We Are Known

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

I.

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

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

II.

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

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

III.

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

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

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

IV.

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

V.

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

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!  

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

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

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

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

VI.

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

Notes on the Second - VI. The First

When the first came, our new family was an insulated little bubble of three people, one of them new. Sure, we had enormous help from family and friends - especially the heroic grandmothers and fabulous meals from our D.C. church friends. But while they were constantly coming in and out of our little bubble, our little family strengthened like a three-fold cord.

Now, the first is five years old, and because of her, if our bubble isn't porous, it doesn't exist. She's blossomed into the richness of life that five years has to offer, the delights of learning and play and discovering things like characters and stories and science. Then, there are the challenges of discipline, disease, and the normal, everyday hassle of getting her ready for kindergarten.

Her new little sister has been thrust upon all of these things, and there's a strange paradox here. On one hand, she's old enough to be aware of what's going on, to know how to behave around her (gentle! quiet!), while avoiding the jealousies of younger older siblings. On the other hand, she's too young to really adjust her own life and habits for the change. She needs help and attention every morning, she needs and wants to play with her parents, she has moods, gets sick, gets excited, and, for the first time in her life, has become a picky eater. This of course, damages the sense of "mama-and-papa-against-the-world" was there for the first week of the First's life, and the Papa's supporting role is something like....

DoSomethingDoAnythingToDistractOrEntertainHerSoThatHerLittleSisterCanFinallyLearnToBreastfeedProperlyInPeaceExceptNotAnotherEpisodeOfSeanTheSheepBecauseShe'sSomehowInABadMoodAfterWatchingSeanTheSheepEvenThoughSheLovesItAndIKnowIt'sMuchTooColdToGoOutsideSoHelpHerPutOnHerPrincessDressAndColorButPleaseDon'tMakeTooMuchNoise!!!!!

Then, sickness entered the picture. The First came home from kindergarten (that oversized petri dish) with a nasty fever and a stiff neck. It got worse, and on Sunday, we took her to the hospital. By the grace of God, our own paediatrician was on hospital duty there, and the stiff neck signalled meningitis to him. The next day, my oldest daughter and I checked into the hospital, where we would stay for the next few days. My wife and youngest daughter stayed at home, still learning to feed and drink. It was a sad, sad situation - separation, hospital food, nightmares darkening our thoughts. There was, though, a warmth strengthening my bones at the time, and I think it was the knowledge that by simply being there I was where I ought to be and what I ought to be, and this confidence is foreign to me. A father and husband, present, within fear and sickness and suffering, standing against the effects of the Fall like a palm tree in a thunderstorm.

I wasn't alone of course - friendly and competent medical staff, my in-laws were heroes, and my wife was able to visit the hospital, and when we brought home a nasty intestinal disease from the hospital, everyone suffered but the baby, protected beautifully by my wife's milk. The antibiotics worked their magic on my oldest daughter, and we still don't know if it was actually meningitis, even though several doctors worked like Dr. House throughout the week to find out. Now, we're healthy, even if rumours of other diseases here in our neighbourhood tempt us to barricade our house 'til spring, and when we actually stop to think about it (and stopping to think is challenging when you have small kids), we're deeply thankful. My mother-in-law is convinced that our prayers helped my older daughter as much as the antibiotics. One doesn't exclude the other, and we did indeed pray.

There's another thought that helps, one that my wife brought home from the midwife that led her birthing classes. Whatever new amount of stress a little baby brings to her older sister, we've given them both an incredible gift. The love of a sister (or a brother) is not something you can easily replicate. And of course, every little girl's favorite film right now is about sisterly love, and from my daughter's Elsa dress to the way she kisses her little sister (gentle! quiet!), we get some nice reminders. As the midwife said, the sibling relationship is often the longest relationship someone can have.

This is the sixth chapter of a longer post about getting to know our second child. You can read the post in its entirety here. 

Notes on the Second - I. The Waiting

Our second child was late. Ok, late is a stupid term. Every doctor, nurse, and midwife we talked to reminded us that the "due date" was really just the middle of a range, and real earliness or lateness can involve a lot of unpleasantness. She came eight days after the due date, which isn't late. It's right on time, like a wizard.

But it felt late, especially when the doctor told my wife, eight days before the due date that "THE BABY IS LOW! GET READY! IT'LL COME AT ANY MOMENT!!!" We spent the following to weeks like Olympic sprinters waiting for the gun, head down, bottoms up, cleats sharp. This stressed us, especially as we invited everyone around us to get in sprint position - my in-laws, who were to pitch in with our first child during the labor adventures, my co-students, who were ready to pitch in with my projects and take copious notes should I suddenly get called to the hospital.

From then on, every conversation began with a look of expectation. "Is the baby there?" My daughter's kindergarten, university, church, street. Texts and Facebook, Email (remember Email?). It could get tedious. "No, not yet. My wife is uncomfortable, but she and the child are healthy. She's due the 13th, but it could be up to ten days after it." Every time. Tedious, but part of me loved it and not just the part of me that craves your approval. I loved it, because it's much better than the alternative. Those around us saw my family - my unborn child, my wife, my daughter, me - as something worth caring about. That old question, "how are you doing?" honestly asked, means something.

This is the first chapter of a longer post about getting to know our second child. You can read the post in its entirety here. 

