IVP - Strangely Dim

Spreading Out the Joy

Safety First

Donkey in a Box

Today at Likewise Books, base camp for Strangely Dim, we held our bimonthly Donkey Congress, where we discuss a publication (sometimes one of ours, sometimes another publisher's) that has even the most dubious bearing on our publishing program. Today's discussion was on I Once Was Lost: What Postmodern Skeptics Taught Us About Their Path to Jesus, written by Likewise poster-child Don Everts and InterVarsity's regional director for campus ministries in Southern California, Doug Schaupp. (Pause for breath.)

I Once Was Lost is not technically a Likewise book, but neither is it a book by some random other publisher. It bears the imprint of IVP Books, an imprint of InterVarsity Press, the book-publishing division of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship/USA, a member organization in the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students. IVP Books for short.

Despite the absence of the Likewise donkey (we like to call him "Jack") from the book's cover, I Once Was Lost struck us as particularly appropriate for an hour-long conversation. As it turns out, it was appropriate for an hour and a half, and honestly, we probably could have gone longer. (I can be pretty long-winded.) We had two guests from outside Likewise Books, both serving as pastors in our area, both of whom offered helpful insights to our discussion. It strikes me that there might be others out there who could spare an hour to talk about how faith is shared in postmodernity, so what follows is a script for your very own do-it-yourself Donkey Congress. Please feel free to buy the book (sneaky, huh?) and use or deconstruct what follows as a framework for your discussion.

You Are the Marketing Plan

One of our authors sent me a link to a funny video about book promotion by Dennis Cass:

I watched this video not long after sitting down for coffee with another author about his plans to promote his book and not long before sitting down with someone else to explain why unknown authors struggle so much to get book contracts. I'm reminded what a friend of mine--herself an accomplished author--says repeatedly: "You are the marketing plan."

That, frankly, sounds awful. Imagine, for example, my own current plight: promoting a book on escaping the culture of narcissism and representing myself as an expert on the same. Add to that the common temperament of writers--withdrawn, quiet, bookish, occasionally indolent--and you have a recipe for futility.

It's a tricky business to show your enthusiasm for a book--especially your own book--without becoming obnoxious. I know of at least one person whose efforts at book promotion have earned him a reputation as a pest. In the case of books having to do with Christian virtue or discipleship or worldview, it's even more difficult to avoid seeming or even being condescending, paternalistic, self-congratulatory and a host of other onerous vices of the personality.

I've come to think that most efforts at self-promotion are inherently absurd and, as such, inherently funny. That in itself takes the pressure off. So sin boldly, first-time authors, obscure ethicists and armchair theologians. Spread your unique insights and cleverly themed cultural prescriptions, your own little idea virus, with the brazenness of Typhoid Mary. Enjoy yourself while you do it, and don't forget to occasionally giggle at the silliness of it all, because when it's all said and done we're all on balance saying and doing what we think is best, and hoping that the rest of our universe will fall in line.

You're Invited

Invitations are a funny thing. In the past few months, I've received formal wedding invitations, Facebook invitations to events and groups, and invitations to meals through email or in conversations.

I think for all of us, any invitation inevitably evokes a gut reaction: excitement, feeling honored and loved, nervousness, panic, dread, or a complicating mixture of these emotions. (If you're like me, you may also experience an emotion about your reaction--so, for instance, if you don't want to accept, you feel guilty that you don't want to go and badly that your reluctance overshadows the joy you should be feeling about the event. If you're not like me in this way, be thankful. It's exhausting.)

After the gut reaction, we start to form expectations surrounding the event. If the invitation allows us to be with and celebrate close friends, for example, we'll most likely look forward to it. If, however, we're only distantly connected to the inviter, we may feel nervous about being with people we don't know well (this is particularly terrifying for introverts). If the event will complicate our life significantly--whether financially with travel and gift expenses, or time-wise if it interferes with other responsibilities--we may feel overwhelmed at the thought of figuring out the details.

Whatever the event and whatever our reaction to the invitations we receive, three things are true: First, we have some kind of connection (however minor) with the person doing the inviting. The fact that we received an invitation from someone means they know we exist, they must not hate us (and in fact, probably like us!), and they believe our presence would add to the event. Second, in general the inviter is planning something they think will benefit or bless us, their guest; they hope we leave feeling like the event was worth our time and enjoyable. And third, we have to make a choice about whether or not we'll accept.

Invitations are on my mind because I've been copyediting a manuscript on group spiritual direction this week and am meeting with my own director this week. And spiritual direction has a lot to do with invitations. God, if you didn't know, is a great inviter. He loves to send us invitations every day.

When I sense his call--when I actually stop and still myself long enough to listen for and hear his invitation to me--I have a gut reaction, an expectation. Sometimes his invitation is to something so good that it causes me to marvel at his care. Other times what he's inviting me to looks so scary that I can't imagine saying yes. How I respond is up to me.

I've said no to God's invitations. And when it really comes down to it, my "no's" come out of my lack of faith in who he is; I get suspicious of his motives. Why are you inviting me, God? And why to that?

But when I accept his invitations, I see every time how good he is, how pure his motives and desires for me are, even when what he calls me to is hard or different than what I expected. Each time I say yes, I trust a little more that every invitation of his to me is all good, for my good, that I might know and live into and exclaim how good he is.

The Quality of Change

Forty years ago today Bobby Kennedy died of a gunshot wound in California, marking the abrupt and unsettling end of a surprisingly hopeful kind of era. In its e-newsletter today, Sojourners quotes Kennedy's speech in Capetown, South Africa, two years to the day before his death. His words offer a fitting kick-off to all our weekends:

Moral courage is a rarer commodity than bravery in battle or great intelligence. Yet it is the one essential, vital quality of those who seek to change a world which yields most painfully to change.

Where Have You Gone, Bo Diddley?

Rock legend Bo Diddley has died. You can read of his passing here.

My high-school band, Little Queenie, covered Bo Diddley's song "Who Do You Love?" which is a quintessential example of his signature style: "Shave and a Haircut" rhythm; aggressive, raunchy guitar; embittered, defiant lyrics:

I got a tombstone hand and a graveyard mind,
I lived long enough and I ain't scared of dying.

That lyric is emblematic of a particular strain of the blues, one that leans into the emotional navigation of a difficult life. Diddley came of age musically at a time when recording artists were routinely exploited by their labels, and so his career is as littered with bitter reflections on the industry as it is with great music: "I am owed. I've never got paid. . . . A dude with a pencil is worse than a cat with a machine gun."

Speaking as a dude with a pencil, I offer my regrets for the bitterness that Bo Diddley carried with him. I hope for a day when we can all put our pain to rest, when our best art will be created not out of anger but out of joy.

I Interrupt This Four-Day Weekend . . .

Rabbit! You all knew it was coming. If you didn't, you can read up on the tradition here. I took Thursday and Friday off for a road trip to Indiana, but I didn't want the weekend to pass without me schooling all of you in our little tradition.

Anyway, happy June. Better luck next month.