IVP - Strangely Dim - July 2010 Archives

The Blessing of Becoming

I've been thinking about identity lately. This can be good or bad for me. I'm a processer by nature, and sometimes that brings a deeper knowing of myself, a firmer confidence in who I am. Other times, it just makes me more confused and causes me to spend way too much time making decisions about extraordinarily trivial things, like what Kleenex box to buy for my bathroom (and therefore how others will frame or reframe their perception of my identity upon visiting my apartment and perhaps using the bathroom and viewing the deliberated-over tissue box).

You see how it can get a little confusing.

Lately, however, a couple of resources and experiences have converged to invite deeper (helpful) reflection about who I am. First, books. I too, like Rebecca and Christa, am reading Unsqueezed and am grateful for the reminders about what gives us value and what we're created for. And then I recently finished copyediting a forthcoming IVP book called The End of Sexual Identity: Why Sex Is Too Important to Define Who We Are (look for it in April 2011) by Jenell Williams Paris, a professor of anthropology (at my alma mater, thank you very much). While I wasn't particularly thinking about or wrestling with sexual identity before working on it, the book provided plenty of food for thought about what does--or should--define us, and how we can reframe the ways we categorize and perceive ourselves and others. (Hint: it has to do with us all being human.) I've also been meditating on some Scripture passages suggested in David Benner's book Surrender to Love, particularly Matthew 19:13-15, where Jesus calls his followers to become like little children. That adds more to the identity mix for sure. (As an aside, does Benner, or does he not, look like Harrison Ford in his author photo??)

Then at the beginning of July, I had the opportunity to take a weeklong systematic theology class taught by my esteemed colleague Dr. Gary Deddo. (I should note here that the fact that I wanted to take a systematic theology class caused me to do some identity reflection right off the bat. And the fact that I loved it was the source of further reflection. This was my first foray into anything deeper than a college Intro to Theology class.) Some of the many fascinating and brilliant hours of lecture on a whole range of topics such as the nature of God, God's providence, evil, Scripture and predestination (to name a few) were spent on the topics of gender and humanity. And, though there's so much more to these ideas (hint: it all comes back to the Trinity), a few pieces I've been reflecting on are that (1) we belong to God--all of us, whether we realize/acknowledge it or not; (2) as we become more like Christ we become more and more human--more and more of what we're created to be; which leads to (3) we are "becoming" people.

This idea of "becoming" as a central part of our identity is, if you'll let me say so, a very becoming way of thinking about who we are as human beings created by God. And it has far-reaching implications as we reflect on it, understand it more deeply, live into it. It also leads me to the last event that's caused me to reflect on who I am: I became part of a new age bracket, the thirtysomethings. Birthdays are, of course, a natural time to pause and reflect on who we are, where we've been, what we've accomplished (or not accomplished), who we've served (or not served), how we've grown (or regressed), areas of strength and weakness, regrets, victories, new skills learned, old skills forgotten, goals for the next month, year, decade. (Or maybe that's just me. Maybe others just blow out the candles and enjoy the cake.)

In any case, while in one sense turning thirty simply means turning another year older, it feels more significant to me in that it's a new decade, after a decade that has held the hardest years of my life. Right now, this new phase looks squeaky-clean, and breeze-dried-laundry fresh, even more than a non-new-decade birthday. Also, I've heard from others that the thirties are great.

I hope so.

But whether or not that ends up being true, and however I change/settle in to who I am as I come to know myself more and more, I want to hang on to the truth of being someone who is always becoming. For a girl who thinks she should have already figured out and perfected _____________________ (fill in the blank with anything--sword fighting, organizing the paper and mail that threatens to take over my life, Asian cooking, etc.) yesterday, having "becoming" at the root of who I am--who I've been created to be--is very freeing and encouraging. It takes the pressure off of having to be someone who has arrived or who is supposed to have arrived or who is fooling herself or others into thinking that she's arrived, and lets me be someone who is constantly on her way (which is what's always true anyway) to deeper gratitude and broader generosity and more noticeable peace and hospitable authenticity and childlike faith.

