Words are funny things. They hold so much weight, yet sometimes seem so flimsy, empty, devoid of meaning or not wide enough to contain the moment. A few syllables, a pair of diphthongs, or even a single sigh can express the entire gravity of a moment, and yet an entire novel cannot begin to cover the expanse of the millisecond. It's been said that the works of Christ are so numerous that the world could not contain the scrolls to tell of such wonders (John 21:25). Yet, for all those words, such a simple phrase like "get up and walk" or "come" or even the uttering of a name carry just as much clout and meaning.
We use words, abuse words, make words and break words down. We write words, type words, highlight words and often times find ourselves at a loss for words. Words are inclusive and exclusive, elusive and intrusive. Gadamer knew words, he saw that words created our world, embodied it into our own structure. In saying the we want a certain bike, car, book, or sandwich we are simultaneously, by the exclusiveness of language, denying all other possibilities. When we say "THAT bike" we mean "the red bike with orange trim and 14 gears with rusted tires and a black horn", and in that very phrase we deny any wanting of a purple bike, a tricycle, or anything else besides THAT bike. Yet, whenever language is exclusive, it is also inclusive insofar that whoever speaks a language is only truly speaking a language if those words and phrases are heard and understood by someone. Language is communal. In fact, the way we see the world is shaped by how we say it. Without language, humanity would have no medium for interpretation, no mode of explanation, and method of proclamation.
Yet how often language fails us. How often we are empty of words.
God empties us of words. How are we to describe one some much wiser than us, more benevolent than us, and beyond all grasps of time and space? How are we to speak of one whose openness to love is simultaneously a mystery of the most epic of proportions? How are we to use words to describe the utter dismay of our sorrows, the brokenness of our spirits, and our frequent inability to trust when words of encouragement and humanity are just not enough.
We so often put it into words. We put Christianity into words. We define Christ-following by words. But in the end, such tools are insufficient to state what these things mean. A trinitarian God whose love for human, in mirroring God's love for God's self, extends beyond space and time to the very moment where God walks among us, speaks to us, and dies for us. Tertullian, an early church theologian, invented hundreds of terms to more specifically describe such things, and in the end humanity ended where it started; no closer to the truth. Our words cannot contain the breadth and the width of God, our hearts cannot hold the glory of God's glory, and our minds cannot comprehend the hope of God's kingdom.
It's so easy to get discouraged when all we have is words; simple words. It's when words fail that God begins. It's when our trust in humanities attempts to describe and contemplate our Savior fails that God kicks in. It is then that the bleakness of the moment gives way to prayer, not without doubts, but prayer and hope in the future nonetheless.
God's kingdom is coming. A kingdom where words cannot describe, where phrases cannot contain the glory of God.
When hope is meager, faith is hard to come by, and the future seems unstable and quaggy, there is always hope beyond words.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Where Have All The Philosophers Gone?
This afternoon I noticed a story posted in the Wall Street Journal and nearly fell out of my chair, reaching to the floor to pick my jaw off the ground where it hastily fell in bewilderment. A recent survey was conducted asking people from various disciplines of higher education to state their level of satisfaction with their degree in accordance to their welfare in the last half-decade. The results stated that those who were most likely to be disappointing with their didactic investment were those in the field of Psychology, African-American studies, and (gasp!) Philosophy.
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Fate, Future, and The Great Bambino
I'm not someone who is superstitious. I don't take chances, a mantra I've sadly learned from experience (by way of one too many dog-eared Euchre hands). The blind squirrel occasionally may find a nut, the dog a bone, and even the fool now and again can toss up a kernel of wisdom (perhaps you're reading one right now). In short, when it comes to predicting the future, it's easier said than done.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sinkholes and White Clothes
When I was in kindergarten, Matt Levering and I discovered what was, and still is in my memory, the most epic, mud-splattered, dirt-cluttered, filth-clustered sink hole to end all sink holes (which just so happened to be conveniently located in my very own backyard.) That afternoon, we adventured, we explorers we, into the great pit: our own sooty version of sheol I guess you could say. The events that occurred in the two hours after our discovery are somewhat blurred, but I do remember at one point loosing one of my shoes after sloshing through the amorphous gunk, engaging on a rescue mission (with the assistance of my Radio Flyer red wagon), and eventually sludging our way to the front door, covered from foot to waist in pure, 100 percent, unadulterated, mud. Mud caked in every crevice unclothed by our now sierra brown jeans. Needless to say, a bath was out of the question, but the outdoor hose was certainly a certainty.