Parenting and Entangling Love

Part of having a child, a wife, bills, and interesting things to look at is that I don't write as often as I would like. By way of saying, I wanted to respond from my little corner of the web to an interesting online writing kerfluffle about the challenges and joys of parenting, but I'm a little late thanks to the challenges and joys of parenting (I'm writing these words with one of those Disney sing-a-long films running in the background). Here in Germany, a couple of journalists complained that modern demands of parenting and career simply can't work, but shrug and say they might as well try to make it work anyway. Then, Ruth Graham's protest against all the negative, "honest" parent-complaining drew a lot of attention (at least in my social networking sphere), including Rachel Lu's beautiful, thoughtful response. Lu wrote one of those "I-wish-I-had-written-that" essays clarifying my jumble of thoughts and feelings about parenting-angst with a lovely description of joy and love in parenting. The whole thing's worth a slow read, and I wanted to highlight a couple points she makes towards the end:

Finally, I should address the most critical question: Is it worth it? If so, why? Certainly, there are cultural changes that could make the plunge into parenthood less daunting. It would be possible, too, for parents to feel less stressed and more affirmed. Still, child-rearing will always be miserable and magical, for more or less the same reasons. It’s a “happy pig or unhappy Socrates” sort of conundrum. Parenthood makes life harder, but also richer. It’s less pleasant but more meaningful. That’s because love fundamentally changes us as human beings. Like the dissatisfied Socrates, we can look on the unburdened (including our own former selves) with a certain amount of wistful envy, but it isn’t in our nature to want to stuff love back into its Pandora’s box.

She ends with: 

An employer could never get away with drawing up a contract like the one you implicitly have with your kids. So yes, it’s reasonable to be a little bit terrified. It’s no small thing to let another person become the main star of your life. It’s even harder when you realize that one day they’ll just walk right out the door again, leaving you twenty years older but no longer able to sleep in on a Saturday morning.

Still, if the opportunity beckons, you should do it. Because if you don’t, you’ll be the person who chose the happy pig over Socrates. You don’t want to go to your grave knowing that one of your most important life decisions was to run away from love.

These thoughts are seconded by Jennifer Senior, author of All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood. In her interview on Fresh Air, she documents the "no fun" part then gets to the joy, and like Lu, she knows what we all know, that the joy is worth it, even if it can't be numerically verified:

And, you know, the studies don't focus on (the joy) so much. I have to sort of go to philosophy and novels in order to discuss the joy. The problem with these studies is that if you're feeling good about something, you know, you rank it a five. So that moment that I was describing with my baby looking at me and cooing at me - which was, like, just like this transcendent moment in my life - would rate the same if I'm doing everything on a scale of one to five, as, like, a dinner with a friend, if I had a really great time at that dinner. In the same way that, like, you know, on Amazon, you know, a John Grisham novel and, you know, and Charles Dickens like kind of get fives, you know, but they're not necessarily the same experience, you know. 

And also, I can't remember who said this to me - I think it was George Vaillant, a psychiatrist who is kind of a poet-philosopher, too - he pointed out that, like, it's kind of like using a number to describe a taste. You know, how do you do that? So I think that social science misses a lot of the joy.

And, you know, one of the remarkable things about joy is that it is sort of predicated on this idea of being very connected to somebody. I think Christopher Hitchens described, you know, having kids as, you know, your heart running around in somebody else's body. And that feeling is so powerful, it's almost scary, because there's almost, like, an implied sense of loss about it.

It's, like, you love somebody so much, that you are almost automatically afraid of losing them, like, that this connection is so deep, that you can't think of that connection without thinking of that connection being broken. So joy, in some ways, is almost a harder feeling to tolerate than sadness, in some ways, because it's so powerful and makes us so vulnerable. But it's why it is also so profoundly special and what makes parenting, to so many of us, so huge and incomparable.

So, a hearty amen to both from this papa across the pond. Both women (with an assist from Maria Popova) reminded me of C.S. Lewis' famous reflection in The Four Loves: "To love is to be vulnerable. To love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it in tact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it up carefully with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless - it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of heaven outside of heaven where you can be perfectly safe from the dangers and perturbations of love is hell."

Choosing lasting, difficult joy over immediate happiness is an ancient problem, and the fact that children are more of an economic burden than necessity thrusts today's (Western) family into the center of this choice. I've no special insight into this, but I'm encouraged: the fact that we're talking about it means this joy is not dead, and I wonder if paradoxically, we comfortable westerners are taking the joys of entangled love more seriously. This reminded me of something I noticed in that other great love entanglement: marriage. When I first came to Germany, I was told that Germans, consistent with the trends of most of Western Europe, were marrying later than Americans. I assumed that this meant they no longer took marriage seriously, that in a post-religious age they had deconstructed a ritual of religion and state enough to render it meaningless, or at least with much less meaning. Maybe at some point they'll muddle through the ritual and smile for the camera like distracted teenagers in a confirmation class, but more important is a fuzzy concept of love independent of the things our ancients had passed down.

