Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Shivers and Siding
The past few weeks David and I have been working on a siding job in Oakhurst. We're installing housewrap, trim, and cement siding on a house that was previously sided with T111 plywood. In spite of the short days and bitter cold, the job is coming along well.
Staging tools and materials. All the trim gets primed before it's installed; the siding is shipped already primed.
Siding the large garage wall with scaffolding. To do the peak, we stacked up all three sections plus the guardrail. The view from this place is fantastic, and at the top of the scaffolding it's even better.
The garage wall before and after. The horizontal lines soften the vertical impact of the structure and make it look more like a "house."
One more after shot. We're now working on North side of the house - around the garage to the right. It's a bit cold back there; there was ice on the decks all day today. But I can't complain. After all, it is December.
Staging tools and materials. All the trim gets primed before it's installed; the siding is shipped already primed.
Siding the large garage wall with scaffolding. To do the peak, we stacked up all three sections plus the guardrail. The view from this place is fantastic, and at the top of the scaffolding it's even better.
The garage wall before and after. The horizontal lines soften the vertical impact of the structure and make it look more like a "house."
One more after shot. We're now working on North side of the house - around the garage to the right. It's a bit cold back there; there was ice on the decks all day today. But I can't complain. After all, it is December.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
A Promise and a Prayer
Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, “Who are these, clothed in white robes, and from where have they come?” I said to him, “Sir, you know.” And he said to me,
“These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore they are before the throne of God,
and serve him day and night in his temple; and he who sits on the throne will shelter them with his presence.
They shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore;
the sun shall not strike them,
nor any scorching heat.
For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd,
and he will guide them to springs of living water,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”
“These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore they are before the throne of God,
and serve him day and night in his temple; and he who sits on the throne will shelter them with his presence.
They shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore;
the sun shall not strike them,
nor any scorching heat.
For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd,
and he will guide them to springs of living water,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”
Revelation 7:13-17
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Basic Blogging Tips and Tricks
I've been blogging for some time now, and I've discovered a few simple tools, techniques, and tricks that have made my life as a blogger (and blog reader) much easier. I've realized that a substantial number of my readers are only marginally tech-savvy, so I think some of this information may be helpful.
The first and most important item is probably Google Reader. Unless you use live bookmarks, a good RSS reader is imperative. What an RSS reader does, very simply, is monitor your favorite blogs and notify you when there is new content. No more wasting time checking blogs manually for new posts: with Google Reader, it's all delivered instantaneously to your doorstep. In addition, it's easy to add new blogs, keep track of your favorite posts, and share stuff with your friends. Try it out - the learning curve is negligible, and you'll thank me later.
[For more information, check out Garrett's excellent video and article about Google Reader.]
As regards blogging itself, there are a number of hacks I use to streamline the experience for myself and my readers.
When adding web pictures to blogs, always save the picture to your computer first, then upload it into blogger's system. This way, you never get into hosting issues. (Also, it's wise to upload your picture(s) early-on, before adding formatting to your post. Sometimes, adding a picture will inexplicably erase your formatting.) Another trick for pictures: there's a web-based image editor I use called Picnik that allows you to do quick edits without fussing with a slow, cumbersome application. Super handy.
You may have noticed, especially if you've done much photo-blogging, that blogger's compose window is rather small. Ok, very small. The small size makes it difficult to format your post efficiently, because you're constantly scrolling up and down. Needless to say, when I discovered how to make the window bigger, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Here's how to do it.
First, start using Firefox. Next, get the Greasemonkey add-on for Firefox. (I know it's a strange name, but you'll get over it. I did.) After you've installed the add-on, you need to install the Blogger Large Post Editor script. That's all there is to it. Now, when you login to blogger, your compose window will be full screen. Perfect ecstasy.
[For more information, check out Garrett's excellent video and article about Greasemonkey.]
Special thanks to Garrett for his great instructional material for the technologically challenged. If you haven't checked out his newest product about How to Buy a Computer, be sure to do so. The guy knows his stuff.
While we're on boring stuff and technicalities, I'd like to get some feedback on What Susan Said, my daily quotation blog. If you read it and like it, please either leave a comment on this post or send me an email and let me know. If enough people are reading and benefiting from it, I'll keep it going; otherwise, I might drop it. (If you don't know about What Susan Said, visit the link above or read my introductory post.)
As always, thanks for reading.
The first and most important item is probably Google Reader. Unless you use live bookmarks, a good RSS reader is imperative. What an RSS reader does, very simply, is monitor your favorite blogs and notify you when there is new content. No more wasting time checking blogs manually for new posts: with Google Reader, it's all delivered instantaneously to your doorstep. In addition, it's easy to add new blogs, keep track of your favorite posts, and share stuff with your friends. Try it out - the learning curve is negligible, and you'll thank me later.[For more information, check out Garrett's excellent video and article about Google Reader.]
As regards blogging itself, there are a number of hacks I use to streamline the experience for myself and my readers.
When adding web pictures to blogs, always save the picture to your computer first, then upload it into blogger's system. This way, you never get into hosting issues. (Also, it's wise to upload your picture(s) early-on, before adding formatting to your post. Sometimes, adding a picture will inexplicably erase your formatting.) Another trick for pictures: there's a web-based image editor I use called Picnik that allows you to do quick edits without fussing with a slow, cumbersome application. Super handy.
You may have noticed, especially if you've done much photo-blogging, that blogger's compose window is rather small. Ok, very small. The small size makes it difficult to format your post efficiently, because you're constantly scrolling up and down. Needless to say, when I discovered how to make the window bigger, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Here's how to do it.
First, start using Firefox. Next, get the Greasemonkey add-on for Firefox. (I know it's a strange name, but you'll get over it. I did.) After you've installed the add-on, you need to install the Blogger Large Post Editor script. That's all there is to it. Now, when you login to blogger, your compose window will be full screen. Perfect ecstasy.[For more information, check out Garrett's excellent video and article about Greasemonkey.]
Special thanks to Garrett for his great instructional material for the technologically challenged. If you haven't checked out his newest product about How to Buy a Computer, be sure to do so. The guy knows his stuff.
While we're on boring stuff and technicalities, I'd like to get some feedback on What Susan Said, my daily quotation blog. If you read it and like it, please either leave a comment on this post or send me an email and let me know. If enough people are reading and benefiting from it, I'll keep it going; otherwise, I might drop it. (If you don't know about What Susan Said, visit the link above or read my introductory post.)
As always, thanks for reading.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Crucible
There’s a song that has never been written
There’s a melody gasping for breath
There's feelings and sounds that are silent
There’s a love that is stronger than death
The night takes the words right out of my mouth
The stars shine into my soul
And this terrible something that I can’t explain
Is slowly making me whole
And I'm lost - and I’m shouting
I’m hurt - and I’m doubting
I’m found - and I’m speechless
I’m filled - with Your completeness, Oh Lord
There is good that has never been paid for
There is wrong that has never been right
There’s a cold heart of hearts down in me somewhere
That needs to be washed in the light
The loneliness makes my love overflow
And spill out like tears on the ground
And the words of this song that has never been written
Are leading me on, around and around
And I'm lost - and I’m shouting
I’m hurt - and I’m doubting
I’m found - and I’m speechless
I’m filled - with Your completeness, Oh Lord
May 2005
There's feelings and sounds that are silent
There’s a love that is stronger than death
The night takes the words right out of my mouth
The stars shine into my soul
And this terrible something that I can’t explain
Is slowly making me whole
And I'm lost - and I’m shouting
I’m hurt - and I’m doubting
I’m found - and I’m speechless
I’m filled - with Your completeness, Oh Lord
There is good that has never been paid for
There is wrong that has never been right
There’s a cold heart of hearts down in me somewhere
That needs to be washed in the light
The loneliness makes my love overflow
And spill out like tears on the ground
And the words of this song that has never been written
Are leading me on, around and around
And I'm lost - and I’m shouting
I’m hurt - and I’m doubting
I’m found - and I’m speechless
I’m filled - with Your completeness, Oh Lord
May 2005
Friday, December 07, 2007
Are Trees Conscious?
From Tolkien's dignified Ents to Lewis's delicate Dryads, fantasy worlds are replete with trees that think, speak, remember, and have a stake in what happens to the world. Of course, this is all very nice in fairy tales, but what if it were true? What if trees really were conscious? If this idea makes us fidget, perhaps it's something we ought to think about.
By using the word conscious, I mean to denote something different than the mere state of being alive. It is beyond this post (really, beyond this brain,) to mark the dividing line between the two; I only mean to make clear what kind of question I am asking.
No one will argue the point when you observe that trees are alive: we take that for granted. What intrigues me is whether they - or some of them - possess any measure of self-awareness. When you're in the right kind of forest, sometimes it's not hard to believe.
The Bible, the greatest fairy tale ever, (if I may say so reverently,) is far from silent on this question. Let's examine a few passages and see what we can find.
1 Chronicles 16:33 and Psalm 96:12 speak of the trees "singing for joy," and Isaiah 55:12 of them "clapping their hands." Psalm 148 calls upon all the trees - especially cedars - to praise the Lord. Ezekiel 17:24 speaks of the trees "knowing the Lord," and Jeremiah 6:6 names the cutting down of trees as part of God's judgment.
In Judges 9 we find a delightful parable involving the personification of trees that would hold its own beside any such story. Further, it seems to show that such stories have existed wherever men of vigor and imagination have lived among trees.
In 1 Chronicles 14, a rustling stir in the uppermost branches of a grove of Mulberry trees was to serve as the signal for David to go forth to battle. It is quite likely that the Lord stirred the trees, but it is interesting that He chose to give the sign in this way.
In Deuteronomy 20, the Lord forbids the children of Israel to cut down any fruit-bearing trees for siegeworks. (I suppose one could argue this was a strictly utilitarian prohibition, meant to preserve the fruit-bearing trees for the people to eat from later, but I rather think not.)
