IVP - Strangely Dim - November 2004 Archives

Mind Your Business

By David A. Zimmerman

"Thanksgiving for every wrong move."
--Poi Dog Pondering

One thing I’ve learned over my many decades: if you find yourself mentioned by name in a sermon, you’ve done something either really, really good or really, really bad.

You can avoid that kind of scrutiny in a big church, such as the big church I left earlier this year because I wanted to be involved in a smaller church. In a big church you’re pretty safe if you want to be, because the vast majority of your fellow church attenders don’t know that you exist. But in a small church, people know you. By name. And if you’re not careful, by your deeds. And if you're not really, really careful, by your misdeeds.

I learned all this firsthand, all of a sudden, when I was mentioned by name in my pastor’s sermon—and for the record, I didn’t do something really, really good.

I brought this outing on myself, I must confess. In fact, I did confess just minutes before the sermon was delivered, in front of the whole congregation. Our church was in the midst of its annual “stewardship” program, which is fancy talk for how we manage our money. I’m on the stewardship committee, so I got to make an announcement, during which I shared my complete lack of self-control regarding money. Along the way I confessed my having brought significant credit card debt with me into my marriage, for which my incredibly gracious wife has incredibly, graciously forgiven me. Then I invited people to a luncheon and sat down.

My pastor saw an opportunity and took it: my confession became an illustration of the power of money in our culture. And I must confess, it makes for a pretty good illustration. I certainly felt convicted by it.

I don’t have any illusions—or at least no longstanding illusions—that I am perfect or that my successes in life outweigh my failures or failings. I’ve learned at least that much in my many decades. But I do find it somewhat gratifying that, even when what I do causes profound difficulty or even pain to me or someone I love, my mistakes can have some redemptive value—even if only as a cautionary tale.

I’m reminded of a verse from Scripture, advice given from the apostle Paul to his student Timothy: “Watch your life and doctrine closely. Persevere in them, because if you do, you will save both yourself and your hearers” (1 Timothy 4:16). Our life, however it is lived, has influence on the people around us. And how we persevere in our living and our believing has its own influence.

They say confession is good for the soul, that when we live in the truth about ourselves we are freed from the image management that keeps us from knowing each other and knowing ourselves. I don’t know about all that, but I certainly survived my confession, and I’m certainly motivated now to do something really, really good right in front of my pastor.

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My book’s now in stock. Look for it in stores, and be sure to check out the sweet flip animation running up the right margin.

No Strangely Dim next week, which you can include in your thanks-giving if you like. Catch you in December!

It's Here! Whoop-de-do!

'Nuff said.

Ramblings of a Rag Doll

The powers that be at InterVarsity Press have decided that the best way to promote my book Comic Book Character is to film me in a spandex body suit. Beyond the awkward pragmatics of such a decision--try getting reimbursed for the purchase of bikini briefs, for example--there's a great deal of existential dread that accompanies you as you open your office door and confront your colleagues wearing clothing that shows off every contour of your body. To quote Bill from the film Kill Bill, "This is me at my most masochistic."

I kept a journal of the experience, posted here for your amusement.

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Today is the day. Today I put on a body suit and prance around like a sideshow freak in front of people for whom I have spent years carefully cultivating an image of cool. Today I get to be an IVP rag doll. Today I get to play the fool.

Not everyone knows what playing the fool is like. Some people only ever play it cool, which is certainly what I've striven for all these years. Nevertheless, I have long experience playing the fool. Someone has to do it, generally, and not everyone has the stomach for it. Eventually you get inoculated to the shame of it, and I'm almost there, but today is my final injection. Look out folly, here I come.

I wish I had written about Dominoes or Scrabble or some other geeky fascination that would require less public humiliation. I wish I had written a book about senators or football players or rock musicians or virtually anything but superheroes. None of them dresses funny--at least, not as a rule. I suppose you might argue that football players look a little silly out of context, but you certainly wouldn't argue that to a football player's face. They'd smash your face on the way to shoving you into a locker. Believe me, I've imagined it. It's not a pleasant experience, and you're permanently scarred thereafter, if not physically then emotionally.