It didn't take long to realize my assumption was wrong, at least among the students, young academics, and young professionals I interacted with. Sure, I'd hear people deconstruct marriage to justify premarital sex, but at the end of the day, marriage was a damn serious thing for most people, particularly for those in relationships. I found those living together didn't see their lifestyles as an alternative to marriage, but they saw marital commitment as something they couldn't lightly go into without a lot of practice and growth together. They were avoiding a complete entanglement, taking tentative steps into the rosebush, keeping the exit available, because they weren't about to make a commitment they didn't think they could keep. From this position, marriage was wonderful but overwhelming. They wanted it as much as the Bible-belt American standing before them, but with a deliberate slowness. I can imagine approaching child-rearing the same way, and it looks like more and more westerners are following in this path. The general seriousness about the topic impressed me, and it still does.

I sympathize. I had always wanted to be married, and yet the act of getting married cost me more courage than I could carry myself. Then our daughter came along, and she flooded our lives with love and joy but also with so many worldly worries that without the help of some god-fearing friends and family members, well, who knows how far we would have sunk. And still, both steps are the steps in my life where I can most clearly look at them and pronounce them good. I say this from a position of privilege - both my wife and I come from great families where martial promises were honored and children were viewed as gifts from the Lord. Not everyone grew up in such luxury, and I can understand how those without it might find the promises of love and joy of children much less believable, and all the "honest" parenting blogs could be a stumbling block for anybody. Entangling yourself in love is more and more a heroic, deeply serious step, the risks are no longer hidden behind smiles, closed doors, and rigorous cultural standards. It's serious stuff, and it's good we're all still talking about it.

Honest talking and writing doesn't hide the mess, the failures, or the heartbreak, but neither does it stay there, and I'm glad Lu and Senior reminded us how to write about the sort of things that don't fit on clever charts or Buzzfeed lists, but fit into philosophy, novels, poetry, and prose. The seriousness with which we're taking the commitments that irreversibly entangle our hearts to others mean that there's a hunger for it. And those of us who are presumptuous enough to tape our thoughts to the Internet should remember that writing about love and joy are worth the effort.

Phone Home, Elke and Sven, Phone Home

What a powerful, counter-cultural post by Elke Naters and Sven Lager on Zeit Online. What a rare modern, public witness to the radical love of Christianity. What a testimony as to why these poor but sexy Berliners who moved to South Africa and embraced the faith of the "transforming power of love,"' to use their words. Haven't read it yet? Click on the link and read it. Don't know German? Pop that baby into Google Translate and let'er rip. It's worth it.

Naters and Lager moved to South Africa, because, among the rhythms of their Berlin life - "writing books, having kids, going drinking" - they went, comfortably enough, "with any particular pain, but without any particular depth." In contrast, I moved to Western Europe. Growing up in a family who always heard from international people and international places, Western Europe was like a storybook of endless chapters that I could step into. Heck, eventually I married into it. The food, the trains, the culture mish mash, the hoards of bright, artistic people who valued not just producing things but the moments where drinks and walks and bike rides are shared with friends. These things just weren't as abundant in the land of individualism and energetic economy.

That life of drinks and art and conversation - well, I wouldn't have given that up for South African excitement, myself. Maybe that was their storybook place. I read "Cry, the Beloved Country," and believe me, I want to see the country, but I'm not sure if I'd be ready for the pain part. But for Naters and Lager, they needed to taste more life. Something (to paraphrase their words) more radical than punk, communism or whatever isms we stuff in our soul to make the world better and our morals correct. In Africa, they found a land that was not just Christ-haunted, but Christ-bathed, a land of amazing healing, yes, but of even more amazing forgiveness and reconciliation, repentance and belief.

I'm glad they wrote their piece, not in some right-wing rag, but in one of the most respected German-language newspapers. I like that they included conversations over wine with their bewildered Berliner friends. (The title of the piece is, after all, "You actually believe in the Bible?") I like that, judging by the 760 (my last count) comments, many full of snide and bile, that they seemed to hit a nerve, a nerve I'm so often afraid to touch. And, believe me, I hope all of this is a sign that Naters and Lager haven't forgotten where they came from. Not everyone can travel for their spiritual journey, and we desperately need to hear their stories. We need to know what radical forgiveness looks like, lest we think we don't need it. We need to know that God is moving and just, that he loves us, that he hasn't abandoned us. Phone home, you strange, foreign, Bible believers. Tell us more.
...

For what it's worth, I've sat with him here. I sat with in him those comfortable street cafes in Western Europe, between classes or meetings or days off breathing second-hand smoke while nursing a Spanish coffee and the kind of book that melds mind and soul. I held his hand with a tiny band of praying Italians at a Pisa train station, at an Easter morning worship circle in Eastern Germany and with my own child in a church here in Plochingen. And for the many here who do not know him, who keep him at a comfortable distance, I've felt God's dancing love for them, his desire for reconciliation. May we, to quote the old prayer, see Christ more clearly, love him more dearly and follow him more nearly, wherever our journey takes us.

The Different in Europe

A couple weeks ago, my daughter and I went to a friend's house for coffee and cake. The coffee and cake was spontaneous - the original plan was a quick swap: translation of a letter for a couple of ESL books and some hand-me-down girl clothes. But when we arrived, the cake was on the table, the coffee was ready, and the other guests had already arrived. My friend and her family were about to move to Michigan for a couple years. In the weeks before our spontaneous coffee and cake meeting, I taught some English to her and her daughter while bringing in the occasional anecdote about living in the good ol' US of A.

