One Reason I'm Not a Naturlist

A little over a week ago, Alex Rosenberg made a case for naturalism in the New York Times. It's a strong case, and there's a lot I could write in process or in response. But then he writes this:

"That doesn’t mean anyone should stop doing literary criticism any more than forgoing fiction. Naturalism treats both as fun, but neither as knowledge."

Fiction is fun; if it were not fun, I would not read it (and I often stop reading a novel when it ceases to be fun for me). But if fun is the only thing Professor Rosenberg gleans from fiction, then I wonder if he is reading the wrong books.

Do Not Hinder Them

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheese Fit for a Poet

Editor's Note: There have been some technical difficulties over at Justin's food blog, but while our vacation is still fresh, I'd like to offer the food posts from my "Austrian Correspondence" series. Later, I'll re-post them on the food blog and include pictures.

It's all about dairy, my friends. The Alps, to use a messy example from the good ol' USA, are, as if the state of Wisconsin was dropped into the Rockies. Amazing mountains with a culture of hiking, climbing and all the other mountain sports, combined with the best dairy products I’ve ever tasted. I tasted some good food, here, but it's the dairy that's worth writing home (and blogging) about, starting with cheese.

"Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” G.K. Chesterton

You can always count on Chesterton for the good one-liners; I found the above quote while looking for a different one in a different context. But he has a point. Cheese is a wonderfully tasty and complex food, and the process of making good cheese is a journey of work and aging, not unlike that poetic beverage - wine. But Cheese gets such a bad rap that I really couldn’t imagine a poem about cheese that didn’t sound just silly. Cheese has so many connotations, from the farm all the way to the kitchen, that are more quaint than poetic. Smelling like cheese is not a compliment, and cheesy humor is associated with kitsch, cheapness and vulgarity.

Here in the Alps, just like other cheese-producing places, much of the culture is kitschy (or cheesy, if you’d like). Oompa music, lederhosen, quaint farmhouses and roaming cows with bells around their neck – I love it, but high culture doesn’t come to mind. But the cheese produced here is worthy of song and sonnet.

To my left, I have two cheeses, fresh from the farm. The first is called Komperdell “Village Cheese,” produced right here in Tirol. The texture is comfortable – moist and delightfully smooth. It has many tastes and would work well with a multifaceted wine, and wine is one of the flavors that jumps out when it touches my tongue. It’s a white cheese, and has many of the properties we Americans associate with good Swiss cheese, but much more savory.

The second sample could accurately be called Swiss Cheese, because we crossed the border and, aside from indulging in some duty-free shopping, visited “Sennerei Samnaun,” where the cheese is produced. The taste is both milder and deeper, as if it has more to say to you the more you eat it. The texture is much more firm to the bite and dry but in a pleasant way.

Both cheese sure beat the heck out of anything I’ve eaten from a supermarket. Naturally, they’re more expensive too, but they'd be even more expensive if we were not so close to the farm. If you’re not in the Alps, it’s worth the effort to take a weekend and visit the closest Dairy Farm, so you can eat this wonderfully complicated and delightful food. Who knows? It may even inspire poetry.

The Only One My Daughter Fears (Or, Does Our Pediatrician Have a Star-Covered Robe He's Not Telling Us About?)

My daughter loves people. If you've ever seen her, chances are, she's happy to see you. She'll let you pick her up, she'll smile, she'll laugh at all your jokes and she'll give you kisses when it's time to leave. Not only is she sugar and spice, but yes, everything nice is thrown in. There are only two people she fears. The first is not just one person, but a people group, and that is blond-haired boys her age. She fears them because, a few weeks ago, a blond-haired boy, born the same week she was born, came and visited. When introduced, my daughter attempted a friendly greeting. With a smile on his face, the blond-haired boy raised a metal toy car above her head and, with the focused speed of a lumberjack, clocked her cross-eyed. Understandably, she avoided him the rest of the day and now treats all blond-haired boys with suspicion. As her father, I am making it my duty to encourage and expand this suspicion, so that it applies to all boys and so that it lasts well into adulthood.

