IVP - Strangely Dim

You're Invited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Confess

Today is May 27--one day after Memorial Day--and the forecasted high temperature--57--is twelve degrees warmer than the air temperature at lunchtime. This is strange, and my outlook today is correspondingly dim. On such days I am sorely tempted to pray for, rather than against, global warming. I'm also sorely tempted to feel sorry for myself.

I'm privileged, however; I have a home and a car and an office, all of which can easily bounce back and forth from "cool" to "heat" based on my circumstance or whim. Others are not so fortunate--among them the guy in a parka trimming the grass outside my office; the homeless men, women and children who rely on temporary shelters, many of which close between Memorial Day and Labor Day for maintenance or convenience, counting on the warmer weather to make homelessness easier to bear; the folks in Tornado Alley across the Midwest who over the weekend went from being homeowners to being homeless; the people, places and things across the world who suffer from the effects of climate change even as I pray my self-indulgent, tongue-in-cheek prayers for more of it.

I'm reminded in these moments of vague clarity of a prayer I prayed in concert with hundreds of fellow congregants week in, week out throughout my childhood. It's a prayer of confession that morphs gradually into a prayer for transformation. It's a prayer directed not only to God but to God's church, and though I am an avowed Protestant and as such am uncomfortable with the line about Mary, I pray this prayer today as much to you and the great cloud of witnesses that anticipated and yet surround us, as I pray it to God:

I confess to Almighty God
And to you my brothers and sisters,
That I have sinned through my own fault,
In my thoughts and in my words,
In what I have done, and what I have failed to do.
I ask Blessed Mary, ever virgin,
And all the angels and saints,
And you, my brothers and sisters,
To pray for me to the Lord our God.
Amen.

Merry Christmas

Jesus is our childhood's pattern;
day by day, like us he grew;
he was little, weak, and helpless,
tears and smiles like us he knew;
and he feeleth for our sadness,
and he shareth in our gladness.
--Cecil Frances Alexander “Once in Royal David’s City,” verse 3

We all live off his generous bounty,
gift after gift after gift.
We got the basics from Moses,
and then this exuberant giving and receiving,
This endless knowing and understanding—
all this came through Jesus, the Messiah.
No one has ever seen God,
not so much as a glimpse.
This one-of-a-kind God-Expression,
who exists at the very heart of the Father,
has made him plain as day.
--John 1:16-18, The Message

And our eyes at last shall see him,
through his own redeeming love;
for that chlid so dear and gentle
is our Lord in heaven above;
and he leads his children on
to the place where he is gone.
--Cecil Frances Alexander “Once in Royal David’s City,” verse 4

I Can See My Breath

You'll forgive me, I hope, for not resting merry this Christmas. Frankly, this year's Christmas season has been the most stressful one I can remember. Granted, I have a bad memory, but I also have a shockingly great number of Christmases under my burgeoning belt.

This Christmas I don't have a Christmas tree, either inside or outside the house. Last year we had both: shortly after Thanksgiving we hacked down a tree to stick in our living room, and my neighbors got the cockamamie idea that everyone should prop up and decorate a tree in their front yard. My outdoor tree fell over three or four times a day, so this year I opted out of the opt-in neighborhood tradition. The spartan decor inside our house, on the other hand, was not entirely up to us. We're in the middle of a garage rebuilding gone horribly wrong, and our contractor's offer to put the contents of our garage--complete with every weapon in our Christmas decorating arsenal--in storage seemingly morphed into a hostage crisis with no ransom demands. We had no idea where, when, in what condition or even if we'll ever see our garagestuff again. And so, in the short term, no Christmas decorations for us.

Even if we had gotten a tree, we wouldn't have had any place to put it. As a result of a wood floor installation gone horribly wrong, we've been twice displaced from our living room, along with all our living room furniture. The tree would have simply gotten in the way. We caved and bought one of those tabletop neon Lite-Brite tree things that look like (but, despite the best efforts of our cats, don't taste like) real trees suffering a radioactive blast. But apart from that synthetic surrogate, no Christmas tree for us.

In short, this year all my traditions surrounding Christmas have been turned on their head. I'm off my game, I freely confess. My back hurts from moving all my furniture not once, not twice but three times. My voice hurts from the repeated phone calls to not one but two contractors. My wallet hand hurts from all the debit card swipes and home improvement invoices. My head hurts from keeping all these projects moving forward without failing my responsibilities or alienating my relationships along the way. My heart hurts from all the resultant stress and from the aching suspicion that Christmas is a burden not worth bearing. Tis certainly not, to my mind, the season to be jolly.