Her other guests were a Turkish woman and her daughter. The Turkish woman wore a beautiful, gold-hemmed headscarf that, along with her excellent posture, gave her a stately presence. Her daughter, save for a slightly darker complexion, could fit in well with any Swabian play group. They both declined cake - there was something about it that made it unfit for the Muslim diet - but they ate generous helpings of fruit salad. The Turkish woman asked if my daughter was a boy - it seems like my daughter's name sounds masculine in Turkish ears - but no big deal.

I love Europe for these moments. In this little strip of land crammed with countries and tribes and dialects finally at peace with each other. Their last wars went too far, so they decided a common economy was a good way to keep the peace and make a little money. It made sense, with everyone so close together. I go two hours in any direction and the people are different. Sure, European, still, but different languages, cultures and mentalities, spiced with Turkish and African immigrants, not to mention the occasional displaced Yankee.

Now, the talking heads prophets are predicting European collapse - or at least the currency and Union, and, more darkly, giving voice to those who despise with The Different as our neighbor and collaborator. Plenty of the prophets, especially from my own country, can't hide their Schadenfreude behind the curtain of grim prophecies. Clearly those snobbish Brussels elites hadn't read their Keynes or their Burke or their own opinion polls or the Greek accounting sheets. The boom times hid all the structural problems and the bubble to bring about debt, stagnation, unemployment and overall hopelessness. Financial hardship is a common ground for a divorce.

They may be right. The whole kitten-caboodle could fall down all around us. Or, the magic elixir will work and we'll all have cushy jobs, a sense of meaning and tickets to Eurovision. But it's worth mentioning that whatever happens, we'll all still be here. Our neighbors will be our neighbors. We'll have to talk and trade and exchange and ask and immigrate and emigrate. The Different will remain both across the border and across the street. The Different are in that country in the north or the south that everyone is complaining about. Sometimes The Different is in the other balcony flying a foreign flag during the football tournament. Sometimes The Different is on the other side of the bed. For better or worse.

Whatever system, past, present or future, the second greatest commandment applies. We are to love our neighbors as ourselves. Judging by the story that follows it, our neighbors include The Different, especially those close to us. We're close to each other. We're different, and we can break bread together. Or cake. Or if you can't eat the cake, there's always fruit salad.

Some Observations After My Facebook Fast

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

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

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

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

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

The Tall One and the Short One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nones and Lovers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Corner of the Christmas Market

I am so thankful for Christmas markets. You have no idea. They're like warm little campfires, providing a homey glow in the dark, German December. It's dark here for this Orlando boy. The sun rises in part of the South and sets in another part of the South, never having the courage to muster more than a 9:30am light. At 4:30pm, when the sun leaves its last pink kiss on a southbound cloud, I feel as though someone owes me something.

This, of course, balances itself out in June, where the sun is less like Apollo and more like Aphrodite: standing in all her glory, not just beauty herself, but shining on the world to make every part of it lovely, all the way to 10:30 at night when she finally lets the stars join the party. In any case, a little glühwein with friends under golden lamps at the Christmas market helps me forget how much I miss the summer. Thank you, Germany, for your Christmas markets.

On the first day of Advent, my wife, daughter and I decked ourselves in layers of cloth and went down to Plochingen's Christmas Market. I tend to like the small-town Christmas markets more than the huge ones like in Nuremberg. The big ones get repetitive – the same trinkets, sweets and glueweinstubes repeated checker-board style all over town. Small-town Christmas markets are quaint and lovely and you can see from one side to another and still not have the time for all the pleasure offered. We don't need Carnival. We need lights and lebkuchen and warm alcohol.

Even the small Christmas market is a bit overwhelming for my 23 month-old daughter. Crowds, people and scary bearded men. So I took her to the part I knew she would love: The corner of the Christmas market, a make-shift stable full of live animals. Beautiful fuzzy ponies (my daughter squealed and said “Donkey! Donkey!”) and cotton-back sheep, all hoping the visiting children would share their sweets. We petted a pony on the nose and fed grass to a sheep (no lebkuchen for you, wooly!), but then I noticed something else. Two cardboard cutouts of a man and a woman in robes and a discarded baby doll in the feeding tray.

These were, of course, the holy couple and the holy child, Mary, the virgin mother, and Joseph, her fiance, and their baby, Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us. These poor cardboard figures leaned against the back of the stable as if waiting to be packed and recycled as holiday cards. Baby Jesus was half-covered with a blanket and looked like someone had tossed him in the manger from a distance of 40 feet. The holy family was thrown in there with so little love that I wondered if the whole purpose of this hesitant nod to religion was to keep Gramma from cussing without ruining the fun part. This was a stark contrast to the beautiful wooden manger scene front and center in Stuttgart's Christmas market (though I should point out that if German kitsch is to be believed, then our Lord was born with hair like Thomas Gottschalk). A starker contrast was the nativity scene I saw a long time ago in New York where I watched the Radio City Christmas Spectacular featuring the Rockettes. It was pimp my manger, baby, with golden stars and lucky charms, live camels and (I'm almost certain) live angels. Heaven on earth, right before the Rockettes came out and kicked their pretty legs. Deh, deh, dah, deh, dada....

