IVP - Strangely Dim - April 2009 Archives

"I Still Crave the Extravagant Gesture"

The halls of Likewise Books are alive on a regular basis with the sound of Over the Rhine music. This husband-wife duo have been making soulful music for a couple of decades now, with just the right infusion of jazz and alt-rock and lyrics that are crafted, not written. Pianist Linford Detweiler sent out a missive through the band's Facebook(tm) group this week, one that rambles a bit, the way people ramble a bit during the wee hours, but that offers some nifty insights into the question of calling. He encouraged his raving fans to pass along pieces of the whole, so I thought I'd excerpt it here; you can read the whole thing here.

***

Someone sent me this little excerpt awhile back, in a beautiful letter of encouragement I should add, the sort of letter that makes everything slow down, hold still:

Here dies another day
During which I
have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?
(GK Chesterton)

I'd really be okay with this being my epitaph.

When I was younger I would often write myself short job descriptions. I was thinking out loud about what might be worth hanging a life on, a life I was willing to sign my name to:

Create spaces where good things can happen.
Give the world something beautiful, some gift of gratitude, no matter how insignificant or small.
Write love letters to the whole world.
Build fires outdoors, and lift a glass and tell stories, and listen, and laugh, laugh, laugh . . .
Flip a breaker and plunge the farm into darkness so that the stars can be properly seen.
Do not squander afflictions.
Own the longing, the non-negotiable need to "praise the mutilated world."
Find the music . . .
***
That's what musicians see themselves doing, I guess. Detweiler is a writer but he's also a performer, someone who creates spaces for people. It's hard to imagine how that service translates to the makers of artifacts, such as books. I was thinking earlier this week about how American Idol contestants and youth ministers consciously attempt to "make moments" for people; is there any sense in which something static and concrete like a book can "make a moment" for people?

I posted that question and was told by a friend that I need better role models, but I haven't given up the notion. Books may be artifacts, but writing is a service--a service to the self, most definitely, but the best writing is a service to others as well: not just an information dump but a tilling of the ground so that the seeds of epiphany can germinate and flourish. Books are far too long to demand that they make a moment, but I think it's entirely possible for a book to prepare its reader for that moment when it does come. Meanwhile, writers continue doggedly in their craft, and I suppose experience the occasional moment of their own, which is as it should be. As Detweiler puts it: "If you don't do the work, the work can't change you."

Seeking After Easter

Today's post is the second in an occasional series by Kady Bram, friend of Likewise and senior at Northwestern College who's about to complete her degrees in religion and writing & rhetoric. Kady loves reading, writing and snuggling with a slobbery bulldog named Ellie. In this post she reflects on eggs. A lot.

***

Easter this year unearthed a lot of memories for me, most of them from when I was little. Perhaps that's why they are still so strikingly vivid--many things that often seem insignificant to grown-ups contain within them a world of wonder when seen through the eyes of a child.

Take the Easter egg: what once was white, common, and sold in every grocery store in the country can be transformed, by simply soaking in a vinegar bath of fizzing color, into a beautifully unique treasure. Painted, dyed or crayoned, the egg can then be scooped up with dozens of other special creations to be placed under bushes, behind rocks and in the forks of tree branches.

For a child there is hardly anything more exciting in the world than the discovery of your first egg on Easter day. But then what? Children don't seem to think about what happens to the eggs after they have been hidden, hunted and found. I mean, there are really only so many ways to eat them--even fewer if you consider celebrating Easter with deviled eggs slightly blasphemous.

The thrill, it turns out, has very little to do with eggs. It's about the excitement of the hunt, searching out those small, hidden treasures.

The Bible uses the word treasure approximately eighty times to describe things both tangible and unseen. It speaks of precious metals like silver and gold, and staples that sustain human life, like wheat, oil, and honey; but it also points out treasures that we cannot grasp literally. Wisdom and knowledge, the fear of the Lord, his words and the nation of Israel as his chosen people--all these are described in language similar to that of something rare and valuable that is meant to be cherished. We are admonished to explore God's Word and seek after wisdom as we would search for hidden treasure.

Why then, as grown-ups, do we struggle so much with something that seemed to come so naturally to us as children? There are limitless gems, gifts from God, to be found in reading and studying his Word, yet we are rarely excited about beginning or continuing a hunt for treasure in the pages of our Bibles. Why is it that in our search we have lost our wonder--the sparkle in our eyes--that we experienced so abundantly as children?

