IVP - Strangely Dim - March 2010 Archives

It's Not About the Donkey

About this time last year Shane Claiborne (coauthor of Becoming the Answer to Our Prayers and a few other books you might have heard of) introduced the inaugural issue of Conspire magazine by telling the story of Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem, carried by the foal of a donkey, on the first day of the last week of his life. It seems a fitting way to begin Passion Week here at Strangely Dim as well.

Hearing all the hoorahs and hosannas, that donkey may have started to feel pretty good. As folks waved palm branches, the donkey probably strutted his stuff and gave a few proud nods at the crowd.

But it's not about the donkey. We can never forget that we're just the asses who've been corralled to help bring Jesus in. What an honor it is, though, to be part of the cosmic hosanna--and to do it with you.

"The Resurrection of a Dream": A Q&A with Tamara Park

Continuing our reflections on Lent and our highlighting of the Women of Likewise, today we offer you a glimpse into the doings and thinkings of Tamara Park, author of Sacred Encounters from Rome to Jerusalem. (Have I said recently that this is a wonderful book? It's a really wonderful book.) In North Carolina and Africa, in grief and hope, in fulfilled dreams and unfulfilled longings, she drinks deeply of life and of God's love in the midst of it all.
 

Strangely Dim: What have you been up to since Sacred Encounters from Rome to Jerusalem came out?

Tamara: Life has taken some significant twists since I wrote Sacred Encounters. Last spring I ended my job as pastor of community at my church, Warehouse 242. I loved my church community but thought it might be time to move to this fabulous little wild-west of a country called Burundi. I hoped to learn from the people there and eventually share their stories with those back in the States.

Well . . . that didn't work out exactly. I ended up getting a job as a TV producer and trekking from Mozambique to Morocco to discover what the West can learn from Africa. Now a coproducer and I are currently putting together the TV series Noble Exchange Africa and preparing for a second season in South America.

While the trip to Africa was my most challenging one I've ever taken, the whole project has been the resurrection of a dream. Since I was a teenager I dreamt of being a foreign correspondent. In my early twenties I felt that dream died. My father told me growing up that God often gives you a dream and lets it die only to resurrect it in a more beautiful form. I feel I'm in the midst of a resurrection.

SD: Could you tell us about a "sacred encounter" you've had in the past year?

Tamara: I met Africans who are literally transforming their communities and countries--from Erik Charas, a social entrepreneur in Mozambique who started a free newspaper that is now being read by his nation's top business leaders and the newly literate; to Jolly Okot, a former child soldier who is now the Uganda Country Director for Invisible Children; to Liberate, the first Twa/Pigmy woman member of Burundi's Parliament, who has twenty kids, including Hutus, Tutsis and Twas, she's adopted. I was so humbled by the opportunity to meet such sturdy and inspiring souls.

I prayed for sacred encounters, and expected incredible interviews. However, what I didn't expect was to make a true friend, an anam cara (soul friend), en route. I met a South African woman named Tracey Webster on my trek. She's a creative genius, an extraordinary leader and a true advocate of the marginalized. While we've had quite varied experiences--her growing up in the throes of apartheid and I in the midst of the U.S. Bible Belt--in many ways our deepest desires and thorniest questions are the same. We are both in our late thirties, single, and long to live passionately and authentically for God and with others. We both can't believe our fortunes to have the opportunities we are getting and yet are curious if we will ever get the husbands and children we thought might come our way. It's been such a gift to happen upon a new friend sharing a similar plot line in this stage of life. A surprising sacred encounter, indeed.

SD: Are there any books or films that have been meaningful or formative for you recently?

Tamara: I name my years, and this is my Year of Story. So I am focusing on God's story, learning from others' stories, along with desiring to better understand story structure.

I'm going through the Mosaic Bible this year and savoring it!

And I can't shake a quote by Robert McKee, screenwriter and author of Story. He said, "Stories are equipment for living." So I've enjoyed reading and watching some soulful stories. Here are a couple I've encountered in the past month or so:

I recently read Strength in What Remains by Tracy Kidder. This book captures a young Burundian's journey--from surviving war, to being dropped off in NYC with only $200 cash, to studying at Columbia, to investing back in Burundi. I was moved by the young guy's moxie and brilliance, but also by the compassionate people who entwined themselves into his story.

Invictus--I loved how this film showed one of Nelson Mandela's ingenious efforts to build a new country based on reconciliation versus revenge. Mandela said: "Forgiveness liberates the soul. It frees you of fear."

The Blind Side--I found the story line inspiring and the characters engaging. It reminded me of why I desire to write a compelling screenplay one day. I was grateful for how the film left me with a winsome challenge: how can I more intentionally contribute to those in need?

SD: What new facets of God's character have you seen or experienced recently?

Tamara: I'm focusing on hearing God's voice of love . . . and trusting that love. I know, focusing on God's love is nothing novel, but it's curious how often I have to be reminded of it.

SD: Are there any practices, in addition to meditating on the prayer of Sir Francis Drake, that have been stretching or helpful to you this Lent?

