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.

We are Finke

Perhaps not quite as inspiring or heartbreaking to US sports fans as "We are Marshall;" nonetheless, the final essay from Uli Hesse-Lichtenberger about SC Freiburg's famous coach is worth reading.

Ohne Finke, hab' wir keine Chance!

My favorite sports-writer is not a Chicago Tribune writer following the Bears or a Tallahassee reporter covering the Noles. It's ESPN Soccernet's Uli Hesse-Lichtenberger. Uli (I'm not going to re-write his last name) writes columns about the Bundesliga, so I'm already biased in his favor. But what makes him stand out above his colleagues is that he avoids the tabloid gossip issues that everyone else is stuck on. Everyone else can cover the sensations about whether Thierry Henry goes to Barcelona or whether Erikson will coach Manchester City. He finds fascinating stories within the historical context of soccer, which is a lot more interesting.

My favorite soccer team, by default, is SC Freiburg. I lived in Freiburg for two years, and both years they were in the Bunesliga. They have no superstars, but they played hard that first year and competed with the Bayerns and Werders of the league. However, the next year, they were terrible, finishing dead last and were relegated to the 2nd Bundesliga where they have been since. I saw two games, one a 2:0 dismantling of this year's Bundesliga champion VfB Stuttgart. It was one of the few bright spots of the season.

Well, now Uli is chronicling the rise and fall of Freiburg's legendary coach, Volker Finke, the most beloved Breisgau coach not named Loew. I remember being near the stadium after Freiburg got thumped by one of the league giants. Some fans grumbled about the coach, but many sang "ohne Finke hab' wir keine Chance!" Without Finke, we have no chance.

Anyway, part II of the series is here. Part I was a lot of background, not all of it necessary. Part III will be here soon.

Stories...

Here is a short story Christianity Today published. It's a very interesting concept, though the story itself seems incomplete. What I appreciate is its attempt to engage a moral complexity we face (in this case, genetics). There is a lot being said, and presumably being done, about using stories to better engage post-moderns with the Gospel. This article is encouraging, because it uses the same idea with one of the many issues we face in the public square. Such stories should be done in a manner that is not mean-spirited (unlike a cartoon I saw in a Christian publication cynically portraying a young worker being fired for posting party pictures on MySpace); indeed it should be loving. It should also be honest about complexities, as well as appropriately appreciative of the other sides in the debates. This story is a step in the right direction, and kudos to Agnieszka Tennant for writing it.

Wine-growers prepared to use violence

Radical Basque separatists, Hamas, Al Qaida and now... French wine-growers. The BBC reports that a groups of masked Frenchmen called "the Crav," who look a lot like the shadowy jihadis kidnapping soldiers and journalists, are prepared to use violence if the French government doesn't meet its demands.

The question remains for wine lovers: does consuming wine from the Languedoc region mean giving into the terrorists? Or are these guerrillas freedom fighters, preventing excellent wine from being watered down by global competition?

A commentary you can't refuse

The Economist online has an interesting commentary on The Soparanos, American culture and the way the rest of the world sees us. Read it here.

Bada Bing!

Love and the art of feeding sheep

Today the worship team I'm not, as well as worship teams from several other churches, received worship training from Andy Piercy (www.andypiercy.com). He's an interesting character, an original Christian who was also a rocker, who toured with Queen (a fact I think is really cool) 10 years before any of us in the Christian bubble were debating whether that kind of thing was "going secular" and "selling out."

Among many excellent points one stood out that seems so intuitive and correct I'm amazed that tonight's the first night I thought about it. Towards the end of the presentation he spoke of the shepherding role of a worship leader, siting Jesus' final command to the future leader of his church (John 21). To be a shepherd as Christ, Andy reminded us, we need to love our congregation. It's easy to think of it as serving, or worse, performing for a congregation. Love eliminates any need to perform and ignites the desire to serve.

I've led worship for a relatively long time, and leading worship in small group settings is one thing I can say I do well. Andy's challenge will enrich all of this. While working in the ministry, it was easier to remember to love those I was evangelizing. There's no other logical reason to walk up to strangers and try to challenge their beliefs, much less try to win them over to yours. The only other reason would be out of a self-righteous love for your own beliefs (rather than the object of your beliefs) and that has always had disastrous results. God's love for me enabled me to love him, to worship him and lead others to do the same. God's command and the completion of worship is to love these others as well.

Loving your neighbor at 15,000 feet

I experience flying the same way I experience a restless night's sleep. Every step of the process rushes through my mind like a surreal sequence of dreams. My senses take in, but are not allowed to react to sounds, sights, smells and temperatures that occur so little in my day-to-day life that they are unnatural and intrusive.

Yet, I really like travel. I love airports. Anyone who has seen Love Actually will remember how it opens and closes at Heathrow airport, a collage of people who love each other, people of all different shapes and flavors, saying hello or good bye in the profound little intimacies that only occur at these moments. I love that part.

My 8-hour layover in Heathrow saw little of that. I was in the "passengers only" area, which has been separated from those Love Actually moments since 9-11. However, there is an unspoken camaraderie among the passengers. No matter where we're going, we're all on the same boat. It's a place where different cultures, races, ethnicities and religions go through so many of the same rituals. We take off our shoes, take out our lap-tops, empty our pockets, pray that we won't be picked to have strangers rummage through our belongings, pray harder that we won't be picked out to be frisked, we wait in lines, we find caffeine or alcohol or simply something to read, we watch each other and observe what country we're from, discerning accents and languages (is that Russian? It's definitely something Eastern European), check our tickets, read signs, watch these amazing machines that will transport us to Istanbul, New York, Johannesburg, Barcelona, Stuttgart. I find I like all the people I'm waiting in line with. I look knowingly at all of the impatient expressions. I wonder if the long cue will cause me to miss the 17:30 take-off as well.

On my flight back to DC, however, I found myself sitting next to someone I found difficult to like. My father always tells me stories of the interesting people he meets on flights. He has these great conversations with fantastic world travelers. I'm usually sitting next to some tired business man has his headphones on and his gin and tonic out before the flight attendants are finished with their safety speech, twisting his entire body to communicate that communication is the last thing he wants for the next eight hours. This time, however, I had the opposite problem. I sat next to an elderly lady. She also drank gin and tonic, but she talked more as more drinks came. She also smelled. It was difficult to face her. She was the sort of old woman who would ramble about nothing in particular. She seemed very rich. She had just come back from a northern cruise and she had a huge pearl ring on her left hand. Her constant talking was intruding on the reason we introverts love flying: where else can you read with so little of life distracting you? I wanted to hide in my own headphones.

My attitude reminded me, though, of how far from Christ I often am. He seemed to like the unlikable. He even liked the tax-collectors. He made it a point to like them. I don't think we're required to like everybody, but we are required, and hopefully with time and growth, enabled to love as he does. I looked up from my book and listened. I think (ok, I'm sure) Christ would have listened better, would have loved her better and would have sewed seeds of Gospel into the heart of this drunk, smelly, rich old woman. I fell short on all accounts, to my shame. Yet, I believe that was his working that pulled me from myself so I could make the attempt, and in that I have hope that I am growing in the right direction. Even in the middle of this strange sequence of dreams.

Some Helpful remarks

Some constructive criticism of my previous post was written on the Tobacco Barn Blog (also in my own comment section). http://blogs.pipetrader.com/TobaccoBarn/Default.aspx

The writer makes the excellent point that I did not make a clear enough distinction between responsibile and irresponsible behavior. Indeed, he makes the distinction between responsible pipe smoking and "regular cigarette smoking," siting the 1964 Surgeon General Report, which states, according to the post, "that pipe smokers tended to live longer than the general population." The 1979 follow-up seems to make a further distinction between heavy and light pipe-smokers.