Is our culture to blame--the mountain of items on our to-do list, the forest of commitments competing for our attention? Maybe somewhat, but I think most of our problems stem from within. Perhaps we remember rotten eggs from our past--those things we devoted ourselves to that, in the end, didn't prove worthy of our attention. Maybe we find it humiliating to continue climbing trees, turning over rocks, and rustling through bushes looking for seemingly elusive answers to our questions. Maybe we get in our own way.

This is what the story of the children coming to Jesus in Mark 10 means to me. Jesus commands his disciples not to send the kids away, but rather to learn from the example of their faith. Having a childlike faith is not merely possessing blind trust in something we cannot see, but instead daring to seek him without fear.

What a lofty, yet worthy, ambition it would be to seek after God with the exuberance and abandon of a child. It's a treasure in and of itself--one that we didn't hide so much as lose track of, one we'll have to set out to seek if it's to mean anything to us, but one that's definitely worth searching for.

Easter Goes On

"Oh sweetie." I picked Jack up as he began to sob. "That's so sad."

The Truth About Taxes

Congratulate me. Last year, I earned not $5, not $2, not $1 in interest, but 84 cents. You can almost hear it jingle in your pocket, can't you? That's enough for three gumballs, with a little change left to spare.

Why do I taunt you with my wealth? While Christa is thinking about Holy Week, I'm thinking about a not so spiritual but oh so necessary topic: tax season, of course, and only six days left to file for all of you who work best under last-minute pressure. (For the sake of the people who have to stand outside tax service businesses dressed like the Statue of Liberty, waving, I feel relieved there are only six days left. As if the Statue of Liberty can wave. Sheesh.)

Usually, like (I'm assuming) most of you, doing my taxes does not make it onto my Top Ten Favorite Moments of the Year list. In fact, once March and April roll around, I start thinking of all the things that sound more fun . . . like scrubbing scuff marks off my kitchen floor with a toothbrush. Or even scrubbing scuff marks off your kitchen floor with my toothbrush.

I'm not sure why I hate doing taxes so much. Really, mine are relatively simple. I think some of it is that I feel toyed with; the formulas, though no doubt arrived at after excruciatingly minute debates and calculations, feel so arbitrary: Subtract 3,500 from line 36a if line 36a is less than $25,000 but more than what your father made in 1936. Multiply line 17 by 3 percent (and don't forget, you non-math majors, that's .03). If line 4 is over $120,000, skip to line 11. If you can stand on your head and sing "The Star Spangled Banner" backwards at the same time--heck, just write that in and forget about the rest; we'll call it even. By the time I get to the end of my state tax form, I'm not feeling so inclined to give to the homeless or wildlife preservation, noble causes though they be. In fact, I'm feeling more inclined to go recklessly spend my 84 cents on the aforementioned three gumballs and chew them all at once, to relieve a little stress.

It's not just the numbers that get to me, though. It's the categories. Single? Yes. Thanks for the reminder. Don't get me wrong; the single life has many merits. But I'm reminded of the fact that, if I were married, I might not have to do my taxes at all, since there would be two of us to share the household duties. I could, for instance, offer to scrub the kitchen floor while he does the taxes. And then there are the eligible deductions. Are you a student? No. Thanks for the reminder. Maybe in two years I'll finally start grad school. If they're still offering student loans then. First-time homebuyer credit? No. Thanks for the reminder that I will most likely never be able to afford to buy a house in these suburbs . . .

And if all of those downers aren't enough, this year, of course, had the potential to be even more depressing with the current state of the economy and investments. Not to mention the fact that the day I did my taxes--this past Sunday--it snowed here, as Christa mentioned. Snow in April is the second most cited cause of bitterness for people here (after taxes).*

For some odd reason, though, this year I worked on my taxes with relatively little moaning and bitterness, which pleased me. It pleased me because it indicates to me that, for how self-absorbed my life feels, something must be sinking in and taking root to give me a change in perspective. Something like the IVP book I'm reading, Welcoming the Stranger: Justice, Compassion & Truth in the Immigration Debate by Matthew Soerens and Jenny Hwang, that makes me mindful of all the undocumented immigrants in the United States who are working--and therefore paying taxes and paying into Social Security--but who will never receive any of the benefits their money is going toward. Contrary to popular belief, statistics cited by the authors say that each year the government collects $6 to $7 billion in "no-match Social Security contributions" (contributions from people using a false Social Security number), and that the majority of that money comes from unauthorized immigrants. Another statistic says those without valid Social Security numbers contributed about $5 billion in taxes in 2005. (Not convinced? Or want to know more specifics? Read the book. It's very eye-opening.)

