Song, Resurrection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wine, Quickly

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


Of Wine, Haste and Religion

Hirshhorn

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vs. the DMV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evangelical Writers

I read this article about Christianity and literature. I agree that Evangelicals have tended ignore art for arts sake and focused too exclusively on books and records with obvious utilitarian purposes (perhaps the problem is not so much the dearth of evangelical artists, but the lack of support, or market, they have received). I wonder where Wendell Berry would fit into this? I know little about him, but from what I read, he seems to be a devout Christian and a first-rate writer. He does not dress like a typical evangelical. He is thoughtfully critical of the American church's support of an international, consumer oriented economy, not to mention our support of modern technology. I doubt he thinks highly of blogs. But "Evangelical" is a theological and not a political term. He does not constantly quote scripture, but read his essays, you will see his views are bathed in it.

Of course, I don't know if Mr. Berry would apply that label to himself. But let's suppose he is. What I find refreshing about his work is no evangelical organization or business has trumpeted him as our Gospel warrior against the rest of the world. He is not our cultural David, slaying the giants of popular culture with his literary rocks. Rather, he is a champion of God's creation and biblical community, two things we have tended to ignore. His poetry should be appreciated, and his admonitions should be thoughtfully and prayerfully considered.

Perhaps there are good Christian writers among us, if only we took time to read them.

You can read this blog for free

I spent some time catching up on David Brooks, today. I wanted to catch up on Nicholas Kristof, but he appears to be on book leave.

I resisted the allure of "Times Select" as long as it existed. I've been reading the New York Times for free ever since my college gave away newspapers in the vain hopes that the budding Internet generation would become subscribers. When they stopped serving papers in plastic stands under the neon lights of dorm lobbies, I discovered that I could get the Times delivered to my inbox, and the reading continued.

Many of my conservative friends hate the Times for its left-of-center bias. I like it because it tends to find stories on cultural and international themes that I fail to find in other American papers. And biases, as long as they are not obnoxious, are challenging and healthy if you can recognize them. (As an aside, and I speak as someone who enjoys writing but has no training in journalism, I do believe journalists should write without bias as much as possible, but I find it difficult to imagine them succeeding 100 percent)

Of course, I enjoyed reading those who had no need to hide their biases. Columnists like Kristof and Brooks exposed my mind, coming into its own in the worlds of politics and public debate, to increasingly varied vantage points. I particularly liked these two, not because I necessarily agreed with their politics, but because they both seem more reflective than their peers. Brooks integrates philosophy, sociology and history in his columns better than anyone else I've read. Kristof explores his subjects more literally, writing not just about, but from under-reported corners of the world (he received a Pulitzer for his columns from Darfur, when most were focused on Iraq).

Then the Times started charging for their star columnists. I refused to buy. Practically, my worlds of students, mission and non-profit have not left me much in the way of disposable income. As a matter of principle, there is so much information and entertainment available on the Internet, I saw no reason to pay for a little bit more (relatively speaking). I missed them, don't get me wrong. Occasionally an enthralling title with a teaser line next to that orange-coated, stylized "t" would tempt me to reach for my credit card. I would look longingly at the opinion section of my NYT email before scrolling up to the international headlines section. At least it helped me read more actual stories rather than opinions about them.

This week, my resistance has paid-off. "Times-select" is no more. The powers that be realized that you make money on the Internet not through credit card grabbing gateways but through advertising. Too many readers came to the Times website searching for columnists, only to leave when the hat came out.

Of course, they picked a strange time to quit. Brooks is on a break and Kristof is on book-leave. Oh well. We'll be re-acquainted Soon.

Now, if only the ESPN website would get rid of that ridiculous "insider" section.

iPhone reflections for the un-iPhoned

It's interesting the sensation that can come out of a consumer product. I'm sure last weekend you either bought an iPhone or talked with your friend who bought one. Justin, my friend, drinking buddy and main source of information for all things technology, had his at the party. For an insider's view, read his last few posts. We all got to see his iPhone, many of us got to touch it. It produces a strange emotion: envy combined with awe and a sense of revolution against all things Steve Jobs. I often try to fight trends. I need neither an MP3 player, a new phone, or a portable television internet device, in spite of all its innate coolness (though while finding our way to the party, I couldn't deny the usefulness of an electronic, real-time map on a glowing screen). Of course, I don't need a mobile phone, air conditioning, a notebook computer or slick Swiss shoes I bought in Stuttgart. Heck, I even started online social networking!

The iPhone hype may indict our culture of greed, envy and idolotry, all of which we need to reckon with in some way. But within that, our ability to create amazing things, be it one of the old (or new) 7 wonders or the latest in innovation Steve Jobs, there are some amazing sites to behold. There has always been beauty to be found on the cutting edge of technology.

The New York Times has some interesting thoughts on the iPhone.