So, for all you pipe-smoking enthusiasts, I encourage you to read the blog to learn how to better enjoy your passion. In the meantime, let the record state that I wish to encourage a responsible savoring of the finer things in life, including good tobacco, rather than the gluttoneous consumption of such products, which leads not only to poor health, but a failure to appreciate the good things we have been given.

Any way you light it, smoking is cool (too bad it's deadly)

Every morning on the way to work I watch an old man defy convention. I get off a couple of metro stops early so that I can walk a few extra blocks. In a city where working overtime is so blessed, I take whatever exercise I can get. The old man stands every morning in front of what I presume to be his office, though he must be in his 70s. He has a full head of proud, ivory-white hair. When it's cold, he wears a sort of wool fedora-looking hat with a plaid design of light colors. It's the kind of hat that could only look cool on an old man. The same could be said of his suit.



Every morning he smokes a pipe, and this is a sight to behold. In a city where new smoking-ordinances have outlawed the leaf that financed early-America (tobacco leaves are indeed carved in columns on the Capitol building) in bars, restaurants and offices, the old man stands out as a counter culture relic. His age is defies death already; his pipe dares it. If I weren't so chicken of dying an early death of some sort of cancerous suffocation, I would join him. I would break out my Meerschaum pipe, as white as that old man's hair and purchased (with the help of a more barter-savvy friend) in Turkey's Grand Bazaar. I'd watch the beautiful purples of morning turn to gold while breathing in the taste of Virginia's soil. I would warm my hands with the bowl of my pipe and watch the many flavored residents of Washington DC walk hurried and harried to work.



I saw an anti-smoking ad campaign a few weeks ago. It shows different, individual shots of beautiful teenagers with clean faces and cool, moderate clothes shrugging their shoulders, smiling and shaking their heads. They are a politically correct mix of races, yet they all look the same - good-looking, moderately dressed, clean face. They are "cool" kids, the popular group, the kind of kids who participated in the student government association. Their shrugs and head-shakes are in response to the provocative question asked in the kind of impatient voice that only a teenager (or Cloe O'Brien from 24) could use. "Can you give me give me one reason why smoking isn't stupid?"



I'm sure there's a host of market research that proves this ad to be statistically effective, but I know it would not have worked on me. These are the kind of kids that made rebelling against them cool, a sort of a high school bourgeoisie. Sure, smoking is stupid. It's sucking addictive, cancer inducing smoke into your lungs. But driving a sports car down a mountain trail and break-neck speed is also stupid. And incredibly cool.



Smoking is Sherlock Holmes smoking cigars and drinking brandy as he brilliantly explains his analysis to Watson. Smoking is Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin strolling down 5th Avenue, casually blowing smoke. Smoking is James Dean in a leather jacket. Smoking Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. Smoking is Gandalf, Aragorn and the rest of the fellowship. Smoking stares death in the face and smirks. Smoking is cool.

I am a social smoker. I smoke a pipe or a cigar with friends, but I have avoided cigarettes and addictive smoking. Interestingly enough, I love smoky rooms. I've probably done more damage to my lungs reading old novels in Freiburg's Cafe Michelangelo than anything I have inhaled through a tube. But I never wanted to be addicted to the stuff.

The cool, SGA bourgeoisie did nothing to keep me from being addicted to tobacco. I was never able to join the high school elite, and smoking would have been a good way to add coolness to my high school resume. I'm not addicted to tobacco right now because I realized love and health are more important that coolness. I realized the comradere I gained while running cross country was better than any perceived coolness. I do fear lung cancer, and I fear not being able to run long distances. Breathing tobacco smoke may be like drinking wine. Breathing oxygen is like drinking water, and there times water tastes so much better than wine.

Older than the Rockies

It's been a couple weeks since the massacre at Virginia Tech. A week full of life abundant with little time to reflect on what happened in Blacksburg. My organization celebrated its 40th anniversary, so pain was eased by the open bars of two major parties - a black tie event for the donors and happy hour saturated with the smell of humanity as hundreds of twenty somethings drank alcohol, watched the Yankee/Red Sox game and networked. Pain was also ignored by my activities. I watched a movie, I prayed, I talked with my girlfriend, I recruited for my program on Facebook and I helped lead the music at church (for the first time, which was something significant). Between work, revelry (and I submit, that this revelry was not unhealthy) and worship, I've had little time to reflect on the what happened in the town of my birth.

Whatever pain I have, it's relatively dull, especially when you compare it to the pain of any of the friends and relatives of the victims (or the perpetrator. Diana Butler Bass has this to say when we think about the murderer's mother, who was reportedly hospitalized with shock: http://www.beliefnet.com/blogs/godspolitics/2007/04/diana-butler-bass-silence-of-murderers.html). My cousin, who I haven't seen in years, is a student at Virginia Tech, but he was not in the building when and where the violence took place. But Blacksburg his home to me, as much as anywhere else in the world. The pain I feel resembled the pain of a childhood house being burnt down. These things are not supposed to happen close to him. The mountains seem to nestle the town in the fall. When I was younger and living in Richmond, VA, my mother would be sure to drive us to visit Christiansburg, Blacksburg's university-less twin sister, just ten minutes away with the car, where my grandmother lived.

The Appalacians are older than the Rockies. Smaller but greener, less wild and more lively. It's a place of age for me. The house my mother grew up in is old; my grandmother was older. Both represented to me quaint pieces of Americana rarely seen. It is also a place of peace. There's something so comforting about mist resting on the shoulders and sleeping mountains. When I was younger, we would stay with my grandmother at Easter time. I would get up early, and Gramma and I would have blessed moments in the kitchen. She would strain my orange juice and put charred pieces of bacon on paper towels that covered her counter-tops. I would sit under my picture and talk to her. We would both listen to the birds. The first birds singing in the spring remained a thrill to my grandmother throughout her 96 years.

Yet, in the fall, the peace would be interrupted for celebration. As if sensing that the harvest was near, the trees would light on fire. Drive over the Blue Mountain parkway in the fall and try not to be amazed by the sea of orange, red and gold. Watch the old mountains dance like my grandmother must have at the barn dances she would describe to me. Old fiddlers and banjoers in worn clothes would accompany the merriment, fingers and wrists rushing to outrun the approaching winter. Thanksgiving, again with Gramma, would end the merriment. Satisfied with the feast, the leaves would drop to the ground, and naked trees would wait for Christmas and springtime.

Virginia Tech belongs in this picture. Grey is a dull color outside of Blacksburg. But it decorates the mountains beautifully, perfectly complimenting every season. The grey "Hokie stones" (http://www.vt.edu/about/documents/HokieStone.pdf) from which the buildings are made are unique to the region. It reminds me of an ancient castle on the Rhine, yet it is also uniquely American, something born in the hills of southwestern Virginia. A campus once for the army now hosts some of the most brilliant engineers in the nation. The football team ain't bad either.

This is my childhood. This was me playing a child-sized guitar with a worshipband in a lecture hall. This is a playground with a hill, a rock and an empty caboose. This is a row of pine trees which mark my own years. This is the beauty of mountains older than the Rockies. This is the part of me, the home and the peace, that was wounded that day. Completely insignificant compared to the lives lost. Yet, both peace, life and home will one day be restored. The peace of Appalachia is just a reflection of what that will be like.