And something like effects of the sputtering economy. I feel extraordinarily grateful to have an income to fill in on my tax forms, and particularly grateful to be in a job I enjoy so much at a company whose values and vision I love. Even something like taking food to church Sunday morning for a food drive, and being reminded later as I ate my lunch of the extraordinary privilege of having money to buy the food I like to eat. In these hard financial times, I'm learning to not take what I have for granted--but I also don't want to just keep it to myself. I want to share it with others in need.

And, okay, even something as frivolous as rewatching Stranger Than Fiction a few weekends ago. It's just hard not to like Harold Crick in the movie, which, even though it's not real, influences my view of the IRS in general. They're probably nice people, like Harold and Dave, just trying to do their jobs and dreaming about learning to play the guitar or going to space camp.

So, taxes? Still not my favorite thing. But I am grateful for how my tax forms revealed my slightly changed, not-so-self-absorbed, more-compassionate-and-aware-of-the-world-around-me perspective. And perspective is a very powerful thing when it's rooted in truth. Oh--and if you're raising money for the homeless, call me next week, and we can chat. I might have a little spare change.

*This is based solely on my own experience and opinion, and not on any poll, official or unofficial.

The Whole Picture of Holy Week

At dinner last Sunday--Palm Sunday--friends and I looked out the window and saw snow falling to the ground, sticking to green grass and budding trees, and covering our cars. Months ago, I would have been delighted--I love snow in winter. But this time, after we'd had a taste of spring (a seventy-degree day and several nice, mild days in the sixties), I was ruined. I long for "real spring," not this "fake spring" which brings back freezing temperatures, cold rainy days and more abominable snow. Several of us present at dinner uttered collective sighs of dismay. Snow in April. It's just not right!

     Before the snow began to fall, Palm Sunday had held much joy for me. At last, a respite from the gravity of Lent! The morning rain had let up and the sun was shining as our processional (which consisted of musical instruments, a choir, prayer and eucharistic ministers and clergy, preceded by incense and the cross and followed by the children of the church) walked up the hill to the building where we gather for Sunday services, met by a palm-waving crowd that joined us as we sang. Here we remembered the day Jesus traveled into Jerusalem on a donkey and was met by crowds who greeted him with palm branches and praises, and threw their cloaks on the ground to honor him. We remembered the hope of Easter--both Christ's actual resurrection and the coming celebration of his saving work on our behalf. We remembered the people's joy at his presence in their midst.

     But this week we again plunge into darkness: Tenebrae, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday. Easter is coming soon, but first we must remember: Christ was tortured. He entered the city in triumph, but he was arrested, betrayed, tried and convicted. He was humiliated. He died and was buried, and the world was plunged into darkness for a time. This week we walk with him through that time of abandonment, pain and grief. We remember, as one, the present hardship and the hope to come. We recall the bleakness of the winter of our Lord's crucifixion even as we wait expectantly for the joy of the coming spring--his resurrection.

     This sequence is more than just a mere remembrance, though. This is our opportunity to participate in the resurrection story in a concrete way. After years and years of remembering Easter, it's easy to take for granted the very reason we come together each week for worship, why we celebrate Christmas, why we pray, and why we observe Lent, Palm Sunday and the rest. We experience things in cycles: seasons of nature, of life and longevity, of health, birth and death. We see many beginnings and endings in our lives, so it's intensely difficult to comprehend such things as the end of suffering and the infinite love of our Savior, whose sacrifice is the beginning of our eternal hope and joy.

     My church has a practice which I find both moving and beautiful: after Palm Sunday, the palm leaves are burned and the ashes collected for use in the following year's Ash Wednesday services. Next year, as the ashes are placed on my forehead in the shape of a cross (itself a symbol of death and new life), I will remember that they came from a day of celebration of Christ's coming. Here, too, is a reminder that even as our joy turns now and again to grief, winter turns to spring, and our sorrows will turn to dancing. And we can say with confidence and thanksgiving: Christ has died! Christ has risen! Christ will come again!

Slow Trips & Sudden Urges

We were recently put in contact with Kady Bram, a senior at Northwestern College who's about to complete her degrees in religion and writing & rhetoric. We discussed the practicalities and challenges of a "virtual internship," and decided it would be fun to experiment. So here's the first of a handful of guest posts from Kady, part of the "Likewise Generation," if we might coin a phrase and exploit an entire demographic.

Kady loves reading, writing and snuggling with a slobbery bulldog named Ellie. Be sure to post a comment and tell her hi.

***

Sometimes I get an immediate urge to write something down--a sentence, a description, perhaps even a single word that suddenly supersedes everything else I could or should be doing. Then, as soon as my pencil touches paper, one of two things happens: either I am overcome by a fast and persistent splashing of words that my fingers quickly splatter onto the page; or, as mysteriously as it began, the clarity gurgles away and I am left to stare at the few sad words I've left to drown on my blank sheet of paper.