Tamara: Yes. While I am still eating stacks of chocolate during Lent, I've given up doubt for the season (there's a back story, of course). I am asking to embrace greater hope and hear God's voice of love.

SD: Is there anything specific you are mourning over or grieving right now?

Tamara: While I guess I tried to be all evolved and strong last year when a romantic relationship ended, I suspect I'm still mourning the loss of that daily connection to another . . . oh--and the sauciness it brought out in me . . . and the permission to care deeply for another . . . and now that I think about it--that momentary opportunity to be in "the couple's club" since most of friends are married or on the brink of it. Just that.

You know, the tricky thing with both grieving and desire is to own up to it but not be consumed by it. Tricky indeed.

SD: What most often reminds you of the hope we have in Christ as you go through your days?

Tamara: I love feeling the sun on my cheeks as I sally around my favorite neighborhood park. And . . . reading Scripture and doing Zumba are definite ways I feel hope and utter aliveness.

A Prayer from Tamara Park

As you know, March here at Strangely Dim has mostly been focused on Lent. But in honor of Women's History Month, we've also been highlighting some of the Women of Likewise. Today's and tomorrow's posts combine the two and give us a quick peek into the days and thoughts of Tamara Park, author of Sacred Encounters from Rome to Jerusalem (a really wonderful book). Tomorrow you'll find out what Tamara's been up to since she wrote Sacred Encounters, why she'll be heading to South America, and what books and movies have inspired her lately. Today, though, we offer you a prayer, attributed to Sir Francis Drake in 1577, that Tamara's been ruminating on during Lent:


Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too well pleased with ourselves,
     When our dreams have come true
   Because we have dreamed too little,
          When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when
With the abundance of things we possess
     We have lost our thirst
     For the waters of life;
   Having fallen in love with life,
   We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
   We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wider seas
   Where storms will show your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

We ask You to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
   And to push into the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.

Lashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

For some time now, I've been on the hunt for The Perfect Mascara. (Bear with me here, boys. There is a point to this. And it might give you some insight into the opposite sex.) No clumping or smudging. Not too thick but still visible. The right color for my eyes. Small brush. Not too expensive. Trying out a new kind is risky, though, as one tube of mascara lasts for quite some time. Even if I hate it, I feel obligated to use it up before buying more, since I spent money on it. You see the difficulty of the situation.

When one tube finally does come to an end, I get excited to try a new kind in hopes that it will be stunning, smashing, revolutionary. (Okay, maybe not revolutionary, but certainly eye-opening--in a lid-lifting, lash-lengthening kind of way.) I recently had just such an opportunity when, after giving up on two kinds of mascara I had gotten for free, I conducted an unofficial poll among friends, read about a few suggested brands in a magazine, spent entirely too long wandering around the makeup section in Target and finally made my selection.

Since I know you simply won't sleep until I tell you how it turned out, I'll spare you the suspense. The new kind was better but not perfect. Definitely tolerable for the duration of the tube, but maybe not worth buying again. So the search continues. (I feel your sympathy dripping through the wireless access.)

I notice the difference between each kind of mascara, whether it's good or bad. Each brand has its own particularities, its own nuances. Each does something a little different with my lashes, for better or for worse. Yet each time I've switched brands and eagerly applied the new mascara, guess how many people have noticed? Zero. No "Hmmm . . . something looks different about you today," or "Are you getting more sleep? Your eyes look really bright today," or "Wow, I never noticed what long lashes you have." Not a single comment to date. And I think I know why.

Because nobody cares.

Apparently I am the only one who studies, examines, analyzes, critiques and reexamines my face, and particularly my eyelashes, closely enough to notice a change as subtle as new mascara.

And this is why (one reason among many) I desperately need Lent. In our self-oriented, image-crazed, "it's all about me" culture, it's easy for me to get distracted by not just what I own or don't own, not just what I'm wearing and how I feel about how I look in it, not just what my hair and makeup look like, but also the minutia of what the heck my eyelashes look like on a given day.

Lent pulls me away from my bathroom mirror, outside my apartment with all its stuff, farther back, even, than my job and my relationships, way back before I was even on this earth, to three essential truths about myself:

I am created in the image of God.

I am a sinner.

I am saved by God's grace, through the love and sacrificial death and glorious resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Lent reminds me of this bigger picture, this reality that is so much truer than the distractions I so often live in. On Ash Wednesday we're reminded that from dust we came, and to dust we will return. We're marked with ashes. Next week, Holy Week, we're reminded that, through Jesus' death for our sin, we're marked with blood. Then, on Easter Sunday, in Jesus' resurrection, we're reminded that we're marked with life: abundant life that manifests itself in compassion and love and unity and grace and truth and light. These markings point us to the final day, the culmination, when Jesus returns and every tribe and tongue and nation falls down before him and confesses Christ as King. On that day, our earthly possessions will pass away, worth nothing, and our broken bodies will be made new, whole, glorious.

And I can guarantee you I won't be thinking about my eyelashes.