Gotta love the good ol' days.
Adults don't get dirty. When I was around Princeton, I see very few mud-caked university professors. I think such a phenomena is not uncommon in most urban areas. More often than not, we are encouraged to clean up for our meals, for our dates, for social luncheons and private dinner parties and for every event in between. Dirtiness is a sign of disorganization, uncouthness, and a total lack of urbanity which separates man from beast. We are dirty only by utility: if the telos is worth its weight in mud, then so be it. Otherwise, we avoid jumping through the puddles, wadding in the swamps, shoveling through the compost, or changing any soiled diapers, if possible. We attempt to clean up our messes so we carry around sanitizer, we shower constantly, we cover our odor with perfume, cover our skin with lotions, bathe our clothing in Tide, and scrub every inch of skin we can to become the epitome of spotlessness. This is perfectly fine with me, as I personally have no qualms about those around me NOT being covering in the gunk and grime from their daily grind. However, that which is worth something, often of impertinent value, often comes at the price of our cleanliness.
Last Sunday, Nassau Presbyterian had Brain Blount speak; a former Princeton Theological Seminary Professor of New Testament studies who is now president of Union Presbyterian Seminary down in Virginia. In his sermon, he reflected on Revelation 7:9-17, which reads:
After these things I looked and beheld a massive crowd, of which no one would be able to count, from every nation and culture and from every people and language standing in the presence of the throne and the lamb, having been adorned in white clothing with palm branches in their hands, and they announced in a great chorus saying:
"Salvation belongs to our God, who sits upon the throne, and to the lamb."
And all the angels encircled the throne as well as both the elders and the four living creatures and they fell upon their faces in the presence of the throne and they worshiped God saying:
"Truly, Blessing and Glory, Wisdom and Thanksgiving,
Honor and Power and Strength,
be to our God forever and ever, Amen."
And one of the elders asked saying to me. "These people adorned in white clothing, who are they and from where have they come?" And I answered him "My lord, surely you know." And he said to me:
"These are the who come out of the great struggle, and have washed their clothes and whitened them in the blood of the lamb.
Because of this, they are in the presence of the throne of God
and they praise him day and night in his cathedral,
and he who sits upon the throne will prepare shelter for them.
They shall not pine or be parched any longer,
nor shall the sun or the heat strike them,
For the lamb at the middle of the throne shall tend to them and will lead them to bubbling streams of water.
And God will wipe every tear from their eyes." Revelation 7:9-17 (my translation)
What an ironic statement! To be cleaned we wash not in Tide or Snuggle...we wash in the blood of the lamb. To truly become white, we first must become dirty. Moreover, to be washing in the blood of the lamb, one must first arrive dirty.
Christians are dirty people. In fact, all people are dirty people. Two types of dirty though.
First, we are caked in the dirt of sin. Every inch of our lives is, in some way or another, pervaded and clouded by that dreadful gunk. Life is not simply a cruise, a ride to sit back and enjoy. To be brutally honest, we live each day in a terribly terrifying struggle (thlipsis in the Greek). We constantly see the horrors of famine, genocide, injustice, war, and disease each and every day. Thousands of children die of malnutrition, tens of thousands killed by preventable sicknesses and millions go to bed having endured a day filled with more sorrows than we could ever imagine as slaves of the body, figures of abuse, or products of broken homes. Moreover, we find ourselves heavily leaning towards the wrong. We seem to have a constant calibration which pushes us in a direction of disobedience, pride, and hate. We indulge in our gluttony, play servant to our stomachs, and deny our birthright as children of God by turning our face in the midst of our daily actions.
Me included. Life is dirty.
But, there's another kind of dirtiness. Dr. Blount spoke about this using a story from his childhood. As a kid, Blount played football, well, actually he sat on the bench for the football team. But each game day, he, along with the rest of the team, would (nonetheless) proudly wear their school colors around their torso as a badge of honor. However, Blount soon noticed a difference between his jersey and the others. The guys who played had jerseys discoloured and torn from use, pieces of grass still stuck in the tiny perforations, whereas Blount's was washed, dried, and even ironed for his daily wear (not to hard to keep a clean jersey clean). In short, Blount always hoped that he could, at least once, get out on the field and get dirty. Roll around in the muck. Proudly wear the badge of masculinity which said "I fought the fight".
