IVP - Strangely Dim

Great Crowd of Witnesses

by David A. Zimmerman

“Stop staring at me, Sara Groves!” That’s the thought that popped in my head the other day as I came out of prayer—not “Amen!” or “Praise Jesus!” but “Stop staring!”

Now, I don’t know Sara Groves, much less do I spend time in prayer with her. She’s a singer, and her most recent CD was sitting on my entertainment center, directly in my line of sight. The cover is a picture of her, and it has an eerie, Mona Lisa quality to it: she never takes her eyes off you. Even while you’re praying. Even while you’re daydreaming during the time you thought you’d be praying.

She wasn’t alone. I looked around and noticed that Barry Manilow was doing the same thing. I’m not sure how he got into my home, but there he was, giving me the creeps. Shifting my eyes further to the right, I caught the gaze of my godchild, Olivia, before noticing the scattered Beanie Babies checking me out. Finally my eyes landed on the ultimate surreal experience: myself, ten years ago with my wife, smiling right at me.

I’m reminded of my childhood trips to visit my grandparents. Their walls were cluttered with family photos, some familiar and cheery—in color—but many stern and haunting, in grainy black and white. These were from an earlier era when convention called for emotionless poses in portraits; even wedding pictures featured po-faced couples burrowing their eyes into your soul. We grandchildren refused to sleep alone in some rooms solely based on the pictures that hung from the walls.

Still, those face shots are the pictures you go for—the ones you put on your walls and in your wallet. As fond as I am of my godchild, I have no pictures of her feet. And as much as I love my wife—all of her—I don’t often call to mind the back of her head. We know one another, more than by any other means, by our faces.

That’s the great hope of the Christian faith—to one day know God face to face, to know fully even as we’re fully known. In the meantime we know God’s image through his image-bearers, the people he’s placed right under our noses. So, for all the momentary discomforts I’ve experienced under the penetrating looks of other people, there’s fundamentally great comfort in knowing that while I’m not yet face to face with my Maker, he’s not making me to face life alone.

* * *

Look, look! I’m writing a book! Check out my secret identity at www.ivpress.com.

My Lowbrow Dinner with André

by David A. Zimmerman

“When you go out to dinner with an influential person, mind your manners.” Proverbs 23:1 was on my mind as I drove to the House of Hoity Toity to share a meal with my boss and the editor of two recent thousand-page reference books. I was understandably anxious for a couple of reasons, not the least significant of which is the fact that I’m not the most graceful eater in the world.

I can hold my own when it comes to fast food—I’ve gotten to the point where I can shift gears without spilling ketchup on myself—but I’m out of my element when they only give you one napkin, particularly when that napkin is made of cloth. True to form, I dropped my steak knife on the floor five minutes into the meal (narrowly avoiding the editor’s toe) and spilled my drink onto my steak. True to form, I reused the knife to eat the steak.

All this was survivable though—even charming in a goofy sort of way. The real anxiety for me surrounded the conversation more than the food. Here I was breaking bread with people each twenty years my senior, both having overseen the publication of several seminal works in religious publishing—and I was one degree removed from having my napkin tucked into my shirt collar.

Again, this isn’t unfamiliar territory for me. I’m one of the only members of my family without an advanced degree. At work a colleague and I devised a word game to play during departmental meetings because we never understood what anyone was talking about. I have become, you could say, comfortably dumb.

Imagine my relief though when our conversation quickly turned to comic books. Here was sumphin’ I could talk good about. We talked a while about the character-shaping influence of superheroes while I chewed with my mouth open and spoke with my mouth full. Then we moved on to discuss—you guessed it—reality television. By the time the check came, I had potato all over my shirt and we had finished a delightful conversation about professional wrestling—which, in case you were wondering, originated in Minnesota.

I can’t begin to tell you what prompted such a pedestrian flow of conversation, but I do think it’s an interesting commentary on the influence of contemporary mass culture—which I serve happily as priest. I feel bad, though I haven’t mentioned their names, outing my boss and my reference editor friend, but in a sense I am unapologetic. If there is a purpose to religious publishing, it surely involves the exploration of meaning in a contemporary cultural context. And that means asking questions of culture. And that means being conversant enough with our culture to know which questions to ask.

I felt at this dinner the way the punk rock group The Ramones may have felt when National Public Radio counted their song “I Wanna Be Sedated” one of America’s most important pieces of music: a little embarrassed, a little amused, but otherwise right at home. I’ve reconciled myself to being strangely dim, and it’s always nice to have company.

* * *

Look, look! I’m writing a book!

Check out my secret identity at www.ivpress.com.

The Passion with Popcorn

By David A. Zimmerman

As it turns out, I wasn’t the last person on Earth to see Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ. But I did commit what might be seen as an act of sedition in the culture war: I waited till long past opening weekend to make my pilgrimage to the theater. I waited till just shy of Palm Sunday.