The Plochingen manger scene is more accurate. Discarded to the margins during a hectic season, Joseph and Mary were kicked to a cave (sorry folks, the hotel is booked!), great with child, where God would step into the world onto animal feed. The Eternal, now a helpless infant, not in the best American hospital money can buy, but wrapped in cloths and laid in a manger. I can tell my daughter that God was once a baby like her, learning to walk and speak and eat. I can remind myself that he was rejected from the beginning. Ignored and forgotten by all but a few shepherds, away from the city lights where they could hear the angels. For some reason, these shepherds believed their eyes and ears and ran to worship something that couldn't lift it's own head.

If you've ever felt rejection, if you've ever been forgotten, left out or ignored, then know that Jesus identifies with you. We Christians don't believe that God remained something distant, unwilling to be grasped or touched. Jesus came to earth and brought the Kingdom of Heaven very near. He felt every rejection, pain and temptation that we felt. And what's more, he took the rejection, pain and temptation that we inflicted (on him and others) upon himself. He died as we should have died, and Resurrected that we may live. That's why the old Christians took the darkest time of the year to celebrate his birth; when all hope is gone, God shines his light in the darkness, and the darkness cannot understand it.

Wherever you are this Christmas, in the darkened north or the sun-kissed south, remember the child. That vague, fuzzy feeling of Christmas some people talk about – there's something to that, but it should lead us to more. It should lead us to a specific point in history where a child was born and God filled his lungs with oxygen. Remember the child if you are lonely and rejected. Remember the child if you warm your body with glühwein while laughing with friends (I hope you can do that at least once this season) or while shopping out of love and obligation or while watching your favorite holiday flick. Remember the child, light of life, true God of true God, wrapped in cloths, placed in hay. It's too beautiful not to believe.

Surviving the Commute

I remember reading (or hearing) somewhere that the length of your commute is one of the most consistent happiness indicators. Regardless of classification (such as nationality, religion or social-economic status), those with shorter commutes were happier than those with long commutes. It made sense to me at the time, and now Anne Lowery has done the world a favor by documenting the horrors of the long commute in Slate. She writes, and I second, that:

"Commuting is a migraine-inducing life-suck—a mundane task about as pleasurable as assembling flat-pack furniture or getting your license renewed, and you have to do it every day. If you are commuting, you are not spending quality time with your loved ones. You are not exercising, doing challenging work, having sex, petting your dog, or playing with your kids (or your Wii). You are not doing any of the things that make human beings happy. Instead, you are getting nauseous on a bus, jostled on a train, or cut off in traffic."

She goes on to examine the research that shows the correlation between commuting and obesity, divorce, loneliness and other maladies.

An obvious take away is to sacrifice those big things we want in a house - a spacious yard, fireplace, enough TV channels to entertain the entire population of Tokyo - to pay a little extra for a smaller flat or house closer to where you work. Lowery points out:

"Given the choice between that cramped apartment and the big house, we focus on the tangible gains offered by the latter. We can see that extra bedroom. We want that extra bathtub. But we do not often use them. And we forget that additional time in the car is a constant, persistent, daily burden—if a relatively invisible one."

Not to mention high gas prices. Also, if are an employer, I suspect that employees with shorter commutes are not only happier, but more productive and less prone to that creeping resentment about work cutting into their personal life. I may be worth the investment to pay additional salary to employees who live within fifteen minutes of the office (for the business minded, is anyone out there aware of companies who do this? Would it work?).

In the mean time, more and more of us find themselves living like that opening scene in Office Space where the protagonists stop-and-go through the traffic. If we're unable to make the potentially life-saving lifestyle change to reduce the commute, what should we do? I have a few suggestions based on my experience, but these fit to my personality and may not work for everyone. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comment section.

1. Embrace Public Transportation. I had a long commute in DC, and it was actually a little bit shorter to drive in than to Metro (or in sometimes, bus-then Metro) in. Complaining about Metro is one of Washington's number one pass times, up there with the Army 10-miler and bashing the leaders of the opposing party. But whatever Metros problems, the train system is much safer and much less stressful than driving inside the beltway. DC area drivers are an unholy alliance of important people who can't stop blackberrying, college students, tourists and people with diplomatic immunity. Plus, the designers of the northern Virginia road system must have had population control in mind. And folks say I'm a relatively calm person, but behind the wheel I can turn into a cussing, raging hulk. Even if it took a little longer, riding that train got me to and from work in a safe and more-relaxed manner that was better for my soul. On top of all this, public transportation is better for the environment. Not every town has public transportation, but if it's available, I recommend taking it.
   
2. This leads me to my second point, which is to use your commute to catch up on your reading, pray, catching up on the news, or whatever else that may cut into your home life. One of my old pastors mentioned that he uses his Metro time to veg out. He has five kids at home, so on the Metro, he reads interesting news articles on his iPhone. Vegging out of the way, he can focus his energy on his kids when he got home. In Washington, I had a pattern where I would pray in the morning (I pray through prayer cards, as suggested by Paul Miller his book, A Praying Life, which I reviewed in December) and devote my ride home to pleasure reading. This is more difficult if you drive of course. But if you decide my commute is where I catch up on the news or listen to a book on time, then that's one less thing your hours in traffic will take away from you.
3. If you can, make exercise a part of your commute. It makes sense that people who have long commutes have health problems; they simply have less time to move around. They come home and face the choice: do I spend time with my family or do I hit the gym? One way, of course, is to bike to work, which is what my wife's Uncle Gehard does. Now that I live in a bike-friendly country, I hope to be a bike-commuter as well. I did not bike in Washington (it takes a brave soul to bike in DC), I got off the Metro at a place (Farragut West, for those of you familiar with the area) where I would walk twenty minutes to my office (DuPont Circle). This is not the way to get perfect abs, but it got my limbs moving and my heart pumping ten times per week, which ain't bad.