I don't want to be typecast; I just want all the glory and a good lot of the money that publishing a book on a staple of pop culture could conceivably entail. I want the fame and the privilege so I can just sign off and demand the privacy that my celebrity has earned me. But no--I had to bypass Beanie Babies and stand-up comedy and instead write about superheroes, which is why today I get to dress up like a pro wrestler.

I never thought I would actually wear one of these outfits. It fits me like a glove fits a stomach. Yick. I look like a giant red tube-sock. Like Daredevil on a diet of donuts. Like I've let myself go.

Meanwhile, Tony the Super Villain gets to wear jet black and look like a ninja from outer space. Evil is definitely sexier than good. But then, I guess we all knew that, didn't we? Nothing satisfies the gluttonous, subhuman part of us like a sexy little evildoer, like a silver-tongued serpent, like a juicy, poisoned apple. We gravitate toward evil, which is why we need something beyond us to deliver us from it. Which is why we long for heroes--and why ultimately there can be only one Hero.

Which is why I wrote the book, and which is why I'm willing to endure the humiliation that attends to adult treatments of issues that are commonly considered juvenile. To quote REM: "Someone has to take the fall--why not me?"

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If you made it through this week's Strangely Dim without following one of the links I set up in a desperate attempt to divert attention from my ignonimous acting debut, congratulations. Click here to view the video. And send it to all your friends--I might as well make the most of my embarrassment.

Let me know what you think by posting a comment. If you're not on my notification list for new Strangely Dim postings but would like to be, e-mail me at dzimmerman@ivpress.com.

My book allegedly arrives at IVP next Friday, just hours after I'll have left town for a week and a half. Sigh.

Yoga Ate My Socks

Fair warning: I'm about to reveal some of the secret wisdom of the Eastern art of yoga.

Secret one: when stretching your chi, wear something—anything—other than blue jeans. They’re a bit, um, bindy.

Secret two: no pair of socks can survive a vigorous round of yoga.

I learned both these lessons the hard way—on the dilapidated tennis court of a New Mexico retreat center, surrounded by emerging leaders of the American church. My trip was a crosscultural experience, a trip from the suburbs into the land of granola, soy nuts and urban mission.

I was introduced as “the Establishment”—which I suppose is true, though the label left me a bit queasy. I was invited to get out of my head and into my body—which I suppose is an apt prescription, though I hadn’t exactly packed for such a course of treatment.

I had expected, I think, to play with my hacky sack a lot, to beam things back and forth on my PDA, to hawk my book (due in next week! Only $12!), to talk about pop culture and to stay up really late each night.

Instead I learned right away that these people weren’t kidding around. I was with folks who saw a gap between what we profess and how we think and behave. And they’re doing something about it. Some choose to live with the homeless. Others pool their resources so there will be no poor among them. Some are reexamining what Jesus said and adapting their stance toward culture and the church accordingly. Others are recalibrating their faith so it is centered in their bodies rather than their brains.

All this came to a head for me as I prayed through the Lord’s prayer, moving from Lotus through Upward Dog and finally to Rag Doll—or something like that. I was short of breath due to the high altitude and sweaty like a pig due to my poor fitness. That’s not how I usually pray; I usually pray between sips of cappuccino while lounging on my love seat with my feet in slippers and my cat on my lap. No sweat.

There’s something to be said for sweaty, breathless praying, though. Talking to God can seem to be such an abstraction, really the most unusual thing about believing in God altogether. Embodying my prayer that day was, in a word, stretching.

I've since imagined yoga routines for the Doxology and Psalm 23, and I'm gearing up for St. Francis’s Canticle of the Sun. And I’ll do all these things just as soon as I finish my cappuccino.

And once I get myself some proper yoga pants.

And I should probably invest in some new socks while I’m at it.

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Going to Dallas for Thanksgiving? Stop by the Logos Bookstore at 1:30pm Friday, November 26, so I can meet you and so you can see the fly flip animation in my new book.

Dallas a little inconvenient for you? Try the Borders Bookstore in Wheaton, Illinois, on Tuesday, December 7, at 7:30pm.

More to come . . .