I'm not a terribly sentimental person. I prefer to think of myself as revolutionary: I'm generally more inclined to complain about traditions as barriers to progress than to celebrate them as something significant. And yet this year I find that I'm missing the traditions that I've had to forgo--even those traditions that I've grumbled about in the past.

In the midst of all this tradition angst I came across a passage from Thomas Merton in his New Seeds of Contemplation. Merton has been an essential guide as I've worked on my forthcoming book Deliver Us from Me-Ville. And in this instance he's once again cut through the morass of my morosity and floated an idea I find positively illuminating:

There is only one living doctrine in Christianity. The whole truth of Christianity has been fully revealed: it has not yet been fully understood or fully lived. . . . The constant human tendency away from God and away from this living tradition can only be counteracted by a return to tradition, a renewal and a deepening of the one unchanging life that was infused into the Church at the beginning.

And yet this tradition must always be a revolution because by its very nature it denies the values and standards to which human passion is so powerfully attached. . . .This is the most complete revolution that has ever been preached; in fact, it is the only true revolution, because all the others demand the extermination of somebody else, but this one means the death of the man who, for all practical purposes, you have come to think of as your own self.

Scraping off those barnacles, however, is its own burden. My tradition angst this season is perhaps better characterized as revolution fatigue--sour grapes at the effortless decorating of my friends and neighbors that's translated into a general cynicism about the holiday. Thinking of Christmas as solely an occasion for people to stores to move product and people to hoard more and more junk has left me in a perpetual state of grinchiness. Having no markers of my own to remind me of the sacredness of the holiday is wearing me down.

I'm tired of not thinking about the tradition of Christmas--not the decorations per se but their significance. Through the tradition of Christmas the Christian church remembers that God so loved the world that the Word of God became flesh and dwelt among us.

What I'm discovering in this week before the holiday is that I need to catch my breath. I'm all exhaled out. Fortunately, through the witness of people like Merton, my family, my coworkers, my friends--and ultimately by the grace of God--I can see my breath this Christmas, and I'm reminded once again that I was made to breathe in and breathe out.

Merry Christmas from Strangely Dim. May you have a breathless--and breathful--holiday season.

The Bigness of the Small

I'm still trying to process my trip to Cambodia last month, to know all that I am supposed to know and remember right now, trusting that what is supposed to become clear later--maybe in a month, or a year--will. My trip, as missions trips and other cultures are wont to do, sparked so many ideas and thoughts that I want to process with you, Strangely Dim readers, who have shown yourselves willing to wait as strangely dim thoughts become clearer, coherent, practical, applicable.

The idea looming large in my mind right now is, ironically, small. The bigness of the small, that is.

I went to Cambodia to coteach an editing seminar. That was the task, simply stated but not, of course, simply executed.

At the end of the first day of our seminar, Elaina (my coworker and coteacher) and I were

Discouraged.
Disheartened.
Disappointed.
Dismayed.
(Etc.).

Pretty much all the difficulties of teaching editing through a translator became evident. We realized we weren't going to be able to use much of what we had prepared to be translated ahead of time, and there wasn't time to have anything else translated. I felt stuck and defeated, and the week was just starting. At the beginning of the second day, I cried.

I just want to point out that I did not cry at the end of the second day, when I opened my suitcase to find very small ants crawling around in it. Small ants in a suitcase, if you didn’t know, are a big deal. But I did cry that Tuesday morning out of frustration and disappointment. I couldn't help the missionaries and Cambodians. I couldn't do the task I had been brought to do. I wouldn't be useful to God.

I can tell you that the next three days went much better, thanks to truly God-given inspiration about exercises to try. And I can tell you that Steve, the missionary we went to help, was very encouraged about the work our team did. The fact is, though, that three weeks removed from that day, I don't really know what our students took away from our editing seminar. We had no tangible way of measuring what our students learned.

And to be completely honest, in a country that has seen so much death and torture and despair, teaching a few editing principles to a handful of would-be editors seems so small. Cambodians need food and clean water and AIDS care and help getting out of the sex-trafficking industry. I was tempted at points to believe an editing seminar--particularly one taught through a translator--couldn't be useful at all.

