evening (fortunately, you go to bed before your mother and I indulge in this nightly ritual).
5. Never let your anger get the best of you. This is especially relevant in the car, where we have to deal with TAILGATERS!!! HONESTLY, ARE PEOPLE JUST SO FULL OF THEMSELVES OR SO PERSONALLY FRUSTRATED THAT THEY NEED TO PUT THEIR LIVES AND THE LIVES OF EVERYONE AROUND THEM IN JEOPARDY TO SAVE, WHAT, SEVEN SECONDS OFF THEIR COMMUTE!!???? HEY!! YOU IN THE AUDI COUP WITH THE PRETENTIOUS SUNGLASSES! GET OFF MY... I'm sorry, where were we?
   
6. Refrain from all addictions. Oh wait, my coffee just ran out... I'll be right back (hurries to kitchen.... )
   
7. I know that you have enjoyed getting to know some of the little boys in the church playgroup. Let's remember: it is never too early for fatherly intimidation. Be sure to tell them that your dad is an expert in five forms of martial arts and is particularly effective with nunchucks.
8. Finally, it is in poor taste to wantonly post personal reflection, pseudo-insights about religion (or sports or politics or philosophy) or attempted humor on some blog where anyone with Internet access can read it.
   

Under Familiar Trees

How do you take time to enjoy the familiar?

A general difference between America and Germany is the immediacy of nature. Both countries have excellent forests, mountains, rivers and trails, and a lot of people who like to enjoy them. However, nature seems more immediate over here. In American, (at least in the cities and suburbs) in order to enjoy nature, I had to drive somewhere, but when I got there, I was a good many miles away from civilization. Here, I can get out of my house and walk five minutes and to be surrounded by trees. This was true in bigger cities, not just the small towns. The trade-off, of course, is that when a country the size of Montana has 80 million citizens, civilization is never far off. I prefer the German way, though, for the simple fact that I hike a lot more.

I am getting to know the Hills of Plochingen. They aren't as vast or as awesome (think the King James Bible sense of the word, not the Ninja Turtle) as what we climbed in Austria, but they have a patient beauty. I say patient, because it's the type of beauty that speaks against the Internet age. Now, let me be clear that I like the Internet age. I get to communicate with friends all over the world. Heck, I get to have friends all over the world. I get access to content, pictures and sports scores like like they grow on trees and it's always harvest. And I get to write on the Internet, here in my own little corner of the information super highway! It's like Jimbo Fischer putting me in at tight end for a few plays. It's like Juergen Klinsmann letting me play attacking midfielder at the 80 minute mark during a friendly. Thanks, coach, I'll put myself in! Rudddyyyy! But the temptation is to value novelty over stability, to constantly engage in a frantic search for the next thing.

That temptation sneaked up on me during an unexpected hike. My wife and I drove our daughter to the top of the mountain for a little family time. There's a trail fit for strollers and a few playgrounds up there (plus a track, tennis courts and a biergarten, but we didn't use those). After some family R&R, my wife suggested I walk home, through the woods and down the mountain past all the little houses with apple trees. That day displayed all the virtues of September: summers glory was fading into gold, no longer white hot, now nurturing. The air was cleansed by yesterdays rain. An hour's walk in such conditions was a piece of Eden. But along the way, that Eden was attacked, sabotaged by my own impatience. I wanted to change sites to other trees. I wanted to switch tabs to bigger mountains or click on a link to open up a vibrant cityscape with an edgy soundtrack. And hey, I wanted information. I have big decisions to make, and I didn't feel it happening in all the stillness, rustling leaves and decaying apples. I wanted to read what people were saying: blogs, forums, respected newspapers - these would either inform my decisions or provide a balm from their pressure.

I'm thankful to God that I saw this. He showed it to me. It was then that I could say a firm "no" to my desire to control the scenery. However familiar, his creation is there to love, to appreciate, to enjoy. These dwarf mountains, as innocent as ancient children, these apples trees, bursting with hope and life and taste. Every leaf - a work of art as much as a work of biology. A friend reminded me the other day that it's God who makes us lie down in green pastures, even when we'd easily run off to whatever is next.

Walk a familiar path. Look at a tree or a flower, the one you've seen a thousand times and, with patience (and not without effort), watch the poetry. Feel the tenderness, like a reflection of what an aged lover feels when he sees is wife of fifty years, a reflection of Him who sees us and knows us - every part, every moment - and loves us. This may be a good step in the direction of loving Him back.

