A number of months have passed since I kicked off the Spiritually Sensitive Sinners Series. This next installment is a poem. It did not begin inspired by Luke 7:36-50, but eventually made its way there. I am attracted to the theme of dust. We were made with it. The serpent was cursed to eat it. And in this Gospel passage a spiritually sensitive sinner cleansed Jesus’s feet from it.
Every book. Every movie. Songs. Sermons. Those old episodes of Once Upon A Time. Pretty much anything my eyes see and my ears hear seems different these days. It all speaks to my heart and challenges my soul in a way that’s unfamiliar.
I’ve been going through a rough patch. No doubt it started sometime in my past, when I missed a life lesson on vulnerability. Over the years I’ve learned to tuck away emotions like hurt and sadness behind calculated reactions to injustice and disappointment. “What you did is not right” and “You are acting inappropriately” have been surrogates for “I feel belittled by you” and “I feel embarrassed by you.” I have conditioned myself to wag my head, but rarely do I cry.
This way that I’ve trained my soul has not served me well of late. It would be uncharitable to publicly say why. Let it suffice to say that there is a flesh and blood reason. Who it is is not the point. Nor does it matter so much that the person is wrong. Nor that the person is being unkind. Perhaps the only way God can get through the wall to my heart is a Babylonian captivity. Should I blame Nebuchadnezzar for being a nasty king? In many ways, jerks are less pitiable than the people who need jerks to jolt them out of dysfunction. I feel like I am in an uglier spot than my antagonist.
For while now I have been wanting to write a number of posts, the Spiritually Sensitive Sinners Series. The snake hiss-like acronym (Ssss) has a hint of thematic onomatopoeia, which seems kind of cool. Unfortunately, for now this is a series of one.
Jesus’ encounter with the woman from Samaria has been on my mind. You will recall that as the story goes in the fourth chapter of John’s gospel, Jesus leaves Judea for Galilee and must travel through Samaria along the way. While in Samaria he stops at Jacob’s well outside the town of Sychar; it is there that he meets a Samaritan woman and asks her to draw water so he can have a drink. The two get to talking and about halfway through their conversation every sermon I have ever heard on this passage throws the Samaritan woman under a bus.
Desire and Simplicity: Talking Beasts, Van Gogh, Reliable Landmarks, and Walking Long Distances Alone: Part 2
[This is a two-part post taken from a session co-presented by Dave Bruno and Russ Ramsey at Hutchmoot 2015. The two posts come from Dave’s portion of the talk. Read part one here.]
I would like to take some time to ask if simplicity can be a spiritual discipline we use to access this idea of “Sehnsucht” longing, this idea of desire. C. S. Lewis said this desire is “always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still ‘about to be.’” So I think it would be helpful for us to frame this part of our discussion in terms of a journey. If we are journeying toward this desire, is it possible the spiritual discipline of simplicity can help us find the way?
Now, we all know that “not all who wander are lost.” Whether we are heading somewhere with a purpose or wandering somewhere without a particular aim, one way to determine if we are heading in the right direction is to look for reliable landmarks.
Are you all familiar with cairns? Some people love them, some think cairns are a blight on the landscape. A cairn is basically a stack of rocks. Modern-day hikers sometimes build cairns along trails that are hard to follow. Some trails cover landscape that is unremarkable, it all looks similar––at least to the untrained eye. If you are hiking a trail and come across a pile of rocks, you know you are moving in the right direction. Well, whether or not you are a fan of disrupting the beauty of the landscape in the interest of personal safety, a cairn is an example of a reliable landmark.
I want to talk about one of the most famous hikers to ever get lost.
Desire and Simplicity: Talking Beasts, Van Gogh, Reliable Landmarks, and Walking Long Distances Alone: Part 1
This is a two-part post taken from a session co-presented by Dave Bruno and Russ Ramsey at Hutchmoot 2015. The two posts come from Dave’s portion of the talk.
Some of you will be aware that C. S. Lewis wove into his writings a particular understanding of joy. Lewis sometimes used the German word sehnsucht, which roughly translated means “longing” or “yearning” or “desire,” to identify this sense of joy. But of course he knew that no one word, whether the English “joy” or the German “sehnsucht,” could adequately convey this concept. So in essays and stories he described it.