But who am I to say what Cambodia needs? Who am I to judge what's useful to God or not? On Monday evening Steve reminded us that God's work in Cambodia is a big puzzle--say 5,000 pieces. Our work there, his family's work there for seventeen years, the work of his staff at their publishing company, are pieces of that puzzle--or maybe not even full pieces; maybe just work toward another piece of the puzzle. But all are useful and important and necessary in God's plans for Cambodia.

And who's to say teaching people to edit was my main task anyway? Maybe my job, my piece, was even smaller; maybe the role Elaina and I served in teaching our seminar was simply being foreigners. Not many Cambodians would have attended an editing class taught by a fellow Cambodian, but after a week of observing the leadership role Steve's editor Savy took in our class, the students we had may start to trust her knowledge and experience.

I read Ephesians 3:20-21 while in Cambodia. I've always been sure that God doing "more than all we ask or imagine" means that God's power and wisdom and work are more than we could ever fathom. But now I'm sure that it also means God, with his all-knowing, all-wise perspective and his limitless ability, can use efforts, words, lesson plans that to us seem so small, in bigger ways than we can ever imagine. Jesus did it often. "Here is a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish," Andrew said to Jesus in John 6 when a large crowd needed to be fed, "but how far will they go among so many?" I can tell you that no one left hungry that day.

Three weeks ago I gave my small offerings in Cambodia. How far will they go? I don't know. I'm tempted even now, as I so frequently am when I offer something to God and others, to say "Not very far." But during and since my time in Cambodia, God has been doing some type of healing in me, growing a small, fighting piece of faith into something much bigger, so that right now I'm actually trusting his work even when I can't see it or figure it out. Because what I can see is that he is pulling together all the small things he calls each of us to do, and using them to do his big work.

Celebrate with me, reader-friends, because I sense that for me this new trust, this rest, this perspective, is a very big small step.

Something Old, Something's New

There's something about new. I have to admit, I like it. Not change, mind you. But new. New music to listen to (thanks to Dave for graciously lending me his new Andrew Bird CD, Armchair Apocrypha, last weekend). New shoes (there's nothing like new running shoes to motivate you to get out of bed at 5:30 a.m.). New recipes (I highly recommend sautéed eggplant, mushrooms and tomatoes over pasta, compliments of Real Simple). Ann said goodbye to InterVarsity Press and Strangely Dim for a new job, a new routine that will allow her to spend more time with her husband and sister. New holds with it the possibility of something better.

Maybe that's why I still like my birthdays. They are a second New Year's Eve for me, prompting even more processing in my brain than usual and bringing about a certain glazed, "I'm analyzing the past year of my life" look in my eyes. But after the reflection comes a peek at what lies ahead: an untouched year, in which anything can happen. A new age. Maybe that's why I like mornings so much too. No matter what happened the previous day, there is something powerful about waking to a day that's new, fresh, completely clean.

My sister and I are feverishly working our way through the television series Lost. We are, admittedly, somewhat addicted. The series follows the lives of a group of people whose plane crashes on a mysterious, seemingly out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere island. People who were mostly unknown to each other before they crashed. As the episodes reveal their histories, you realize what an opportunity this is for many of them: a new day and place, a chance to start over, to separate themselves from the painful, broken lives they were living before they crashed.

A new day doesn't offer that grand of an opportunity, of course. Nothing magical happens when the clock changes from 11:59 p.m. to 12:00 a.m. We still have to face our problems, our sins, other people's sins. The characters on Lost, too, even with their unique situation, cannot completely escape where they've come from. They have to face the habits that follow them to the island, the shadows of the past, and the ways their choices and experiences have shaped and formed them. The reality is that each new day contains some of the old.

And yet, I still feel amazed that there is something new in each day. At least a new sky--a sunrise or cloud formation that has never been duplicated before. New conversation. New insight, perhaps. New courage, maybe. New opportunities to affirm others and speak truth and show grace.

It's one thing God is all about, actually: new. Every day, his mercy is new. And, as I drag my weary, needy self to him, his new mercy becomes more tangible, more visible, I think, than even the morning's new sky.

We've been memorizing Philippians 1:6 ("being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus") at my church this summer, and I've been struck by its power when someone else speaks it to me. I have to have others telling me that they're confident that he'll complete his good work in me, because I have trouble seeing it. But the reality is, every day he is doing new work in me and new work in you and new work in places and people we have never heard of.