Did a Big Idea Make Big Ideas Elusive?

This weekend, some friends sent me Neal Gabler's interesting New York Times commentary, "The Elusive Big Idea." In it, Gabler bemoans the lack of influence compelling intellectual ideas have on modern Society. We make icons of those who, in the past, not only thought of something new, but also captured the attention and commanded the respect of the rest of the Western world, to the point where their ideas not only transformed their own field but impacted society as a whole. Freud's study in psychology brought about a paradigm shift in his own profession and influenced literature, theology and much else. The same could be said of Einstein with physics, Niebuhr with theology or Keynes with economics. Not only that, Gabler argues, but the ideas, and the intellectuals who argued for and about them, held more respect in popular culture. He writes:

"A big idea could capture the cover of Time — “Is God Dead?” — and intellectuals like Norman Mailer, William F. Buckley Jr. and Gore Vidal would even occasionally be invited to the couches of late-night talk shows. How long ago that was.

If our ideas seem smaller nowadays, it’s not because we are dumber than our forebears but because we just don’t care as much about ideas as they did. In effect, we are living in an increasingly post-idea world — a world in which big, thought-provoking ideas that can’t instantly be monetized are of so little intrinsic value that fewer people are generating them and fewer outlets are disseminating them, the Internet notwithstanding. Bold ideas are almost passé."

Now, you might be thinking, isn't the screen I'm staring at now a pretty big, transformative idea? Couldn't we add the likes of Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg to our pantheon of people with good, world-changing ideas? No, writes Gabler.

"Entrepreneurs have plenty of ideas, and some, like Steven P. Jobs of Apple, have come up with some brilliant ideas in the “inventional” sense of the word.

Still, while these ideas may change the way we live, they rarely transform the way we think. They are material, not ideational."

In fact, all this information technology is part of the problem.

"Where are you going? What are you doing? Whom are you seeing? These are today’s big questions. It is certainly no accident that the post-idea world has sprung up alongside the social networking world. Even though there are sites and blogs dedicated to ideas, Twitter, Facebook, Myspace, Flickr, etc., the most popular sites on the Web, are basically information exchanges, designed to feed the insatiable information hunger, though this is hardly the kind of information that generates ideas. It is largely useless except insofar as it makes the possessor of the information feel, well, informed."

I understand these this intense need to be informed, and the makers of social media, not to mention search engines, were smart to capitalize on this. A few minutes ago, I had to close the tabs with my Facebook and Twitter feeds just so I could stay focused on this blog. Gabler goes on to write how traditional media, the disbursers of big ideas, is suffering in an instant information society. Print is shrinking in market share, and popular television talk shows no longer invite intellectuals to sit on their couches. Instead of pausing to think, we now have the means to gorge ourselves with information, and we use it.

We're a narcissistic society, it's true, though I'm sure other professors had said that about their students a generation ago. Also, I don't think profit and intellectual thought are as antithetical as Gabler says it is. He admits that there are indeed thinkers with ideas to give and mentions a few examples, but they just don't have the same impact or attention of the idea generators of the past. But I largely agree that today, with our glut quick, instantaneous information and fewer ideas that manage to influence everyone.

Here's the thing, though. Isn't the death of a big idea, in part, the result of ideas themselves? Gabler laments the fall of enlightenment thinking, which he says is related to the death of the big idea, but he never mentions a big idea that critiqued the enlightenment itself: postmodernism. Postmodernism's flagship tenet is the deconstruction of meta-narratives, which is another way of saying big ideas, is it not? Postmodernism became popular, because some big ideas, full of influence, impact, debate, scholarship and much else, were devastating. Consider this neat summary from an Economist article five years ago (about which I wrote here):

"The founding post-modern text (as books are called in pomo) is by two Germans, Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer. Published in 1944, “Dialectic of Enlightenment” examined the culture that had given birth to Auschwitz. It declared that “enlightenment is totalitarian”—that the 18th-century attempt to replace religion with rationalism had supplanted one form of mental slavery with another. God had been elbowed out by fascism, communism, Marxism, Freudianism, Darwinism, socialism and capitalism. The post-modernists thought their job was to “deconstruct” these grand theories, which they called the “meta-narratives”. The pomos would free people from them by exposing their sinister nature."