The feeling of joy that Lewis talks about is not primarily an experience in the moment, like the joy of winning a game or the joy of a flattering compliment. A victory or a kind word bring us joy in the moment. What Lewis describes is something that happens in the moment but brings us joy at another time. In his book Surprised by Joy Lewis describes it this way.
All Joy reminds. It is never a possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still “about to be.”
This is why we chose the word “desire” for the title of our session. What we are talking about is a wonderful feeling that creates in us a desire for something even more wonderful.
Most years I read at least one book that shakes me to the core. A couple dozen books into 2015 I read Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (Spiegel & Grau, 2014) and it shook me up good. I simply cannot recommend this book enough. Please read it. Stevenson’s story of fighting injustice in our legal system is heartbreaking but nevertheless impossibly hopeful. We often think hopefulness comes from strength. In some instances, perhaps it does. Yet, Stevenson shows how the brightest light of hopefulness shines through the cracks of the broken human heart. Late in the book he offers this reflection on brokenness.
When I hung up the phone that night I had a wet face and a broken heart. The lack of compassion I witnessed every day had finally exhausted me. I looked around my crowded office, at the stacks of records and papers, each pile filled with tragic stories, and I suddenly didn’t want to be surrounded by all this anguish and misery. As I sat there, I thought myself a fool for having tried to fix situations that were so fatally broken. It’s time to stop. I can’t do this anymore.
For the first time I realized my life was just full of brokenness. I worked in a broken system of justice. My clients were broken by mental illness, poverty, and racism. They were torn apart by disease, drugs and alcohol, pride, fear, and anger. I thought of Joe Sullivan and of Trina, Antonio, Ian, and dozens of other broken children we worked with, struggling to survive in prison. I thought of people broken by war, like Herbert Richardson; people broken by poverty, like Marsha Colbey; people broken by disability, like Avery Jenkins. In their broken state, they were judged and condemned by people whose commitment to fairness had been broken by cynicism, hopelessness, and prejudice.
I looked at my computer and at the calendar on the wall. I looked again around my office at the stacks of files. I saw the list of our staff, which had grown to nearly forty people. And before I knew it, I was talking to myself aloud: “I can just leave. Why am I doing this?”
It took me a while to sort it out, but I realized something sitting there while Jimmy Dill was being killed at Holman prison. After working for more than twenty-five years, I understood that I don’t do what I do because it’s required or necessary or important. I don’t do it because I have no choice.
I do what I do because I’m broken, too.
Several weeks back, I found myself in Vancouver with nothing to do. So I left my hotel room to wander around the city and made it about fifty feet before stumbling into The Paper Hound, an amazing boutique used bookstore. The surprise of finding such an excellent shop along with the fine selection of books made me go tharn. I determined to return to my room for a few minutes to collect my wits and mentally prepare a list of titles to search. This is how I discovered my hotel room rested directly above the bookshop. The serendipity was irrefutable. I knew I had to spend time and money below the floorboards of The Victorian, where I was staying.
Over at Alan Jacobs’s Text Patterns blog, I have been following his technological history of modernity project. The thought occurred to me that so long as I was in Canada, I might try searching for a Canadian author in a Canadian used bookstore. Jacobs recommends Ursula Franklin’s The Real World of Technology. She was German but made her life and scholastic career in Canada. Good enough. So I trotted out of my squeaky-floored hotel room, down the hall, past the fire escape, out of the front door, down the stairs, around the corner, and into the lusty smell of The Paper Hound’s book stacks, where I took my time getting to the section I figured would contain Franklin’s book. It did.
Ursula Franklin is my new favorite Wendell Berry.
This is only a small reflection on a large theme. A few videos and animations have made the rounds in recent years. These show the scale of the universe. I like being able to scroll from the smallest to largest known object in the universe, and it is fun to see the scale of the Minecraft world along the way. The size of the Virgo Supercluster is mind boggling, yet it is a spec. And seeing the scale of earth next to the largest known star, then realizing that the largest known star is just a pin prick of light in any of the billions of galaxies in the universe, well, it is marvelous beyond comprehension.