The second person she fears is our pediatrician. We visited him the other day. My daughter had a minor stomach issue, but, as with all of my daughter's minor issues, this one set off that same nightmare my wife and I have every week. You know, the nightmare all parents have, the nightmare that ends with all my daughter's minor issues become the subject of a Lifetime Original Movie. So, to escape our worst fear, we took our daughter to visit her worst fear.

Our pediatrician is a superb pediatrician. I am aware of his diagnostics saving at least one life, and all the ratings and local parental gossip are highly complementary. Our experience is good - he is another example of a man excelling and taking a proper joy in his profession. But our daughter, who always enjoys playing with other sick kids in the waiting room (though keeping a skeptical distance from blond boys), shrieks like that girl is Psycho when he walks in and doesn't stop until she's safely in her stroller three blocks away. This doesn't phase our pediatrician. He goes about his business with a stoic smile, prodding my daughter's belly (and taking a few kicks in the process) while speaking to my wife an indecipherable Swabian dialect. His impeccable bedside manner is friendly and funny.

I suspect the reason he scares my daughter so much isn't the danger of shots (she had most of hers in America already, and though she's due for another soon, she hasn't had one here yet), but his appearance. He looks like he went to Med School at Hogwarts. He has a long, thick black beard, like a neat bird's nest hanging from his face. His large eyes and long, thin nose complete the picture. I really, really want to see him in a blue robe covered in white stars and gold moons.

We left that day, and my daughter's screams subsided into suspicious sniffles. She was fine, he told us. Yes, perhaps. Or perhaps he simply slipped the right potion into her screaming mouth when we weren't looking.

Under Familiar Trees

How do you take time to enjoy the familiar?

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

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

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

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

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

Best Case/Worst Case -- Florida State II

My traditional best case/worst case post about my Alma Mater is a little late, mainly due to a labor dispute between writers and editors. But it is that time of the year where we can escape the realities of war, economic difficulties, professional productivity, civic obligations, family life, personal health, religious ritual and academic study to focus on one thing: college football. Thus, it's my honor and my duty to contribute. Just like last year (and with the appropriate apologies to the experts), I will examine the best case and worst case scenarios for the Florida State football team.

Best Case:

Unfortunately, the Seminoles have already passed up their opportunity to achieve best case. Yes, they trounced Louisiana-Monroe, their week 1 cream puff, 34-0, (hey, if you schedule Oklahoma, you can justify playing cream puffs. Not that that helped us last year...), but that was not best case. That was, at best, barely-meets-expectations case. Best case is when you commit no turnovers, have no need to punt, score a touchdown on every drive and not allow a single first down. The minimum score for a best case game is 98-0. So, for the remainder of the season, the best case scenario would be a series of 98-0 shellackings, with extra touchdowns scored on in-state rivals. By the time the ACC Championship comes around, the team is playing so divine that Florida State's players, coaches, professors, students and alumni all reach a light-producing higher plane, producing blessing, peace and justice the world over.

Worst Case:
The worst case scenario is quite the opposite. In this nightmarish dimension, the Florida State Seminoles, starting next week, fail to gain a single yard, much less first down, field goal, touchdown or safety. The defense allows the opposing running backs to pass through their tackles like Shadowcat, giving up 98 points per game plus extra touchdowns against in-state rivals. The horrendous performance on the field causes the team to literally implode into a black hole, engorging all matter and light into the spot in space where Doak Campbell Stadium once stood. Perhaps some of us might have escaped had we not cut the Space Shuttle program. As it is, the only ones who can flee the earth are the astronauts in the International Space Station, a billionaire Russian oligarch and three cocktail waitresses from the Russian's favorite St. Petersburg night club. Not that any could make it far, anyway....

Prediction: Somewhere in between. Happy football watching!

A Mighty Fortress

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

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

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

Let good and kindred go; this mortal life also

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

His Kingdom is forever

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

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