New shoes, for all their shine, at best only make me optimistic that maybe I'll run faster, or the run will be easier, or the impact on my body will be lessened. In a week, they're old, and the alarm goes off at 5:30 and I lie in bed and moan. But God's new--his work, his grace, his mercy--keeps giving me hope, despite myself, despite the old that clings to me.

So here's to waking tomorrow and Sunday and Monday and seeing the sky and giving grace and receiving mercy. Here's to helping each other see God's new.

I promise, it won't get old.

A Short Reflection on a Little Cicada

Last night was so lovely that I couldn’t stay inside, so I took a walk around the suburban neighborhood that I live in. Families were eating outside, dogs were roaming their respective yards, and joggers and fellow walkers were everywhere. It was, uncharacteristically, a quiet night.

Except for the quiet flap-flap-flapping I heard as I walked down Washington street. Over the voices of a father talking with his two sons, I heard a sound that has become too familiar to me over the past month—the flapping was coming from a cicada that had fallen on its back and could not turn over. The more frustrated the cicadas become, the harder they flap their veined wings in an attempt to right themselves. But because of the cicada infestation that we have had in our area, I have become immune to the sound of their struggle. Most dead cicadas I see on the sidewalks are on their backs, and you begin to realize that death, whether it comes as a shock or a frustrated struggle, comes to all of these creatures eventually. It is, to be honest, a great relief. I was afraid they would go on infesting our town forever.

But yesterday evening, a strange sense of pity came over me when I heard the flap-flapping of the cicada on Washington Street. The bug had, apparently, fallen out of the overhanging tree into the middle of the street, and I knew that he would not survive long on the playground floor of suburbia. I tried to ignore my emotions and continued walking, telling myself that it was one cicada out of thousands that died every day. Still, once I ventured far enough to be free of the incessant flapping noise, I felt—how else do I explain it?—I felt sad. I know it sounds sappy (and I am not a bug person), but I knew that I was probably the only person in the entire world who even thought about that particular cicada and the ominous death awaiting it on Washington Street.

So I turned around, walked back to the flapping bug, and gently rolled it over with my sandal. The cicada immediately quieted itself and began crawling, still in the middle of the street. While I didn’t know if it would live, I knew I had offered the creature what I could.

And then, as I watched the bug move, I began thinking about God, about how he never even thinks about leaving me flapping in the middle of the street. He is always gently overturning my life, righting me even when I fail to realize it.

So even cicadas can sometimes remind us of God’s goodness. And somehow, his unfailing presence with us. Flap.

Taking a Risk

A couple of weekends ago I watched the movie Stranger Than Fiction for a second time, which made me realize something I'm not sure I want to admit: I think I might have some strong similarities to the main character, Harold Crick. Harold is a strait-laced tax auditor whose days are essentially exactly the same, right down to the number of brushstrokes he uses when brushing his teeth. (No, I don't count my brushstrokes. That's not how we're similar.) His neatly ordered world starts to fall apart, however, when he begins to hear a woman's voice in his head, narrating his life. Things start to get really messy when the woman's voice casually mentions his "imminent death." Spurred to action at the mention of the d-word, Harold sets out to locate his narrator so that he can get the details on when and how she expects him to die.

As his routine gets more and more messed up, and as the pressure mounts to figure out when he'll die, Harold decides he might as well take a few risks (since he's going to die soon anyway). Perhaps the biggest risk he takes is pursuing a spunky, defiant baker named Ana Pascal who mostly despises him because he happens to be auditing her for tax fraud. Despite the unlikelihood of any romance developing between them, and despite the high possibility of her responding to him with scorn and mockery, he shows up unexpectedly at her bakery one night with a box of flours (infinitely more valuable to a baker than flowers) and announces his romantic interest. The significance of his risk, the tension as he waits for her to respond, is almost palpable.

So here's how I’m like Harold Crick: I think it would take an audible, narrating voice in my head and the threat of imminent death (or maybe even just one of those things) to make me take a risk. I like routine and predictability. On the thrill-seeking scale I'm probably about a negative sixteen. I don't even go to lunch spontaneously (though I am, of course, up for the occasional spontaneous Starbucks run).