What hath big ideas wrought? Yes, Freud and Einstein had big ideas, but so did Hitler and Stalin. Perverse as they were, they were birthed in an enlightened culture where ideas, to use Gabler's words, were not "intellectual playthings," but had "practical effects." Indeed, it was fear of Hitler that caused Einstein to apply his big ideas towards the creation of the atomic bomb. If big ideas are less important to many of us, it is, in part, because they managed to destroy themselves in the process.

What is the result of the postmodernist critique of big ideas? Well, one is mass individualism, which Gabler laments without naming. As the Economist article points out, Capitalism has taken advantage of this with niche marketing, which is perhaps why Mark Zuckerberg has probably had more of an impact on most of us than Steven Pinker (to use one of Gabler's examples). Aided with technology, we all get to pick and choose what we read, what feed we follow or whose pictures to tag. But it doesn't necessarily mean we cease to think; our thoughts rarely rest in conformity with our preferred ueber-thinker, and when they do, that thinker has less impact on society as a whole. I primarily use Facebook to share links and read the links my friends have posted, and much of it is good, substantial stuff. Ideas are not extinct, but there's a lot more of them, and, for better or for worse, it's less likely that the big few will dominate.

Yes, this leaves all of us wide open for narcissism. Furthermore, I share Gabler's dislike of celebrity gossip and the computer-like gestation of information without thought, not to mention a preference for long, thoughtful essays over the verbal volleyball of cable punditry. I wish Letterman would feature a prominent professor for every actor he hosts. But I would rather live with our frantic, electronic marketplace of ideas and distractions then go back to a time when an evil idea could become so dominate.

Will Wilkinson, in reply to Gabler, believes (and "would bet his immortal soul") that "more big ideas... were studied, discussed and produced in 2010 than in 1950." He goes on to put a sunnier face on modern intellectual discourse:

"A TED talk or a book-talk spot on "The Daily Show" may not have the audience or cultural centrality of a half-hour with Dick Cavett on ABC in 1970, but more people are consuming and discussing big ideas, old and new, than ever before. The difference is that the audience and the discussion has become fragmented and decentralised.

The fun part is that I, as a lay thinker, can join the discussion right here on the information super highway. For those of us who prefer a cooler, more intellectual environment, the answer is to remain relentlessly thoughtful, reading and considering the ideas we come across. Before, of course, we post them on Facebook.

Joy in Writing

I've put aside at least two posts this weekend. I also left a couple of post ideas festering in the fantasy stage of the process. My writer fantasies usually involves: 1) a blogpost changing the world for the better 2) it goes on to make me independently wealthy without damage to my soul 3) for my efforts, I am interviewed by Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air. It goes something like this:

TG: Un Till, I have to say, your posts are well-written, inspiring, and worth the outrageous wealth that has been showered upon you. Yet, you keep rejecting a stable career as an Abercrombie model to type on the internet. What is your secret?

UT: Well, Terry (may I call you Terry?), it all comes down to my humble refusal to obsess about myself.

Ahhh.... (dreamy smile before coming back to earth with a frightened shutter)

But the aforementioned posts tempted by anger, and anger, while sometimes appropriate, is a dangerous emotion to publish on the Internet. There is something to this, though. Part of writing's charm and joy is processing our emotional responses to something.

I've been thinking about why I enjoy writing. I wish I enjoyed building machines as some of my relatives do. Building things create beauty and discovery and economic stability, not to mention tremendous opportunity to practice generosity. But I enjoy opening up one of those glowing built things and typing words on it (in between reading words at other growing places). Writing helps me make sense of my reactions to what I read and experience; it helps me sort out my messy top drawer of emotion, imagination, thought and memory. When I'm finished, I better understand close things like my daughter's voice or distant things like another country's national tragedy. Not that I ever truly understand them, but it takes me down the road, loosening some convictions and tightening others. Posting these thoughts where others can read them gives them a measure of discipline and accountability that was not otherwise there. I've journaled before, and I'll probably do so again, but the results are usually (not always!) a fire hose of free-writing gibberish, offering me only outlet without light. The idea that someone may actually read it means I have to make the swarm of bees that I call my brain somehow coherent. And (to the best of my abilities) fair, honest and respectful. Or completely silly.