Besides being more accurate in describing who we are, "becoming" is also much more preferable than many other adjectives. For example, I had to laugh when, shortly after my birthday, I noticed the following verse in the Psalms: "Once I was young, and now I am old." I suppose I'll have to face that piece of my identity at some point. But the verse that follows that one is even more true: "The LORD directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of their lives. Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the LORD holds them by the hand" (Psalm 37:23-24). The Father-Son-Spirit God, who made us and loves us, is the One who helps us become all that he created us to be.

So those are my reflections thus far, a few weeks into thirty. (On another aside, though, if Asian chef is part of your becoming self, my non-Asian-chef, thirty-year-old becoming self would be glad to come over and process some more with you . . .)

Knowing What You Know (Part 2)

Second of three posts by our current editorial intern, Deborah Gonzalez, about the differences between knowing about and truly knowing--and the responsiblities that come with each. Read her first post here. 

* * *

 

Over the course of my internship I've had the pleasure of sitting across the hall from Al Hsu, an InterVarsity Press editor and author. I've gotten to know where he grew up, where he went to school, how his career got started and what his favorite TV shows are. I suppose it's normal to learn these sorts of things about a coworker, but with Al, I sort of took a short cut to the deep end.

 

I learned early on that one of Al's books, Grieving a Suicide, is based on his experience dealing with the death of his father. Even though I've never had a friend or loved one commit suicide, I was curious to know his story. Little did I know how many intimate details I would learn in just the first few chapters. I read about the day that Al found out his father had died; what the conversation was like when his mom called to tell him; how his dad killed himself; and the thoughts that plagued Al's mind in the years following his dad's death. I haven't known Al for that long, yet as I read I felt as if Al were speaking directly to me, pouring out intimate thoughts and feelings about an experience that changed his life.

 

The weird thing was that Al had no idea I was reading his book.  I am sure he knew there was a possibility that I would read his book, but for some weird reason, I felt like I was spying. Was it okay to know such personal things about someone I haven't known for that long?

 

As mentioned in my previous post, many employees at IVP are published writers, so my experience with Al's book wasn't the only one of its kind. The day before I met IVP's publisher Bob Fryling, I did a simple Google search that led me to various articles detailing his personal and professional history (I never go into a meeting without doing a little bit of research first); so by the time I sat down to have a conversation with Bob, I already knew exactly what questions to ask.

 

In some contexts, however, learning about someone serves no real purpose other than satisfying your curiosity. About halfway through my internship, I learned that an editorial assistant wrote an e-book based on her history of self-injury, as well as various articles about her experiences with depression and eating disorders. I was curious to know her story, and after reading one of her articles, all of a sudden I felt like I knew her--perhaps better than I should. I felt like I had peeked into a window of her life and seen her deepest struggles, even though I had yet to have a long conversation with her.

 

Reading personal details in books, articles or blogs by or about people we don't know doesn't usually impact our behavior since we will likely never meet or interact with the person. But when we know the person, the dynamics are different. As readers, we are free to do what we please with the information revealed to us by a writer. We can form our own opinions, whether good or bad, about what we read. We can appreciate and identify with what was shared, or we can make negative judgments.

 

With such knowledge comes great responsibility--especially when we know the person in another context. When interacting with them, do I bring up what I know at the beginning, or do I wait to get to know the person a little better first? What if they bring something up that I previously read about--do I tell them I already know it? Or do I pretend I'm hearing it for the first time? We silently ask ourselves these questions, consciously or unconsciously, since the way we respond could significantly impact the direction of the relationship.