I wish I took risks more often. I'm inspired and moved by people who take big risks. People like the Canaanite woman in Matthew 15. She approached Jesus and his disciples with a request for help, knowing that they had every reason to reject her: She was a woman in a male-centered culture. She was a Gentile. And her daughter was demon-possessed, which probably didn't win her any popularity contests. The disciples, being human, provided the expected, culturally savvy reaction: they saw her only as an annoyance, a distraction, and urged Jesus to send her away. He, however, engaged her in conversation, even pushed her a bit to see how serious she was about receiving help for her daughter. In the end, Jesus was impressed with her. "Woman," he exclaimed, "you have great faith! Your request is granted."

As far as we know, this woman had never met Jesus before. Most likely she had only heard about him and his miracles from others. And the risks she took in asking Jesus for help and in taking him at his word that her daughter was healed could have caused her deep pain. After all, Jesus could have just been telling her what she wanted to hear without actually granting her request, to get her to leave him alone.

But Jesus didn't send her away or ignore her, like the disciples wanted to. And he did what he said; Matthew tells us that "her daughter was healed from that very hour." He honored the risks she took.

Well of course Jesus didn't mock or deceive her, you're thinking, shocked that I'd even suggest it. He wouldn't, because he isn't like us needy broken humans. But many times, I must subconsciously think he might respond to me that way, because I'm not usually willing to take risks that make me completely dependent on Christ for help. Risks like telling a small group about a painful but formational event that happened before I knew them. Or being honest with a student in the youth group about something she did that hurt me. Or even taking opportunities to test areas I think I might be gifted in but have insecurities about. But when we take Jesus seriously, he, I'm learning, takes our risks seriously, no matter how small. He doesn't scorn those steps; he actually celebrates them. And he always does what he says he'll do, knowing full well (because he did become human, like us) how hard a risk can be.

Sitting here, I don't have any "imminent death" threats to move me to take a risk. And no voices in my head narrating my life. But maybe the promise of abundant life from someone who always keeps his word will be enough.

The Importance of Is

As a proofreader, I am easily and often offended. Spelling, punctuation and capitalization mistakes are everywhere: flyers, ads, signs, billboards. Billboards especially get me. There's nothing like being stuck in traffic and being confronted by a larger-than-life capitalization error to really generate anger.

A few weekends ago I went to a movie with my cousin to relax and be entertained. I was comfortably settled into my seat, anticipating the start of the movie, when it happened again: the (also larger-than-life) movie screen lit up with the headline "Silence is Golden(R)." Aaaaahhhhhhhh! I should have asked for my money back. I mean really. I'm just not sure I can give my money to a company that doesn't know that if you're going to capitalize the G you have to cap the I! Or that doesn't run their headlines by a proofer before they register them and flash them onto movie screens all over the country.

I've noticed it's often the is that gets demoted to lowercase in titles. I think it's assumed that, since it's only two letters, it must not be that important. Funny, because we never forget to cap I by itself. And if you think about it, is is a pretty important verb (case in point). Crucial, I'd say. "She drives fast" is very different from "She is fast." "That movie looks good" often does not turn into "That movie is good." Water that looks clean can be very different from water that is clean. We should give is its proper respect.

The is gets much more significant when it comes to faith. I have to admit that, having had a relationship with Christ since I was a young child, there are some stories, phrases, words I have a hard time grasping the significance of simply because I've heard them my whole life. But is is not one of them. In fact, the is is why I love Easter so much, why Easter never fails to inspire awe and wonder in me. When I think about the pain and suffering Christ experienced before his death, and the guilt and sorrow and confusion and despair the disciples and other close friends and family must have experienced at Jesus' death, and then when I try to imagine resurrection morning, when the women went to the tomb and found it empty--I can't not feel wonder. The sheer impossibility and joy and juxtaposition of death--Jesus was dead--and life--Jesus is alive--strike me deeply. And the fact that Christ really is the only one those two statements can be made about over two thousand years after he walked on earth deepens my faith.

That's the significance of is. On that first resurrection day and today, Jesus is alive, bringing life from death all over the place. It's a headline, really: Jesus Is Alive.

And the Is makes all the difference.

A Matter of Life and Death

My sister and I have been mourning the death of our ivy. Its death is not surprising; we don't have a good history with plants. Most of them, this one included, have been gifts from our mom, and usually they die relatively quickly because we never remember--or bother--to water them. Particularly hearty ones might last a few months, in which case our mom waters them when she comes to visit, and they temporarily revive. But this ivy has been our longest living plant to date: it lasted three years, surviving a move from the small, narrow windowsill in our last apartment to a new, roomy windowsill, as well as our vacations when it was left to fend for itself. There've been a few close calls, but it's always survived. Until now.