Resurrection

Christian Hofreiter, my church's envoy to Europe, preached an excellent sermon on the Resurrection. To reflect on the this event after the lent season was refreshing and joyous (indeed, this sentence seems to be an understatement). Our hope rests on realities of this resurrection. Jesus is our Rabbi, which means (according a pastor I greatly admire) we try to imitate him in every way, and therefore we will, by His power, follow him on this same path one day. Listen to the sermon, and if you haven't made the decision to join us on this journey, I encourage you to do so.

The sermon can be found on the church website: http://www.rezchurch.org/3.html. It's the 4.8.2007 sermon entitled "I have seen the Lord."

Vonnegut

Never having read Kurt Vonnegut myself, this essay, which the president of my organization passed around today, was a great introduction. In honor of the author, who passed away a couple days ago, read this: http://instruct.westvalley.edu/lafave/hb.html.

Like one crucified

In the Philippines, the Passion Plays are real. At least, more real than many of us would be comfortable with. Sure, millions of Americans went to see Mel Gibson's movie, but check out these devoted Jesus-actors: http://www.spiegel.de/panorama/0,1518,476050,00.html. Sorry, the article itself is in German - I was looking for a similar article in English, but the pictures here are worth a thousand words. Click on the slide show two paragraphs down, and you'll see what I'm talking about.

The pain on the man's face is not acting. Those nails are actually piercing his hands. He and four others do this every year on Good Friday. One of them is a 46 year-old man who has been nailed to a cross every Passion Week for over two decades. Not being the actual Jesus, they don't die for three days and come back to life, of course. They hang on the cross for 5 grueling minutes, after which they are taken down and given medical attention. Jesus, of course, died after six hours, and other condemned men in the days of Rome hung for more than a day. The nails aren't the mega-spikes that went through Jesus' wrists, rather these 9 centimeter long worker-nails are soaked in alcohol to prevent infection and then nailed (more traditionally) through the hands.

The crucified men are devout Catholics (though the Catholic church itself condemns the acts), and they consider their crucifixions acts of worship, as well as sermons. Ruben Enaje, the aforementioned 46 years old intends to be crucified each year as long as he can, according to the Spiegel article.

Jesus, of course, said that we need to take up our crosses and follow him. Of course, that was not literal for most of us. Paul promises that sharing in Christ's suffering is part of being a complete Christian. Many of the earliest Christians were martyred on the cross, just like Jesus. Tradition holds that Peter was crucified up-side down. Perhaps other Christians are (and will be) literally crucified as Christ was.

Jesus, of course, mercifully commands us to remember his suffering through eating and drinking. The sermon here, of course, is the Gospel itself: that by living here the life we were meant to live, and by dying the death and facing the Father's wrath we deserve, we now have life abundant. We sang "Rock of Ages" at church today, reminding that this act was a "double-cure." In living the abundant life, we are overcoming sin, and we are living in God's favor, for eternity. I hope these crucified Philippinos, as they perform this brutal work, remember that it is this kind of grace that has saved them. I hope we remember it to. Happy Easter, everyone.

Searching for Authenticity, Orlando

"That day, flying over central Florida, Disney decided that he, not reality, would define what constituted the Magic Kingdom in the minds and spending habits of millions of Americans in the years to come."

I almost stole a magazine from a hospital patient. A woman I know had been hospitalized for over three-weeks with a ruptured appendix. She spent those days laying such pain, it was difficult to read anything. Thus, I thought National Geographic might be a good gift for her. If she was in too much pain to read, she would have brilliant photographs of elephants, sharks and exotically dressed humans to place before her eyes. Of course, if she was well enough to read, the articles are interesting and informative.

As I thumbed through the issue on the bus to Georgetown Hospital, I discovered that city I consider my hometown was featured in an article. It is a surreal experience to see something with which I am intimately familiar gracing the glossy pages of National Geographic. There are articles about the preservation of sharks, the protection of elephants, and a black market of animals stolen from Indonesia. The issue takes you from India, to sub-Saharan Africa, to a computer simulation that retraces an exploding start, to... Orlando - an area so unnatural that one could hardly call a study of it geography.

The article has the typical National Geographic tone - disinterested yet interesting journalistic writing laced with scholastic aptitude, all describing streets on which I have driven, buildings in which I have found an air-conditioned refuge, food I have eaten, and, of course, theme parks (guess which one in particular) I have patroned. The first few paragraphs reveal its accuracy, and the fact that the writer has much of the same puzzles about the area that I have had. I nearly put it in my bag and bussed home. Instead, I gave it to the sick woman, and bought my own copy at a drug store that weekend. Of course, you can read the article for free right here: http://www7.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/0703/feature4/index.html.

T.D. Allman, the article's writer, proclaims Orlando to be "the new American Metropolis." Through him, the reader is treated to a tour of everything Orlando is: the good, the bad and the unnatural. Mostly the unnatural. It's new. "This, truly, is a 21st-century paradigm: It is growth built on consumption, not production; a society founded not on natural resources, but upon the dissipation of capital accumulated elsewhere; a place of infinite possibilities, somehow held together, to the extent it is held together at all, by a shared recognition of high-way signs, brand names, TV-shows, and personalities, rather than any shared history. Nowhere is the juxtaposition of what America actually is and the conventional idea of what America should be more vivid and revealing," he writes. What does that mean? Mega-churches, McMansions and Mickey Mouse. The American dream, made more affordable and seeming more surreal as we become financially prosperous.

One morning last winter, I was driving to work, and I saw an eerie image that typifies much of what Orlando is, and I was happy that National Geographic photographed it. I was on a long stretch of land, land that still had its original trees, but land that you knew would soon be devoured by development. Every year, hundreds of thousands of people follow sunshine and economic opportunity to Central Florida. Thus, there are always houses to be built. I glanced out the right windshield and saw a forest of lampposts. Roughage had been cleared away for row after row of lampposts. No buildings or sidewalks, just lampposts. It looked post-apocalyptic. It was actually pre-neighborhood. Soon grass would be brought from somewhere else, and if the markets are good, and neighborhood, just like the one I call home, will be built. But it doesn't have to look this way. "Don't want to live in a produced, instant 'community'?" writes Allman, "No problem. Orlando's developers, like the producers of instant coffee, offer you a variety of flavors, including one called Tradition."

This is Orlando. The American dream being unfolded and placed on top of land that was deemed useless by farmers. Disney saw its potential, and while his full utopia was not realized, business is booming, and the wealth is spreading to the rest of America. Here in DC, the hip neighborhood is Clarendon, and it carries the eerie oder of palm-trees, orange juice and red lobster. There's some places I love, like Iota, where Ben plays open-mic nights, or Hard Times Cafe, which serves some amazing Chili. Yet, so much of it looks like Orlando to me. All the stores of the local multi-plex - Barnes and Noble, Chiptoles, the Gap. Everything I seem to feel I need. Don't like the increasingly uniform nature of American cuisine? Blame the Darden Corporation, which, according to Allman, is Orlando's first Fortune 500 company, which has been cranking out Olive Gardens and Red Lobsters in a neighborhood near you, particularly new, up and coming neighborhoods like Clarendon. Food is standardize to meet (or to create?) an American palate. These are fine, and I'm told they are great for the economy. But give me a restaurant that grew up with the land, that tastes like what DC, Chicago, New York or New Orleans has to offer me, that represents its people. (I'm sure Olive Garden is working on this)

It would be tempting to write Orlando off as something plastic. Much of it lacks that wood-smelling, perfectly imperfect "something" that we generally refer to as character. Yet, I've lived there, and I can report that within the megachurches and mcmansions, beneath the surface, are genuine people with all humanity has to offer. Allman found Orlando's irresistible ethnic diversity, particularly within its high schools. Go to any downtown nightclub and watch the Latinos dance as if they are made of liquid. Go to any high school and listen to spanish accents speak to southern accents, as differences come together and discover humanity. He also found it in a small Buddhist temple, which seems like a contrast between the megachurches and the parachurch organizations that seem to be the religious choice of a market-driven lifestyle. But visit these churches for a moment and watch the men and women with their hands raised, singing to God above the blaring speakers of the latest sound-system. Watch my father's church, as his community of "McMansioners", lawyers, corporate executives and school teachers rallied to provide furniture and amenities for the local Middle School janitor's family.