I suppose you might compare these sudden urges (what those in creative circles call a visiting "muse") to those sudden stomach pains that send their victim rushing off to the bathroom for one of two, umm, outcomes. Such is my muse: it's as if I don't know I have to write until I have to write right now.

The Devil Is in the Deodorant

I tend to think of myself as a connoisseur of deodorant. I won't get into the whys and wherefores, but I have been around the block a few times with a variety of brands and formulas, and I like to think I've learned a thing or two along the way. That being said, one of the main things that attracts me to particular products is not their effectiveness but their packaging.

For whatever reason, for example, deodorant manufacturers like stickers--stickers that conveniently peel off the product without tearing, stickers that communicate messages that make no sense whatsoever out of the context of their product. I've blogged about such stickers before, actually (a sticker that read "The Unscented Leader" shaped my understanding of what it means to offer leadership to a group without succumbing to self-congratulation). Some stickers aren't so insightful but are entertaining nonetheless. I currently have the sticker "Powered by Baking Soda" affixed to my phone, and it makes me laugh every time I look at it. Like now--ha ha.

Mitchum is my default deodorant--or should I say the deodorant my wife encourages me to use. We assign different values to Mitchum. She thinks it makes me smell less repulsive, while I find its identity crisis entertaining: the container says one thing; the cap, another.

My current Mitchum cap reads, "If your favorite vegetable is a corn dog, you're a Mitchum(R) man." Who could say no to that? Someone went to the trouble of coming up with something nonsensical and macho as an acknowledgment that many men make purchasing decisions the way I do: they're looking for a laugh wherever they can find one.

(More humorous to me than the joke itself, incidentally, is its context. I associate such silliness with certain themes--the colors and characters, say, of a Captain Morgan rum bottle--not with the austere green and silver, the strong lines and magisterial fonts of a Mitchum container. If Mitchum really wants to win over the unrepentant juvenile, it needs to worry less about creating online armpit orchestras and more about redesigning its logo and signature product. But I digress.)

In my research, I've noticed that if you want to get to know Mitchum, you'd better put on your reading glasses first. They're pretty wordy over there. My current Mitchum product--Smart Solid(TM)--brags about its formula: "With the maximum level of active ingredient." Seven words tucked between the formula name and the scent. Add that to the corn dog joke on the cap and you very nearly run out of fingers and toes to count words with. I suppose, in Mitchum's defense, it's fair to say that if you entertain yourself by doing word counts of deodorant containers, you're probably not a Mitchum man.

Nevertheless, the converse is true: if you're a Mitchum man, you probably don't want to have to read a lot before donning your deodorant. Mitchum, I'd like to suggest, needs an editor. So, how to whittle away at that word count? And how to match the tone on the container that they achieve on their cap?

Here's what I might do. By "maximum level" they probably mean that higher levels would require a prescription, that they would no longer be able to sell their product over the counter if they went any higher, that adding any more active ingredient would violate some law on the books. I can think of two words that communicate that message in significantly edgier terms: "Barely legal."

Titillating, no? I certainly hope that Mitchum doesn't take my advice, but I fear that they might. Nothing captures the unrepentant juvenile imagination quite like the offer of something that is technically not forbidden but the spirit of which clearly is. If I'm reading the powers that be at Mitchum correctly, I suspect they'd agree: if you like being titillated, you're a Mitchum man.

"Barely legal" hardly seems like a value that a Christian sweater such as myself ought to embrace. Really, though, where else could I turn for my hygienic needs? I heard a joke once about a Christian deodorant: "Aglow--the Holy Roll-on." With Aglow you could raise your hands in worship without causing your pewmate to mutter "Pee-ewww." Ha ha. But just using Christian nomenclature doesn't make roll-on holy any more than using the maximum active ingredient makes Mitchum borderline contraband. I think the deodorant that is truly Christian would be distinctly distinct: a Christian deodorant would live in the truth, wouldn't encourage such inane self-identification ("I love corn dogs; this must be the deodorant for me") or make arcane, extreme pronouncements about itself ("Oooh, barely legal; I gotta smear this on my pits"). A truly Christian deodorant would let its "Yes" be "Yes" and its "No" be "No." Any other deodorant is from the devil.

***

Of course I know deodorant is soulless and so can't be Christian. And I'm not making any pronouncements. It's a joke, people. Ha ha. Oh, and congratulations to Mark Eddy Smith for winning this month's "Rabbit" competition, honoring his craft, and acknowledging April Fool's Day all in one pop. You can read his poem at the Rabbit Uber Alles! Facebook group.