When he completed the Narnia series, C.S. Lewis received a lot of mail from children asking him if he would ever write any new books about the land of Aslan, Lucy and Caspian. Lewis always wrote back, "no," but he encouraged the children to write their own Narnia books. "It's most fun!" he would write (at least I think that's how he put it - my copy of Letters to Children is elsewhere). And it is, for many of us. Give it a try. After all, part of the great fun of the Internet is we all get to write on here for free. If you find your posts are angry, though, be careful. Shouting "you fool" is a dangerous indulgence.

Curiosity, Exploration and the End of the Shuttle

Two of the past few weeks' biggest news stories are, at one level at least, more related than they appear. The first is NASA's final Space Shuttle mission, a story that captures the sentimental attention of this quasi-Floridian. Throughout my years in Orlando, we would be awakened by sonic booms, or join the entire neighborhood outside and look East for the shuttle launch. My father described it as a camera flash followed by a tail of smoke. Even before we moved to the Sunshine State, I would excitedly watch the countdowns with my parents to see those wonderful machines suddenly create tidal waves of smoke to propel itself into orbit. The idea that America's astronauts are suddenly international hitchhikers saddens me, not because there's any shame in in foreign air travel (indeed, I wish China, Russia and co. all the best), but because human space travel was an exhilarating American venture.

The second story is the News of the World scandal in Great Britain. I dislike both tabloid journalism (except for the opportunity to smirk at a clever headline) and schadenfreude, so I honestly haven't been following all of the lurid details. What got me thinking about the two stories in connection was both the Economist's decidedly unsentimental take on the space program and Die Zeit's smart reflection about the scandal and tabloid press in general.

The Economist seems more than happy to bury the risky ambition of human space travel, and their Eeyore-like response has been rightly chastised by its readers. It would be a pity if their prophecy, with a view of the world about as exciting as an accounting spreadsheet, proves correct. Yes, space flight is risky and costly, but those involved know the risks and know the cost. That is why they are called heroes. Space exploration, including human space exploration, is worthy of both public and private investment; It's worth the investment of intelligent minds, careful hands and courageous souls.

This leads me to the Zeit article. Die Zeit reminds us why tabloid journalism is so profitable, and why those who run and work for these newspapers have an enormous incentive to break convention, morality and law to sell us the profitable details. We want them, and we're willing to pay. Why? Because we are curious creatures. We're curious enough to slow down and look at the traffic accident on the other side of the highway. We're curious enough to look through the open windows of private residents. Curious enough to buy the newspaper that can feed us all the gossip as quickly as possible. Whatever else Murdoch did, he knew human nature well enough to spot a lucrative business opportunity. As politicians, pundits and public wax on about these crimes, we would do well to remember, as the Zeit does, that they would never have been committed had there been no market for it.

But inasmuch as curiosity is a vice, it is also a virtue. One of the most intelligent men I've ever met was a maintenance inspector for Walgreen's in Orlando. I got to know him, because his second job was my summer job when I was in college, and we would carpool to work together. Whatever he lacked in university knowledge, he made up for in his ability to ask the right questions on any given subject. These were the kind of questions, spurred by an uninhibited but non-morbid curiosity, that aimed like a sniper's laser at the heart of any issue, from theology to aerodynamics, to deliver the maximum amount of useful information. It was an impressive gift, and (I have to admit) I still envy it. On the same note, die Zeit has an interesting quote from Albert Einstein (my rough translation): "I'm not especially talented, but rather passionately curious."

Curiosity ranks high among the virtues that propelled us into space. And in the midst of budget battles, war, economics and everything else bringing fatigue to our nation, I worry that this curiosity is being squelched. Yes, as the Economist points out, much of that curiosity is still being worked by today's Einsteins, the scientists who launch satellites, look through telescopes and collect data to help us understand the universe in all its dimensions. This is wonderful and commendable work. But there is a courageous sort of curiosity that calls the bravest of us to actually go there ourselves. To break orbit. To land on the moon. To go beyond. Sure, we can lampoon this with Star Trek quotes or smilingly mourn them with these quotes (h/t Adam), but our society is no better without this spirit.

We are curious creatures. Curiosity is a gift from God, and like all gifts, we can use it for good or ill. The courageous curiosity of the explorer, out of fashion today perhaps, is a nobler investment than tabloid journalism. We're willing to invest a lot of money so that the Rupert Murdochs of the world can feed our curiosity about stars, celebrities and suffering souls. I'll admit that the gratification is not nearly as immediate, but perhaps our curiosity is better focused upwards.