There may be a lot to criticize. Allman acknowledges that the "gospel according to Disney is an optimistic message of self-fulfillment of wanting something so badly that your dreams really do come true." So, is Orlando babel? For some people, maybe. But within my dad's church community are people who see these franchise restaurant and well-marketed neighborhoods as means of hard work and existence, knowing full well that the real Gospel is something deeper, is using these resources to help others. The para-church organizations Allman criticizes were the first responders to Hurricane Katrina, providing food, shelter and water to the Gulf Coast as the government and the red cross were falling all over each other. Musically, Orlando is known for boy bands and the Mickey Mouse club. What's more representative of our fair city than the Backstreet Boys - a band designed to sell records and make money? But check out www.theoaksband.com for some music that brings Afghanistan through the lens and poetic thoughts of a native Floridans for some beautiful results. Will they make any money? I hope so. Proceeds from their albums goes to a charity bringing supplies to Afghanistan's poor. A charity based in Orlando no less.

My youngest sister ranks among the most authentic people I know. She moved to Orlando pre-kindergarten, asking where the rides were when we showed up to our sulfur-smelling neighborhood. She grew up in the strangely shaped Florida houses, attended church in buildings that looked like offices and walked on grass that was landscaped by dark-colored, spanish-speaking men whose faces we all too easily forgotten. Yet, as she eats her Panera bread and meets her friends at Barnes & Noble, she finds ways to ornament herself, ways to read, ways to think and ways to believe in God that are unique to her. Her friends are like her. The centers to their jokes and conversations are often about "brand-names, TV shows and personality," but now they all have shared history. Every summer they faced the storms and the heat, every day at high school they intermingled with people who were born with different colors and speak with different accents. Many of her friends grew up as missionaries (often associated with the much-maligned para-church organizations). Florida's schools may not rank well nationally, but I wager that Orlando's kids know as much, if not more, about the rest of the world than any community in America. My sister's a part of that. Her authentic self took root in the un-authentic landscapes of (perhaps overly) planned communities. Orlando may have brought us Red Lobster, Mickey Mouse and the Backstreet Boys. But it's also raising a generation of people, like my sister, who will change the world for the better. I doubt she'll feel any uneasiness when she looks at Orlando and says, "that's home."

Multi-Tasking

I'm talking to my roommate as I write this. The International Herald Tribune says I should not be. Check out this warning to all of us multi-taskers (I didn't read the whole thing, because I was checking email, hearing voicemail, and chewing gum): http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/03/25/business/multi.php.

Christian Music

A few months ago, I read a Newsweek (or was it Time?) review of Chris Tomlin. The magazine admired his ability to make popular songs, not by selling records, but rather writing songs that are sung by millions every Sunday morning across the USA. However, it reminded me that often there is something deeper. It mentioned how one of his songs (which I happen to like and has been sung by every church I've attended since its inception) could to compare with the likes of classical Christian music of previous centuries. It's a bit like saying Metallica can't compare with Wagner, but it made its point.

Uwe Siemon-Netto, in the below article from the journal First Things shows us how Bach has been an effective tool of worship and ministry, particularly for those who perform his work.

http://www.firstthings.com/article.php3?id_article=2628&var_recherche=Bach

We may be excited when Chris Tomlin is interviewed in a national magazine, or when Mercy Me is played on "secular" radio, or even when a Christian like Sufjan Stevens is considered artistic and avaunt garde. However, in a Christian culture where to sing "Come Thou Found of Every Blessing" a Capella (and this is one of my favorite ways to worship) is considered "singing the classics," perhaps it would do us some good to educate ourselves about Bach and Handel, among many others.

Book List II

I realize I said I'd do a book list once a week. However, this week was further proof that in DC, every evening can be filled up with some sort of occasion, which made for little time and less reading. However, I did manage to add a book to the list, and I'm almost finished with it!


1) "The Return of the Prodigal Son" by Henri Nouwen. I was hoping to be finished with this by now, but this is not the type of book to rush through. Many who have already read the work have told me the last chapter is the best. I'm not sure about that, though hopefully I will mature into the kind of person who may think that way. The first three chapters are about Gospel Comfort, the way that rebel and pharisee alike are called home to the Father's celebration. The final chapters are about the calling to become like the Father, to "be compassionate as your Father is compassionate." This is where comfort gives way to growth, which is always a more difficult aspect of the Christian life. Nouwen himself is forthright about his difficulties here - which is comforting in its own way: The Harvard scholar-priest who forsook further educational glory to minister to the mentally handicapped confesses many inner difficulties with the challenges of Christian transformation. Needless to say, each paragraph has been a bit of a mountain pass, and if I attempted to speed through it, I would fall into flippancy (I envy people who can speed through these things without such consequences).

2) "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger. This book is, of course, part of my efforts to catch up on the "classics." As millions already know, "the Catcher in the Rye" is brilliant. I didn't like it at first - getting used to it was like learning to like dry wine. But now it's becoming a fascinating portrait of Holden Caufield. It's the kind of book I need to savor and think about, so it's slow going. Metro rides to work aren't cutting it.

3) "Spurgeon's Sermons, Volume VI." Nothing new to report here - this is mostly weekend reading.

4) "A Severe Mercy," by Sheldon Vanaunken. I'm moving into the sadder parts. Vanauken seems more real to me in his struggles than in his triumphs.

5) "Gemeinsam Leben" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. This is "Life Together" in the original German. I still need that Saturday dedicated to reading it.

6) "Mit Liedern Beten" by Albert Frey.

7) "In the Presence of Fear" by Wendell Berry. I've heard of him, haven't read him. Challenging and thought-provoking economic ideas that deserve their own blog.

Pan's Labyrinth

"Men talked of their deaths and of pain, but they dared not speak of the promise of eternal life."

As the credits rolled, no one moved to the exits. The handful of us who had forgone March Madness basketball for an artsy film sat in the dark in a reverence that transcended mere thoughtfulness. "Pan's Labyrinth" is a beautiful film, not as a sunset is beautiful, but as a Van Gogh painting is beautiful, touching dark parts of the soul that want to be both left alone and expressed.

I know a lot of people who didn't like the film, and there was part of me that didn't want to (and part of me that really wanted to for completely shallow reasons). It's a fairly tale that is not for children, yet it's a child's perspective on the brutality of war. Like Alice and Lucy, the protagonist, a young girl named Ophelia, visits a mystical, fantasy land. But this land is much darker, often literally not just in but of earth, haunted by giant toads and fearsome, child eating trolls. As in Lucy's story, there's a fawn, but this fawn is not fuzzy or huggable. He looks made of the earth, wooden in parts, as if his knees should have leaves shooting out of them. His personality and mood seem to shift every time she sees him - giddy, condescending, spiteful, mirthful, fierce. He is repelling and inviting. He can't be grasped, controlled or predicted. He tells her she is the reincarnation of an underworld princess who must complete three tasks to return to her father. None of these tasks are particularly sanitized.