I like to think it died because it outgrew its little pot. (Not, of course, from our neglect to water it.) We haven't thrown it out yet because we keep hoping it will revive one more time, in which case we will faithfully water it every day (or every other day?) and get it a larger pot and play Mozart to it in the evenings. But I fear it's too late.

At the risk of sounding morbid, I'll admit I've been thinking about death. Not just because of the ivy (though it is a daily reminder), but also because of Lent and the suffering of Christ we contemplate, and because of the pre-Lent sermons on mourning at my church, and because of the morning news, and because of my own sins and struggles and those of people I know. Death is everywhere, really, and it makes its presence known keenly.

I've been trying to imagine the despair the disciples must have felt that day Christ was crucified: the person they had placed all their hope in was Dead. But then--the depths of joy they must have experienced at his resurrection! As I observe Lent in personal and corporate ways but also anticipate Easter, I'm struck by the stark, extraordinary contrast of the two events: suffering and death and mourning and then almost incomprehensible rejoicing. The pain of one and the joy of the other cannot comprehend each other.

The same must have been true for the widow in Luke 7:11-17. Jesus and his disciples and a large crowd of followers encounter the funeral processional for the widow's only son as they reach the gate of the city of Nain. "When the Lord saw her," Luke writes, "his heart went out to her and he said, 'Don't cry.' Then he went up and touched the coffin, and those carrying it stood still. He said, 'Young man, I say to you, get up!' The dead man sat up and began to talk, and Jesus gave him back to his mother."

In the midst of the widow's pain--widow, of course, meaning that she already lost her husband--I'm sure she couldn't imagine joy, life, even not crying, as Jesus told her to do. All of those must have sounded impossible; she was dead in spirit, in hope. But in one moment--there is life from death, joy from despair.

It doesn't always happen that way, of course--not that quickly or easily. Jesus healed many and raised a few from the dead, but many more died while he was on earth, and even today, some people are healed while others are not. The road from grief to hope is rarely instant. But this account of Jesus reminds me that this is what Jesus is doing all the time: bringing life in the midst of death, to remind us what wins, finally, eternally. It may not be as dramatic as raising someone from the dead, but he is bringing dead things, places, relationships to life every day if we open our eyes to see it, constantly reminding us that death does not have the final word, grief does not have the final word, the current pain we're experiencing and the sin we're struggling with do not have the final word. The final word is his own: "I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full."

The death in and around us is as easily seen as the dead ivy on my windowsill: broken relationships, abuse, depression, loneliness, a funeral, a sealed tomb. Can any life really come in the midst of or after these? Jesus' resurrection tells us: Yes. And today, after a stressful, tiring week when I was forced to face my own brokenness and sin, spring coming outside after a cold winter and friends' healing and my own small steps of growth tell me: Yes, life can come, even when we--like a dead widow in Nain grieving her dead son—can't imagine it.

What?

I recently had a long and perplexing conversation with some friends about what it means to have a "personal relationship with God." You know you've been hanging out exclusively with evangelicals for far too long when you don't get what's so weird about that phrase. This is, after all, God we're talking about--"Creator of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen." As one friend of mine put it: "There's six billion people in the world. What kind of meaningful relationship can anybody have with that many people?"

Still, I feel very strongly that God does in fact relate personally to us. The idea that he has so many of us to relate to doesn't freak me out so much; I'm pretty comfortable with God's infinitude, which I imagine brings with it a much higher threshold for exhaustion and exasperation. Similarly, the idea that God is personal--not just some uber-ooze that keeps everything going--is a basic tenet of my beliefs.

Nevertheless, we bring a lot of baggage with us to a phrase like "personal relationship with God." Our understanding of who God is affects our approach: Is God the author of evil? Is God impotent or indifferent in the face of evil? Is God likeable, impressive, praiseworthy, approachable?

Our understanding of what comes with a personal relationship affects our take on the idea too. If I've been hurt over and over again in my personal relationships, the last thing I might want is to get personal with someone who controls the weather and steers comets. If my personal relationships have been with really boring people, I might imagine a personal relationship with an infinite being as infinitely boring. I might take my worst experience in personal relationships and expand it to a cosmic level, and decide that I'd rather do without, thank you very much.