Again, these may not work for you, and none of these are a perfect answer. But I find that if you can use your commute to accomplish one of your daily goals, such as exercise, reading or simply staying informed, your less likely to experience the commuting hazards Lowery describes. How is your commute? How much would your life improve if it were shorter? What are your commuter survival tips?

Smaller

After fifteen years, I revisited the house of my childhood.

This was a couple months ago, while my family was still in the DC area. I was born a Virginian, growing up first in that wonderful college town called Blacksburg (I don't think I've ever heard anyone say anything bad about Blacksburg - and I honestly can't think of another town with that distinction), then, ages five through almost thirteen in a suburb outside of Richmond. After that, we moved to a flat and swampy place, which is and isn't home.

Would leaving anywhere at thirteen mean leaving with a bad taste in your mouth? That was the case for Richmond. While I missed the hills and the seasons, I had just walked through that threshold called middle school where the young and the oily exercise some primal need to create tribes and enemies. My experience was nothing unusual, but it created enough isolation and self-loathing that I was not unhappy about moving on.

Pre-Middle School, you could not have asked for a better neighborhood to grow up in, this suburb of Richmond. First the hills. There will hills on the streets, around the block, that seemed to go down forever, teaching courage 1st grade bike riders. There were other hills that went through peoples yards, between houses. Once or twice a year, God gave us enough snow to close schools and send us sledding between trees and down storm drains. There were also trees. The oak trees of our neighborhood were worthy of poetry, diminishing houses in their majesty and falling enough leaves to busy every Saturday throughout the fall. Oh, and the yards. Each house had an enormous backyard and an enormous front yard, yards that, to my little eyes, were like football fields - and to this purpose we used them, running and tackling on leaves and acorns.

Our own yard was its own wilderness. It sloped on a hill I don't know how many meters until you finally reached a chain-linked fence. At the top, there was grass, but down at the end of the hill, which we would sled down Calvin & Hobbes style (I was never brave enough to try a wagon), was a wooded area - our own forest of the towering oaks. It had a little stream bed going through it, not to mention a play house the previous owners left for us, and a garage, the roof of which was my little place of solace. It was a back yard a child could literally explore.

And then our house. Our house was multilevel - when I was a little older and our upstairs was populated by sisters and the residue of pink-lacy toys, I got my own room in the basement-lower level. We had a living room upstairs which my mom could keep presentable for the outside world, and a downstairs den with a chocolate brown carpet that children could keep as dirty as a baseball diamond. My favorite feature of the house was the exterior. The lower level was brick, but the upper level, the face of the house up to the pointed roof, was Tudor style - a white background with brown beams and brown trim around the windows. It made the house stand out as something handsome in this world, something you could point to smiling saying, this is where I live.

We returned to Richmond as spring was just awakening, because I thought it would be a shame to live in Washington for more than four years and not show my wife the house of my childhood. We stayed with some dear old friends - the sort of friends you invite to weddings whatever the separation of time and space. Then, we saw our old neighborhood.

It should not have come as a surprise. After all, I've grown. But my old neighborhood was smaller. It was as if the entire world had swallowed a shrinking mushroom from Alice in Wonderland. The hills were bumps, mere formalities between higher and lower. The trees no longer towered, naked as they were from the winter. The biggest trees, my favorite trees, the ones in the front yard in the flowerbed with the squirrel nests, had been felled. They had gotten sick, reported a neighbor. Worst of all was the exterior change to my house. The Tudor style front needed to be replaced several years and go, and so it was - with hospital-white panels. It looked like the side of a trailer. So many of the other houses were still handsome.

Something else was also smaller. Those middle school memories, my first confrontations with human nature at its ugliest - when human nature has woken up and hasn't had coffee - the memories of hate and isolation. They were tiny. They were overcome, replaced by time, space, adulthood and the power to make your own decisions. They were overcome by a God of love, who took the worst of human nature upon himself and rose again. The God who loves the young and the oily.

We had a wonderful neighbor who still lived there. She told stories of who was left and who moved on. Her front yard was peppered with wonderful toys for the neighborhood children to use. One little boy, who lived somewhere nearby among hills and trees, hopped on a scooter and, with speed and courage, road down the incline that was my neighbor's driveway. I bet he thought it was a mountain.

A Place for Everyone

I resonate with Makoto Fujimura.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anniversary

But of a somewhat different kind.

Three years ago today, clueless, plan-less, ring-less and scared... well you know, I brought the woman who would become my wife to the National Arboretum and asked her to be my bride. It was not one of those well-planned superhero engagement stories involving trips to the Statue of Liberty or rooms filled with flower pedals and candles. It was the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, and the excursion was spontaneous and made us late for church. We did bring fizzy water, cheese and crackers.