This fantasy world lurks behind a reality that is much more grim. She has moved to the country with her mother who is "sick with a baby" (as Ophelia sees it) and her brutal step-father. The step-father is a military captain charged with hounding out some resistance fighters in the residue of the Spanish Civil War. He's hot and cold - relish violence, torture and some sort of honorable death in war - and ranks among the best movie villains.

I can't describe the movie much more than that. Yet, there's a lot more I can say, but I want to blog while the film is more of an un-processed feeling. I have the same feeling now as I did after seeing 'the Godfather" for the first time. It's the feeling that this is a complete piece of cinema that needs nothing added to it. Like the Fawn in the film, it's something you can't completely hold or categorize; it's both repulsive and alluring, both damaging and healing. Part of me may long for a more obviously redemptive film, yet it offers the kind of hope that most of us see in this world - something distant, beautiful and dangerously beyond our own definitions and understandings. See the film, though heed the appropriate warning that it is as brutal as its villain, and they do not hide the violence of war or torture.

To taste the feeling of this film, go to the website at www.panslabyrinth.com and listen to the score. The tune is mysterious, playful, teasing, hopeful, full of fantasy, filled with dreams and incredibly sad. Much like the film itself.

Righteous Deception?

My pastors are going through a sermon series that is purposefully dis-comforting. They say it's supposed to be that way, being Lent and all. They are speaking on 4-deadly sins to which we Washingtonians (have I been here long enough to call myself that?) are particularly prone. Much of the focus has been on how deadly these sins are, and that has actually been good. They have been painful, but like a massage that digs deep below the surfaces of skin and muscle, they have been a kind of pain that brings healing. Repentance of sin leads to a sincere hope in God.

The first deadly sin was deception. When Dan preached on this, he used FBI Agent Robert Hanssen, who sold secrets to the Soviets more for the thrill of deceiving his peers than for the money. (You probably know that he is the subject of the excellent film, "Breach." Oscar nomination for Chris Cooper! Here, here!) Of course, he preached against more normal examples of deception, such as pretending to work while you're really sending personal emails or playing solitaire.

However, we might agree that not all cases deception are evil. In "Les Miserables," a nun whose defining trait was her sincerity, lied to Javert in order to protect Jean Valjean. She was not on the side of law, in contrast to Javert's pious lawfulness, but rather she showed Valjean mercy, somehow sensing he was a good man (I love the scene. Victor Hugo has a wonderful way of using more words than necessary to describe a single moment, and in umpteen paragraphs, we meet the nun at the point of her moral crisis. The build up is beautiful, and there is no way that we are not going to root for her to save Valjean's bacon).

A less morally ambiguous example: I think anyone who has taken Philosophy 101 has heard the Gestapo example. If you lived in Germany and 1942, and you were hiding your Jewish friends in your basement, it would be morally reprehensible not to try to deceive the Gestapo.

I now turn to the "Time" magazine from a couple weeks ago, which reported from the "front lines" of my country's abortion wars. Much of it centered on a particular Crisis Pregnancy Center (I learned that individual centers in this anti-abortion group are much more independent that I thought they were). It reported that some Crisis Pregnancy Centers engage in some fibbery of their own. The specific example was exaggerating the health risks of abortion based on data a couple decades old. When confronted about this, the woman indicated that transparency in this case was something they really had to think about.

This deception was the hot topic of discussion in the readers' letters a week later. Congressman Carolyn B. Maloney wrote that "while many CPCs are sincere, what I call 'counterfeit pregnancy centers' also exist... deceit and misinformation only serve to inflame both sides and emotionally damage pregnant women exploring their options. I have introduced legislation to crack down on the false advertising related to abortion services, and I hope it is something that can be supported by everyone, regardless of people's positions on abortion."

Maggie Nichols of Deltona, Florida counters, "a Planned Parenthood official (referring to the CPC fibs) quoted in your report stated, 'That's taking someones life and playing a really dangerous game with it.' Whose love does he believe is in danger? It is a significant injustice to pretend that there is only one life at stake in these cases. Pregnancy centers shouldn't misinform women--and neither should abortion providers."

I sympathize with the deception here. The justification seem to be, in order to save this child's life, misinformation is certainly necessary. Certainly scaring a woman out of abortion is a good tactic?

Yet something bugs me about that. At stake here is the moral high ground of the abortion debate, which has not only legislative significance, but significance in the hearts and minds of millions of young people enter the world of free thought. A month ago, I marched in the pro-life parade on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. The majority of the marchers seemed to be Catholic youth groups. As I looked at all these children with hope, but not without sadness. I wondered what experience would bring them, how the world might deceive them. When the time came, what choices would they make. Marching is quite easy.

To truly be pro-life is to look after society's orphans and widows. To deceive the "widows" is not like deceiving the Gestapo. Life is at stake in both cases, but one must be embraced while the other must be thwarted.

I applaud the work of the Crisis Pregnancy Centers. The embrace the widows more than anyone else I'm aware of. They buy food and clothes and baby needs for those who cannot afford them. They give them counseling and comfort. They are the true evangelists in both an ancient and post-modern sense of the word I want them to not deceive, acknowledging that I am saying this as someone who is far from the realities at stake here. But there is a more powerful truth on their side. Technology has given them new, better ultrasounds. In the same Letter section, Kathie Thompson of Wilsonville, Oregon writes, "...since win has informed choice become a 'guerrilla' tactic? Abortion providers fear that a mother informed of her child's development will change her mind and decide not to abort. I hope your cover picture (of a woman's hand holding four model fetuses) is sufficiently intriguing to pregnant women that they will investigate, as much as possible, that precious life inside them. Ultrasound is not a 'stealth tactic.' It's a window into the womb that reveals undeniable life."

That is the opposite of deception.

Econ Exam

It's time. Friends, tomorrow I finally take the Economics exam for an online class I've been in since the summer. This in a way has been my penance for taking all the fun classes in my International Affairs major without taking the less interesting (from my perspective - I envy people who find finances interesting, because they will definitely make the most of what they got), but incredibly important classes. Long story short, almost any graduate program in International Relations of any kind requires more economics than I took in college. I can brag about my GPA and whip out my paper on the Cyprus Conflict, but I could not tell you at what point, in perfect competition, a firm that ceases to be profitable should shut down.

It's a bit like eating your vegetables. Not nearly as tasty as dessert or satisfying as red meat, but you know it will help you thrive. So much of the world is run on money, whether we like it or not, and those who understand these things have potential to do something good. That's why I'm excited that my friend Cam, who has a degree in Economics and a knack for business, has a vision for helping people in Africa in the areas of sustainable growth. He has an awesome chance of helping them on a real individual and practical level.

Meanwhile, I need to go to bed. I understand some basic points of economics now, and I pray that I can remember the necessary terms (understanding is only as good as your ability to explain and apply it). If you read this and think about it Monday evening, pray for me.

Good News for Fussball Fans

Well, for all you German soccer buffs, and I know you're out there, you'll be happy to know that the Bundesliga now offers their official website "auf Englisch." Check out http://www.bundesliga.de/ for details, where I learned, reading the original German, that SC Freiburg's winning streak came to an end. Sigh. When are they going to climb out of the second league?

Not to be outdone, ESPN Soccernet now offers their website "auf Deutsch." It's at http://www.espnsoccernet.de, and it promises to be "more than Michael Ballack."