Did you notice that? God explicitly stated - through His rhetorical question - that trees are not human. However, in contrast to our modern ideas about ethics, their very non-humanness means they must be respected. We're forever trying to define what is human and what is not so that we know what things we must leave alone and what things we can abuse and vandalize without compunction. As we can see from the above passage, this utilitarian thinking is sadly misguided.
All of this is interesting, but what really got my attention was a single verse in Luke 17:
Branches and bristlecones! Not, "it shall be done," or "God will move it," but specifically "it would obey you." It, as in the tree itself. If this astonishing event were really to take place, we see immediately that two things would have to happen: 1) the tree would have to hear and understand the command, and 2) it would have to process the information and make a decision to obey. That sure adds up to something like a conscious tree in my book.
Of course, this may not be what happens at all; indeed, the whole thing may be only theoretical. But what is interesting is that Jesus spoke of the tree as its own entity. I don't know about you, but I find that terribly ticklish, not in a silly or amusing way, but in an exciting way, because it's always exciting to realize that the world is bigger and wilder than our ideas about it.
By using the word conscious, I mean to denote something different than the mere state of being alive. It is beyond this post (really, beyond this brain,) to mark the dividing line between the two; I only mean to make clear what kind of question I am asking.
No one will argue the point when you observe that trees are alive: we take that for granted. What intrigues me is whether they - or some of them - possess any measure of self-awareness. When you're in the right kind of forest, sometimes it's not hard to believe.The Bible, the greatest fairy tale ever, (if I may say so reverently,) is far from silent on this question. Let's examine a few passages and see what we can find.
1 Chronicles 16:33 and Psalm 96:12 speak of the trees "singing for joy," and Isaiah 55:12 of them "clapping their hands." Psalm 148 calls upon all the trees - especially cedars - to praise the Lord. Ezekiel 17:24 speaks of the trees "knowing the Lord," and Jeremiah 6:6 names the cutting down of trees as part of God's judgment.
In Judges 9 we find a delightful parable involving the personification of trees that would hold its own beside any such story. Further, it seems to show that such stories have existed wherever men of vigor and imagination have lived among trees.
In 1 Chronicles 14, a rustling stir in the uppermost branches of a grove of Mulberry trees was to serve as the signal for David to go forth to battle. It is quite likely that the Lord stirred the trees, but it is interesting that He chose to give the sign in this way.
In Deuteronomy 20, the Lord forbids the children of Israel to cut down any fruit-bearing trees for siegeworks. (I suppose one could argue this was a strictly utilitarian prohibition, meant to preserve the fruit-bearing trees for the people to eat from later, but I rather think not.)
"When you besiege a city for a long time, making war against it in order to take it, you shall not destroy its trees by wielding an axe against them. You may eat from them, but you shall not cut them down. Are the trees in the field human, that they should be besieged by you? Only the trees that you know are not trees for food you may destroy and cut down, that you may build siegeworks against the city that makes war with you, until it falls."
Did you notice that? God explicitly stated - through His rhetorical question - that trees are not human. However, in contrast to our modern ideas about ethics, their very non-humanness means they must be respected. We're forever trying to define what is human and what is not so that we know what things we must leave alone and what things we can abuse and vandalize without compunction. As we can see from the above passage, this utilitarian thinking is sadly misguided.
All of this is interesting, but what really got my attention was a single verse in Luke 17:
And the Lord said,"If you had faith like a grain of mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, "Be uprooted and planted in the sea," and it would obey you.
Branches and bristlecones! Not, "it shall be done," or "God will move it," but specifically "it would obey you." It, as in the tree itself. If this astonishing event were really to take place, we see immediately that two things would have to happen: 1) the tree would have to hear and understand the command, and 2) it would have to process the information and make a decision to obey. That sure adds up to something like a conscious tree in my book.
Of course, this may not be what happens at all; indeed, the whole thing may be only theoretical. But what is interesting is that Jesus spoke of the tree as its own entity. I don't know about you, but I find that terribly ticklish, not in a silly or amusing way, but in an exciting way, because it's always exciting to realize that the world is bigger and wilder than our ideas about it.
Image courtesy of willisms.com
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago
If you got past that title, I'm impressed. Takes a few swallows, anyway. Hullo, waiter! Can we have some definitions please?
Solzhenitsyn (sōl'zhə-nēt'sĭn):
Soviet writer and political dissident whose novels exposed the brutality of Soviet labor camps
gulag (gōō'läg):
archipelago (är'kə-pěl'ə-gō'):
a large group or chain of islands
So we see that my title roughly translates to A Russian Historian's book about a System of Prisons in the former Soviet Union. I suppose that wasn't so bad after all. Now for the story.
The Gulag Archipelago is a finger in the dike of Russian history. Counting executed persons per published paragraph, the Soviet travesty is spread pretty thin. As Solzhenitsyn says, "Peasants are a silent people, without a literary voice, nor do they write complaints or memoirs." (24)
The cold brutality of the Soviets, no doubt a large part of what Gulag is known for, is real. Still, it is not the main fabric of the book. Though the story cannot help but be sensational, this element is not overemphasized and deliberate space is granted to philosophical reflection.
The metaphor used by Solzhenitsyn of an archipelago is quite suitable. The camps and prisons were scattered all across Russia; it was a country within a country, with its own economy, transportation, and citizens. Here, away from the public eye, mock trials, torture, interminable interrogations, and executions to the tune of a thousand per month* could continue unhindered. "Heave the corpses into the water, and pretty soon the surface is all smooth again and no one's the wiser." (437)
Solzhenitsyn writes in a continuous tone of dry sarcasm, without being bitter. He knows the pen will outmaneuver the sword eventually, and sees no reason to hurry it. The stories roll on, line upon line, precept upon precept, irony upon irony.
In a footnote, the author boldly answers the question all readers are anxiously asking: "Here is what is most surprising of all: one can be a human being despite everything!" (20) Though from time to time Solzhenitsyn deplores the failure of himself and his countrymen to offer any substantial resistance against injustice, he never misses an opportunity to showcase the astonishing resilience of the human spirit. "'Hands behind your back! Line up in pairs! No talking! No stopping!' Such were the commands, but they forgot to forbid us to throw back our heads. And, of course, we did just that." (211)
This is by most standards a rather long book, and possibly best left to tedious people like me, unless you happen to be interested in 20th century Russian history, and why people do bad things, and what the two might have to do with one another. If you choose to read it, be forewarned: once you start, finishing becomes almost like a duty to mankind.
Solzhenitsyn (sōl'zhə-nēt'sĭn):
Soviet writer and political dissident whose novels exposed the brutality of Soviet labor camps
gulag (gōō'läg):
system of prisons and labor camps, especially for political detainees, in the former Soviet Union; rough acronym from Rus. Glavnoe upravlenie ispravitel'no-trudovykh lagerei "Chief Administration of Corrective Labor Camps," set up in 1931
archipelago (är'kə-pěl'ə-gō'):
a large group or chain of islands
So we see that my title roughly translates to A Russian Historian's book about a System of Prisons in the former Soviet Union. I suppose that wasn't so bad after all. Now for the story.
The Gulag Archipelago is a finger in the dike of Russian history. Counting executed persons per published paragraph, the Soviet travesty is spread pretty thin. As Solzhenitsyn says, "Peasants are a silent people, without a literary voice, nor do they write complaints or memoirs." (24)The cold brutality of the Soviets, no doubt a large part of what Gulag is known for, is real. Still, it is not the main fabric of the book. Though the story cannot help but be sensational, this element is not overemphasized and deliberate space is granted to philosophical reflection.
The metaphor used by Solzhenitsyn of an archipelago is quite suitable. The camps and prisons were scattered all across Russia; it was a country within a country, with its own economy, transportation, and citizens. Here, away from the public eye, mock trials, torture, interminable interrogations, and executions to the tune of a thousand per month* could continue unhindered. "Heave the corpses into the water, and pretty soon the surface is all smooth again and no one's the wiser." (437)
Solzhenitsyn writes in a continuous tone of dry sarcasm, without being bitter. He knows the pen will outmaneuver the sword eventually, and sees no reason to hurry it. The stories roll on, line upon line, precept upon precept, irony upon irony.
In a footnote, the author boldly answers the question all readers are anxiously asking: "Here is what is most surprising of all: one can be a human being despite everything!" (20) Though from time to time Solzhenitsyn deplores the failure of himself and his countrymen to offer any substantial resistance against injustice, he never misses an opportunity to showcase the astonishing resilience of the human spirit. "'Hands behind your back! Line up in pairs! No talking! No stopping!' Such were the commands, but they forgot to forbid us to throw back our heads. And, of course, we did just that." (211)
This is by most standards a rather long book, and possibly best left to tedious people like me, unless you happen to be interested in 20th century Russian history, and why people do bad things, and what the two might have to do with one another. If you choose to read it, be forewarned: once you start, finishing becomes almost like a duty to mankind.
To the ones left behind who are picking up the pieces
of planes, bombs, and buildings - of innocence and evil
‘Cause when the news and noise and flowers die,
and you still wake up alone
There is a God who knows every tear you cry
and this world is on His shoulders
-Sandra McCracken, Best Laid Plans, "Age After Age"
of planes, bombs, and buildings - of innocence and evil
‘Cause when the news and noise and flowers die,
and you still wake up alone
There is a God who knows every tear you cry
and this world is on His shoulders
-Sandra McCracken, Best Laid Plans, "Age After Age"
*Page 435. All quotations from Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago (New York: Harper & Row, 1974)
Image courtesy of answers.com
Image courtesy of answers.com
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Sing Peak
The day after Thanksgiving, we took our fun-loving Uncle Greg into the high country for some exercise and adventure. Nothing like a little backcountry bouldering to burn off a big holiday meal.
It was one of those days where it seems the warmth of the world has drained away, and even one's thoughts clatter like keys on a typewriter. Splendid day for hiking.