Autobahn

If you are a male, as I am, and you grew up in America, as I did, and you went to public school, camp or church youth group (I did all three), then you've probably had a conversation like this:

Boy 1: "Dude, did you know that there's a road in Germany with no speed limits? It's called the Autobahn! "
Boy 2: "Really? That's awesome!" (Note: The word awesome may be substituted for other slang words indicated the intrinsic goodness of no speed limits, depending on region or generation)
Boy 1: "Yeah, some day I'm gonna drive on it!"
Boy 2: "Me too!"

I've never really been a car guy. I didn't have posters of sports cars growing up, and I always drove clunkers until I could finally afford our Toyota Camry, a responsible automobile which we sold before moving to Plochingen. I don't really know my way around an engine, and I don't have a need to soup up a perfectly functional car to go faster. But, even with all this, I can't escape the romanticism that comes with the word Autobahn. No speed limits. None of those bossy little square signs that shout numbers and guidelines in the combined voice of your father and your kindergarten teacher. None of those small-town cops ensuring revenue to their precinct by crouching behind trees and billboards like hungry pumas, ready to devour those whose only sin was haste. I'm not a car guy, but I've known something that all boys know: speed is fun. The schoolyard equation went something like this: Faster = Funner. More Faster = More Funner. The evidence? Slides. Roller Coasters. Not to mention those car commercials where the wealthy, well-polished man finds achievement, enlightenment and true human potential while driving a German sports car faster than Superman can fly. As a great American thespian once said, "I have a need... for speed."

So yesterday, I dawned my sunglasses, kissed my daughter goodbye, and drove on the Autobahn from Stuttgart to Munich. Strictly speaking, the Autobahn is Germany's interstate system. They have a simple number systems, just as we do. We drove on the A-8, which is like driving on I-8 in the U.S. In fact, we got our idea for the Interstate highway system from Germany. Throughout WWII, the length of time to get war supplies from one end of the U.S. to another was a constant frustration for General Dwight D. Eisenhower. We had no Interstate system at the time, and State roads are slow, windy and aren't always suitable for army caravans. After conquering Germany, he was so impressed with the Autobahn system that he imposed one on us when he became president a decade later. Except ours had speed limits.

What was my stallion? A Mercedes? A BMW? A Porsche? Nope. My car was a Ford Focus, baby. Ok, but this is par to course. In Germany, Ford actually does good business selling things that are practical - and I happily turned on the radio as I drove a vehicle with decent trunk space (a luxury over here) and good gas mileage (a necessity).

To my disappointment, one of the first things that I saw on the hallowed highway was a speed limit sign. Yes, there are speed limits on parts of the Autobahn. Usually for construction, proximity of a busy city area or just a hazardous mountain road. The restrictions usually fall around 100 kilometers/hr. (60 MPH), 120 KPH (75M MPH) or 130 KPH (80 MPH). But those don't last forever, and eventually, I came to a place where I saw those accusing numbers crossed out. Restriction erased. It was there that I stomped the pedal like a Sumo Wrestler and let out my barbaric yalp, which caused a confused stare from my wife over in the passenger's seat.

Yes, I hauled. I hauled as fast as that little Ford motor could safely carry us in those condition, which was about 140-150 KPH (86-93MPH). Ok, so I didn't do anything manly or death defying. But at least it was nice not to be concerned about the speed limit. Here's the other thing: the driving was relatively safe, in spite of the lack of speed controls. That's because in Germany, there are additional traffic rules, and, here is the key, people actually follow them. The Germans don't have the liberal interpretation of traffic statues that most Americans have. During the entire trip (about two hours), no one, and I mean no one, attempted to pass me on the right. Turn singles blinked, people slowed down if needed to. That's not to say there weren't impatient jerks on the road - that's a cultural universal. But these were rule-abiding jerks - insufferable but not dangerous. The slow cars and trucks (tractor-trailer trucks have speed limits and additional rules imposed, no matter where we are) compliantly stayed in the right lane. I was a middle lane kind of guy, traveling at middle lane speed. The left lane - you should've seen the rubber burn there.