One brave and beautiful coworker friend of mine gave up makeup for Lent. I hope one day I'm courageous enough to do the same. I won't give it up because makeup is bad, of course, but just because it will be a tangible reminder every time I look in the mirror, every time I'm tempted to get obsessed over the petty details of my life, of what really matters, of what world we live in--God's kingdom reality that has different values and priorities from this fallen world that he's using us to redeem.

I suppose, when I use up this tube of mascara, I'll try a new kind. By then another Ash Wednesday will most likely be just around the corner, with its needed perspective on who I am and what really matters. In the meantime, I hope my eyes will simply be open to see the minutia of God's kingdom--the hundreds of ways he's at work redeeming the earth with compassion and truth, with love and light.

The End and the Beginning

Today's post is bittersweet: with it we bid farewell to guest-blogger and editorial intern Christina Jasko. Today she takes us into some of the weirder artifacts of a Christian college in order to uncover the beginning embedded in a sometimes too-familiar ending. Once you've finished reading today's post, you might enjoy rereading her post from Monday; in some respects they might be considered a bonded pair.

***

One of the peculiarities of a Christian college, one of which I attend, is the movie selection in the school library. It tends to be rather strange. We do have secular picks--and of a greater variety than one might expect--but we also have a stunning array of the most random movies on religion you've ever seen. On a slow weekend, my roommate and I like to pick out some of the weirder ones and watch them.

This week, we had the pleasure of watching the 1973 musical Godspell, perhaps the most psychedelic portrayal of the Gospel of Matthew in history. Pretty much the whole movie consists of Jesus leading his disciples around New York City as they sing catchy songs and clownishly act out parables. It may be a little unorthodox to show in your Bible study, but when the creative liberties work, they really work.

Jesus (sporting an afro, a Superman shirt and face paint) is encouraging, silly, childlike--but when he needs to be, still deeply serious. He's a far cry from the stoic Jesus of most passion plays, and it surprised me how very endearing he was (which makes it disturbing to realize that the actor also played the sketchy professor in Legally Blonde. The inevitable crucifixion scene, accompanied by the disciples' screams and a shrill electric guitar, is heart-wrenching.

I hope you don't mind if I spoil the ending for you, because I'm going to, in order to draw attention to the film's big problem: Godspell has no resurrection. The film ends as the disciples take down Jesus' body and carry it through the streets, singing, "Prepare ye the way of the Lord." If you're like me, you keep expecting Jesus to sit up and smile at any moment, but no, the disciples just keep dancing around, parading that corpse. It's horrible theology, but it's also a supremely lame way to end a movie: to quote my poor roommate as the credits rolled, "You can't stop it there! Bring back Jesus!"

I find myself feeling like that a lot during Lent. Easter recalls what actually happened: Jesus rose again. But in awaiting Easter, we're doing much more than looking forward to the remembrance of the resurrection. We also remember that we're always anticipating our own resurrections.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. (Romans 8:22-24)

The end of Jesus' earthly life was just the beginning of our new lives. For now we still wait to receive these in fullness.

A Victorious God Active in Us

March 17 traditionally is a celebration of St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland. But St. Patrick's Day all too often descends into self-indulgent caricature; we wear green, therefore we are Irish, therefore we drink ourselves ridiculous. Meanwhile, March is both Women's History Month and the heart of Lent. So, with no disrespect to Patrick, today editorial intern and guest-blogger Christina Jasko will celebrate the legacy of Corrie Ten Boom, who like Patrick lived a life worth emulating far more than the silliness typically perpetrated on March 17. 

*** 

For most of her life, Corrie ten Boom was more or less a nobody. Until she was about fifty, she led a quiet life in the Netherlands, living with her family and working at the family watch-making business. Her commitment to God was, however, evident in her devout lifestyle and her ministry to children and the disabled in her spare time.

When the Nazis invaded the Netherlands, things took a turn for the dramatic. Corrie and her family became active in the Dutch Underground and had a small secret room constructed in their house so that they could hide Jews there. They succeeded in helping many people, but eventually the family was found out and sent to prison. Corrie spent four months in solitary confinement, reading a copy of the New Testament over and over and learning to follow Jesus even through this suffering.

Eventually, she and her sister Betsie were transferred to a concentration camp, ending up in Ravensbruck, where the conditions were horrible (even for a concentration camp). While fending off starvation, illness, vermin and the real possibility of death, Corrie and Betsie still found the strength to pray for their fellow prisoners, read Scripture to them and share what little they had. All along the way they witnessed small miracles of provision and protection.

Betsie told Corrie, "We must tell people how good God is. After the war we must go around the world telling people. No one will be able to say that they have suffered worse than us. We can tell them how wonderful God is, and how His love will fill our lives, if only we will give up our hatred and bitterness." Whenever my faith is having a bad day, that sentiment from Betsie helps me believe in God--believe not just in the concept of deity (that's easy) but in the radical idea of a powerful, self-sacrificing God working redemption into human history. It is amazing to me then that anyone could go straight into the jaws of the Holocaust--into what seems like such irredeemable evil--and come out singing about God's goodness. It's so impossible that it screams of the supernatural.

