IVP - Strangely Dim - June 2007 Archives

Four Score and Seven Cliches Ago

Great Britain is fed up with America's current crop of potentially great communicators. Frustrated by the cavalier approach to proper English being practiced by the candidates for next year's presidential election (and apparently inspired by our Fortnight of Cliches), a British newspaper called for sample sentences of empty inspiration. One winning entry--"I hear what you're saying but, with all due respect, it's not exactly rocket science"--was OK, I guess, but hardly a match for the statements on offer from the candidates themselves. I won't name names, but here are some potential leaders of the free world, in their own words:

"I believe if we set big goals and we work together to achieve them, we can restore the American dream today and for the next generation."

"We can give people the education and opportunities they need to fulfill their God-given potential."

"We're a bit down politically right now, but I think we're on the comeback trail, and it's going to start right here."

"It's time to take stock and be honest with ourselves. We're going to have to do a lot of things better."

"Its time for innovation and transformation in Washington."

Some of these statements are cliches in the classic sense, but most of them are something more nuanced. They're cliched--contrived statements that sound good but under scrutiny don't offer anything. They're the sort of things that make you shout "Whoop whoop" at a rally, but you wouldn't say them to your boss and expect a raise. In the words of William Shakespeare, they're just so much sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Such is the lingua franca of political campaigns, however. Candidates numbering in the double-digits compete for airtime on television and radio programs that allocate time for reporting in increments of seconds, not hours, and so the strategy necessarily shifts from articulation to inspiration. One lays claim to the mantle of "candidate of the American dream"; one calls dibs on solidarity with God and the common people all at once; one offers a political party a messianic vision; one comes across as honest and humble as the day is long; and one claims outsider status in an insider terrain that's out of ideas.

These, ladies and gentlemen, are our candidates. I don't begrudge them their meager choices of words, however; to be honest I feel sorry for them. They have to translate their likely bold ideas about governance into the sweet nothings that we've long become accustomed to hearing. The only things more cliched in a presidential campaign than empty words, perhaps, are empty gestures and attack ads.

We'll take our candidates to task for those cliches soon enough, I'm afraid. The audience of a presidential campaign--from potential voters to media outlets--is nearly as predictable as the candidates. It's worth noting that I read this piece in the Cedar Rapids Gazette ("an independent newspaper established in 1883"), but it was a column that originates in the Washington Post, and the author was writing about an unnamed British newspaper. So in short order the idea that presidential candidates speak in meaningless political cliches is becoming a meaningless editorial cliche. The chickens, you might say, have come home to roost.

If the Shoe Fits . . .

In the summer at my church, we have what we call "side-by-side" worship on Sundays, meaning that, in the absence of Sunday school, children and adults of all ages worship together. But we don't just worship together; often children help lead the adults in worship. This past Sunday, a woman leading worship invited children to come up front to help her lead the rest of the congregation in hand motions as we sang. With a little coaxing, a number of children ran forward. But instead of running to the floor space that had been cleared for them, they ran right up on to the platform where she was standing. And, though the kids were at different ages and skill levels, it was clear for some of the songs that they had no idea what the hand motions were. But they tried to follow the lead of the woman the best they could, not minding (or even thinking about it, I'm sure), that you could tell they didn't know what they were doing.

It was, you might say, as beautiful as the day is long. Their authenticity and eagerness challenged my worship after a week of days that were long and full of me trying to make it look like I knew exactly what I was doing on every "song," every task and situation that came up in a day.

Watching children reminds me of the wonder that each day and each event hold. I'm always amazed at the trust children possess, at their delight, at the bigness of their imagination and the possibilities of what can happen in a day. In their eyes, pigs could fly, maybe, and sliced bread (especially with peanut butter and jelly) really is the best thing since, well, sliced bread.

But I'm also amazed by their authenticity, their un-self-consciousness and straightforwardness. They don't try to hide what they're feeling. They will cry over spilled milk if it makes them sad. What's more, they're highly inefficient. They'll never kill two birds with one stone because days are about discovery more than productivity. The tying of the shoes before going to the park and the walk to get to the park should be as leisurely as the walk in the park, because all are new opportunities to see new sights, learn new skills.

My carefree childhood days seem very long ago. And I'm not, of course, getting any younger. In fact, I'm trying to do my best to put up a good front as a "responsible, mature adult," one who is efficient at work, pays her bills on time, serves in ministry, knows how to cook more than macaroni and cheese, gets her oil changed regularly and would never cry over something as trivial as spilled milk because she knows she can go to the fridge and pour another glass (even though she'll have to clean up the mess herself).

But.