One rule of thumb for figuring temperature is to drop 3º for every additional 1,000 feet of elevation. So, even though it may have been 50º in Oakhurst, it was 29º (or less) where we began hiking. Of course, the wind chill makes it much colder. It definitely wasn't the sort of weather where you could comfortably stop for any extended period of time. When it's this cold, you have to keep moving.
Our destination for the day was Sing Peak, located right on the doorstep of the High Sierra. The entire hike was cross-country, with plenty of challenging bouldering. It's true: kids never grow up - they just find bigger playgrounds.
After we broke out of the treeline, removing one's gloves was not a pleasant proposition. Still, I couldn't resist pulling out the camera to get this shot.
Here we are at the top: cold as frozen peas but victorious. The summit is at 10,552 feet and offers a breathtaking panorama of the central Sierras. Left to right: yours truly, Uncle Greg, Dave, and Jesse. I'm not sure if Greg is performing some kind of salute or just worried that his hat is going to blow away.
After coming off the mountain, we selected a reasonably sheltered place to have a quick lunch. You guessed it: turkey sandwiches. From there, we traversed down the gorge for awhile before cutting back over the ridge towards the truck.
Once back on the westward side of the ridge, out of the wind, we came across this obviously condemned but rather picturesque old shack. In contrast to the cold statues of New England or austere cathedrals of Europe, California history is still warm - almost warm enough to imagine yourself within it.
It was one of those days where it seems the warmth of the world has drained away, and even one's thoughts clatter like keys on a typewriter. Splendid day for hiking.One rule of thumb for figuring temperature is to drop 3º for every additional 1,000 feet of elevation. So, even though it may have been 50º in Oakhurst, it was 29º (or less) where we began hiking. Of course, the wind chill makes it much colder. It definitely wasn't the sort of weather where you could comfortably stop for any extended period of time. When it's this cold, you have to keep moving.
Our destination for the day was Sing Peak, located right on the doorstep of the High Sierra. The entire hike was cross-country, with plenty of challenging bouldering. It's true: kids never grow up - they just find bigger playgrounds.
After we broke out of the treeline, removing one's gloves was not a pleasant proposition. Still, I couldn't resist pulling out the camera to get this shot.
Here we are at the top: cold as frozen peas but victorious. The summit is at 10,552 feet and offers a breathtaking panorama of the central Sierras. Left to right: yours truly, Uncle Greg, Dave, and Jesse. I'm not sure if Greg is performing some kind of salute or just worried that his hat is going to blow away.
After coming off the mountain, we selected a reasonably sheltered place to have a quick lunch. You guessed it: turkey sandwiches. From there, we traversed down the gorge for awhile before cutting back over the ridge towards the truck.
Once back on the westward side of the ridge, out of the wind, we came across this obviously condemned but rather picturesque old shack. In contrast to the cold statues of New England or austere cathedrals of Europe, California history is still warm - almost warm enough to imagine yourself within it.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Efficient Christians
Gasoline engines operate at 20%-37% efficiency. That means that for every 10 gallons of gas you use, about 7 ($23.00!) accomplish absolutely nothing. All this precious energy simply disappears in the form of heat, exhaust, and friction.
Now efficiency is not to be confused with productivity - they are two distinct terms. Just as in the parable of the talents, it is not how much you do that counts, but how much you do with what you've been given.
As with engines, much of our efficiency as Christians is lost in the form of hot air, exhaust, and friction. Our efficiency suffers when we blow hot air about the kingdom, exhaust ourselves with busy work like Martha, or neglect to address frictional situations and relationships.
One identifying characteristic of the truth is its ability to defend itself. Not only is it very tiring to defend one's own idiosyncratic interpretation of the Kingdom, it also does incalculable damage to the name of Christianity. It isn't enough to be talking about the things of God; we must be talking truth about them. The more we align our thinking and teaching with God's revealed truth, the better chance God's unblunted Word has of getting through our pasty rhetoric and the fewer words we will waste talking nonsense.
Exhaust(ion)
Driving ourselves into the ground with misguided effort and busy work will further reduce our efficiency. Like a power tool that is forced to cut too fast, we will choke, sputter, and overheat, confused and hurt that we have so little to show for all our effort. The solution is simple: put God first, and stop trying so hard to be an amateur deity. The last thing Christianity needs is more demigods. More on this in an upcoming post.
Friction
Frictional relationships prevent us from walking before God with the peace he desires us to have. He exhorts us to "live peaceably with all" (Rom. 12:18, Heb. 12:14). Leaving wrongs unrighted and apologies unsaid is no way to live the abundant life. We have to get used to confronting mistakes, embarrassments, and misunderstandings head-on. This is uncomfortable. "No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." (Heb. 12:11) If there is something between you and your brother, it must be set right before you can render service to God. (Matt. 5:24)
Living for the maximum glory of God necessarily means identifying and eliminating those things that decrease our spiritual efficiency. By "spiritual efficiency" I do not mean offering copious prayers or writing stacks of books or witnessing to hordes of people, though those are all good things. I simply mean doing whatever God has called you to do as fully and effectively as possible - whether that is saving the poor of Cambodia or simply sitting at His feet.
Also, I do not wish to make efficiency itself into a kind of fetish. As Sandra McCracken sings, "Love is not efficient / and even if it was / I wanna take the long way home..." Living the Christian life involves doing things that make no sense by ordinary standards, but this should not surprise us. We're part of a different Kingdom and a different economy, and therefore we must be faithful to a deeper efficiency - that of the woman with the alabaster flask.
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us." -Hebrews 12:1
Now efficiency is not to be confused with productivity - they are two distinct terms. Just as in the parable of the talents, it is not how much you do that counts, but how much you do with what you've been given.As with engines, much of our efficiency as Christians is lost in the form of hot air, exhaust, and friction. Our efficiency suffers when we blow hot air about the kingdom, exhaust ourselves with busy work like Martha, or neglect to address frictional situations and relationships.
***
Hot AirOne identifying characteristic of the truth is its ability to defend itself. Not only is it very tiring to defend one's own idiosyncratic interpretation of the Kingdom, it also does incalculable damage to the name of Christianity. It isn't enough to be talking about the things of God; we must be talking truth about them. The more we align our thinking and teaching with God's revealed truth, the better chance God's unblunted Word has of getting through our pasty rhetoric and the fewer words we will waste talking nonsense.
Exhaust(ion)
Driving ourselves into the ground with misguided effort and busy work will further reduce our efficiency. Like a power tool that is forced to cut too fast, we will choke, sputter, and overheat, confused and hurt that we have so little to show for all our effort. The solution is simple: put God first, and stop trying so hard to be an amateur deity. The last thing Christianity needs is more demigods. More on this in an upcoming post.
Friction
Frictional relationships prevent us from walking before God with the peace he desires us to have. He exhorts us to "live peaceably with all" (Rom. 12:18, Heb. 12:14). Leaving wrongs unrighted and apologies unsaid is no way to live the abundant life. We have to get used to confronting mistakes, embarrassments, and misunderstandings head-on. This is uncomfortable. "No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." (Heb. 12:11) If there is something between you and your brother, it must be set right before you can render service to God. (Matt. 5:24)
***
Living for the maximum glory of God necessarily means identifying and eliminating those things that decrease our spiritual efficiency. By "spiritual efficiency" I do not mean offering copious prayers or writing stacks of books or witnessing to hordes of people, though those are all good things. I simply mean doing whatever God has called you to do as fully and effectively as possible - whether that is saving the poor of Cambodia or simply sitting at His feet.
Also, I do not wish to make efficiency itself into a kind of fetish. As Sandra McCracken sings, "Love is not efficient / and even if it was / I wanna take the long way home..." Living the Christian life involves doing things that make no sense by ordinary standards, but this should not surprise us. We're part of a different Kingdom and a different economy, and therefore we must be faithful to a deeper efficiency - that of the woman with the alabaster flask.
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us." -Hebrews 12:1
Image courtesy of germes-online.com
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Space Trilogy
Kenneth Tynan, the British drama critic, theater historian and playwright, used to play a rather odd game with his old Oxford tutor, C. S. Lewis. Lewis asked Tynan to pick a number from one to forty to identify a bookshelf in Lewis's sitting room at Magdalen College. Another number from one to twenty would select a book on that shelf. In similar fashion, Tynan was required to pick a random page and then a line on the page, which he read aloud. Lewis then immediately named the book and discussed the material on that particular page.*
This little anecdote is remarkable - accordingly I shall make some remarks about it. It is easy to forget the vigorous intellects behind the stories we take for granted. The common metaphor of a steel trap is grossly inadequate for describing the depth, discipline, and multi-dimensional capacities of Lewis's mind, which could perhaps be compared more fairly to a honeycomb, full of delicate chambers and intertwined passageways, tidy, sweet, and very much alive.
For someone who could digest books as surely and easily as he could digest broiled fish, inventing planets, histories, and civilizations was simply a favorite pastime. Here was a man who was so in touch with the way things are that he could go beyond them into the way things are not, and further still into the way things ought to be.
Out of the Silent Planet
In this the first volume of the Trilogy, Dr. Ransom finds himself shanghaied to a distant planet called Malacandra, quite beyond the reach of the Royal Navy. Once there, he is confronted with several new species (old species, really, but new to him), and must learn how to interact and survive. This strange situation gives Lewis ample opportunity to comment on what it means to be - and act - human.
This book is the shortest of the three, while simultaneously managing to lay the groundwork for the rest of the series.
Perelandra
Similar to Narnia in The Magician's Nephew, Perelandra is a virgin world of innocent pleasure and unspoiled beauty. As you might guess, the enemy is not about to let the truth reign free and unchallenged, and before long the battle lines for the soul of Perelandra are drawn. The nail-biting temptation narratives that constitute the core of the book are by turns exquisitely painful and breathtakingly profound, leaving you with a new sense of how convincing the Devil's sleight-of-hand can be.