Betsie died in the camp. Not long after that Corrie was released, due to a clerical error that narrowly prevented her execution. She dedicated herself to doing exactly what Betsie had said. In contrast to the quietly devout first half of her life, the second half was spent engaged in a worldwide ministry of sharing the message of the gospel and the need for forgiveness. She became, in fact, such a famous exemplar that I fear we might miss the point of her life.

It's easy to take incredible Christians like Corrie ten Boom and turn them into saints, but to do so diminishes their witness. Her story does mean, as I said, that there's a good God active in our world, and that's a powerful truth. But it's more than that: there is a victorious God active in us. If an ordinary Dutch spinster, faithfully serving God while making watches, could end up overcoming so much through the power of God, then anyone with the same God has the same hope.

What a Name Reveals

March is Women's History Month. It's also typically given entirely over to Lent. It's also a popular month for editorial internships at IVP, candidates for which are mostly women. We complete the circle this week at Strangely Dim with three guest-posts about women, Jesus and suffering by editorial intern Christina Jasko, a student at Wheaton College and a very helpful unpaid worker over the past couple of months. Today's post offers Christina's insights into the often underreported role of women in the Bible, and the often underappreciated role of Jesus in the lives of women.

***

Growing up, I used to think ruefully that God only really liked men. Of course he loved women and died for them and all that, but it seemed like only men got to do the exciting kingdom work.

I realize now that there were just a few flaws in this idea, starting with my strange division between "like" and "love," and continuing with my narrow definition of "exciting." But it still makes me sad that such an idea could ever seem feasible to me.

In Scripture, women prophesy, kill bad guys, help establish the church and get raised from the dead. Of course, they also lie, kill good guys, persecute God's people and get struck dead. I'm not saying the record is all rosy, but I am saying that Scripture portrays women, like men, as fully vested in humanity's struggle to learn how to relate to God.

Jesus is particularly willing to engage women in this process. From the woman with the issue of blood, to the Samaritan woman at the well, to the women who followed Jesus and supported his ministry, we see throughout the Gospels that Jesus intentionally invested in women. Jesus specifically commends one woman for her great faith and another for seeking him above all. And the first person on earth to witness Jesus' resurrection was a woman, Mary Magdelene:

At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.

"Woman," he said, "why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?"

Thinking he was the gardener, she said, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him."

Jesus said to her, "Mary."

She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, "Rabboni!" (which means Teacher).

 Jesus said, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet returned to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am returning to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.' " (John 20:14-17)

Leaving aside (for now) the observation that Jesus' first resurrected act is to appoint a woman to proclaim his word to men, I love this passage because such a glorious accomplishment is being revealed. But Jesus doesn't declare it with a cool quote like, "I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive for ever and ever!" (Revelation 1:18). The big moment of revelation is hidden in a single word: her name. It's a surprisingly intimate moment.

If I could chide my younger, disgruntled self, I'd tell her that (1) this moment was probably one of the most exciting things anyone in the Bible got to experience, and (2) Jesus died for us all, but the corporate doesn't exclude the individual. In the same way that he spoke Mary's name and suddenly she understood who he was, Jesus is still calling out to each of us. Regardless of whatever qualities we have that make us think he must not like us too much, he calls us into our true identities as witnesses to his gospel that changes everything.

We Interrupt Our Lenten Reflections . . .

By Lisa Rieck

As we've mentioned at Strangely Dim, we're posting old and new Lenten reflections to aid your journey through Lent, as well as thoughts from the women of Likewise in honor of Women's History Month. But March, I learned recently, is not just Women's History Month, not just a time of Lenten reflection and contemplation. It is, in fact, National Frozen Food Month.

Really.

As if we need a special month to highlight the convenience of frozen food. As if we wouldn't have thought to buy it on our own anyway. (What? Frozen food? What a good idea!)

Nevertheless, so as not to be discriminatory in our celebration and contemplation, I offer you, for your rumination and jollification, an ode to one of my favorite frozen foods, the ever-savvy, simple but satisfying Boca pattie. (You might imagine a violin playing in the background, serenading you as you read. They're that classy.)

Ode to Boca Chik'n Meatless Patties

Versatile, versatile,
easy and quick,
of frozen food options
these are my top pick!

They're tasty, and healthy,
and kind to the chicks
(not a feather was harmed
when these patties were mixed!).

They go well on salad,
in wraps or on bread.
Add dressing and cheeses,
or mustard instead.

Packed full of good soy,
then breaded and cooked,
just one taste of these and
I bet you'll be hooked.

Ninety seconds on high
in a good microwave
and you're ready to eat--
oh the time you will save!

So rush out and buy some
they're worth every buck.
(If I beat you there,
you might be out of luck.)

Try them with couscous,
make one for a friend,
the options are endless.
Soon you will depend

on Boca's fine patties
for dinner each night.
Even if you can't cook
they'll turn out just right!