“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” This is the start of all revelation. It is how the revelation of scripture begins and it is how the revelation of nature begins. Our modern understanding of the scale of the known universe does not disprove a creator God, it merely underscores what ancients understood by the power of intuition; namely, a creator God must be powerful beyond measure.
If there is a creator God responsible for all that exists, regardless of how that God went about making it, that God is so powerful and awesome and impressive that if we ever came into that God’s presence then we would feel utterly powerless and insignificant and diminutive. This is a God who ignites supernovas a million times over as part of the creative process. We could expect our lives would be nothing to that God. Should we ever face that God, the only logical expectation would be instantaneous annihilation. But, if for even a moment that God paid attention to us, if even for a split second we were shown mercy, then our response would have to switch from terror to worship.
These are the options before the face of the creator God, and the options would present themselves in an instant: Insignificance and the expectation of immediate annihilation or else mercy and the hope of unending love. A moment of mercy before the creator God necessitates our eternal adoration.
A story is told of a wise old theologian who learned every jot and tittle of the Bible. Say the name Belshazzar in his presence and he would expound Belteshazzar, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego for an hour, then continue for sixty more minutes with a history of the Medes. He knew his stuff.
One Sabbath a young woman new to the faith approached the theologian in the narthex after the eleven o’clock service. She wanted to get things straight and understand the details of this religion that had so smitten her. The old sage’s reputation preceded him. Though she was nervous, she was more earnest than scared. She inquired, “Tell me sir, I would like to get things straight and understand the details of my new Christian faith. What must I know first?”
The old bookman opened his eyes wide and raised an arthritic finger to the sky. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” he said. He spoke with such conviction, the young woman looked up, half expecting to see the Sistine Chapel overhead. She collected herself. “And what must I know next?” she asked excitedly.
The last time we tried to sell our house we made the mistake of putting the cart before the horse. We did that in this way: before any buyer made an offer on our house we started looking at replacements. Our agent showed us places in our price range. And that is how we met Spooky.
We were not in a financial position to consider the kinds of homes that show as if Sunset Magazine had just finished a photo shoot there. Instead we visited the kinds of homes missing toilets, which the previous residents had taken with them on eviction day. We encouraged ourselves, “Lots of our friends have tackled fixer-uppers. So can we!”
Spooky lived with his owner in a townhouse we visited. We entered through a stairwell hallway that led to the living area above the garage. “Don’t mind Spooky,” said Spooky’s master. “She likes people.” Spooky’s master was a rotund balding man wearing a white sleeveless undershirt and sweat pants. He lounged on a red leather couch in front of a 200 inch flat screen TV. Spooky was a tender-hearted cattle dog with congenital heterochromia iridis. Clearly, Spooky’s master had not moved from his perch recently. All about the floors were tales of Spooky—clumps of Spooky fur unswept, partially-eaten Spooky bones left to dry out, Spooky toys ignored.
One of my favorite anticipations of any new year is the first book I will read. Often the first book of a new year is a reread from years past, such as Augustine’s Confessions or Frederick Buechner’s Godric or C. S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy. But 2015 has started well with a new book from the aging (though apparently not much slowing down) historian Mark Noll.
His latest book, From Every Tribe and Nation: A Historian’s Discovery of the Global Christian Story (Baker Academic, 2014) is typical of Mark Noll when he is asked to speak about himself: it everywhere tells the story of others. The agenda for the book, in the series Turning South: Christian Scholars in an Age of World Christianity edited by Joel Carpenter, is personal memoir. The outcome is an engaging narrative highlighting key elements of Noll’s faith journey and academic career. Yet the main character of the book is Christ’s church universal, which despite foibles and follies manages to survive and even thrive right up to the present day.
[Warning: severe Interstellar spoilers ahead]
The most beautiful and lovely things always have been, and always will be, slow.
Almost anything moving fast is naturally appealing. Where I live there is a kind of zoo called the San Diego Safari Park. Essentially the Safari Park is 1,800 acres of Africa relocated to north San Diego county. (By comparison, the more famous San Diego Zoo is 100 acres.) At the Safari Park there is a lot of land for animals to cover if they get motivated to take off running. Sometimes there is motivation. It is just awesome to watch a gazelle trucking across the savannah. Or there is this bighorn sheep exhibit that is basically a hundred-foot sheer rocky cliff. Occasionally you get lucky and see one of these beasts leaping up (or down!) the cliff like a bullet. Fast is beautiful.