Christians, Blount said, need to get dirty. We cannot simply sit around, hiding from the devastating depravity of our world and our own human natures. Rather, we must go and, through our faith, let the dirtiness of our actions glisten through the blood of the lamb. This may mean going to dirty places, being with dirty people, and mucking through the sinkholes and swamps of our society. We may get hurt, heck, we may even become so entrenched in the dirt that our own community may question our motivation. However, regardless of the dirt caked upon our spirits, let us never forget that in tribulation and trial that those who come to their heavenly Father will have their clothes...
...washed in the blood of the Lamb
Love to you all
B.
Gotta love the good ol' days.
Adults don't get dirty. When I was around Princeton, I see very few mud-caked university professors. I think such a phenomena is not uncommon in most urban areas. More often than not, we are encouraged to clean up for our meals, for our dates, for social luncheons and private dinner parties and for every event in between. Dirtiness is a sign of disorganization, uncouthness, and a total lack of urbanity which separates man from beast. We are dirty only by utility: if the telos is worth its weight in mud, then so be it. Otherwise, we avoid jumping through the puddles, wadding in the swamps, shoveling through the compost, or changing any soiled diapers, if possible. We attempt to clean up our messes so we carry around sanitizer, we shower constantly, we cover our odor with perfume, cover our skin with lotions, bathe our clothing in Tide, and scrub every inch of skin we can to become the epitome of spotlessness. This is perfectly fine with me, as I personally have no qualms about those around me NOT being covering in the gunk and grime from their daily grind. However, that which is worth something, often of impertinent value, often comes at the price of our cleanliness.
Last Sunday, Nassau Presbyterian had Brain Blount speak; a former Princeton Theological Seminary Professor of New Testament studies who is now president of Union Presbyterian Seminary down in Virginia. In his sermon, he reflected on Revelation 7:9-17, which reads:
After these things I looked and beheld a massive crowd, of which no one would be able to count, from every nation and culture and from every people and language standing in the presence of the throne and the lamb, having been adorned in white clothing with palm branches in their hands, and they announced in a great chorus saying:
"Salvation belongs to our God, who sits upon the throne, and to the lamb."
And all the angels encircled the throne as well as both the elders and the four living creatures and they fell upon their faces in the presence of the throne and they worshiped God saying:
"Truly, Blessing and Glory, Wisdom and Thanksgiving,
Honor and Power and Strength,
be to our God forever and ever, Amen."
And one of the elders asked saying to me. "These people adorned in white clothing, who are they and from where have they come?" And I answered him "My lord, surely you know." And he said to me:
"These are the who come out of the great struggle, and have washed their clothes and whitened them in the blood of the lamb.
Because of this, they are in the presence of the throne of God
and they praise him day and night in his cathedral,
and he who sits upon the throne will prepare shelter for them.
They shall not pine or be parched any longer,
nor shall the sun or the heat strike them,
For the lamb at the middle of the throne shall tend to them and will lead them to bubbling streams of water.
And God will wipe every tear from their eyes." Revelation 7:9-17 (my translation)
What an ironic statement! To be cleaned we wash not in Tide or Snuggle...we wash in the blood of the lamb. To truly become white, we first must become dirty. Moreover, to be washing in the blood of the lamb, one must first arrive dirty.
Christians are dirty people. In fact, all people are dirty people. Two types of dirty though.
First, we are caked in the dirt of sin. Every inch of our lives is, in some way or another, pervaded and clouded by that dreadful gunk. Life is not simply a cruise, a ride to sit back and enjoy. To be brutally honest, we live each day in a terribly terrifying struggle (thlipsis in the Greek). We constantly see the horrors of famine, genocide, injustice, war, and disease each and every day. Thousands of children die of malnutrition, tens of thousands killed by preventable sicknesses and millions go to bed having endured a day filled with more sorrows than we could ever imagine as slaves of the body, figures of abuse, or products of broken homes. Moreover, we find ourselves heavily leaning towards the wrong. We seem to have a constant calibration which pushes us in a direction of disobedience, pride, and hate. We indulge in our gluttony, play servant to our stomachs, and deny our birthright as children of God by turning our face in the midst of our daily actions.
Me included. Life is dirty.