I'm confident soon
with me you'll agree
they're simply fantastic--
just try them and see!

So there you have it, friends. Happy National Frozen Food Month. Let me know what you think of the Boca patties. Or leave us a comment (an ode, even!) letting us know what your favorite frozen food is.

But (you'll be relieved to know) we now return you to our thoughtfully oriented, fascinatingly interesting (though not quite so mouth-watering) posts on Lent and the women of Likewise . . .

An Open Letter to the Makers of the Wii

From time to time I try to use my bully pulpit, here at Strangely Dim and elswhere, to direct the course of human events. Hence the following open letter, which I hope will open new vistas for home entertainment, as well as aid you in your Lenten journey this year. You're welcome, America.

Dear Wii Makers:

You have taken over my life. There was a time that I sat on my couch most nights, watching TV, updating my Facebook status and/or reading a book--sometimes even reading the Holy Bible. No longer. Now most nights I stand on a little board enduring the ridicule of the digital dominatrix known as Wii Fit. Or I jump forward and backward and side to side to Ric Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" on the Wii Dance Dance Revolution footpad. Or I sling a replica Hofner bass around my neck and belt out "Oh Darlin'" at the top of my lungs while Beatle avatars prance around the Rock Band screen in front of me and my cats wail their complaint. Or I sit at my fake drumkit, trying to keep up with the monstrous tattooed avatar shredding the digital snare and double-pedal bass drum as the lyrics to Taylor Swift's "You Belong with Me" scroll across the Band Hero screen. Or I sing "Beat It" a capella on Guitar Hero because the Rock Band guitars aren't compatible. Or I plummet repeatedly to my death trying to get Logan across a dilapidated bridge in the opening sequence of X-Men Origins: Wolverine. You have taken over my life, Wii--at least my evenings--and I love you for it.

One thing you still lack, however. Something that combines the best features of all of the above--the ruthless rivalry of Wolverine, the audacity of Guitar Hero, the light and happy poppiness of Band Hero, the classic rock homages of Rock Band, the awkward contortions and regular humiliations of DDR and Wii Fit. So I would like to formally request a new game to further your colonization of my imagination: Glee for Wii. You could call it Glii.

Glee, the fanatically popular telemusical from Fox, is a show for adults and adolescents alike about high school in all its comic melodrama. On Glee we see people stab one another in the back and hug one another in the front. We watch them fall in love while indulging separate lusts. We wait expectantly for the anchor scenes of each episode, in which the cast breaks out in song and dance. Some of them even whip out their axes or start pounding on their skins. Sniff sniff: smell that? It's a video game waiting to be made.

When I "dance" for DDR, one of the things that distracts me is my desire to sing along to the music. When I "sing" for Rock Band or Band or Guitar Hero, I can't help wanting to move my feet. When I slice and dice people for Wolverine, I want to know whom I'm slicing and dicing. For all the gratification I experience playing these various games, I still leave slightly unsatisfied.

Of course, I could take a dance class at the community center on Monday nights. I could sign up for guitar or drum lessons on Tuesdays. I could attend choir rehearsals on Wednesday. I could join a Thursday-night fight club. But all of those things would take time away from my precious Wii and require that I interact with real human beings. And I can't abide by that. My home is my castle, and my Wii is my bastion of self-entertainment, the clearing house for so many of my innate desires and self-delusions. Glii could easily satisfy a number of the more mundane desires in one fell swoop. Is that so much to ask?

Of course, I could take a class to learn computer programming and create my own Glee game, but who has time or energy for that? So I'm asking you for your help: Here we are, Wii; entertain us. Again. There's no I in Glee--yet; I'm counting on you to remedy that.

Sincerely,

David A. Zimmerman

P.S. Your games are too expensive.

A Serious Act of Solidarity

Working at InterVarsity Press, you can't help but be into John Stott. The history of IVP is incomplete without his Basic Christianity, The Cross of Christ and countless other titles, and his approach to writing has shaped the approach of countless other of our writers. So yeah, I dig John Stott. But I always thought of him as a "scholar-pastor," not as a punk--until I read this, from Roger Steer's biography Basic Christian:

Ever since he was a teenager at Rugby when he had founded his Association for the Benefit of the Community, John had felt a concern for those who were rejected by society. But what would it really be like to be one of London's underclass? John decided to try to get some idea. He stopped shaving for several days until he had a stubbly beard and put on some very old clothes. He still had his wartime identity card and, having put this in his shoe, set off to make the dramatic transition from Queen Anne Street to the Embankment area on the north bank of the River Thames.

He spent his first night under the arches of Charing Cross Bridge surrounded by tramps. He lay down in the company of men and women whose only covering, apart from their clothes, was newspapers. He didn't get much sleep. The pavement was hard. Men were coming and going, some very drunk and making a lot of noise. It was November 1946 and very cold.

Hard-core, no? This wasn't urban tourism or reconnaissance for gentrification; this was frontline missiological research, a serious act of solidarity.