It is in the latter part of Perelandra where we find Lewis's famed "sexless" male and female archetypes - keeping alive the ancient mythical significance of Mars and Venus. This book seems to be the most oft-quoted of the Trilogy.
That Hideous Strength
Somewhat disappointingly, no character in That Hideous Strength is abducted for a hair-raising interplanetary expedition. However, while the story remains rooted in familiar earthen soil, things are far from safe. Lies are falling like acid rain, history is being plundered, and the peaceful English countryside is being overrun by obscene machinery. All this creates a vivid backdrop for Lewis to demolish some of his favorite targets - nihilism and pragmatism - in broad, unanswerable strokes.
This story reminded me of the work of Frank Peretti, mostly because of it's deeply conspiratorial plot. It is quite different from the first two books, but arresting in its own way.
"He had passed from Hegel into Hume, thence through Pragmatism, and thence through Logical Positivism, and out at last into the complete void." -C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength, (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996), 353
This little anecdote is remarkable - accordingly I shall make some remarks about it. It is easy to forget the vigorous intellects behind the stories we take for granted. The common metaphor of a steel trap is grossly inadequate for describing the depth, discipline, and multi-dimensional capacities of Lewis's mind, which could perhaps be compared more fairly to a honeycomb, full of delicate chambers and intertwined passageways, tidy, sweet, and very much alive.
For someone who could digest books as surely and easily as he could digest broiled fish, inventing planets, histories, and civilizations was simply a favorite pastime. Here was a man who was so in touch with the way things are that he could go beyond them into the way things are not, and further still into the way things ought to be.
Out of the Silent PlanetIn this the first volume of the Trilogy, Dr. Ransom finds himself shanghaied to a distant planet called Malacandra, quite beyond the reach of the Royal Navy. Once there, he is confronted with several new species (old species, really, but new to him), and must learn how to interact and survive. This strange situation gives Lewis ample opportunity to comment on what it means to be - and act - human.
This book is the shortest of the three, while simultaneously managing to lay the groundwork for the rest of the series.
PerelandraSimilar to Narnia in The Magician's Nephew, Perelandra is a virgin world of innocent pleasure and unspoiled beauty. As you might guess, the enemy is not about to let the truth reign free and unchallenged, and before long the battle lines for the soul of Perelandra are drawn. The nail-biting temptation narratives that constitute the core of the book are by turns exquisitely painful and breathtakingly profound, leaving you with a new sense of how convincing the Devil's sleight-of-hand can be.
It is in the latter part of Perelandra where we find Lewis's famed "sexless" male and female archetypes - keeping alive the ancient mythical significance of Mars and Venus. This book seems to be the most oft-quoted of the Trilogy.
That Hideous StrengthSomewhat disappointingly, no character in That Hideous Strength is abducted for a hair-raising interplanetary expedition. However, while the story remains rooted in familiar earthen soil, things are far from safe. Lies are falling like acid rain, history is being plundered, and the peaceful English countryside is being overrun by obscene machinery. All this creates a vivid backdrop for Lewis to demolish some of his favorite targets - nihilism and pragmatism - in broad, unanswerable strokes.
This story reminded me of the work of Frank Peretti, mostly because of it's deeply conspiratorial plot. It is quite different from the first two books, but arresting in its own way.
"He had passed from Hegel into Hume, thence through Pragmatism, and thence through Logical Positivism, and out at last into the complete void." -C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength, (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996), 353
*C. S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia, Signature Edition (HarperCollins, 2005), 780
Images courtesy of lethalpublishing.com and elidourado.files.wordpress.com
Images courtesy of lethalpublishing.com and elidourado.files.wordpress.com
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Big Family Survival - Part 3: Taking a Shower
This is the last post (for now) in the celebrated Big Family Survival series. The whole series - including Mealtime and Traveling - can be found here.
Taking a shower is a relatively simple pleasure of civilized existence that most of us take for granted. Until you've lived in a large family, however, you have no idea of the myriad difficulties that can complicate this basic task.
There are five ingredients necessary for a satisfying shower: warm water, soap, shampoo, a towel or other absorbent object, and about 20 minutes of uninterrupted bathroom time. Shouldn't be too hard, should it? We shall see.
Warm water is generally a non-issue, thanks to our obscenely monstrous 75 gallon water heater. Still, on Sundays, you'd better go the night before, get in early, or be prepared for a brisker sprinkle than usual. And Sundays aside, you'd better hope that nobody knows the right toilet to flush in order to give you that "refreshing" dash of cold water. Arrggghh!
Soap is the next item on the list. Contrary to most people's experience, soap is not generally available in bar form. Usually, it consists of a sticky glob of small fragments piled in a dish. You grab a handful, and as long as you use a little imagination, you can pretend you're using the regular bar stuff that you see in stores. Oh well - it gets you clean, and that's the main thing.
For guys, shampoo is simple. Squirt some goopy stuff in your hand, "massage into scalp", and rinse. Repeat as desired. (Actually, I think shampoo companies added that last part just to increase sales.) Anyway, it's not a big deal.
For girls, it's different. Shampoo is intensely personal, like the color of a purse, and like purses, you can't have just one. You need a bottle of this, a bottle of that, one for Sundays, one for Tuesdays, one for when you're in the mood for a little "moisturizing" (isn't that what the water is for?), one for when you have a cold, and so on. You get the idea.
I can understand the need for conditioner; it does something different. Granted, I've never been able to figure out exactly what that something is, but that's okay: I'll take their word for it. Really, a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of conditioner is reasonable enough, but why, in the name of all that is decent and sensible, must we have four varieties of each? And even then, there isn't a single bottle of just plain ordinary normal-person shampoo. Occasionally, the situation has become so dire that I've been reduced to rooting around inside the vanity cabinet for one of those little freebie vials they give you at hotels. It's absurd, utterly absurd.
Occasionally - steamy, clean, and satisfied - you'll pull back the curtain and reach for your towel, only to be startled by an empty hook. Shucks - must have been wash day yesterday. Some will open the door and holler for help; I myself don't favor this approach as much. I have learned from experience that it is possible to dry yourself quite satisfactorily with nothing more than a hand towel. Remember - we're talking survival here, not posh bathing.
There is no worse feeling than to be just waking up, stretch, smile at the day, and then hear the bathroom door shut and lock with an ominous click. So much for setting your alarm: your day has just been set back half an hour. What's worse, there is not a thing you can do about it, for no quarter is ever given in the early morning bathroom wars. In this case, it is most definitely the early bird who gets the worm. The latecomer - sometimes missing the door by seconds - must sit in their bedroom in their pajamas and wait, which can be very traumatic. I'm sure we'll all need counseling at some point.
Guys are generally quite efficient in the shower. Girls, not so much. (Nothing against the gals, of course.) I've never figured out what you do for an hour in there, and it seems poor taste to ask, so I don't. Just be advised that it's important to pay attention to who you allow to get in before you.
One other word of wisdom. When you're getting in the shower, don't be swayed by all those pleading little faces claiming they "just need to brush their teeth." Yeah, right. Come back later, or we'll be here till noon. There's a time to be nice and a time to be mean; it's all in Ecclesiastes.
Long live the family! ("Hey in there, are you done yet?!?!")
Taking a shower is a relatively simple pleasure of civilized existence that most of us take for granted. Until you've lived in a large family, however, you have no idea of the myriad difficulties that can complicate this basic task.
There are five ingredients necessary for a satisfying shower: warm water, soap, shampoo, a towel or other absorbent object, and about 20 minutes of uninterrupted bathroom time. Shouldn't be too hard, should it? We shall see.Warm water is generally a non-issue, thanks to our obscenely monstrous 75 gallon water heater. Still, on Sundays, you'd better go the night before, get in early, or be prepared for a brisker sprinkle than usual. And Sundays aside, you'd better hope that nobody knows the right toilet to flush in order to give you that "refreshing" dash of cold water. Arrggghh!
Soap is the next item on the list. Contrary to most people's experience, soap is not generally available in bar form. Usually, it consists of a sticky glob of small fragments piled in a dish. You grab a handful, and as long as you use a little imagination, you can pretend you're using the regular bar stuff that you see in stores. Oh well - it gets you clean, and that's the main thing.
For guys, shampoo is simple. Squirt some goopy stuff in your hand, "massage into scalp", and rinse. Repeat as desired. (Actually, I think shampoo companies added that last part just to increase sales.) Anyway, it's not a big deal.
For girls, it's different. Shampoo is intensely personal, like the color of a purse, and like purses, you can't have just one. You need a bottle of this, a bottle of that, one for Sundays, one for Tuesdays, one for when you're in the mood for a little "moisturizing" (isn't that what the water is for?), one for when you have a cold, and so on. You get the idea.
I can understand the need for conditioner; it does something different. Granted, I've never been able to figure out exactly what that something is, but that's okay: I'll take their word for it. Really, a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of conditioner is reasonable enough, but why, in the name of all that is decent and sensible, must we have four varieties of each? And even then, there isn't a single bottle of just plain ordinary normal-person shampoo. Occasionally, the situation has become so dire that I've been reduced to rooting around inside the vanity cabinet for one of those little freebie vials they give you at hotels. It's absurd, utterly absurd.
Occasionally - steamy, clean, and satisfied - you'll pull back the curtain and reach for your towel, only to be startled by an empty hook. Shucks - must have been wash day yesterday. Some will open the door and holler for help; I myself don't favor this approach as much. I have learned from experience that it is possible to dry yourself quite satisfactorily with nothing more than a hand towel. Remember - we're talking survival here, not posh bathing.
There is no worse feeling than to be just waking up, stretch, smile at the day, and then hear the bathroom door shut and lock with an ominous click. So much for setting your alarm: your day has just been set back half an hour. What's worse, there is not a thing you can do about it, for no quarter is ever given in the early morning bathroom wars. In this case, it is most definitely the early bird who gets the worm. The latecomer - sometimes missing the door by seconds - must sit in their bedroom in their pajamas and wait, which can be very traumatic. I'm sure we'll all need counseling at some point.