Every once in awhile, I would look in the mirror and see one of those beautiful German cars in my rear-view mirror. Mercedes, Porsche, BMW, Audi. Sometimes it was hard to to tell. Behind me, they would just be specs on the horizon. They would pass me in a flash of black (it was almost always black). Then, they would be a spec somewhere forward, in the future. That is the majesty of a German sports car, using the Autobahn for its created purpose. I'm sure their drivers achieved enlightenment and true human potential while in their vortex. Or in any case, whatever they experienced could be described in two words: More funner.

You've Got Tweets

At least one other blogger beat me to it (I did a "just in case" Google search on the topic), but at least it was an original idea among my friends, and besides, we have a different angle.

With Borders bookstores closing all over America, and various social media replacing that quaint, old-fashioned practice known as electronic mail, it's time for a sequel to that quintessential 90s movie, You've Got Mail. Yes, it's a generic love story - "oh, no, I hope they end up with each other and not with the uncomfortable, incompatible person they're currently dating!" plot regurgitation, but the backdrop of the rise of internet, email, online relationships and mega-bookstores makes this the kind of movie future historians will watch as they consider the 90s.

The plot of the sequal could be something like this: Played by Tom Hanks, widower Joe Fox (Meg Ryan's cold at the end of the movie was actually a warning sign) is also grieving the loss of 60% of his mega-bookstores, forced to close in the wake of fierce competition from a popular web-based discount store called "Nile." From his iPhone, Joe vents his sorrows through his anonymous Twitter account, @NY154. He begins to be followed by another anonymous person known as @Netgirl. The two begin playful but earnest banter and begin to fall through instantaneous messages of 140 characters or less.

Of course, @Netgirl is really the owner of the Nile website, who mostly tweets inside her expensive but lonely office, located in Nile's 150-acre Silicone Valley complex. She could be played by... oh, I don't know, Reese Witherspoon, or how about Gwyneth Paltrow? Of course, the love regurgitation story is beside the point (I'm sure they'll both be dating undesirable comic-relief characters who you pray they don't end up with). The real point will be to show future generations the rise of smart phones and social media, along with the demise of outlet chains. One of the classic movie moments will be where Joe Fox waxes on about the good old days, when people sat around in bookstore coffee areas reading magazines instead being glued to a screen all the time. At another point, @Netgirl would tweet from Fox Books: " Only 40% off for a best seller? Who pays that much!?" She will also make fun of Fox Books' awkward attempts to come up with a rival to her successful electronic reader, "The Blaze." At the end, of course, we'll learn that love conquers all, even sentimental attachment to your doomed business.

Yes, I think this is the movie you've been looking for - the one you'll use when telling the grandkids about early 21st century life.

Presuming to Blog

Among fatherhood's pleasures, I especially enjoy the role of teacher. It could be gratifying because I have a desire to be listened to and appreciated, or it could be a genuine bi-product of our created role as parents. Either way, from the morning diaper change to evening prayers, I am an expert on the alphabet, a scholar of stair climbing and a genuine professor of potty. Less encouragingly, my increasingly-perceptive daughter observes how I treat her mother, how I take care of our possessions and how I respond stress, conflict and chores. I am a conscious and unconscious teacher.

Often, this is a joy, but it is also a weighty responsibility. God has given to me enormous spiritual influence over this child, and Jesus has some strong words for those who abuse this. The Bible recognizes the pleasure and the power of teaching, and I for one love that role - I love the moment when someone who previously did not understand a concept, especially if it is a lovely concept, grasps it - their eyes open like a blooming flower and the muscles in their face relax. This is a joy and a privilege, and it is often very Godly. When I was a missionary in Germany, I remember sitting in a pub discussing the Gospel over beers with a good friend (hey, somebody has to do it). I got to show him that astounding truth Paul writes in 2nd Corinthians 5, that Jesus died and rose again that we may be reconciled to God. For my friend it was a new way of seeing Christianity, and life in general, and it was a moment to cherish, hopefully for both of us.

Yet, remember how much harm we can do through our speech. James writes: "Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness." With this verse in mind, along with the digital flair up over Rob Bell's new book, John Dyer writes in Christianity today that not many of us should presume to be bloggers. It's good practice to imagine what James would say to the digital age, and Dyer he argues that social media does not encourage the self-control he describes:

"In fact, they encourage an opposing value system. Social media relentlessly asks us to publish our personal opinions on anything and everything that happens. There is no time for reflection in prayer, no place for discussion with other flesh and blood image bearers, and no incentive to remain silent.

