IVP - Strangely Dim

Cooler Than Thou

Believe it or not, as an alternate name for Likewise Books (the new line discussed in an earlier post), people at InterVarsity Press were at one point seriously considering “Cool Books.” Naturally I, the resident authority on comic books, was designated point person for such a line.

In fact, I’m in the process of editing a Likewise book titled Blessed Are the Uncool, which is in part a challenge to American Christians to pick the road less traveled by in how we conduct ourselves with others under God, but is simultaneously a stinging critique of American culture as a product. Ironically, I met the author and began discussing his book idea just a few short months after we began discussing the possibility of publishing “Cool Books.” Being a great fan of irony, I pursued the book with its author, Paul Grant, and we signed the contracts a few months later.

By then, of course, InterVarsity Press had realized that “Cool Books” is a dangerously foolish name for a line of books we hope people will consider cool. Ah, irony, how you continue to bless me with your presence.

The premise of Blessed Are the Uncool is that cool is a cultural force, a concoction made up of disparate cultural values from diverse sources: West African concepts such as itetu (the ability to defuse hostility and tension), hipi (a kind of savvy intelligence) and dega (“to understand”), mixed with the European democratic impulse and the American frontier spirit. Stir it up and add a dash of personal sin, a dollop of systemic injustice and a pinch of supply-side economics, and you have “cool,” defined as "a private performance of rebellion for rebellion’s sake." You can almost taste it, can’t you?

The problem with cool is that it runs effectively counter to Christian virtue.

Christians are meant to be communal, not perpetually privatized.

Christians are meant to be authentic, not preening posers.

Christians are meant to engage in revolution—acts of defiance against unjust principalities and powers that progress inevitably toward repentance and reconciliation—rather than just rebel for kicks.

Cool runs so counter to Christian virtue, in fact, that one could imagine Jesus adding to his blessings in the sermon on the mount: “Blessed are the uncool.”

The problem with me, I’m learning, is that I’m a slave to cool. Seriously—you should see how I’m dressed. I’m not tucked in. I’m wearing a Batman watch. I’m listening to Jewish reggae. I’m trying to be edgy, witty, cooler than thou.

I’m in the right job to be a slave to cool: I get to deconstruct other people’s writing all day every day. I get to weigh in on what will be pitched in the marketplace as “required reading.” I am building cool’s pyramids even as we speak. And I work for a Christian publisher. Ah irony, my constant companion.

Pretty insidious, this “cool.” It’s like a little serpent whispering in my ear. Thank God that he has not left us to overcome it on our own. If we’re willing to endure the social desert of cool-forsakenness, we may just find ourselves stumbling into the promised land of authentic reconciled community, flowing with the milk and honey of human kindness. That’s why God calls us out of cool and into communion with him. You can almost taste it, can’t you?

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Keep an eye on ivpress.com for an early peek at Blessed Are the Uncool and other Likewise books. And stop by Loud Time if you're in the mood to deconstruct stuff with me.

Likewise: The Logo

As promised, here's the logo for Likewise, for you to deconstruct at your leisure. Try to keep the jokes clean. If you try but fail, that's OK; take it outside.

Like, Totally Wise

I enjoy editing first-time authors. They’re learning as they go, processing each experience as they put it to paper, keeping their research one step ahead of their writing. It’s like switching channels between 24 and The Real World: real life in real time.

This year I’m finding two first-time authors particularly enjoyable. They’re reveling in the process, spending their meager advance money, shuddering under the weight of unexpected critiques, bucking up in the wake of unanticipated praise, breathing quickly in and out as they see their cover art for the first time. First-timers are pregnant with their books, and though the conception is rarely immaculate, the labor is always exhilarating.

Each of these two authors, entirely independent of one another, has disclosed an endearingly embarrassing personal story—one about yodeling, the other about hula dancing. Now, just typing these phrases makes me chuckle a bit, but just reading these stories warms me all the more to their subjects.

Self-disclosure is, sadly, a forgotten craft in some publishing, particularly religious publishing. Behold The Age of the Author as Expert, in which authors are, unsurprisingly, experts—flawless, unmoved movers and shakers. Such enlightened cultural gurus can’t show signs of weakness, for who would follow a flawed prophet? Personal anecdotes are few and far between in such writings, and where gurus do deign to share of themselves, usually the point of their story is made manifest by their own personal brilliance.