Guys are generally quite efficient in the shower. Girls, not so much. (Nothing against the gals, of course.) I've never figured out what you do for an hour in there, and it seems poor taste to ask, so I don't. Just be advised that it's important to pay attention to who you allow to get in before you.
One other word of wisdom. When you're getting in the shower, don't be swayed by all those pleading little faces claiming they "just need to brush their teeth." Yeah, right. Come back later, or we'll be here till noon. There's a time to be nice and a time to be mean; it's all in Ecclesiastes.
Long live the family! ("Hey in there, are you done yet?!?!")
Image courtesy of jupiterimages.com
Thursday, November 22, 2007
A Writer's Thanksgiving
We offer thanks,for words and wit,
for color and metaphor,
for alliteration and assonance,
for pronouns and parentheses,
for rhythm and style,
for beauty and balance,
for new days and old books,
but most of all, for spell checkers!
Image courtesy of web.gc.cuny.edu
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Drink Water, Not Sugar
Whether one is working, hiking, or just goofing off, hydration is always important. I'm always on the prowl for ways to stay hydrated easier, so I was excited when I recently had the opportunity to sample a new product called HINT.
HINT is bottled water with a "kiss" of flavor. The flavoring - or kissing - is accomplished naturally, with no sweeteners or preservatives. So far, so good.
This product is not an electrolyte replacement drink: it's just water. So don't expect the performance of a sports drink. 0 calories. Bummer.
HINT comes in a variety of interesting flavors, such as Mango-Grapefruit, Pomegranate-Tangerine, and Raspberry-Lime. Pear was one of my favorites, and Cucumber was quite good also. Peppermint tasted exactly like going to the dentist.
One particularly notable thing about HINT is the quality of the bottles. I've saved all of mine for use on the job: they're a nice size, they're really sturdy, and their mouths are wide enough to accept ice cubes.
I tend to be a purist about things, and water is no exception. Generally speaking, I still prefer my water straight. However, if you're the type that has trouble drinking enough to stay properly hydrated, HINT might be just the thing for you.
HINT is bottled water with a "kiss" of flavor. The flavoring - or kissing - is accomplished naturally, with no sweeteners or preservatives. So far, so good.This product is not an electrolyte replacement drink: it's just water. So don't expect the performance of a sports drink. 0 calories. Bummer.
HINT comes in a variety of interesting flavors, such as Mango-Grapefruit, Pomegranate-Tangerine, and Raspberry-Lime. Pear was one of my favorites, and Cucumber was quite good also. Peppermint tasted exactly like going to the dentist.
One particularly notable thing about HINT is the quality of the bottles. I've saved all of mine for use on the job: they're a nice size, they're really sturdy, and their mouths are wide enough to accept ice cubes.
I tend to be a purist about things, and water is no exception. Generally speaking, I still prefer my water straight. However, if you're the type that has trouble drinking enough to stay properly hydrated, HINT might be just the thing for you.
Image courtesy of thenibble.com
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Thinking About Evangelism, Again
When I shared a few thoughts about evangelism last year, I thrashed about, made a ruckus, and pretty much left everyone generally confused as to what I was really saying. I have since come to the conclusion that I just don't understand the subject very well. Accordingly, this post is more about exploration than experience.
Having the opportunity to participate in an evening of witnessing at the Bible School I attended recently set me to thinking about the subject once again, and on a more practical level. My thinking is currently geared more towards street evangelism than white-collar apologetics, so my comments will reflect that.
The central thing I keep coming back to is this: underneath all the stereotypes and sarcasm and sin, we need to see a person. For me, a large part of evangelism consists in establishing that human connection. This is why I prefer to actually talk to people one-on-one, without any predetermined programme, instead of holding signs or passing out literature. Unless a person is directly under the conviction of the Spirit, someone holding a strongly worded sign may just as well be an alien from outer space to the average streetwalker. Their worlds just do not overlap.*
When I'm talking to someone, I want to communicate that I am very much a person, and not a very good one at that. That is something people can relate to. (Most can also relate to ice cream, and we should not be above taking advantage of these simple expressions of good will.) People are much more willing to talk if you avoid giving the impression that you have all the answers. Worldly people are sinful, but they are not stupid. They know perfectly well that nobody has all the answers.
The saturation of our society in postmodernism has had the positive side-effect of making most people willing to talk and open to new ideas. However, like the men of Athens, they are often a bit too willing to talk and open to a preposterous overabundance of new ideas. The challenge, then, is not acquiring a hearing: the challenge is awaking the shapeless mush that is the modern mind. Postmodernism and Christianity may overlap on certain points, but they are fundamentally incompatible because of their polarized opinions on the question of objective truth.
One of the disturbing complications we face in our time is the problem of drugs. When someone's mind is full of nonsense and butterflies, it's very difficult to carry on a meaningful conversation. But if God can get past demons, He can surely get past drugs. Sometimes we may need to be content to be Balaam's donkey, faithfully sharing the truth and preparing the way for the Angel of God and the Sword of the Spirit.
Because evangelism can be so difficult, I tend to indulge in a little sub-conscious self-congratulation following a witnessing stint. I swap war stories with friends, and make myself out to be manning the front lines of the faith. This is dangerous. Evangelism ought to excite us, but it ought to excite us about the power of God, not about our own supposed spirituality. It is a weighty responsibility, and we must not be satisfied to merely check a box.
But it doesn't need to be complicated. (As an old sage has said, “It is easy to those who do it.”) The logical thing to do with Good News is to tell somebody.
*This is not to deny that such signs could themselves produce conviction. They can and they do. I am merely observing that on the whole, they seem to provoke more anger, confusion, and defensiveness in people. Of course, this in itself does not unilaterally invalidate the method. But it deserves to be thought about.
Having the opportunity to participate in an evening of witnessing at the Bible School I attended recently set me to thinking about the subject once again, and on a more practical level. My thinking is currently geared more towards street evangelism than white-collar apologetics, so my comments will reflect that.
The central thing I keep coming back to is this: underneath all the stereotypes and sarcasm and sin, we need to see a person. For me, a large part of evangelism consists in establishing that human connection. This is why I prefer to actually talk to people one-on-one, without any predetermined programme, instead of holding signs or passing out literature. Unless a person is directly under the conviction of the Spirit, someone holding a strongly worded sign may just as well be an alien from outer space to the average streetwalker. Their worlds just do not overlap.*When I'm talking to someone, I want to communicate that I am very much a person, and not a very good one at that. That is something people can relate to. (Most can also relate to ice cream, and we should not be above taking advantage of these simple expressions of good will.) People are much more willing to talk if you avoid giving the impression that you have all the answers. Worldly people are sinful, but they are not stupid. They know perfectly well that nobody has all the answers.
The saturation of our society in postmodernism has had the positive side-effect of making most people willing to talk and open to new ideas. However, like the men of Athens, they are often a bit too willing to talk and open to a preposterous overabundance of new ideas. The challenge, then, is not acquiring a hearing: the challenge is awaking the shapeless mush that is the modern mind. Postmodernism and Christianity may overlap on certain points, but they are fundamentally incompatible because of their polarized opinions on the question of objective truth.
One of the disturbing complications we face in our time is the problem of drugs. When someone's mind is full of nonsense and butterflies, it's very difficult to carry on a meaningful conversation. But if God can get past demons, He can surely get past drugs. Sometimes we may need to be content to be Balaam's donkey, faithfully sharing the truth and preparing the way for the Angel of God and the Sword of the Spirit.
Because evangelism can be so difficult, I tend to indulge in a little sub-conscious self-congratulation following a witnessing stint. I swap war stories with friends, and make myself out to be manning the front lines of the faith. This is dangerous. Evangelism ought to excite us, but it ought to excite us about the power of God, not about our own supposed spirituality. It is a weighty responsibility, and we must not be satisfied to merely check a box.
But it doesn't need to be complicated. (As an old sage has said, “It is easy to those who do it.”) The logical thing to do with Good News is to tell somebody.
*This is not to deny that such signs could themselves produce conviction. They can and they do. I am merely observing that on the whole, they seem to provoke more anger, confusion, and defensiveness in people. Of course, this in itself does not unilaterally invalidate the method. But it deserves to be thought about.
Image courtesy of royalmail.com
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thinking About Milestones
As Sojourner's Song approaches 200 posts and 10,000 hits, it has me thinking about milestones. Honestly, milestones leave me conflicted. The rugged rationalist in me insists that numerically interesting moments in the linear progression of time ought to remain completely irrelevant. (Why should a certain day be special just because it happens to be the first day of the year? What's the bloody difference between visitor 10,000 and visitor 9,999?) The romantic part of me, however, shyly admits the whimsical appeal of New Year's resolutions, turning 21, and that magic moment twice a day when your digital watch reads 11:11:11. (Don't tell me you've never stopped what you're doing to see the numerals align. I know you have. It's positively mesmerizing.)The problem with milestones, as I see it, is that they - like deadlines - never seem to give you time to observe them properly. They start approaching, and you feel nervous, and then they're here, and you don't know what to do, and then they're gone, and you're relieved. Time grinds along, exactly like a giant grist mill, and always our frenzied, last-minute attempts at sentimentality come up short. This can be extremely frustrating for those who very badly want to see the moment handled with the sensitivity and emphasis it deserves. This frustration may cause them to abandon the idea altogether and adopt a programme of ignoring the whole business, in order to safeguard their sensitivity. Paradoxically, then, sometimes it is the stoical utilitarians who are really the most sensitive at heart. (I really am sensitive, really, I am.)
So, to plagiarize a quote from Douglas Adams, I love milestones. I especially like the whooshing sound they make as they go flying by. If our perception of time wasn't so strongly quantitative and mathematical, perhaps we wouldn't be tempted to attach so much importance to all of these anniversaries and equinoxes. But it is, and we are. I suppose one might as well make the best of it.