In many ways, this was more significant than our wedding almost seven months later. This is not to downplay our wedding of course. At our wedding, we publicly promised God that we would love, honor and cherish one another, until death do we part. Then God bound us together, and we became one; let no man tear us asunder. But our engagement represented a step out of myself, and into a life giving love that I had no evidence I was capable of giving our receiving. I would have to trust God. Let me testify: in three years, he has come through.

God did not leave me to make this step alone. There were many who loved me, prayed for me and helped me in word and deed. My parents, of course. My team in Freiburg that second year: Sarah, Joshua, Andrea, Tristan, Emoe, Teeniebopper and Matt. In Orlando, there was a church, and co-workers, especially my boss Rick. Moving to DC, God led me to an oasis of friends and cojourners. Ben, Justin, Paul, Miriam, Jeff, Carolyn, Betsy, Marcus & Fiona, Livingston, George & Jeanette, Becca, Laura and too many more to name. Forgive me if I forgot you. Especially, of course, my pastor Dan and his wife Elise. Dan has put many stray men back on the right path at these critical times, and I am no exception.

Today I looked at my absolutely enthralling daughter and realized, without this moment, this God intervention, this inciting incident, this redemptive plan, she would not even exist. Above and beyond that, I am married to a wonderful woman who sees past the flaws, the sin, the insecurities and the unfinished personality, and she truly loves me. And, indeed, she is lovely.

Ich liebe Dich, Schaetzle...

Inciting Incidents

I'm currently reading Donald Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, and something he wrote made me think a little more about this "emerging adulthood" phenomenon, which I wrote about in a previous post.

The book covers what Miller learned while writing a screenplay for his memoir, Blue Like Jazz. Along with valuable spiritual and developmental lessons, Miller learns, along with us the reader, some useful story devices. One device he describes is called the "inciting incident." An inciting incident is that moment in a story where a character is forced into action, forced to confront his fears, take a stand or simply get off his butt. In Spider-man 2, Peter Parker would not admit his love for Mary Jane, and his powers were getting weaker. That is until, during a heart-to-heart with his red-headed true love, the evil villain Dr. Octopus throws a sedan through the coffee-shop window and kidnaps her. That event causes him to leave behind his old self and confront both the villain he fears he cannot conquer and the girl he fears he cannot win. Cheesy example, but it's the first that came to mind.

The point is, story characters, like real people, rarely change until they are forced to. Miller writes:

"A general rule in creating stories is that characters don't want to change. They must be forced to change.... The rule exists in story because it's a true thing about people. Humans are designed to seek comfort and order, and so if they have comfort and order, they tend to plant themselves, even if their comfort isn't all that comfortable. And even if they secretly want something better."

He goes on to describe, darkly, a report he heard that women who suffer from domestic violence often remain in abuse relationships, even after seeking help, because they are so afraid of change.

It makes me wonder if one of the reasons my generation is so reluctant to grow up is a lack of inciting incidents. Our grandparents and parents lived through depression, world war, social revolution and an economy that was not yet so service based. I suspect that so many of our forefathers, as with so many in the developing world, found spouses, work, children and community without so much naval gazing, because their very lives and subsistence depended on it. They had no chance to find themselves in travel or graduate school.

Several years ago, at what was in hind-site exactly the right moment, God dropped the woman who became my wife back smack dab into the middle of my life. In doing so, He ignored the ocean between us, our different cultural backgrounds, and the fact that neither of us could find our way out of the brokenness, pain, sin and captivity we had found ourselves in. We did not expect it or ask for it, but suddenly she was in my neighborhood, within walking distance, asking me to see her. Reconciliation showed up, unannounced. That was an inciting incident. I would need a few more before, a few years later in the National Arboretum, I asked her to marry me.

I am not proud that I needed inciting incidents to grow, and that I would not have escaped without divine intervention. I may still need a few. That is why, however misguided and lost my generation of "boys who can shave" (as Mark Driscoll calls them) may be, I cannot look down my nose at them. I am one of them, desperate for grace and in need of truth. Like every generation we need the wisdom, peace and hope that comes with the Gospel of Christ. Within the church community, we may need to be "inciters" to one another as well. Let's face it, we all need more help than we let on, even the real adults. Wherever we stand, this is my prayer and, thankfully, has been my experience: God will be as merciful and severe as he needs to be to open our ears, our minds and our hearts, so that we may grow and mature in Him.

Read My Facebook Profile

I was browsing Justin's Facebook profile the other day when I happened upon a link to Richard MacManus' discovery that Facebook profile pages are becoming irrelevant, at least for his readers. The whole article is an interesting read, but I particularly want to endorse MacManus' lament for the Facebook profile at the end.

Now, I appreciate that Facebook has acted intelligently enough to keep its product from being reduced to the technicolor mess MySpace became. But the hyper-focus on the newsfeed turns Facebook into nothing but a Twitter with more attractive link posts. There's use to that, sure, and perhaps that's the only way to travel with a smart phone, but that's only part of what Facebook does.

I like Facebook, because it gives me a chance to show people things about me they may not learn through regular interaction. This is not just the clever articles I like to post, but my profile, what others say to me, beliefs, background, education, etc. Like any other human being, I want to be known, and Facebook helps with this.

Likewise, I get to know you, too. At least the parts you carefully (or not so) choose to share. I learn things about you, interesting things you wish everyone knew, organized neatly with a pleasant blue background.