In contrast, perhaps, is the scandal of the evangelical memoir, in which authors still set themselves up as experts, but this time in sin or suffering or both. Tales of woe are told with an eye toward redemption, although the redemption is often a bit too long in coming. You set aside hope when you enter into some such books, and by the time you’re finished, it’s entirely possible that you’ll have forgotten where you set it.

Me, I’m drawn to the middle, where people stumble across the meaning that God has set for their experience, where people learn on their feet and share with the class. When you’re trying to keep up with God in a rapidly unfolding life, you’ll sometimes do or say things you regret, even things you are ashamed of. Sort of like Paul, the self-proclaimed chief of sinners:

Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. . . . I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

“All of us who are mature should take such a view of things.” It doesn’t take maturity to hide or broadcast your flaws. It does, however, take maturity to be able to laugh at yourself and then move on--like Paul, like my friends the first-time authors. It’s not surprising to me that one of the great works of theology in the history of the church is titled Confessions: it’s only a mature Augustine who could find profundity in the midst of his own absurdity.

IVP Books has recently introduced Likewise, a line of books by people in process. My two first-time friends are two of our first Likewise authors, which is appropriate. Likewise books will deal with issues, exploring such subjects as global poverty and the church’s response, but they'll also deal with the complexity of faithful living. So among our Likewise books you'll find a prolonged e-mail correspondence between a Christian English professor and an atheist punk rock hero, and a young woman’s tentative entrance into the world of monastic spirituality. Likewise authors, like Likewise books, are an eclectic mix. What links them together is the spirit in which they've written—a spirit of humility, a spirit of truth.

Even the logo of the line is endearingly embarrassing. Check it out at Loud Time (where I actually know how to post something), and feel free to post your jokes here.

Petered Out

This year, to mark the events remembered during Holy Week, I will be playing the apostle Peter in our church’s play, The Living Last Supper. For me it’s a promotion of sorts. Last year I played Matthew, the kooky tax collector: I stood up, said my peace and sat down. Meanwhile Peter stood up, said his peace, danced around, sang a solo and wept bitterly. The only bitter weeping I did was over my lack of time in the spotlight.

This year is very different. This year nobody is just standing up, saying their peace and sitting down again. This year we’re all over the stage—every single one of us. And this year I’m playing Peter, who I’m told should be played at times whiney, at times dim-witted, at times cocky and surly. I’m developing a bit of a complex about what the casting director thinks of me as a person.

I’ll be glad when the play is over, not just because then I can stop singing but because frankly, I’m getting Petered out.

Acting doesn’t come naturally to me, but to authentically portray such a significant, familiar person has been especially challenging. This is Peter, after all: the rock on which Jesus would build his church, the first pope, the undisputed leader of the earliest Christian community. But this same Peter denied Jesus, acted without thinking, lied impulsively, could never quite figure out what anybody was really talking about. He was at times whiney, at times dim-witted, at times cocky and surly. He is a sinner, he is a saint. He is, in short, a lot like me.

Ever since I was a kid I’ve identified with Peter. When I’m feeling self-assured, I think of Peter saying matter-of-factly, “You are the Christ,” as though he and Jesus were surrounded by idiots. When I’m feeling especially special, I think of Jesus saying to Peter, “Blessed are you, Peter . . . on this rock I will build my church.” When I get so mad I could cut someone’s ear off, I think of Peter.

I also think of Peter when I’ve screwed up: when I hem and haw my way through an uncomfortable conversation; when I distance myself from my friends, my family, my faith. I think of Peter when I’m trying to stay undercover and when I’m trying to grab the spotlight. When I think of Peter, I think of paradox, and when I think of paradox, I think of myself.

Yep, playing Peter cuts a little close to the ear, so to speak. Getting up in front of a room full of people to brag about myself and then, moments later, to deny everything I’ve said I believe, makes me a bit uncomfortable. Mix in a little singing, and I’m a nervous wreck.

They say that both John Calvin and Augustine of Hippo see a connection between knowledge of the self and knowledge of God. I might add the knowledge of others to the mix, because it’s in getting to know Peter these last several weeks that I’ve come to know myself in a different way. And in the process of learning Peter and relearning myself, I’m coming into a fresh appreciation of all that God has to deal with, and all that God has already dealt with.

Weird Wednesday

My friend Al Hsu made the following observation:

On Wednesday of this week, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 in the morning, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06. That won't ever happen again.

You know why it will never happen again, right? Because seven ate nine!

Ha ha! I love that one!