Thanks for 10,000 visits everyone. Whatever that means.
Image courtesy of fld.org.uk
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Tolkien On Fairy Stories
Over the last several years, my views on fantasy have progressed from scorn to suspicion, and from there to undisguised admiration. The joy of story - both of story itself and of the truths contained within it, like peanuts within brittle - fills a very specific place in the heart.
(Note: In this post I restrict fantasy and fairy-stories to mean 20th-century English works, having no experience with anything else, and very little even with these.)
Tolkien's essay On Fairy-Stories is essential reading for anyone interested in the subject. It is readily apparent, both from his excellent treatment of the topic and his own "fairy-stories", that Tolkien knows a thing or two about his craft. Behind the enchanted woods and secret doors and flaming black swords, there's a master at work with an eye for beauty and a nose for truth.
Fantasy, despite its dramatic proportions, can be traced to quite ordinary beginnings: the humble adjective. Tolkien observes, "When we can take green from grass, blue from heaven, and red from blood, we have already an enchanter's power." This ability to extract elements and properties and juxtapose them into fresh combinations is the lifeblood of Faerie, without which it would not exist.
In the end, all of man's creations and inventions remain the products of an imagination which must of necessity be confined to what is. There is no escaping the Periodic Table of Elements. Thus, man is - to use Tolkien's term - a "sub-creator."
Tolkien devotes considerable space to examining the common association between fairy-stories and children, which association he holds to be rather more forced than free. "Children as a class - except in a common lack of experience they are not one - neither like fairy-stories more, nor understand them better than adults do; and no more than they like many other things. They are young and growing, and normally have keen appetites, so the fairy-stories as a rule go down well enough." For some reason, Tolkien says, adults have got it fixed in their minds that fairy-stories are for children, and children for fairy-stories. He ably demonstrates that this is not in fact the case, arguing that fairy-stories ought to be taken seriously if they are to be taken at all, not passed off like second-hand clothes to be worn for dirty chores.
Some of Tolkien's comments near the middle of the essay create the impression that he was opposed to film or drama adaptations of fairy-stories on any level. He writes, "In human art Fantasy is a thing best left to words, to true literature. In painting, for instance, the visible presentation of the fantastic image is technically too easy; the hand tends to outrun the mind, even to overthrow it. Silliness or morbidity are frequent results." This is true enough. C. S. Lewis similarly deplored those "horrible lithographs of the Savior (apparently seven feet high, with the face of a consumptive girl)..."*
Sometimes imagery and drama are guaranteed to come up short, in which cases it may be better not to make the attempt. Tolkien continues: "Fantasy, even of the simplest kind, hardly ever succeeds in Drama, when that is presented as it should be, visibly and audibly acted. Fantastic forms are not to be counterfeited."
It appears that the first animated adaptation of Lord Of The Rings was attempted in 1978, five years after Tolkien's death. I still wonder, as I'm sure many others do, what Tolkien's opinion of Peter Jackson's Trilogy would have been. Perhaps, had he seen what type of results modern cinematic technology was able to produce, he would have conceded that the Trilogy was one of the "hardly ever" successful marriages of Fantasy and Drama.
We have observed that fairy-stories are merely unfamiliar combinations of familiar things, and are not, in that sense, original. There is nothing particularly unusual about a frog or a princess or a marriage; only the combination of the three. The most preposterous fairy-story cannot invent even one new color. (Or it will say, "There was a new color," which is about all that can be said.) For those of us who are tied up in knots over originality, Tolkien's commonsense is tonic:
Tolkien here sounds very much like Chesterton; or is it Chesterton who sounds like Tolkien? No matter: the point is the same. Open your eyes. Take in the blue sky. Remember your Creator.
I close with Tolkien's brilliant apologetic in verse, taken from the essay.
"Dear sir," I said - Although now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not de-throned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned:
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Through all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons - 'twas our right
(used or misused). That right has not decayed:
we make still by the law in which we're made."
(Note: In this post I restrict fantasy and fairy-stories to mean 20th-century English works, having no experience with anything else, and very little even with these.)
Tolkien's essay On Fairy-Stories is essential reading for anyone interested in the subject. It is readily apparent, both from his excellent treatment of the topic and his own "fairy-stories", that Tolkien knows a thing or two about his craft. Behind the enchanted woods and secret doors and flaming black swords, there's a master at work with an eye for beauty and a nose for truth.Fantasy, despite its dramatic proportions, can be traced to quite ordinary beginnings: the humble adjective. Tolkien observes, "When we can take green from grass, blue from heaven, and red from blood, we have already an enchanter's power." This ability to extract elements and properties and juxtapose them into fresh combinations is the lifeblood of Faerie, without which it would not exist.
In the end, all of man's creations and inventions remain the products of an imagination which must of necessity be confined to what is. There is no escaping the Periodic Table of Elements. Thus, man is - to use Tolkien's term - a "sub-creator."
Tolkien devotes considerable space to examining the common association between fairy-stories and children, which association he holds to be rather more forced than free. "Children as a class - except in a common lack of experience they are not one - neither like fairy-stories more, nor understand them better than adults do; and no more than they like many other things. They are young and growing, and normally have keen appetites, so the fairy-stories as a rule go down well enough." For some reason, Tolkien says, adults have got it fixed in their minds that fairy-stories are for children, and children for fairy-stories. He ably demonstrates that this is not in fact the case, arguing that fairy-stories ought to be taken seriously if they are to be taken at all, not passed off like second-hand clothes to be worn for dirty chores.
Some of Tolkien's comments near the middle of the essay create the impression that he was opposed to film or drama adaptations of fairy-stories on any level. He writes, "In human art Fantasy is a thing best left to words, to true literature. In painting, for instance, the visible presentation of the fantastic image is technically too easy; the hand tends to outrun the mind, even to overthrow it. Silliness or morbidity are frequent results." This is true enough. C. S. Lewis similarly deplored those "horrible lithographs of the Savior (apparently seven feet high, with the face of a consumptive girl)..."*
Sometimes imagery and drama are guaranteed to come up short, in which cases it may be better not to make the attempt. Tolkien continues: "Fantasy, even of the simplest kind, hardly ever succeeds in Drama, when that is presented as it should be, visibly and audibly acted. Fantastic forms are not to be counterfeited."
It appears that the first animated adaptation of Lord Of The Rings was attempted in 1978, five years after Tolkien's death. I still wonder, as I'm sure many others do, what Tolkien's opinion of Peter Jackson's Trilogy would have been. Perhaps, had he seen what type of results modern cinematic technology was able to produce, he would have conceded that the Trilogy was one of the "hardly ever" successful marriages of Fantasy and Drama.
We have observed that fairy-stories are merely unfamiliar combinations of familiar things, and are not, in that sense, original. There is nothing particularly unusual about a frog or a princess or a marriage; only the combination of the three. The most preposterous fairy-story cannot invent even one new color. (Or it will say, "There was a new color," which is about all that can be said.) For those of us who are tied up in knots over originality, Tolkien's commonsense is tonic:
We do not, or need not, despair of drawing because all lines must be either curved or straight, nor of painting because there are only three “primary” colours. We may indeed be older now, in so far as we are heirs in enjoyment or in practice of many generations of ancestors in the arts. In this inheritance of wealth there may be a danger of boredom or of anxiety to be original, and that may lead to a distaste for fine drawing, delicate pattern, and “pretty” colours, or else to mere manipulation and over-elaboration of old material, clever and heartless. But the true road of escape from such weariness is not to be found in the wilfully awkward, clumsy, or misshapen, not in making all things dark or unremittingly violent; nor in the mixing of colours on through subtlety to drabness, and the fantastical complication of shapes to the point of silliness and on towards delirium. Before we reach such states we need recovery. We should look at green again, and be startled anew (but not blinded) by blue and yellow and red... This recovery fairy-stories help us to make. In that sense only a taste for them may make us, or keep us, childish.
Tolkien here sounds very much like Chesterton; or is it Chesterton who sounds like Tolkien? No matter: the point is the same. Open your eyes. Take in the blue sky. Remember your Creator.
I close with Tolkien's brilliant apologetic in verse, taken from the essay.
"Dear sir," I said - Although now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not de-throned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned:
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Through all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons - 'twas our right
(used or misused). That right has not decayed:
we make still by the law in which we're made."
*C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength, (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996), 234
Image courtesy of homepages.internet.lu
Image courtesy of homepages.internet.lu
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Weight Of Your Hand
Nose to the grindstone -
Can't smell the flowers
Angry at nothing
And weary of hours
Spent in the darkness
Numb with the pain
Hating the sunshine
And dreading the rain
It's because of my pride -
I know what You'll say
It's because I hold on
And can't give it away
It seems that I'm trying
To want what is right
But I love the illusion
Of walking by sight
So turn out the lights
And let me alone
And I'll lick my wounds
Right down to the bone
For my fine little kingdom
Of whitewash and sand
Is crumbling under
The weight of Your hand
Angry at nothing
And weary of hours
Spent in the darkness
Numb with the pain
Hating the sunshine
And dreading the rain
It's because of my pride -
I know what You'll say
It's because I hold on
And can't give it away
It seems that I'm trying
To want what is right
But I love the illusion
Of walking by sight
So turn out the lights
And let me alone
And I'll lick my wounds
Right down to the bone
For my fine little kingdom
Of whitewash and sand
Is crumbling under
The weight of Your hand
Image courtesy of mhazelgrove.fsnet.co.uk
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Thinking About Art and Ethics
I have from time to time wondered whether it is dishonest for a photographer to arrange "random" fern fronds or beach pebbles or Black-Eyed Susans for a picture. It seems to me that the viewer expects the shot to be wild and virgin - why else would it have been photographed? The artist is supposed to be promoting his photography, not his leaf-arranging. Anyway, maybe one of you photographers can help me with my dilemma. The practice smells suspiciously unethical.