One of my goals this summer is to become more like a child. And maybe that points to how far I have to go to get there, the fact that I've made it a Goal. Maybe it can't be a goal. I suspect it starts with something as simple as slowing down to notice a few more details, and wonder about them. Maybe it comes with asking more questions. Maybe it happens by admitting as often as it happens that I don't have a clue what I'm doing.

I like to believe that, even though we lose so many of our childlike qualities--like wonder and imagination and delight--they are still in us, innate in us, part of the image of God we're created in. I imagine that, before they sinned, Adam and Eve were extraordinarily childlike in the way they viewed the world. I think those pieces still exist in us, and can be brought out if we're intentional and willing to be humble enough to learn. Christ, in fact, calls us to come to him as little children, so we must still be able to somehow retain and live out the wonderful qualities children possess, even as adults. I think living out those qualities again is part of becoming more like Christ, part of us fulfilling his image in us.

And, if the shoe fits--take your time tying the laces, and marvel that you know how to do it.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

Rather than be a stick in the mud, I decided to join in the cliché game. And talking about one game makes me think of another. . .

It’s not that I want to toot my own horn, but I thought I’d let the cat out of the bag and tell you that back in the glory days of high school, I was a member of a state championship volleyball team. In elementary school I had been as slow as molasses in January, but through some rigorous training, I was fast as lightning by the time I got to the high school level. Still, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and my team and I put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into our practices. But our hard work paid off, and by the end of our season we were the top dog as far as Illinois high school volleyball was concerned. Our spikes packed some punch and our defense was out of this world. In fact, we made hay and won the state championship two years in a row. I mean, with most teams victory is here today and gone tomorrow, but we really cleaned up and—honest as the day is long—enjoyed a double-dose of victory. We were even ranked eleventh in the nation, which was just too good to be true!

But don’t worry, friends. I haven’t let this go to my head. It was just nice to take a walk down memory lane and remember that I had the time of my life on that team. As you can imagine, it's fun to be the cream of the crop every once in a blue moon.

And We're Off! (Like a Dirty Shirt)

No sooner had we inaugurated the Fortnight of Cliches than I noticed that our friend and coworker Jeff Reimer (rhymes with "Def Mimer") has jumped on the cliched bandwagon at his blog, where he quotes favorably the great book Woe Is I. Check it out and come back McSoon!

Coming Soon: A Fortnight of Cliches

You know what they say . . . nothing ventured, nothing gained.

We're about to embark on a grand collective adventure, to boldly go where no one has gone before. Prepare yourself for Strangely Dim's first Fortnight of Cliches!

You may be thinking, What's a fortnight of cliches? or perhaps even What's a fortnight? I can answer the second question, but the first is, as Momma used to say, a bridge we'll cross when we come to it. A fortnight is fourteen successive evenings, or in layman's terms, two weeks. During the imminent fortnight we'll play fast and loose with cliches of every stripe, perhaps even making up some new ones. We'll have cliches of the day, cliche-based epic poetry, cliche-ridden worship songs. We invite you to play along, submitting your favorite cliches or your various cliche-validating life experiences. We may even figure out how to make an accent over the e in our blogging program.

So ready or not, here the cliches come!

Confessions of a Ten-Year Temp

Today marks my tenth anniversary at InterVarsity Press. On June 11, 1997, I walked into my swanky corner office for the first time and formally requested two weeks off.

In my defense, I requested the time off for a youth group trip to the Navajo reservation that I had been planning for a long time. My supervisor decided it would be good for me to get in a couple of weeks training time before my predecessor left, so I started early. The timing of my start date didn't matter much to me, to be honest; I was more concerned that my new job wouldn't get in the way of my living my life.

I don't know if my boss knows this, but InterVarsity Press was supposed to be a temp job for me. I had run out of money while working as a fundraiser for a startup youth ministry, so I took the job at the Press. I figured that I ought to at least enjoy what I was doing while I dug myself out of debt. But time gets away from you, especially when you're enjoying it and seeing the immediate fruits of your labor.

A book is, in a sense, the inevitable destiny of an idea, and so I dwell daily among ideas moving inevitably toward their destiny, making sure that those ideas are well-spelled and adequately punctuated. Then again, a book is often the incubator for new ideas--and not only new ideas but new ways of living. A hallmark of InterVarsity Press's publishing program is a high value of transformation, the thoughtful integration of life. And so in our finest moments to edit an IVP Book is to midwife a midwife, so to speak: to help bring about the means for a person or a community to transform into something better, something new and fresh and more fully alive.