You must declare your position, and you must declare it now."

It is sobering to remember that we will be held accountable for our words, and perhaps more so the words that we so unaccountably scrawl on the internet for the world to see. This, I suspect, is an increasing pastoral problem (and parenting - I often wonder when we will allow our daughter to start a Facebook account. Parents, what's your household internet policy?) - how do we act like Christians on the Internet? I note that Dyer himself is blogging about the question, and his forthcoming book From the Garden to the City: The Redeeming and Corrupting Power of Technology will presumably provided this much-needed service. I certainly echo Dyer's call for restraint, reflection and wisdom, and I can probably point the finger to myself as well.

There are, however, two points in the article that concern me. First, in citing the Rob Bell hubbub, he avoids talking about online behavior of Christian leaders. He has some good analysis elsewhere, but he concludes that "best-selling authors, major authors or public theologians" have a different responsibility. That much, is indeed true, but shouldn't good Christian behavior on the internet start at the top? I don't think many of the Christian sheep bleating their opinions on universalism into cyberspace were being particularly original. Were not a majority just following, and retweeting their shepherds? I agree, many of us need to slow down and think before hitting that publish button, but in the larger discussion of online Christianity should include its uses for Christian leaders (incidentally, I have been edified by our own church's internet use, including the blogs my pastors contribute to, as well as our current online Lenten devotional).

Second, what kind of technological use is Dyer advocating? He concludes with

"I say, let the teachers teach and let them be judged more strictly.

As for the rest of the priesthood of believers, let's believe what we believe and then, as James advised, "show it by [our] good life," sharing our beliefs with those embodied souls in our immediate vicinity—just like Christians before 2004 used to do."

Well, yes, let's be cautious about our postings, particularly if we are trying to punch above our theological weight limit. And yes, we will better glorify God by showing these things through our good lives, and yes, one of the dangers of any technology is that it isolates us from our neighbors. I worry though, that Dyer leans to far in the other direction, towards an unhealthy disengagement by lay-Christians from a new part of reality. Like it or not, we are in a post-2004 world. For better or worse, much of our world is now online, and part of showing a good life, of letting our lives shine before others, means doing so online. Yes, there are dangers. And no, an online life should not replace a real life among family, friends, neighbors and co-workers. But the internet provides new opportunity and new ways of love, encouragement, prayer and edification. We are to be salt and light in all spheres, including the digital one.

That's why I don't think all of the high-tech idealism is unfounded. Dyer points out the danger of Facebook constantly asking "what's on your mind" or Twitter asking "what's happening" every time we log on - it can be an invitation to exhibitionism and a bane to self-control. There is danger there. On the other side of the coin, these questions are an invitation for users to join a greater conversation, a conversation that will only be as sinful as we make it. I like using Facebook to photostalk friends and share articles that I think are interesting - two pleasures I did not have pre-2004. I also use it to better understand the lives of missionaries we support and receive prayer from a woman in Chicago who has a social-media propelled praying ministry.

And, while Blogspot and Wordpress may give way to a lot of hot air, I for one am grateful to some of the lay Christian bloggers out there. Joshua's Spiritual Klutz blog, is regular, practical Christian wisdom, and I'm glad he is willing to put it out there. He's a trained writer and a good communicator, and a blog is a good place for him to serve with these gifts. The question, then, goes beyond whether or not a lay-Christian should blog (though that is a good one to prayerfully ask) to how can that blog edifying? This will be true for any Christian who writes, sings, paints or plays an instrument, all with varying levels of notoriety.

In many ways, that is why I presume to blog. Yes, God will hold me accountable words, and perhaps more so for words that anyone with a smart phone can find. I hope that this blog is an outlet for my thoughtful, creative side - a side that I don't get to use much these days, but a side I wish to use for God's glory. I'll be the first to say how short of that I fall. I try to avoid going beyond my pay-grade on any subject, and, while I presume to blog, I don't presume to be an expert, espousing my carefully researched ideas to my followers. I hope these are thoughtful responses and reflections, in all, part of that greater conversation.

If this is a conversation, then I hope for some feedback. How should the Christian engage social media? How do we read James 3 in light of Facebook, Twitter and blogs? How can we be salt and light online? How do leaders - from pastors to parents - teach their pupils about the internet? Think carefully before you hit publish, but I hope I'm not leading you into darkness when I ask, what's on your mind?