 

Even though digital publishing and social networking make it possible to learn a lot about a person in just a few clicks, knowing someone doesn't happen overnight.  Reading Al's book may give me a one-dimensional view of one aspect of his life, but it will take time, intentionality and many more interactions in order to truly get to know him.* I choose on a daily basis to dig deeper in my interactions--with Al, and with other people I know about but don't really know. I take every opportunity I can to talk, whether it's by eating lunch with people or by striking up conversations in the restroom (TMI?).

 

Next time you choose to read someone's writings or to "friend" a stranger on Facebook, remember that speeding up the relational process (for better or for worse) doesn't compare to good old-fashioned human interaction. Reading about someone beforehand might cause you to learn more in a few minutes than you would learn in months of casual interaction--but what will you do with what you know? How will you handle the responsibility?

 

* I did eventually tell Al that I read his book. Luckily, he didn't think it was creepy; in fact, talking to him about it gave me more insight than I could have ever gained just by reading.

 

 

Self-Image and the Shoes of Death: On Unsqueezed

I love shoes. Tall shoes, especially. But I've always felt that in the area of shopping and fashion I was a pretty late bloomer; and having always been rather tall, wearing shoes that drew attention to this uncomfortable fact made me . . . uncomfortable. So I was in my twenties before I got over my height issues and started wearing more than a one-inch heel. It may seem trivial, but it was significant for me to realize that being tall is, really, just fine.

 So now every time I see the cover of Margot Starbuck's Unsqueezed, the first thought in my head is often, Oooh, I really want that shoe! And then, even though the thought of wearing a stiletto is, shall we say, a bit over the top for me, I run through in my head all the places I might possibly go to procure such a lovely, sexy, impossibly-angled pair of shiny red stilettos at a reasonable price. I even had, for a while, this annoying sing-song phrase running through my head (like the McDonald's "Filet-o-Fish" ad): give-me-that-sti-let-to-heel / give-me-that-heel.

As you can see, I've come a long way.

The shoe on the cover of Unsqueezed gets to me because in one sweeping blow it identifies something that I really love and then tells me that I need to be free of it. And it's not just the shoe that it tells me I need freedom from, but everything the shoe represents--which is, according to Starbuck, our culture's "ill-fitting," "death-dealing" concept of beauty. Says Starbuck, "Enlightened women like us know better. . . . we're aware of our culture's distorted perception of beauty. . . . [But] dissatisfied with our bodies . . . and against our better judgment--many of us still buy into it all." Preach it, Margot!

Honestly, though, I want to argue with the shoe on the cover: Really, wearing high-heeled shoes is proof of how accepting I've become of my height. What's so bad about that? Or, Would not wearing these awesome shimmery purple pumps really mean that I have a healthy self-image? No. I like them, I'm wearing them, and I don't care what anyone says--including you, silly red-shoe-bedecked book cover! Never mind the fact that my toes go numb after standing in them for twenty minutes; or that my back swells and aches from compensating for the unnatural position it must adopt to accommodate my otherwise impeccable taste in shoes; or how hugely impractical these contraptions are when your car breaks down in a blizzard five miles from help. (Though they smite me, yet will I wear them . . .)

Yes, when it comes to how we present ourselves, women (and men, too) take far more drastic steps than wearing tall shoes, to be sure. But why do we insist upon making our bodies billboards of self-awareness? Starbuck has honed in on some reasons--lies, marketing, greed, shame. And she helps us redirect our self-obsession toward an understanding of what our bodies are really for--worship, mission, movement, relationship, service, justice--and how we can use them for the good of others and the world around us. (And she accomplishes all this while being really funny. Seriously.)

Here's Margot's take on how to step out of the mold:

Many of us think about ourselves, our bodies, all day long.

"Yeah," you might agree, "but how do you not do that?" That's the real question.

Telling someone not to think about themselves is like telling someone not to think about a pink elephant. Only, instead of an elephant, it's more like telling them to not to think . . . thoughts. Deciding not to think about ourselves, not to dwell on our bodies, is no small feat. 