Art by its nature must be ethical. When an artist embraces the ethical element of creative expression, the borders of his license are clearly defined, and thus he is set free. A river gets where it is going because it has banks: that is why rivers are so much more romantic than puddles. Puddles have no banks - only a soggy shore where the sprawl of muddy water stops. Puddles lack the purposeful concentration of rivers, which focus their energy and resources in a particular direction. This is what ethical borders - and rules - are for.
Immediately, however, we are presented with a difficulty. There seems to be a widespread misunderstanding regarding not the application of rules, but rather the nature of rules. Commonly, rules are defined to be objective guidelines that bear little or no interpretation. They are presented in bulleted lists. Keeping them is approved. Breaking them is punished. End of discussion.
But what if rules are not objective at all, but rather inward and subjective? Further, what if particular rules are undiscoverable until the artist finds himself in need of one, and only then - intuitively - does he know how the thing must be?
"A unity which is deeper than uniformity" - think about that. It's an inspiring idea, to be sure. I have many times wondered, in despair, whether there is life after grammar checkers. Here is a glimmer of hope.
Great art is made by those who have cultivated this sense of the "living and inward law of the work" and who have properly related this sense to the "rules" developed by "experts." That is why good musicians trust their ear, good chefs their palate, and good craftsman their tactile intuition. That is also why great artists always surprise everyone, eliciting the adoration of the public and the wrath of the critics.
This, then, is the reason that art must be ethical. Without an active sense of what is appropriate, meaningful, and honest, there is no art - only noise and confusion. Breaking the rules just for the sake of breaking the rules will get you exactly nowhere. In order to break the rules properly, one must recognize a higher law - that immutable substrate on which hang all our imperfect and convoluted interpretations, like cheap dollar store ornaments on a stately Douglas Fir Christmas tree.
In challenging the supremacy of "rules," I have no desire to diminish the value of conventions, such as proper punctuation. Without conventions there can be no communication, and without communication there can be no art. For instance, a small dot at the end of a string of words emphatically marks the end of a thought. Don't believe me? Then. try. reading. a. sentence. like. this. one. Such a sentence is near impossible to read, because the convention has been violated.
(The violation of convention may at times serve a specific artistic purpose, or it may serve an instructional purpose, as my sentence above just did. The point is that it is important to distinguish between the breaking of rules and the violation of conventions if we are to achieve true artistry without sacrificing comprehensibility.)
Perhaps prohibitions against photographers intruding into their shot would be nothing more than dusty rules that only get in the way. Suffice to say that the artist must satisfy his own conscience regarding means and ends. The shortest road is not always the best.
Art by its nature must be ethical. When an artist embraces the ethical element of creative expression, the borders of his license are clearly defined, and thus he is set free. A river gets where it is going because it has banks: that is why rivers are so much more romantic than puddles. Puddles have no banks - only a soggy shore where the sprawl of muddy water stops. Puddles lack the purposeful concentration of rivers, which focus their energy and resources in a particular direction. This is what ethical borders - and rules - are for.Immediately, however, we are presented with a difficulty. There seems to be a widespread misunderstanding regarding not the application of rules, but rather the nature of rules. Commonly, rules are defined to be objective guidelines that bear little or no interpretation. They are presented in bulleted lists. Keeping them is approved. Breaking them is punished. End of discussion.
But what if rules are not objective at all, but rather inward and subjective? Further, what if particular rules are undiscoverable until the artist finds himself in need of one, and only then - intuitively - does he know how the thing must be?
There are rules behind the rules, and a unity which is deeper than uniformity. A supreme workman will never break by one note or one syllable or one stroke of the brush the living and inward law of the work he is producing. But he will break without scruple any number of those superficial regularities and orthodoxies which little, unimaginative critics mistake for its laws. The extent to which one can distinguish a just 'license' from a mere botch or failure of unity depends on the extent to which one has grasped the real and inward significance of the work as a whole.-C. S. Lewis, Miracles, (HarperCollins, 2001), 153
Great art is made by those who have cultivated this sense of the "living and inward law of the work" and who have properly related this sense to the "rules" developed by "experts." That is why good musicians trust their ear, good chefs their palate, and good craftsman their tactile intuition. That is also why great artists always surprise everyone, eliciting the adoration of the public and the wrath of the critics.
This, then, is the reason that art must be ethical. Without an active sense of what is appropriate, meaningful, and honest, there is no art - only noise and confusion. Breaking the rules just for the sake of breaking the rules will get you exactly nowhere. In order to break the rules properly, one must recognize a higher law - that immutable substrate on which hang all our imperfect and convoluted interpretations, like cheap dollar store ornaments on a stately Douglas Fir Christmas tree.
In challenging the supremacy of "rules," I have no desire to diminish the value of conventions, such as proper punctuation. Without conventions there can be no communication, and without communication there can be no art. For instance, a small dot at the end of a string of words emphatically marks the end of a thought. Don't believe me? Then. try. reading. a. sentence. like. this. one. Such a sentence is near impossible to read, because the convention has been violated.
(The violation of convention may at times serve a specific artistic purpose, or it may serve an instructional purpose, as my sentence above just did. The point is that it is important to distinguish between the breaking of rules and the violation of conventions if we are to achieve true artistry without sacrificing comprehensibility.)
Perhaps prohibitions against photographers intruding into their shot would be nothing more than dusty rules that only get in the way. Suffice to say that the artist must satisfy his own conscience regarding means and ends. The shortest road is not always the best.
Image courtesy of ksphotography.com
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Tailgate The Moon
I tailgate the moon
Destiny denied
I'm chasing my tale
And racing my pride
Time goes slow for me
Does time go slow for you?
Image courtesy of jupiterimages.com
Friday, November 02, 2007
The Scoop
You may be wondering if Sojourner's Song is becoming Aaron's Blog Of Songs That He Likes. While that might be fun, it is not necessarily my intention. You see, I enjoy blogging the way I enjoy Ben & Jerry's - as a treat. The plain fact is that my work (when I have it) demands most of my energy and attention, seeing as I have not yet discovered how to earn a living blogging and eating ice cream. Oh well - maybe I'll post soon about the joys of roofing.I have a few drafts of real posts that I am refining, but writing (for me) requires thought, and time for thinking is scarce. (Come to think of it, time is scarce in general; but that's another topic for another day.)
I'm still reading Solzhenitsyn's Gulag, and also Lewis's Space Trilogy, courtesy of the Werzinskis. Both are masterpieces in their own right, though Lewis's is by far the easier read.
Musically, besides the old standbys, I've been enjoying Alli Rogers, who we saw in concert last week by accident, Sandra McCracken, (Derek's wife), and U2 (please don't shoot me).
Oh, and our washing machine broke. That is bad. We're getting a new one Tuesday. That is good.
Keep doing the Kingdom!
Image courtesy of newconsumer.com
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Eden
Tonight at the end of light
Tonight, I feel lonely
I thought I heard my heart stop beating
I long for you to hold me
I guess I feel like Eden
The twilight tried its best
Tonight I feel good and evil
Against my chest
Would I love you less or better
If I didn’t miss your face
Read your words like a love letter
Would I have known your grace?
I guess I feel like Eden
Aware of all I am
Tonight I feel good and evil
Against my skin
We’re all homesick
Is love the reason?
My hunger led me to your hope
Until the end of this colder season
Keep us warm
The day after she fell
We feel good and evil
And choose which one to tell
-Alli Rogers
Image courtesy of interfacelift.com
Monday, October 29, 2007
Big Family Survival - Part 2: Traveling
Whether it's a short jaunt to the next county or an "all-nighter" into the heart of the continent, our family always seems to be driving somewhere. The combination of prolonged physical immobility, confined space, and familiar company can be quite trying. I therefore conclude that traveling deserves its own survival briefing.
Like many other families, we're stuck using what is practically the only widely-available mode of mass transit: the ubiquitous 15-passenger van. You know the type: a sliding door that requires Herculean strength to close, a rats nest of cell-phone chargers in the glove compartment, partially eaten granola bars between the seat cushions, enough doll clothes to stock an American Girl thrift store, looks as big as a football stadium inside, and smells like one too. Lesson one: this is your habitat. Get used to it.
On any trip of any considerable length, food is an important consideration. ("Any considerable length" may be taken to mean anything longer than 3 hours. Anything less is just tooling around.) Lunch in the car saves money, and it also saves that all-important traveling commodity: time. So, at random hours, whoever is in charge of the cooler will open shop and take orders. Before you know it, it's a regular meteor shower of cheese sticks, apples, granola bars, baby carrots, and cookies if you're lucky. On long trips, this menu becomes strangely repetitive, until even Cracker Barrel begins to sound good.
We Telians are somewhat famous for eating our apples core and all. My only explanation for this highly unusual practice is that eating the core is vastly preferable to holding the stupid thing, watching it oxidize, and feeling your hand growing stickier by the minute. Now you may ask: Why don't you throw it away? To which I reply: How feasible do you suppose it is to pass an apple core past four rows of disgusted siblings to the trash bag? Not very. Or you may ask: Why don't you throw it out the window? To which I reply: The windows don't open: this is a 15-passenger van, not a Mustang convertible. Or you may ask: Why don't you just put it in a bag? To which I reply, Do you have a Ziploc dispenser in your van? Because we don't.
So - we eat the core. (You can pocket the stem, or hide it somewhere.)
Next to food, the hottest issue in travel politics is music. It's basically a problem of mathematics: one stereo, twenty ears, and two-hundred CD's. Hmmmm.
If you're running for driver, you can try catering to special-interest groups. If you're not driving, you can bring earbuds and a music player, but this doesn't work too well if the main stereo is also playing. Derek Webb and Hide 'Em In Your Heart don't mix: trust me.