Of course, books aren't the only harbinger of transformation. Whatever growth I've experienced over the past ten years is due only in part to what I've read. I'd attribute perhaps a greater part to the interactions I've had with my friends and colleagues over the years, and to the opportunities that my supervisors and authors have afforded me. I wouldn't have four years of blogging under my belt if it weren't for my boss inviting me to write for the company website, and without this blog I wouldn't have come across some of the remarkable people I've met along the way. Likewise, in my interactions with authors and coworkers I've been challenged to broaden my vision of the church, to reconsider the extent of my discipleship. Given the isolating nature of the work that editors find themselves so often buried under, I've been fortunate to have a distinctly communal experience.

When I first started working at InterVarsity Press I would politely decline every invitation to lunch from my peers--not because I didn't want to lay down roots but because I was that broke. I regret it now, because over ten years you see a lot of people come, and a lot of people go. But I'm on a better financial footing now, and I'm well-rooted in the purpose and values of the Press, and I'm regularly in the mood for lunch. So today I raise a peanut-butter cookie in gratitude to InterVarsity Press. If only I had a glass of milk in which to dip it.

Moving in the Direction

I've had directions on the mind since Memorial Day weekend because, if you'll remember, I am not so good with directions and because, I'm proud to say, I successfully navigated myself from my safe, familiar neighborhood

into the Big Scary City of Chicago,

        from said Scary City to a bridal shower in an Unknown Suburb

                and from said bridal shower to O'Hare Airport--

all while my personal GPS (my sister) was on a plane and therefore out of my "I'm lost and starting to panic" reach. I'm still feeling the glow of accomplishment. Some credit for the successful navigation, admittedly, has to go to MapQuest (okay, maybe a lot of credit), but there is something to be said for following directions well--so feel free to post your ooohs and aaahs of awe and congratulations. (Also feel free to send money.)

A need for direction is inherent in our being, I think. And we seem to crave movement, though I'm pretty sure this is not inherent in us but rather a result of the culture we live in. As inconvenient and stressful and frustrating as it is to be lost, in American cities built for driving we don't have to drive too long before we know we missed our road or took a wrong turn, so we can regain our direction and keep on moving relatively quickly.

Being lost figuratively, however--whether it's trying to discover what career we should pursue, struggling to build meaningful relationships, testing gifts to see where we fit in ministry--is often not nearly as easy to fix. In those cases we can easily wander (move) directionless for a few years or more, unsure even what destination we're trying to reach.

I hate being lost. But even more, I hate being stuck. Stuck means no direction and no movement that we can detect. We can get stuck in recurring sins, negative thought patterns, unhealthy relationships, jobs we feel no personal investment in. It's a scary place to be in; often we can't see when or how we'll get unstuck. Frustration and exhaustion mount.

I've been lost and stuck. Neither is fun or easy. But I've learned, and am still learning as I go, the importance of moving toward God in those moments.

That's a nice Christian answer, right? Conveniently vague, something that's easy to tell other people when they're struggling but that means nothing to you when you're actually stuck or lost? Moving toward God is, of course, what I hope to be doing all the time. I have very noble desires about what direction I want to move in in general: more holy and distinct from the world, more compassionate, more generous, more patient, more affirming, more truthful, more . . . But when I'm stuck or lost, the list seems large and overwhelming and, if I'm truthful, not so desirable. In the moment when I'm stuck I'm not sure I even want to be more patient or compassionate. I want someone else to be those things toward me!

The way I'm learning to move in the direction of God right now is to tell him everything. I think about things all the time. I worry about things most of the time. But I don't often talk to him about the daily, nitty-gritty details of my life, which are what mostly consume our thoughts, especially when we're lost and stuck.

I'm a little ashamed to admit it, honestly. I've been a Christian pretty much my whole life, and talking to God is such a basic principle, one I've heard over and over and over since I was young. But it's harder than it sounds. It's hard to be honest with God, even though he knows everything about us. And it is especially hard to talk to him honestly about where we're at when we're feeling

Stuck. 

      Lost. 

            Detached. 

                  Doubtful. 

                         Broken. 

                                Tired. 

But, after years of being a Christian, I'm finally learning to do it more--and finding that it actually works. It's much better to tell him what I'm thinking about (and even that I can't see how he'll help) than to not tell him at all. And much better to tell him I'm angry (even with him) than to not tell him at all. And better to admit that I'm worried than to worry and not tell him at all. Because telling--especially at the point we feel most detached from him--keeps us moving toward him, in his direction. And I suspect that, as I move toward him through communication, I'll start to move in the direction of some of the other good-but-sometimes-overwhelming list of virtues.

So, after a successful weekend of moving in the right direction, here's to MapQuest and arriving safely to see friends. And, after years of getting lost and getting stuck (and more years of it to come), here's to talking to God in the midst of it, about all of it, wherever we are.

Happy June

Today, a little after 7 a.m., I called Dave on his cell phone--on his day off--just to say:

Rabbit.

Happy June, to one and all.