I think, however, that I would then be oversimplifying things. A personal relationship is not reducible to one thing: my friend may be boring, but he donated me his kidney. Your friend may spit when she talks and chew with her mouth open, but she knows all your secrets and cries with you every time you get hurt. He may be heavy, but he's my brother.*

That kind of complexity extends infinitely when you start talking about a personal relationship with God. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. Eventually, God created me, along with the six billion people surrounding me and the various billions who went before me. Because of God I have a body and a brain; because of God I'm able to wonder whether a personal relationship with God is even remotely possible.

If a relationship with God is anything, it's complex. Sometimes it helps me to sort through how we relate to God by reading, of all things, 1 Kings 1:

Bathsheba went to see the aged king in his room, where Abishag the Shunammite was attending him. Bathsheba bowed low and knelt before the king.

It's funny to me that David's response to her entering is "What do you want?" That's a really colloquial, really earthy picture: not a king receiving a queen, not a tyrant deciding whether he will indulge or behead this upstart unannounced guest, but an old married guy who long ago dispensed with all pretense when it comes to relating to his wife. For Bathsheba, this is a complicated encounter; for David, it's a simple question: "What?"

In this picture, as I see it, David's a metaphor for God, and Bathsheba is a metaphor for the rest of us: participants in a ridiculously lopsided, complicated relationship that nonetheless puts us in an unbelievably privileged position. We approach God juggling these various ways of understanding who we're approaching, and God simply looks at us and says, "What?"

*My brother, in case he's reading this, isn't heavy. It's a play on words. I'm being witty, not petty, I swear.

The Mystery of Expectancy

After two very different weeks—one spent relaxing before Christmas with my parents and sister in a small Pennsylvania town and the other working at the Urbana Student Missions Convention in downtown St. Louis with 22,000 people—I’m wondering the same thing: How can we be expectant without knowing what to expect?

I had a lot of time for reflection in Pennsylvania, particularly (since it was Christmas) reflection on Christ’s birth. The story is, of course, full of expectancy. Births generally are. But how much more with Jesus’ birth, coming as it did in the midst of Herod’s reign after thousands of years of expectant waiting (not to mention four hundred years of silence from God). But the Israelites’ hopes about what the Messiah would be like were, of course, full of error. Everything about Christ’s birth was utterly unexpected—redemption in places you’d never guess. A virgin. A poor carpenter. A stable. Shepherds. A baby.

In ways not so different from Christ’s birth, Urbana is also full of expectancy. I studied students’ faces as they streamed into the opening session at the Edward Jones Dome. They were clearly expecting God to do—something.

How can we be expectant of a God who moves and acts in completely unpredictable ways and places? How should we expect a God whose presence comes in both “a gentle whisper” on a mountain and a burning bush in the desert to reveal himself to us?

Though Jews were looking for a Messiah when Jesus was born, many missed him because they expected someone different. I’m afraid that I too will miss the redemption he gives—that in the midst of my pain or distractedness or despair or busyness I’ll miss the grace that comes quietly, humbly, unexpectedly, even if I’m looking for it.

Expectancy seems to hold the hope of something big. At past Urbanas I know God has shown up in unexpected, even miraculous ways. Once he even healed a speaker’s laryngitis while the speaker talked and the thousands of students gathered in the arena prayed for him. When I attended Urbana as a student I too went expectantly. I received no epiphanies, yet God still brings to mind words and moments from that Urbana, and continues his work in me through them. I don’t know if my expectations were met, but God has certainly moved in the years since.

At the start of 2007, after a year-and-a-half that’s been full of personal struggle, I am trying to be expectant. I recently read in Philip Yancey’s book Prayer that “[Jesus] understood that redemption comes from passing through the pain, not avoiding it: ‘for the joy set before him [he] endured the cross.’” I also just read Psalm 5, written by David, with his high highs and his low lows:

In the morning, LORD, you hear my voice;

in the morning I lay my requests before you

and wait expectantly.

The story of Christ’s birth and death, and Yancey’s reminder, and David’s prayer, and 22,000 students gathered together to seek God, give me hope for this year. When God moves in big ways in obvious places, we’ll probably notice. But for the rest of the time (which is most of the time) when God is not speaking through thunder or fire or miraculous healings, maybe the fact of expectancy, the act of being still and waiting in the midst of hard moments, the choice to trust God in a day that’s unknown, will help us see his redemption in the unexpected places: the painful places, the broken places, the humble places.