But, there's another kind of dirtiness. Dr. Blount spoke about this using a story from his childhood. As a kid, Blount played football, well, actually he sat on the bench for the football team. But each game day, he, along with the rest of the team, would (nonetheless) proudly wear their school colors around their torso as a badge of honor. However, Blount soon noticed a difference between his jersey and the others. The guys who played had jerseys discoloured and torn from use, pieces of grass still stuck in the tiny perforations, whereas Blount's was washed, dried, and even ironed for his daily wear (not to hard to keep a clean jersey clean). In short, Blount always hoped that he could, at least once, get out on the field and get dirty. Roll around in the muck. Proudly wear the badge of masculinity which said "I fought the fight".
Christians, Blount said, need to get dirty. We cannot simply sit around, hiding from the devastating depravity of our world and our own human natures. Rather, we must go and, through our faith, let the dirtiness of our actions glisten through the blood of the lamb. This may mean going to dirty places, being with dirty people, and mucking through the sinkholes and swamps of our society. We may get hurt, heck, we may even become so entrenched in the dirt that our own community may question our motivation. However, regardless of the dirt caked upon our spirits, let us never forget that in tribulation and trial that those who come to their heavenly Father will have their clothes...
...washed in the blood of the Lamb
Love to you all
B.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Dance Music
The Mountain Goats captivate me...no, not actual mountain goats. The Mountain Goats is the ontologically misleading moniker of John Darnielle, a folk-rock lyricist whose songs touch on everything from the deepest spiritual skandelon to the confusing days of youth. One of his songs off the album "The Sunset Tree" has really grasped me lately, the title?...
Dance Music.
It's an upbeat, two minute diddy where Darnielle reflects back to his childhood and the abuse he witnessed and received from his stepfather, escaping to his room to his headphones to engulf himself in the volume knob, listening to...you got it, dance music.
Normally, we consider dance music to be music which occasions the moments of life which require jubilation and rejoicing. Dance is, more often than not, something we usually avoid in our sorrow or frustration. Usually, at the end of a rough and tumultuous week the last thing we want to do is dance. When life doesn't go our way, when we bask in our self-remorse and bitterness, when a dark cloud of misfortune shadows us, it is then we avoid dance.
Not Dance Music though. After all, as Darnielle writes, Dance Music was his escape, the volume his separation, and the tones and chords his sanctuary from the shattered world beneath his bedroom floor. Such an irony that such exuberant and cheerful music is merely the droning barrier from the misfortune of our unsettled lives.
Dance Music...dangerous stuff. After all, in a world where we can't do it on our own, we surely cannot depend on our self-ignoring frustration buffer. We need to depend on something, or someone, much stronger than the volume meter on our iPods, the hustle and bustle of a busy schedule, or even the company of others. In the midst of pain we must offer them up to someone who heals brokenness, eases anxiety, and says "brother, sister, have peace"
Here people do something interesting. Instead of greeting during service, they say "peace, may the peace of the Lord be with you". Maybe we should do the same. Maybe peace is something we've long ignored. Maybe we need to trade our Dance Music for the joy of the Lord; His peace.
Peace, shalom, and love
B.
Dance Music.
It's an upbeat, two minute diddy where Darnielle reflects back to his childhood and the abuse he witnessed and received from his stepfather, escaping to his room to his headphones to engulf himself in the volume knob, listening to...you got it, dance music.
Normally, we consider dance music to be music which occasions the moments of life which require jubilation and rejoicing. Dance is, more often than not, something we usually avoid in our sorrow or frustration. Usually, at the end of a rough and tumultuous week the last thing we want to do is dance. When life doesn't go our way, when we bask in our self-remorse and bitterness, when a dark cloud of misfortune shadows us, it is then we avoid dance.
Not Dance Music though. After all, as Darnielle writes, Dance Music was his escape, the volume his separation, and the tones and chords his sanctuary from the shattered world beneath his bedroom floor. Such an irony that such exuberant and cheerful music is merely the droning barrier from the misfortune of our unsettled lives.
Dance Music...dangerous stuff. After all, in a world where we can't do it on our own, we surely cannot depend on our self-ignoring frustration buffer. We need to depend on something, or someone, much stronger than the volume meter on our iPods, the hustle and bustle of a busy schedule, or even the company of others. In the midst of pain we must offer them up to someone who heals brokenness, eases anxiety, and says "brother, sister, have peace"
Here people do something interesting. Instead of greeting during service, they say "peace, may the peace of the Lord be with you". Maybe we should do the same. Maybe peace is something we've long ignored. Maybe we need to trade our Dance Music for the joy of the Lord; His peace.
Peace, shalom, and love
B.
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