If we are to succeed, we sort of need a better plan.

Pastor and author Tim Keller mentions, in one of his sermons, the way that C. S. Lewis describes this humble sort of person who's not so obsessed with himself. "Do not imagine," writes Lewis, "that if you meet a really humble man he will be what most people call 'humble' nowadays: he will not be a sort of greasy, smarmy person, who is always telling you that, of course, he is nobody."

Please stay focused and try not to be distracted trying to visualize a greasy smarmy person.

Lewis continues, "Probably all you will think about him is that he seemed a cheerful, intelligent chap who took a real interest in what you said to him." If you've ever encountered someone like that, someone who's genuinely interested in what you're saying, you know how fantastic it is to be in their presence.

Did you catch that movement? Our eyes are freed up from being glued to ourselves when they are turned toward others. Granted, this is sort of a chicken and egg situation. Which comes first? Do we have to be freed from self-obsession first, before we can turn completely toward another? That seems like a tall, unlikely order. Or could it be that when we purpose to be concerned about someone else, when we take little dropped-stitch baby steps to make it happen, that's when the magic happens and we're liberated from having to think about ourselves so much.

I see an awful lot of hope in the latter. For everyone. However it happens, the shift from obsessive introspection to other-centered living is the movement into which we're called.

-------------------------------

--The very brilliant cover of Unsqueezed was impeccably designed by Cindy Kiple.

--Excerpt taken from chapter eight, "Self-Preoccupation."

Knowing What You Know (Part 1)

It's nice to have an intern. They'll do anything you ask if you tell them it's valuable experience: "Clean my car; the state of your car is your author's first impression of you"; "Go walk my dog; feel the tension of harnessing and directing a being with its own agency"; "Taste this; I think one of our competitors may have poisoned it." We are to our interns as Jackie Chan is to Jaden Smith: call it "Karate" and you can "teach" them whatever you want.

So when we found ourselves lacking in creative energy to generate our own blog posts, we made blogging a "learning opportunity" for our current intern, Deborah Gonzalez. A graduate of Northwestern University, where she was active in the InterVarsity and LaFe student fellowships, Deborah hit the ground running here both in her editorial instincts and her grasp of our publishing vision. We're excited to present you with her three-part series of reflections on her time here--not only because it gets us off the hook for writing, but more importantly because she's a sharp thinker and a deep soul, and you deserve to read stuff like that every now and then.

 

*** 

 

On the first day of my internship at InterVarsity Press, I sat in my car for ten minutes before walking into the building. I hadn't expected to be nervous; I've done plenty of internships in my day and had experienced many first days before this one. But for some reason, I was nervous. I've been reading IVP books for as long as I can remember, so having the opportunity to work here was an enormous privilege. On top of that, this would be my first time working in a publishing environment, and I had no idea what to expect.

 

The one thing comforting me was that, even though I had never met any of the employees, I felt like I knew them.

 

I had never felt this before with any other job. I already felt a strong connection with IVP, partly because they are part of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship--which was a significant part of my college experience--and partly because their books had played (and continue to play) a huge role in my spiritual development. I was also familiar with their blogs (including this one), and thus felt a connection to the editors who contribute to them. Even though I had never met them personally, reading their published work gave me insight into their thoughts and personalities. In addition to that, I had stayed in contact with Dave Zimmerman (who would be my supervisor), following him on Twitter and visiting his blog. Reading up on him wouldn't necessarily help me in any way, but I figured, why not? The information is readily available to the public, and it's hard not to become curious.

 

Meanwhile, however, the people at IVP had no idea who I was (other than, perhaps, what they had read on my résumé). So I reminded myself that I would be starting from scratch. Besides, feeling like you know someone doesn't mean you really know them, right?