International Women's Day

Here on the East coast of the USA, International Women's day just ended. Angela (www.hereisangela.com) points out that International Women's day has socialist origins, which is probably why I never heard of it until I moved to Europe. Ironically, a pastor I met who used to work in the former Eastern block told me that a friend of his relies on the holiday to keep his flower shop from going under. Ah, the cold realities of capitalism.

So to my mother, my sisters, Dani and all of you other ladies, happy Women's day! May you be blessed and free.

Book List

I am a very moody reader. I usually am reading five books at the same time, each of I'll read in fits and spurts. I'm not dogmatic about what books I read, but I am always trying to read at least one book that is spiritually edifying and one book that is more culturally edifying. My favorite books manage to be both (at the moment, my favorite book is "Les Miserables," which I consider to be a 1400 page Gospel presentation. 2nd and 3rd place go to the Russians, with "War and Peace," and "The Brothers Karamazov" close behind them. Three cheers for really long epics!). I also enjoy a book that is more like fast-food or candy - something that I can read quickly without much effort. Books like the "Harry Potter" series or "the Good German" have served this purpose. It's easy to surround myself with Christian inspiration without engaging the world. Amidst so many books that I find rather fluffy (though they encourage many better saints than I), there are some real gems, particularly if you are willing to go back in time. Many of these books are worth reading over and over. However, as a Christian I have a commitment to be in the world as well. That means engaging the art that does not appear to be Christian on the surface. For most people, this is not a problem, and it really shouldn't be a problem. I can find myself involuntarily over-identifying my life with certain characters and certain situation, which becomes rather neurotic (of course, this has been a negative with some Christian books as well). For example, I once heard Terri Gross interview Zadie Smith on NPR's show, "Fresh Air." Smith seemed like an incredibly interesting person. She seemed like someone I would want to have coffee with and learn things from. She was talking about her book, "On Beauty" which I bought and read this Fall. Smith didn't let me down. She is a brilliant writer, and her book was a page turner that made me think deeper about the culture wars, race, family, academics and marriage. However, the book is also incredibly sad and prone to some British-style cynicism, and in certain moods, I found it difficult to disengage myself from either of these emotions. I'm not proud of this, and I recommend the book to anyone who can enjoy art more responsibly. Moreover, I rarely completely flee a book, but I read it, like I read everything, in fits and starts, waiting for the mood to sink in to the point where I could find reality.

All this is in preface to a new feature in my blog, which I hope to update regularly, say... weekly. I want to present a booklist of what I am currently reading. I also want to list some of the kind of books I would like to be reading. My moody reading-style, combined with a busy schedule (full of work, friends, church, roommates and sleep), means that I don't get through books as quickly as I would like to.

So, at the moment I am reading:

1) "The Return of the Prodigal Son" by Henri Nouwen. I was impressed by his insight as a minister in "the Wounded Healer," but this book has been one of those books that shows me myself and shows me God. I knew it would become a favorite when I started. I am almost finished.

2) "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger. This book is, of course, part of my efforts to catch up on the "classics." As millions already know, "the Catcher in the Rye" is brilliant. I didn't like it at first - getting used to it was like learning to like dry wine. But now it's becoming a fascinating portrait of Holden Caufield. It's the kind of book I need to savor and think about, so it's slow going. Metro rides to work aren't cutting it.

3) "Spurgeon's Sermons, Volume VI." My dad did what every reformed pastor probably has done: bought the entire set of Charles Spurgeon's sermons. I am reading this as part of my weekend devotions, though I read it a lot more before I had a job. It's classic Baptist preaching, it's quite Calvinist, and they almost always point to the Gospel in a new and beautiful way. Of course, it is also a look into the age of Christian past. I warn you that his sermons were preached before the days of political correctness, which is refreshingly uncomfortable.

4) "A Severe Mercy," by Sheldon Vanaunken. Anyone familiar with this book knows a girl recommended it to me. The romanticism in the first chapter was so sticky sweet that it almost made me give up, but it's gotten really good, and there are some great quotes about Christianity, education and life. It's a memoir about his marriage and his faith, and it features his interactions and correspondence with CS Lewis (funny aside: Lewis's name is featured more prominently on the cover than poor Sheldon's). I love how it shows to highly-educated dreamers become Christians, and when he's not overly romantic about certain things, I relate to many parts of his story. It is, of course sad as well.

5) "Gemeinsam Leben" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. This is "Life Together" in the original German. I am trying to read it, but being in German means I need to double my concentration (not easy for Mr. Short Attention Span over here). I intend to go to a cafe very soon and spend some focused time on this book. The Metro doesn't cut it here, either. However, his opening chapter about his vision for community and what can endanger community, even in its infancy, has made an impression.

6) "Mit Liedern Beten" by Albert Frey. This is "Praying with Songs," by my favorite worship leader. I wish I could share him with my American friends. He journeys more into the heart of what it means to lead others to worship through song, and I recommend it to anyone who leads worship (and speaks German).

Flickering Screen

As I write this, I'm watching "American Idol." I'm almost ashamed to admit it. I suppose I can see the drama and entertainment value. I'm not really a fan of public humiliation, however deserved, or the style of music (though it does make a party, I suppose). I guess it's more about bonding with my roommates, particularly with Dimiter, who doesn't like "24" or "the Office," like the rest of us. We're judging the men at the moment, and I'm pulling for the fat guy with a lot of hair, just because I like to root for the fat guy with a lot of hair. (As an aside, Jeff Foxworthy is in the audience, which adds entertainment through osmosis) TV so addicting, there were times I have purposely tried to live without one. I could be reading, writing something more philosophical (ok, ok, maybe not), learning to finger-pick like all the cool guitarists. Yet nothing gets guys to bond like a flickering screen. We need the help.

Update: the guy with the hair did great.

More on faking it...

A bit more on the subject of faking it for appearance's sake: A professor of Literature at the University of Paris has written a guide on "How to talk About a Book You Haven't Read." I guess appearing cultured rather than being cultured is a universal (not just American) phenomenon. Here is a link to the New York Times article.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/02/24/books/24read.html?_r=1&th&emc=th&oref=slogin

Of course, perhaps it's self defeating to write a book about not reading books...

My Second Lent

So I was devouring sausages on the way to the Lent service today. The night before, the place where I worked had a networking/mardi gras party, which meant that the spoils of fat Tuesday were available in the office kitchen. Someone had to eat them before they went bad. The office Catholics were all fasting meat, and, after putting together a budget, I'll take all the free meals I can get. (did I mention the crab cakes were particularly excellent?)

Perhaps that's an indication of just how new I am to Lent. I was raised in a "lower-church" protestant tradition, where we limboed under the church Calendar, with its fasts and feasts (pausing, though, for Christmas, Easter and a wonderful "Harvest Party" every Halloween) and everything else that was not necessary for salvation and morality. And while I say that tongue-in-cheek, I don't disapprove either. Tradition has meant death to so many people that it us understadable why they want to focus on the core of God's love in Jesus Christ.

In the Metro, I saw all the catholics and "high church" protestants with ashes on their foreheads. I wondered if I would get ashes on my forehead. I wasn't entirely sure of their significants, other than perhaps harkening our Jewish forefathers who would mourn under sack-cloth and ashes (everyone still was dressed in conservative, Washington business atire, so no sack-cloth), but it seemed like a cool thing. It's interesting wanting to put a mark on your forehead for stylistic reasons (would you prefer a thumb-print or a cross?). I guess it's just as random as a neck-tie.

At a coffee shop with free wireless, I sat down with a friend of mine to wash down the party favors with fizzy water out of a glass bottle. Then we walked to church.