Looking back I wish I hadn’t waited so long—not because I feel convicted by my lack of devotion, mind you; I declined to buy into the notion that Hollywood would "get the message" that they can make lots of money if only they will make more family-friendly films about torture and execution. Rather, I regretted my delay because the multiplex that carried the film for me has moved on to more cheerful matters than the killing of God.

As a result, I stood in line for tickets behind a flock of junior high students hopped up on sugar and eager to catch Scooby Doo 2. I was directed to a door that read “Passion of Christ/Dawn of the Dead.” I took my seat just inside the theater door and watched a commercial for a video game about flesh-eating zombies. Then I watched my Lord endure his passion, with occasional interruptions from the lobby noise sweeping through the swinging door.

I don’t hold grudges against the theater or the other moviegoers. Nothing at the multiplex was out of the ordinary—nothing but the blood of Jesus. Such casualness represented a change from the opening week of The Passion, when whole churches were renting whole theaters and thereby avoiding the disconnect I faced six weeks later. I wish I had the foresight or the wherewithal to arrange for a private showing; instead I witnessed the ancient crucifixion surrounded by the trappings of my contemporary culture.

My experience probably was similar to the experience of Jesus’ disciples. They brought three years’ worth of context to the crucifixion, whereas onlookers had at best a passing curiosity about this itinerant preacher run afoul of the law. A seminal moment of human history to the untrained eye looked like just another day of imperial oppression.

Each Lenten season a church near me erects three crosses in front of a busy street. The display is completed by a sign bearing the text of a verse from the Old Testament book of Lamentations: “Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by?” This verse was originally written in reference to the destruction of Jerusalem long before Jesus came to Earth, but its accusation applies equally to the witnesses of the crucifixion as well as to me and the multitudes around me who neglect the injustices and inequities and general inhumanity we could witness daily. Like the homeless man sleeping in an entryway whom I passed without comment or intervention on my way from the theater to my car, just because we ignore something does not make it go away or rob it of its significance.

Fortunately for its victims, inhumanity does not pass unnoticed by God. He sees, and he acts. Easter, as benign as it has become, is proof of that. For most who pass by, Easter is nothing, but in a truer sense it is everything.

***

Pick up a discussion guide about Jesus' final week at www.ivpress.com.

Squeaky Shoes on Silent Retreat

by David A. Zimmerman

I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut, but I can usually get the job done if I have a compelling reason to stay quiet. I can’t speak for the rest of my body, however.

Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m thinking of my feet in particular—or, more precisely, my shoes, which seem to have a voice of their own. That’s not typically a problem: I spend most of my days among the same group of people, and it’s often to our mutual advantage that they can hear me coming. I can’t tell you how many times my squeaky shoes have saved me from a head-on crash with my company’s director of production and fulfillment, for example.

But there are times when a loud walk is counterproductive, even self-defeating—for example, when you’re supposedly on a silent retreat. I made the mistake of wearing my squeaky shoes during my recent visit to the Cenacle retreat center, where I spent my day working through exercises in the book Forgetting Ourselves on Purpose: Vocation and the Ethics of Ambition.

Big mistake. Try forgetting yourself when every move you make is accompanied by a patent leather soundtrack. Any luck? Didn’t think so.

I did my best to work around my noisy soles. I took my shoes off while I was in my room, and when I was in common areas I moved slowly, deliberately. Whenever possible, I walked on carpet.

Unfortunately some tongues refuse to keep silent. In this situation, my squeaky shoes were in good company; they joined a chorus of unusually verbose deacons-in-training. They chatted in the halls, they laughed at each other’s deacon jokes, they debated theology. With all the squeaking and all the squawking, my “silent retreat” could hardly be considered silent.

Ah, ambient noise, how you vex me! I came to the retreat center in order to escape, to forget about everyone and everything while I learned to forget about myself. But the unceasing squeaking kept me constantly aware of my own presence, and the conversations that penetrated the paper-thin walls kept me constantly aware of the presence of others. The absurdity of my “silent” retreat was most apparent as I ate my lunch in the “silent” dining room, staring across the table at other “silent” retreatants, listening to them scrape their forks across their plates, hearing every chew and swallow. Let me tell you something: there are some sounds you never forget, no matter how hard you try.

And yet my retreat was surprisingly illuminating. Despite the noise generated by myself and others, I did indeed learn about the aspects of my life that distract me from the business of being who God made me to be, doing what God made me to do.

I suppose that’s the way of all personal growth: it happens in real time in an active world. Any commitment to silence is at the mercy of all nearby noisemakers, and it would be tragic to forget ourselves so effectively that we lose track of who we are and where God has placed us.

So I’ll keep the shoes and bless the deacons, and someday I’ll take another retreat—though next time I’m bringing my slippers.

* * *

Check out my secret identity at ivpress.com.