So read my Facebook profile. I'll read yours too. It will be a serene break from the world of constant status updates, links and advertisement.

Understand

Yesterday, I noticed two things about my daughter. First, she was in a fowl mood, which was understandable - our friendly neighborhood doctor had just given her three shots, which means sore legs and antibiotics storming through her young digestive system. Second, she just learned that she can use her lips as annunciation tools, and she's practicing. (As I write this, she's sitting her her swing, chanting, "ma-ma-ma-ba-ba-a-da-ba)"

As I placed her on her changing table to do what was necessary before bedtime, instead of her normal smiles, giggles and goos (which makes changing her diaper one of the surprising pleasures of new fatherhood), her eyes filled with adorably tragic tears, her expressive eyebrows wrinkled up into that same expression utter sadness she inherited from her mother, and she began to cry. She did not want to be put down. She cried while practicing her consonants.

I wanted her to stop. I wanted her to stop so she does not get riled up before bedtime, but I knew she was in a tired, painful, fresh-from-the-doctor-and-I-don't-want-to-talk-so-hold-me place. Tickling and singing, normally two tickets to a sure smile, did not work. So, I began imitating her "ba-ba-ma-ba-ma" crying. She laughed. She calmed down. She was ready for bed.

I am no expert on child psychology, so I cannot be sure what she was thinking. Maybe she simply thought I looked funny. But maybe, just maybe, in her own little baby way, she felt understood.

Terry Gross, the host of NPR's Fresh Air has a great quote on her Website. When talking about giving interviews, she says, "what puts people on guard isn't necessarily the fear of being 'found out.' It sometimes is just the fear of being misunderstood." It's true. Understand me, and there's very little I won't tell you.

When I know I am understood, I can better accept encouragement, criticism and honesty of all types. For better or worse, I can be found out, because my viewer knows how and why I got there.

Of course, in this "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" environment that our Lord asks us to spread, the onus is on me to understand - my friends, my colleagues, my family, even my enemies. Understanding paves the way for love, even when understanding, in this city of spin and goals, takes up valuable time to achieve. But, if I take the time to understand, I can do my part to see friction between myself and others polished and smoothed to the point of real relationship. I can even, at times, stem the flow of tears. And consonants.

...But Can Parents Be Fun?

How can we be parents without disengaging from the rest of the world? Or, more specifically, my DC community of friends, who in so many ways are social, emotional, mental and spiritual life-blood. Also, the enriching activities ever-present in this city of idealism, politics, energy and mixed drinks?

I have been thinking about this ever since parenthood snuck up on us a year ago. I think about it with every e-vite I reply, "no," every invitation I sheepishly deny, rarely because I do not want to, but because it simply ain't happening. I have been thinking about it with good friend and fellow new father Joshua, who thoughtfully wrote about it earlier. It was in the back of my mind when I insisted that babies are fun, where I joked (not without a tinge of pain) about things this somewhat young, higher-education desiring, hopefully thoughtful internationalist and europhile is missing out on. In her comment called me out. I haven't taken her to the local coffee shop as much as I envisioned.

Make no mistake, the baby is worth it. And I stand by everything I wrote about her being fun. I would never, never trade her for things that I miss. But it's hard not to be aware of these things. Things that conflict with our baby's sleeping and eating schedule. Things we would have gone to had she not been in such a foul mood. Heck, things we would have done had her parents not been in such a foul mood. I know we're not alone.

The other day, a seasoned parent (by our church's standard, at least) emailed the mom's for our church lamenting the fact that she has not been to one of our evening (and only weekly) services for such a long time. Her son's sleep schedule corresponds the time we say the Law and confess our sins. I hope they can still come. They are on my ever-lengthening list of people who I wish I see more of. But if they can't, I understand. All sorts of things can be isolating, and parenting is no exception.

So - my childless friends, let me just say we need you. Here are a few ways you can help.

1. If we ever look anti-social at a party or after church, it is not because we do not like present company. When you are different, it feels different (and yes, this applies of every sort of minority, and I know many differences, especially in church, are a heck of a lot harder for a lot of other people), even if that difference is carrying mini-me in a baby carrier. I love it - my baby is my bling and I get all sorts of attention. But if I am not careful, I can let that difference undermine our unity, and I need your help to prevent this. Come say hello, and offer to hold the baby. You know you want to hold the baby. It is good for her to be passed around and to get to know other people. Talk with us, let us know how we are going to pray for you (because who knows when we will see you again) or what is new in your life. We think about all of you, and stalk you on Facebook while holding our baby.
2. Keep those e-vites coming. You may have given up on us by now. Don't. Our positive response rate to e-vites must be around 5%, I know. We want to come, and occasionally we will have the gumption and energy to do so. When the time comes, we want to be able to.
3. Visit us. I know - my wife got pregnant and we moved to the burbs. We're not in the hip, gentrified downtown anymore. Getting here without a car requires a bus. Even so, know that you are welcome. Diana and Daniel from our Bible study came by, and our conversations were a small re-discovery, something we experience whenever folks brought food those early weeks and stayed to talk. Life is worth sharing. It's wonderful sharing everything in marriage, sharing much in childhood, and sharing the parts that fill the minutes and hours with all of you.