As light dawned and the sun came up he was relieved that the new day was sunny and dry, though the air was crisp. He called at a number of the old ABC teashops where employees were kneeling outside scrubbing the steps. He had deliberately brought no money with him.

'Can ya gimme a job for a cup o'tea?' he asked in the best Cockney accent he could muster. 'Or even spare a breakfast?'

When nobody took pity on him, he began to feel rejected. He walked into the East End of London and, since he had had little sleep, lay down in the sunshine on one of the many bomb sites. Rosebay willow herb was growing in profusion, making a reasonably soft bed, and he fell asleep.

When evening came, he made his way to the Whitechapel Salvation Army hostel for the homeless and queued for a bed. When he got to the window where you booked, the officer in charge was brusque with the man in front of him. Momentarily, John forgot who he was meant to be that day.

'As a Salvation Army officer,' he burst out, 'you ought to try to win that man for Christ and not treat him like that!'

The officer looked at him sharply, wondering who he was, but said nothing.

No wonder Stott has become so influential the world over. No wonder his readers and students and congregants and biographers alike hold him in such high regard. For John Stott, the gospel isn't something to be merely appreciated; it's to be embraced and embodied. Likewise, the world isn't something to be dissected; it's a place to be loved and served. 

 

The Sublime & the Sick

A post from three years ago, for your Lenten amusement.

I've got a thing for spring. When I first moved into my house, the above-ground pool in the back was covered in snow and served no real purpose until spring sprang, at which point the snow melted and the pool became a temporary home to a family of ducks. I took out the trash one morning and found myself face to face with a lackadaisical duck, waddling around my driveway, minding his own business, being wondrous. I got over my buyer's remorse in a hearbeat.

I've since junked the pool, so the ducks don't come around the house anymore. But this morning I noticed a family of ducks crossing the road (to get to the other side, I'd imagine), and then I noticed a mother in a car pointing out the ducks to her young son. He became quickly overcome with wonder, and my day started to perk up a bit.

Ducks and, really, let's admit it, all waterfowl are wondrous. The sleekness and vividness of a duck's feathers, the casualness of its waddle, the dignity of its beak, the intricacy of its webbed feet--I'm awestruck by it when I come across it. I don't really know why, except that having grown up in Iowa and now living in the suburban midwest, waterfowl remain mildly foreign, faintly exotic.

After my commute I stepped into the office and noticed, perched high above me on the building's skylight, a goose freshly returned from its wintery exile. I'd never seen webbed feet from below, and it was wondrous. I called my friends to come give witness to this sight, to mark this moment. But then, somewhere between the call and the response, the goose decided to mark the moment on its own.

That's the seedy underside of the wondrous waterfowl. They poop. Everywhere. All the time. I know peaceable people who get positively serial in their desire to kill waterfowl, based solely on the animal's propensity to poop. And really, who can blame them? Goose poop is gross to look at, gross to smell, gross to accidentally step in. And in some areas (say, for example, our parking lot), it's nearly impossible to avoid.

So there I stood, trying to avoid direct eye contact with the slowly rippling stain above me, while simultaneously transfixed by the wondrously webbed feet mere inches away. It was sublime. It was sick. It was irreducibly complex.

Yesterday I started reading the book Becoming Who You Are, a series of reflections by Jesuit author James Martin about the spiritual process of Henri Nouwen, Thomas Merton and Mother Teresa. What I've read so far is a fascinating exploration of Merton and Nouwen, both celebrated for their spiritual depth and profound humility, yet both remarkably confessional about their inner pride and pettiness. Readers of Nouwen and Merton are generally awestruck by them and inclined to see them through the lens of that depth, but in reality humility and pride are there in them both, tightly commingled. Merton and Nouwen are sublime, but they're also sick. In a word, they're complex.

So am I, of course, when I step back and think about it. The psalmist recognizes both the inherent wonder in being human and the wickedness that so tragically attends to us. "I am fearfully and wonderfully made," he writes, only to admit shortly thereafter that he can't clean himself up: "See if there is any wicked way in me" (Psalm 139:14, 24). We're sublime, but we're also sick. In a word, we're complex.

Not so complex, however, that God can't see us for who we truly are, and not so complex that God can't take delight in us. I'm unwilling to suggest that God is awestruck by us, but I do think he's willing to endure the gross in us out of love for the grace in us.

Confessions of a Former Catholic

For your Lenten consideration, here's a post from five years ago about the dynamics of leaving, by faith, something good. Incidentally, the event described here is where I met Karen Sloan, author of Flirting with Monasticism--the original "woman of Likewise" (based on release date), which we're celebrating during this Women's History Month.

I was at a conference not too long ago that offered the practice of morning lauds, a time of communal worship being sponsored by a Dominican brother. I took part every chance I had, but I found myself coming out of each morning with a severe case of former-Catholic guilt.