The sign on the door of the church instructed us to enter silently. It's a heavy thing to walk into a crowded room that is completely silent. One becomes somber and self-conscious. Self-conscious because anything could be heard - a hastily dropped bag, a text message or some misplaced gas would echo from stained glass window to stained glass window, causing a domino effect of snickers and coughs, disturbing the penitent attitude of 200 worshipers. Somber, because it was a dark church with no mood music. Somber, because of the grave way Pastor Dan approached the podium to say his opening words. Somber, because it was dark.

I intended to be more of an observer, this my first Lent. It was the first Lent for many of the young, upwardly mobile Evangelicals who attend my church. Pastor Dan sent out helpful sheet on the meaning of Lent. It's more than giving up chocolate, alcohol, meat or lunch (in the case of my Lutheran office-mate). It's a time of self-examination and repentance before the joy of Easter.

Now, I've nothing against having a special time for self-examination. However, lack of introspection cannot be found among my many flaws. This blog probably proves it. I'm neurotic enough; do I really need a season of neurosis before I get my Easter basket? My belly-button is thuroughly examined, thank you.

Yet, I want an opened mind. Before I entered the silence, I felt nothing but curiosity and the desire to follow the "ashes on the forehead" trend. I told God that if he wanted to speak to me, I'd listen. Me and my big mouth.

A Lent service is designed to bring the open-hearted to their knees. This one was effective. From the invitation to worship to the closing hymn, we reflected on sin and brokenness. I learned the ashes on my forehead, which I did receive in the form of a smeared, silver cross, were meant to remind us of what God told Adam after he sinned. From dust we were made, and from dust we were returned. Sin brought mortality, eternity completely outside of divine happiness. Sadness, anger and more sin. Darfur, Krakow, Hitler, Nero, you and me. Lent is a time when we experience some of the same grimness God feels as we flee his love, as we fail to trust, as we fail to love others, the poor and needy in particular, as we fail to forgive and use others for our selfish purposes.

Two years ago I was broken open, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. It cost me my dream job, what seemed to be my calling, in a country I love. It cost me deep friendships and a beautiful relationship. I failed to trust, because I could not. I was mentally unable to. My mind was overworked and tired, and I was lost. I went home to reboot and rebuild.

I've since put my life together. I am surrounded by beautiful people of God. In my work, I help people learn things they would not have known otherwise. I am in a fascinating, historical and cultural city. And somehow I trust. I trust God. Not very well, as you probably have observed, but I trust him, deeply and beautifully. This evening, as we were silently receiving the ashes, I saw my dark time as a Lent. It was a season of anguish, of repentance, of learning to trust. It was dark. Yet God was light, waiting, searching and loving.

Psalm 51, David's Psalm of repentance, has a beautiful line, one I understand more deeply now. "Let the bones you have broken rejoice." Sin and life may break us, but we don't end in brokenness. We end rejoicing. I don't fully understand what caused my darkness. Yet afterwards, I trust deeply. I learn to trust still. I look down and see that I still have a heart, I have a mission. I still have relationships. I still need to repent daily. I still need to grow. Yet God has been looking the whole time. Lent, it seems, is less about introspection and fasting - those are only means to an end. Lent is about repentance. It's about the gravity of what Jesus did for us on the cross. It's about the heavy sort of Joy that comes with death defeated, with the thought that nothing and no one and no situation is irredeemable.

I've wondered if I should fast something these next 40 days. I could give up Alcohol, meat or television and be better for it. I could spend my Saturdays helping the poor, which would be better still. I asked God about this too.

While I feel a neurotic desire to give up some of these comforts - maybe I will in the end - I believe this Lent is about moving forward. It's about remembering, in awe, of where God has brought me. It's about repenting of my sin. It's about being brave enough to pray to God and ask the question that has scared me for two years. "What's next?"

If you're still with me, bless you for reading my long ramblings. We closed to a beautiful hymn (which had the same tune as "O the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus," another hymn I love) called "Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow." I want to close with it as well.

Through the night of doubt and sorrow
Onward goes the pilgrim band
singing songs of expectation
marching to the promised land
Clear before us through the darkness
gleams and burns the guiding light
trusting God we march together
stepping fearless through the night

One the light of God's own presence
o'er his ransomed people shed
chasing far the gloom and terror
brightening all the path we tread
one the object of our journey
one the faith which never tires
one the earnest looking forward
one the hope our God inspires

Onward, therefore, all ye pilgrims,
onward with the cross our aid
bear its shame, and fight its battle
till we rest beneath its shade
soon shall come the great awaking
soon the rending of the tomb
then the scattering of all shadows
and the end of toil and gloom

Even better, I talk like I know about sports...

I just saw a great commercial on ESPN.

As I write this, I am watching the University of Washington play Pittsburg in college basketball. Not because I am a particular fan of either team, but because it's Saturday and I want to do something relaxing. Besides, there's something fresh and raw and deliciously tribal about college sports that professional sports can't seem to match. It's messier, but it's a passionate mess.

Anyway, the commercial was advertisement for ESPNews, the network's 24 hour sports-news channel. It's like a never-ending episode of Sports Center. Anyway, the protagonist of this commercial was a man who clearly didn't know sports and always embarrassed himself by saying obvious sports falsehoods. ESPN news cures him. He ends the commercial saying, "now I know about sports. Even better, I talk like I know about sports."

What a great line. Credit the commercial makers for sneaking some social commentary in ESPN's attempt to grasp viewers and money.

It's part of our nature, isn't it? We want to pose, we want to present ourselves as something. Our ancients painted their faces to demonstrate their prowess in battle. We wear the right close and speak the right language. It's better to talk like I know about sports. I feel that pressure in Washington. Everyone here is an expert. I feel something like penis envy at every party where I find myself drinking wine with someone obviously more knowledgeable about wine than me. I can never remember what grape gives what taste to what wine-sort from what region. I just know that Spanish wine I drank with Daniela in Malaga was one of the best tastes I've ever had in my mouth. Of course, I can't brag about my travels anymore, not with my co-workers laughing about good times in that one party district in Hong Kong. Yet I want to, immensely.

I don't need ESPNews. I need a 24 hour news station filled with facts about culture, politics, philosophy and travel, so I could wow my friends. Who needs education when you can talk like you're educated.

I wonder if this is fueling my ambition for higher education more than I let on. I do have some pure motives (the post-modern in me replies that no motive could ever truly be pure. Perhaps I should conclude that it's better not to have motives). I honestly love to learn. I want to show Jesus to people somehow, and I want to do this from a position of knowledge and understanding. I truly love culture, art, travel, coffee and wine.

Yet, there's a part of me that's uncomfortable not being the coolest guy in the room. It's amazing how much that steals the joy all these things bring.

Many places to live

I just read something beautiful in Henri Nouwen's the Return of the Prodigal Son. (actually, the entire book is beautiful. You should read it) While writing about the differences in people, the different struggles we all have, he implies that when Jesus says, "in my Father's house, there are many places to live," he means not just spatially, but that there is room for all of our quirks, personalities, thoughts, gifts, and unique redemptive stories. I've never liked to be put in a box. It's a comforting thought that heaven will not be uniform.

Winter

Today I left early from work. There was ice on the road, so the Federal Government shut down. As I was walking home, shivering beneath my standard, very Washington (though I have to say, I look good in it) black trench-coat, I met my two Serbian friends. They laughed when I told them Georgetown (where they were headed) would probably be closed. They said Serbia is like this all the time.

I moved to Florida when I was 13. I thought everyone was a wimp for pulling out the winter coats when it dropped under 70. Then they would cover their ferns with blankets. I imagined they put on their wool socks, snuggling under seventeen quilts and an electric blanket.