When my daughters were younger I often traveled for business. Returning home from a trip, Leanne would bring the family to pick me up from the airport. I would get through security and make eye contact with my daughters. The older ones smiled but played it cool and waited for me. The younger one took off running. Trying to look like an adorable dad getting home from a long trip, I stopped walking, swatted down, and spread out my arms for a big hug. And waited. My kneecaps began to swell. Lactic acid stabbed like switchblades into my butt cheeks. All smiles and big eyes, she had wobbled half the distance and I was growing faint. Slow is more beautiful.
The antidote to an unsustainable life is to stick around a place.
I have been thinking about this a bit. At the university where I work, this semester I am teaching as an adjunct, handling the course “Sustainability In Action” for a colleague on sabbatical. Texts on sustainability tend to focus on the very real challenges of climate change and emerging economies and dematerialization. It is good to think about these issues when we think about sustainability, and to try to work on solutions to them. But preceding the sustainability problems that make news headlines comes a decision that regularly goes unnoticed. It is a decision by some person or persons to leave. Here is the versified form of what I am attempting to say.
People these days pack up to get to the next place.
No one seems to stick around anymore.
Who can say they’ve heard laughter after the decades;
the same laughter that they’ve heard,
over and over before,
or the same tears splashing down on the same old floor?
People these days hurry off to the next place.
Everyone seems headed through a door.
The inaugural Hutchmoot in 2010 was something else. All the speakers were amazing. Walter Wangerin, Jr. was masterful. Months later, Wangerin visited San Diego to see the premier of the Lamb’s Players Theatre production of his The Book of the Dun Cow. Chauntecleer and Cockatrice battled it out above the stage suspended by theatrical wires. It was awesome.
There is a small café next to the theatre and during intermission Leanne and I sat chatting with Walter Wangerin. We mentioned Hutchmoot.
“You’re some of those young musicians then,” he said.
“No, just fans of the musicians, and of writers like you,” we replied.
I added, “Clearly, you have never heard me sing.”
We discussed writing and his writing process and publishing and some small talk I cannot remember anymore.
The mission of Lamb’s Players Theatre is to “tell good stories well.” It’s one of the most simply stated mission statements I have ever read. Over the years we’ve spent quite a bit of time at Lamb’s and so have experienced their mission statement in action. They fulfill their mission with abandon. When Les Misérables made the lineup for Lamb’s 2014 season, I knew we had to take the kids.
Our oldest daughter saw the movie. That’s one of my major parenting regrets, that I took her to see that royally stupid movie before taking her to the theatrical production. Just one more topic to discuss with her therapist some day. “So then Eponine sings, ‘…a stranger’s just a stranger…’ and like literally a stranger walks right by her. And I am wondering, what am I missing? Tom Hooper must think I’m like an imbecile.” “Hmm. So, your parents took you to see the movie before the Broadway production?” “Yes.” “We’re going to need at least three more sessions,” says her therapist jotting something down on a yellow legal notepad.
Here is a literary exercise which might help illuminate a dilemma nagging my real life. When we are done with the exercise, hopefully, you can give me counsel.
Think of one or more novels (or movies) that have shady characters. In the comments, list the title of the novel (movie) and the shady character. Now, by shady I mean to imply a character of doubtful reputation. A shady character is not definitely bad. Neither is she certainly good. Usually a shady character seems to be up to good but somehow gives the impression her motives are dubious. Sometimes they are. Sometimes they are not. Other characters are attracted to a shady character but never feel comfortable they should be drawn to her. Almost always, no matter how the shady character turns out in the end, the other characters are better off for having journeyed with the shady character for a time . . . but not always.
A shady character can be as subtle as Mr. Tumnus leading Lucy Pevensie into the woods. A shady character can be as enigmatic as Sunday taking Syme on a wild goose chase. A shady character can be as unpleasant as Haymitch Abernathy mentoring Katniss Everdeen; Katniss herself is a shady character. Shady characters are most of the people sitting around Edna Spalding at church in that final scene of Places in the Heart.