Most of us are agreed that Ford vans were designed to carry passengers comfortably - for about 15 minutes. For starters, the almost complete lack of headrests is a dead giveaway. You're left with two options: 1) slide yourself forward until your rear is falling off the seat and place your neck on top of the bench, or 2) tighten your shoulder belt and cradle your head in it. (The latter alternative only works on relatively straight roads. Otherwise, you will be rudely awakened in about 3-1/2 minutes by a resounding smack against the window that is both painful and embarrassing.)
The other engineering disaster is the ventilation system. For some reason, there are no overhead vents for the rear bench. (No one actually uses that bench, do they?) Keeping the temperature in a comfortable range is one thing, (most of us gave up on that a long time ago) but in the back, sometimes you just plain can't breathe. As I said, there's no vents, and of course, none of the windows open. So you close your eyes, and "think happy thoughts," and try to conserve oxygen.
Thankfully, no one in our family has any real problem with carsickness. This is fortunate, because we all have a real problem with vomit. One time, we were coming down a corkscrew road, returning from a family camping trip. Of course, Chloe had just been crammed full of oatmeal, and about halfway down, her little tummy just gave up. Dad pulled over, and everyone promptly exited out the nearest door or window, like a fire drill, only more compulsive than rehearsed.
There you have it: a crash course in Darwinian driving. All we need to do now is find somewhere to go!
Like many other families, we're stuck using what is practically the only widely-available mode of mass transit: the ubiquitous 15-passenger van. You know the type: a sliding door that requires Herculean strength to close, a rats nest of cell-phone chargers in the glove compartment, partially eaten granola bars between the seat cushions, enough doll clothes to stock an American Girl thrift store, looks as big as a football stadium inside, and smells like one too. Lesson one: this is your habitat. Get used to it.On any trip of any considerable length, food is an important consideration. ("Any considerable length" may be taken to mean anything longer than 3 hours. Anything less is just tooling around.) Lunch in the car saves money, and it also saves that all-important traveling commodity: time. So, at random hours, whoever is in charge of the cooler will open shop and take orders. Before you know it, it's a regular meteor shower of cheese sticks, apples, granola bars, baby carrots, and cookies if you're lucky. On long trips, this menu becomes strangely repetitive, until even Cracker Barrel begins to sound good.
We Telians are somewhat famous for eating our apples core and all. My only explanation for this highly unusual practice is that eating the core is vastly preferable to holding the stupid thing, watching it oxidize, and feeling your hand growing stickier by the minute. Now you may ask: Why don't you throw it away? To which I reply: How feasible do you suppose it is to pass an apple core past four rows of disgusted siblings to the trash bag? Not very. Or you may ask: Why don't you throw it out the window? To which I reply: The windows don't open: this is a 15-passenger van, not a Mustang convertible. Or you may ask: Why don't you just put it in a bag? To which I reply, Do you have a Ziploc dispenser in your van? Because we don't.
So - we eat the core. (You can pocket the stem, or hide it somewhere.)
Next to food, the hottest issue in travel politics is music. It's basically a problem of mathematics: one stereo, twenty ears, and two-hundred CD's. Hmmmm.
If you're running for driver, you can try catering to special-interest groups. If you're not driving, you can bring earbuds and a music player, but this doesn't work too well if the main stereo is also playing. Derek Webb and Hide 'Em In Your Heart don't mix: trust me.
Most of us are agreed that Ford vans were designed to carry passengers comfortably - for about 15 minutes. For starters, the almost complete lack of headrests is a dead giveaway. You're left with two options: 1) slide yourself forward until your rear is falling off the seat and place your neck on top of the bench, or 2) tighten your shoulder belt and cradle your head in it. (The latter alternative only works on relatively straight roads. Otherwise, you will be rudely awakened in about 3-1/2 minutes by a resounding smack against the window that is both painful and embarrassing.)
The other engineering disaster is the ventilation system. For some reason, there are no overhead vents for the rear bench. (No one actually uses that bench, do they?) Keeping the temperature in a comfortable range is one thing, (most of us gave up on that a long time ago) but in the back, sometimes you just plain can't breathe. As I said, there's no vents, and of course, none of the windows open. So you close your eyes, and "think happy thoughts," and try to conserve oxygen.
Thankfully, no one in our family has any real problem with carsickness. This is fortunate, because we all have a real problem with vomit. One time, we were coming down a corkscrew road, returning from a family camping trip. Of course, Chloe had just been crammed full of oatmeal, and about halfway down, her little tummy just gave up. Dad pulled over, and everyone promptly exited out the nearest door or window, like a fire drill, only more compulsive than rehearsed.
There you have it: a crash course in Darwinian driving. All we need to do now is find somewhere to go!
Image courtesy of fusioncoedsoccer.com
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The Kingdom of God
The Kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking...or of education...
or of success...
or of music...
or of politics...
or of happiness...
or of maintaining the status quo...
...but of righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Ghost.
Romans 14:17
Image courtesy of chrictonmiller.com
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Church-in-a-Truck
Instant Church:1 Canopy
1 Guitar
2 Folding Tables
3 Water Coolers
17 Folding Chairs
Just add people!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Somewhere
Somewhere
Between the lost and the found
We're all hanging empty
Empty and upside down
But I'm hanging on
Though the fall may tempt me
And I believe in the dawn
Though I tremble in the night
Somewhere
Amidst these ins and these outs
There's a fine line of purpose
I follow even now
Through the haze of despair
That confuses and hurts us
I look to see that You're there
And I run toward Your light
Somewhere
Beyond these reasons and feelings
Somewhere
Beyond the passion and fatigue
I know You're there
And that Your Spirit is leading me
Somewhere
Beyond all this
Someday
Now I don't know when
But I know that You're coming
You're coming back again
And the earth will burn away
And the sky fill with thundering
As it announces the day
Has finally arrived
Somewhere
While the time is still now
We're still hanging empty
Empty and upside down
But I'm hanging on
With all that is in me
And I'll sing my songs
And I'll laugh until I fly
Somewhere
Beyond these reasons and feelings
Somewhere
Beyond the passion and fatigue
I know You're there
And that Your Spirit is leading me
Somewhere
Beyond all this
Somewhere
Take me away somewhere
Somewhere
Take me away somewhere...
-Rich Mullins
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Big Family Survival - Part 1: Mealtime
Growing up in a large family teaches you all sorts of useful skills you wouldn't otherwise have the opportunity (or obligation) to develop. Like how to snitch frozen blueberries in total secrecy. Or how to dry yourself off without a shower towel. Or where to hide your cup so it's still there when you come back.
Mealtime is an important place to hone your survival skills. Whenever there's food involved, you're always playing for high steaks. You can't afford to have sloppy strategies.
Hard work and good cooking means we take mealtime pretty seriously. Dinner is the main meal; in fact, it's pretty much the main event of the whole day. The kitchen table is the most important piece of furniture in the house. (Dad's La-Z-Boy is a close second.)
Generally we have what is affectionately termed "assigned seating." This means you always sit in the same spot. Always. And if you happen to sit in the wrong spot, the lawful occupant of that spot will promptly inform you of your mistake, occasionally quite forcefully. The emotional attachment possible between toddler and chair is truly remarkable.
Being assigned to a seat at or near the end of the table is highly desirable, because this means less passing. It never fails: you've just picked up your chicken thigh, brought it to your mouth, and someone asks for the salad dressing. You can pretend not to have heard, but that generally doesn't go over too well. Moral of the story: sit at the end. No one bothers you, and not only that, you automatically look important.
As a rule, we have very good manners - and very good workarounds. You always watch for an opportunity to take the second-to-last of something, because then you don't have to ask the dreaded question: "Does anyone want the last _____?" Because inevitably someone does. So take the second-to-last and save yourself the trouble.
We have plenty to eat; too much, oftentimes. Still, the plain fact is that there is only so much food, no more. And if you're really hungry, this can be a problem. When we were young, we hit upon a creative solution: eat fast! If you eat fast, you'll be ready for seconds before the next guy! Then you can disappear into the crowd when he finally comes around for seconds and finds out it's all gone.
I still remember going to an all-you-can-eat salad bar place and realizing with a start that we guys were eating like we were in some sort of contest at the county fair. We had to remind ourselves to slow down: it's not going to run out here.
Yes, growing up in a large family is a rush. For the cookies.
Mealtime is an important place to hone your survival skills. Whenever there's food involved, you're always playing for high steaks. You can't afford to have sloppy strategies.Hard work and good cooking means we take mealtime pretty seriously. Dinner is the main meal; in fact, it's pretty much the main event of the whole day. The kitchen table is the most important piece of furniture in the house. (Dad's La-Z-Boy is a close second.)
Generally we have what is affectionately termed "assigned seating." This means you always sit in the same spot. Always. And if you happen to sit in the wrong spot, the lawful occupant of that spot will promptly inform you of your mistake, occasionally quite forcefully. The emotional attachment possible between toddler and chair is truly remarkable.
Being assigned to a seat at or near the end of the table is highly desirable, because this means less passing. It never fails: you've just picked up your chicken thigh, brought it to your mouth, and someone asks for the salad dressing. You can pretend not to have heard, but that generally doesn't go over too well. Moral of the story: sit at the end. No one bothers you, and not only that, you automatically look important.
As a rule, we have very good manners - and very good workarounds. You always watch for an opportunity to take the second-to-last of something, because then you don't have to ask the dreaded question: "Does anyone want the last _____?" Because inevitably someone does. So take the second-to-last and save yourself the trouble.
We have plenty to eat; too much, oftentimes. Still, the plain fact is that there is only so much food, no more. And if you're really hungry, this can be a problem. When we were young, we hit upon a creative solution: eat fast! If you eat fast, you'll be ready for seconds before the next guy! Then you can disappear into the crowd when he finally comes around for seconds and finds out it's all gone.
I still remember going to an all-you-can-eat salad bar place and realizing with a start that we guys were eating like we were in some sort of contest at the county fair. We had to remind ourselves to slow down: it's not going to run out here.
Yes, growing up in a large family is a rush. For the cookies.
Image courtesy of amateurgourmet.com
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