Of course, it took about three years for me to join them. I didn't realize it, though, until I moved to Germany. Before then, I nursed the idyllic picture of winter, sort of a combination of Christmas, ski vacations and staying home from school. That was there during the month of December. Every town in Germany, and Freiburg is no exception, hosts a Christmas market, where the entire town gathers to drink Gluehwein (a hot, spiced wine that is perfect for winter), eat Lebkuchen (cakey, chocolate-covered ginger bread) and buy trinkets, not to mention socialize. It's a nice way to pretend we still live in quaint, small village communities. I'm sure we had no problems back then.

Of course, then came January and February. And I started coughing a lot. I started coughing from November to April in Germany, and I'm happy to say I'm continuing the tradition. The idealism was gone and the reality that the decision to go hungry for the evening or go to the grocery store is a heck of a lot more difficult in the winter had set in. (I think I still have peanut butter and a spoon...) Winter was something long. Moreover, it was dark. I never noticed it during my Virginia childhood. Darkness and 5:00 is depressing. It certainly affected my mood.

However, there was one more thing I noticed, that I haven't noticed before. Spring. Spring is beautiful in Florida, but it's not that much different than winter. Spring in Freiburg was heavenly. One day in March, it was finally warm enough to open street cafes. Sunlight rested on the Cobblestone roads as delicately as it rested on my forehead. Arms were naked and ready to be darker again. Faces were brighter as well. It was as if someone was handing out smiles. It was that day I went to the banks of the Dreisam river to sit in the grass to read Les Miserables. It was there I read the part about Marius being so in love that he did not notice the magic of spring. It was the first time I noticed it. (I also noticed a naked man ride by on a bicycle, which was much less magical) I still don't know if it was worth the cold, dark winter.

That's the kind of question I ask God a lot.

"Post-modernism is the new black"

I really hate to steal someone else's title, but it was too good.

It's a tradition I inherited from my father - reading the latest issue of the Economist every time I ride a plane. It's wonderful, really. It's an education. I am told that to study for the United States Foreign Service Exam, one should read each issue from cover to cover. I walk away with the feeling that I "really" know what's going on, which is good ammunition for Washington. Agree or disagree with their positions, they do argue their points clearly and logically, which is more than I can say for most publications.

My favorite article this time, somewhere in the air between Orlando and Dulles, was called "Post-modernism is the new black." With an ironic tone, it examines capitalism's response to post-modernism. The founders of post-modernism were socialists, and capitalism was one of the "meta-narratives" it attempted to deconstruct. (Of course, they were no friends of the communist meta-narrative either)

In so many ways, post-modernism is beautiful. It naturally appeals to me. It's a philosophy where everyone gets to make up their own dance. There's real independence without real expectation on people. It's quite selfish in some ways, but given it was born in Europe in the 1940s, this was better than the alternative. Every other philosophy - religious, political, psychological - seemed to have contributed to the two wars, needlessly killing millions. How appealing to forget about who's right and stop fighting! It's still appealing as the grand narratives of "democracy" and "fundamentalist Islam" are killing each other based on beliefs. Would it not be better if we just stopped believing? In some ways, it seems we'd live much easier lives. So says post-modernism, which criticizes every belief, every "meta-narrative" from Christianity to Freudianism to Nazism to Capitalism, meticulously deconstructing everything the ancients took for granted. They criticize as only the French and the Germans could.

Yet one of the grand narratives, says the Economist, has succeeded in embracing post-modernism for its own propagation. As belief has become less important, at least in any corporate sense, everyone has started to dance their own dance. And capitalism has responded. Everyone has a "will not to be governed." Everyone is "the artist of his/her own life." And there are all sorts of products that go with this. (Blogs being one of them) I wonder if this is best demonstrated by a commercial I saw many times last year (and honestly enjoyed). A cell phone company was advertising a combination phone and MP3-player. What is more post-modern than that? Don't give me your stuffy old definitions of what phones must do and how pop-music must be heard! Our generation can do anything it wants. Wer'e our own artists, thankyaverymuch. So the commercial shows a young, incredibly hip looking woman being "the artist of her own life." Walking down city streets, she listens to some awesome "chick-rock." She walking in a normal, confident manner. But every time she passes a mirror, her reflection (or in other scenes, her shadow) is dancing in a way that made me desire to be as free as her. Perhaps an MP3-phone could help.

You are your own person, and there's a product for each of you out there to help you express that. You are your own niche-market.

This is different than a lot of Christians I have met. I've worked in missions and associated with missionaries, many of whom feared post-modernism. When belief is viewed as un-important at best, or dangerous at worst (watch the movie Downfall and you'll understand why many Germans aren't too keen on believing in anything), it makes spreading Christianity different. Christianity is a meta-narrative. It claims God stepped into the world to save us from our own selfishness. It claims if we follow him we can act more like him and we will be able to live in a state of eternal peace. Following is not very post-modern. It means letting someone else be the artist of your life. When someone else is the artist of your life, he can paint some unpleasant pictures. Popes used his narrative to lead others on crusades against Muslims, killing un-told thousands. And we ask why religion is so un-appealing.

Thus, so many Christians face post-modernism with a sort of gravity soldiers must get when they must face bullets. With modernists, one could at least have arguments. One doesn't know where to begin with a "pomo."

Yet, I wonder if by embracing capitalism, many parts of the American Evangelical church have ministered in a post-modern way. "What's Jesus for you?" is a common question. It kind of sounds like "what can brown do for you?" What is God doing in your life? In a previous blog, I considered Saddleback's niche-market worship services. We can almost be the artists of our own church service!

Let's now consider how much of this is a good thing. I love how it opposes uniformity. Christianity is open to many different kinds of people, kinds of worship and kinds of gifts. There's no exclusive priesthood, even though a professional priesthood (or clergy, if you prefer) is necessary. Many parts, one body. We're often accused of being exclusive. Yet post-modernism reflects Christianity in this way: everyone gets to dance, everyone gets to play along. Your color, gender, and background, under this grand narrative of the dying-God, doesn't matter. We were pomo before pomo. Moreover, it has taken evangelism away from the argument and the track and more to the individual. It is forcing us Christians to know and love our un-believing friend. There is little converting from a distance with post-moderns, and those of us who have ministered to pomos are better for it.

There is, as always, some danger. CS Lewis often warns that each age is susceptible to certain lies, and that the members of each age need to compare notes with other ages (he recommends reading old books at least as often as you read new ones). Inclusiveness can give way to individualism, to selfishness. Many observers rightly note that many churches have lost the real sense of community they once had. When you are selfish, the church, the Bible and the needy become as important as my mp3-player. I go to church, read my Bible, pray and give to the needy based on my feelings. These are the food of Christianity. I need my Christian brothers and sisters as I need nourishment. I starve when I don't read my Bible. I get lost in myself when I don't pray. I lose out when I don't give to the needy - be it my own, relatively unimportant possessions (even now I fail to believe this completely!) or the eternal gift of the Gospel.

I go to a church that in some ways is less post-modern. Yes, it does give me ways to serve in ways that may suit me more than others, and the church itself may be a niche-group as many of us are in the same stage in life. But the worship service forces me to participate with other people. As hard as it is for a person who cherishes his freedom and independence to admit, I am not the artist of my own life, and I am better for it. God, through my brothers and sisters, through scripture, through prayer and through sharing, is painting a picture infinitely more beautiful than I could on my own. He constantly overcomes my resistance to it, and at my best, I rejoice.