This guilt, I hasten to add, was in no way being foisted on me by Brother Dominic (that's what his nametag said, I swear). I came up with my guilt all on my own, thank you very much. I was raised Roman Catholic, and so for about half of my life I experienced the mass weekly, with its responsive and collective readings, its sung prayers and psalms, its scents and sacraments. And now here I was, sitting across from a Dominican brother all tricked out in a tunic and well on his way to being ordained into the priesthood, and I was recalling all the celebrations of faith I left behind upon my conversion to evangelical Protestantism. I sang and chanted and fumbled my way through the long-forgotten sign of the cross, and I found myself feeling guilty.

Not guilty enough to return to Catholicism, I hasten to add. That would be an artificial solution to my angst, I think. No, that day during morning lauds I was simply confronted with my past, all those aspects of worship and prayer that are no longer a part of my regular experience, those attributes of the faith of my youth that have not found their way into the religious practices of my adulthood.

I'm reminded of Abraham, back in the day when he was still known as simply Abram. God called upon Abram to leave all that he knew, all that he loved, to go someplace unknown to him. God would show him where he was going when he got there. And despite the fact that where Abram was going would be where God wanted him, it's hard to leave what you've known, the environment and culture that was cultivated in good faith to build in you a love and adoration for the God of the universe. I imagine Abram, who was not yet even Abraham, feeling a mixture of sadness, anxiety, anticipation, disorientation and, yes, even guilt.

I imagine Abram feeling all these things because I've felt them myself on the long and cloudy path toward adulthood. But I'm reassured that even in those moments when my pangs of guilt make their presence explicit, they are mitigated by the smoldering anticipation and, yes, even confidence that I'm headed toward the place prepared for me, an adventure I would otherwise have missed.

Bad Guy Blues

A post from four years ago, reposted here to support your journey through Lent.

I like Lex Luthor. I sent him a letter once, along with a copy of my first book. I thought he might endorse it. He never wrote me back, but that's OK; Lex Luthor is a busy guy.

Luthor, played on the television show Smallville by Michael Rosenbaum, earned my appreciation in the first season. Here was a character known universally as a villain--the villain in the minds of many--reconceived as a tragic hero, struggling to come out from under his cold, calculated machine of a father's thumb to do right by his friends and his community. I knew that Lex would eventually go bad, but on Smallville Lex won my sympathy.

We meet the fully grown Lex Luthor in Superman Returns. He's a villain again, but maybe he's just getting bad press. After all, he's playing opposite a superhero--the superhero in the minds of many--that some equate with the Messiah.

There's more to Lex than a bald head and a bad attitude; recent storylines in the comics are reconsidering the Superman-Luthor conflict not as muscle-envy or longstanding grudge (the early 80s SuperFriends cartoon suggested that Superman caused Lex to lose his hair) so much as a clash of worldviews. Lex sees humankind, not Superman and not even necessarily himself, as the world's savior.

According to Lex's worldview, Superman is in the way, a pressing problem in humanity's evolution. Superman is not one of us; he's an alien come to Earth by accident, merely pretending to be human. He can't be hurt by men or women or anything natural. He can't even be grounded. He isn't human and thus can't appreciate the human struggle. It takes one to know one, Lex believes, and by extension, it takes one to save one.

Lex reflects as he looks out the window of his helicopter in Lex Luthor: Man of Steel:

It's ironic that Metropolis never looks more magnificent to me than when I see it from his angle. But does he see what I see? Does he see the finest example of what humanity can accomplish, reaching for the sky? . . . Or does he merely look down on it?

He's not the only person to hold this conviction; consider the reflections of David Carradine in Kill Bill, Vol. II:

When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears, the glasses, the business suit, . . . that's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent? He's weak, he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race.

If Bill and Lex aren't authoritative enough for you, orthodox Christianity professes a Savior who was fully human. To presume that a being not fully human could accomplish our salvation is to commit heresy. Superman, of course, is not at all human, and so Superman condemns us even as he saves us.

Score one for Lex Luthor. But where, then, does he turn for salvation? Humankind is its own hope, Lex argues, the source of its own deliverance from its unique crisis: lives of mundane mediocrity. Addressing the entire world in the miniseries Justice, Lex allows that heroes like Superman

may save us all from a giant alien starfish in the middle of the ocean from time to time. But they save us only to send us back to our old lives. Back to our bills, back to our useless jobs, back to our suffering. If they were really the heroes they claim to be, they'd save us from those same lives as well.

The ultimate solution to this fundamental human problem is the actualization of human greatness. "Someone has to change the way this world works. That's what we're about to do. That's what we are inviting you to be a part of." Lex argues that we create hope out of nothing; it's our birthright, our responsibility. Again, in Lex Luthor: Man of Steel: "We were created to create ourselves. . . . Fate was invented by cowards. But destiny is something we hold in our hands."

Lex manifests his worldview for the rest of us. According to the first Superman motion picture, he's the greatest criminal genius of all time. In some continuities he's president of the United States. He's an icon of power and greatness. But how he achieves greatness exposes the flaw in his worldview. His power is consolidated through the methodical manipulation of people and events. He'll even help his greatest enemy on occasion; in issue 123 of Superman he co-opts messianic language: "As always, the question is this: do I gain more from Superman's suffering--or his salvation?"