 

I had learned a few things about Dave in the weeks since being offered the internship; some were significant (like his thoughts in processing a recent mission trip to Haiti) and some not so important (like how he was taking anti-malaria medication). I didn't bring them up on our first meeting because I thought it might creep him out. Maybe he knew things about me too, but if he did, he didn't bring them up either. I guess doing so would break some sort of social norm that says you should really know someone first before admitting that you know things about them--if that makes any sense at all.

 

Working in an industry where it is common practice to publish your thoughts and ideas makes for interesting dynamics, particularly when one is a new employee. Most of the editors at IVP are published writers. It becomes possible to learn intimate details about their lives without ever talking to them, even without actually meeting them. I don't think this dynamic is unique to this place; it seems as though we've entered a kind of voyeuristic era, where spying on people has become normal. Social networking sites and digital publishing make it possible to quickly learn things about people without hearing it directly from them. We keep in touch without ever sitting down and catching up. It is surprisingly easy to get to know people without really knowing them.

 

On the other hand, writers are making their work and ideas accessible on the Internet. They are seeking an audience. So perhaps they are flattered when unknown readers read their work or follow their tweets. For every voyeur in our current context, there seems to be a willing exhibitionist.

 

Either way, two things are certain: writing (whether through a blog, social network sites or a published book) is an extremely vulnerable act for authors; and reading that work (no matter what the intentions) gives readers a sense of responsibility. This series of blog posts is about the responsibility that comes with knowing people while not really knowing them.

 

Next week I'll publish part two in this series of posts. In the meantime, here are a few questions to ponder: When you go to work today, who will you get to know? How will you get to know them? And why?

 

To be continued . . .

 

Ayiti apres six mois

It's been six months and one day since an earthquake devastated Haiti. We at IVP/Likewise were a bit bewildered that day, caught up in the confusion that attends to an event taking place far away but affecting close relationships. Our friends John Engle (codirector of Haiti Partners) and Kent Annan (John's codirector and author of Following Jesus Through the Eye of the Needle) were momentarily unaccounted for; we heard soon enough from Kent that he was in Miami when the ground shook, and that John was OK. We also heard, however, that Kent's friends Enel and Edvard, whom many of us had met at the Urbana Student Missions Conference, hadn't checked in yet. Edvard, it turns out, was fine; Enel had survived the collapse of a six-story building (he'd been on the third floor). Meanwhile, three of the schools supported by Haiti Partners were thoroughly devastated, and many of Kent and John's friends and loved ones (like two million of their friends and neighbors) were left homeless.

Kent was under contract with us for a second book; six months of sixteen-hour days with regular travel between Haiti and Miami, where he lives, and a mind thoroughly preoccupied with such widespread loss and suffering threw that plan into disarray. Equally unsettled by the earthquake was the prospect of an IVP-sponsored trip to Haiti for "six lucky contest-winners": Should such a trip go on? Would it be safe? Would it be exploitative? Would it distract Haiti Partners from work they couldn't afford to suspend?

We worked it out. Kent's second book became a reflection on the problem of suffering, with Haiti as its locus. After Shock will be released early next year; ultimately, Kent tells us, it's been a help to him, forcing him to process the meaning of such an event and his responsibility in its wake. And ultimately we decided that our trip, and its participants, would help more than hurt, if nothing else by drawing more attention to the nobility and need that emanate from this perpetually vulnerable yet indefatigable country. I had the honor of accompanying this impressive group of young emissaries; they and I reflected here on what we saw and heard there, and I benefited from seeing up close and personal what I'd ultimately be editing in Kent's manuscript. ("That'll be in the book," he'd occasionally nudge and point.)

So today we enter chapter two of Haiti's recovery. Nations and NGOs are slowly, gradually but inevitably moving on to more recent (some might say more newsworthy) incidents of need; meanwhile, Haitians work deliberately and defiantly toward recovery and restoration from January 12--their 9/11, in many ways--and beyond that, to a brighter future for their children. If you'd like to attach yourself to that kind of audacity and resilience, do hop over to Haiti Partners and see how you can stay involved.