Behold our "savior" in action, according to the worldview of Lex Luthor. A savior that is not fully human is insufficient, but a savior that is merely human creates a similar problem. The capacity to save is a kind of power, and power, in the hands of mere humans, corrupts. Mere humans cannot save themselves without destroying themselves and others in the process.

So we're left with a paradox: the source of our salvation must be human but cannot be merely human. We need the otherness of a deliverer as much as we need the sameness of a savior. Superman and Lex Luthor alike are not enough. But a God who created us, who took on flesh out of love for us, who is not so distant as to be "unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but . . . has been tempted in every way, just as we are--yet was without sin"--such a savior would be enough.

The Cup of Tears

Today's post is provided by Kimberlee Conway Ireton, author of the lovely Likewise book The Circle of Seasons. Here Kimberlee does what she does best--writes brilliantly, boldly, about the intersection of the great realities of the Christian faith with the daily challenges of life on earth.

This year I was ready for Lent. I was even eager for it. That's not usually the case. Usually Lent sneaks up on me and is halfway over before I even begin to feel my way into it.

But two weeks before Ash Wednesday, a dear friend's four-year-old daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. I was stunned. We'd had a playdate with this little girl the day before her diagnosis. She'd had a slight tummy ache and a lingering cold--nothing to indicate she was seriously ill.

Suddenly, life seemed precarious, fragile, ephemeral. I looked at my own children and wept--knowing, as I rarely allow myself to know, that their lives are not in my hands, not in my control, not in my power. I looked at my own self, at the bump in my tummy that shows new life, and I wept. So much can go wrong. Life, health, breath--none of these are givens. They are all gifts, each day. And one day, we will not receive these gifts.

So yes, I was ready for Lent. Even before Ash Wednesday, I was weeping over the fragility of life, I was weeping because I knew the truth of the words my pastor would speak over us: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return."

***

Marked with the sign of the cross in ashes, we returned to our seats. My daughter was crying. She wanted to receive communion, and my husband would not let her. We decided years ago that our children must wait to receive communion till they are able to articulate what it means. For the first time I questioned that choice. It's cruel, really, to mark them with that horrible cross and then not let them eat the body and drink the blood. The body and the blood are all that make the cross bearable.

The body and blood are all that make life bearable in months like this, when all around me people I love are in pain, when I myself am in pain. The body and blood proclaim God's presence in brokenness, proclaim God's brokenness to a broken world, to a broken me.

I confess, sometimes I do not want a God who humbly meets me in brokenness. I want, in the words of Tim Dearborn, "a God who exercises enemy-annihilating power." I want God to obliterate the cancer that is eating Michaela's bone marrow. I want God to eradicate my pregnancy-induced queasiness--both physical and emotional. I want God to show up with power and might. I want God to raise his victorious right hand and for all to be well.

But God chooses a different way. In Jesus, God chooses the way of suffering, the way of sorrow.

This Lent, I am learning once more to look for God in the midst of pain, in the midst of fear, in the midst of sorrow.

I am learning again to be comforted by the tears of Jesus, those tears like drops of blood, shed for me.

I am learning that my own tears for my friend, for her daughter, for mothers everywhere who must watch their children suffer--these tears are prayer.

I am learning that these tears are the tears Jesus drank when he tipped the cup of suffering to his lips and drank it to the very dregs.

And I am learning to allow my tears to be a place where Jesus meets me, a place where I cling to him, a place where he takes even my fear that I cannot trust him and transforms it into love.

This Lent, when I eat the body and drink the blood, I remember that Jesus "drank the cup of my tears so that I might drink His cup of life."

***

All quotes are from a sermon by Tim Dearborn, "In the Garden," delivered February 21, 2010, at Bethany Presbyterian Church in Seattle, Washington. You can listen to this sermon here.

To keep tabs on Kimberlee, visit her website.

In Like a Rabbit

OK, first things first: "Rabbit." With that one word I win this month's installment in an ongoing competition here at Strangely Dim: Be the first to say or write "Rabbit" on the first of the month. To be honest, we tried to pull the plug on this game months ago, but every time we think we're out, someone pulls us back in. So if you can't beat em, join em.

In other news, we find ourselves here at Strangely Dim with a collision of significant events. We're smack in the midst of Lent, that annual season of preparation in the Christian calendar that culminates in Resurrection Sunday, aka Easter. In addition, today marks the beginning of Women's History Month, an opportunity each year to acknowledge the particular contribution of women to the history of the universe. In previous years we've not attempted so audacious a task as taking on both Lent and Women's History Month at the same time, but this year we think we're up to the challenge.

So for the month of March you can expect to see new and revisited posts from the Strangely Dim archives, selected for their relevance to the traditional disciplines and thought experiments associated with Lent. You can also expect to be introduced or reintroduced to the women who through their writings have helped us shape Likewise Books over the past several years. You'll hear what these authors are up to, what inspired them to write their books, and what's going through their minds as they navigate this content-rich March in the year of our Lord 2010.