So here’s to a year of expectancy and meeting God in the places we are (I’m raising my cup of chai to you). And thanks, to Dave and to all of you, for letting me join this Strangely Dim journey. I look forward to walking with you . . .

Sanctity is Wrapping and Unwrapping

My saintly parents are moving. Someday. In the meantime, they are, like St. Francis of Assisi, increasingly eager to part with virtually everything they own, in the hopes that their children's covetousness will lower their moving costs.

Always happy to oblige, I came home from Thanksgiving with a book I've long ogled on their bookshelf: Sanctity Is a Broken Television Set on a Rainy Day. Published in 1970 by Franciscan Herald Press and written by Tom Sharkey for "wives and mothers everywhere," this nicely illustrated book exemplifies the ordinariness of sanctification--becoming more and more like Christ--in simple acts such as doing the dishes, dealing with telemarketers, entertaining guests, making mistakes and caring for loved ones. You can read it in about five minutes, but why would you want to do a thing like that? Here's a taste:

Sanctity is Knowing

When to Get Mad. When to Go Home. When to Say No. When to Say Maybe. When to Say Yes. When to Say Wow! When to Say Thank You. When to Say Nothing. When to Laugh. When to Cry.

There's more to sanctity than knowing, of course, and most of the book has to do with being, or rather, becoming. But what we come to know is part of how we come to be like Christ. In calling us to sanctification, God calls us to know as well as to be:

Be still, and know that I am God;

I will be exalted among the nations,

I will be exalted in the earth. (Psalm 46:10)

Next week is Christmas day, and between then and now we will each have ample opportunity to be sanctified, I am sure. May we each between now and then find time to be still, and to know increasingly that God is here, and God is good.

Merry Christmas from Strangely Dim!

An Open Letter to ER

I’ve been watching ER for twenty years now, it seems (even though this is only your thirteenth season). I’ve lived in Chicago throughout your run and enjoyed the occasional visual and verbal references you make to my city (even though technically my city is not Chicago but its western suburb Lombard). I’ve gone on the Warner Brothers Studio tour in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Noah Wylie or Anthony Edwards (even though neither of them was still on the show when I took the tour). I’ve worn ER t-shirts and ignored phone calls during ER broadcasts and badmouthed CSI (even though I’ve never watched it), all out of loyalty to your show. ER is must-see TV for me—even though “must-see TV” is a relic from a previous century.

So in general I applaud ER for your writers’ writing and your actors’ acting and your directors’ directions. But one thing I have against you: you seem to have no clue whatsoever how to write religion.

That’s not always been the case. Luka’s struggle, for example, with agnosticism in the face of war and personal tragedy was portrayed very poignantly in his encounters with a dying priest a few years back. But this year you seem to have lost your way, and in the process you’re wasting an opportunity that you provided yourself: you’re wasting Hope.

Hope is the Christian character written into your show this year, aping the opportunistic antics of shows such as Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Ever since The Passion of the Christ, the conventional wisdom in Hollywood appears to be that religion sells almost as well as sex. And so giving the occasional nod to religion will prompt religious viewers to give an occasional nod to your advertisers.

I can respect that: I work in an industry that caters to the religious public, and besides that, I’m religious myself, and I enjoy being catered to as much as the next guy. My problem isn’t that you’re catering to people like me; it’s that you’re not doing a very good job of it.

The problem with pandering to people is that your creative integrity tends to suffer when you do it. Genesis, for example (the band, not the book), were critical darlings in the music world until they got a few radio hits under their belts. All of a sudden each new release sounded hauntingly similar to their previous release, which sounded hauntingly similar to lead singer Phil Collins’s most recent release. It’s not exactly jumping the shark; it’s more like jumping on the bandwagon.

Now I am not saying that you shouldn’t have Christian characters on your show. Call me biased, but I think Christian characters can bring an intriguing and dynamic energy to a story. But to do so they need to be written three-dimensionally, and Hope has not been written as such. I speak only anecdotally, I freely confess, but I have never attended a Bible study in which a group of people huddled in the dark playing the telephone game with the seven deadly sins and seven cardinal virtues, as you had Hope and Archie experience in your very special Christmas episode. Nor have I attended a Bible study in which the guest (Archie) was expected to have the seven deadly sins and their corresponding cardinal virtues memorized in order. Nor have I attended a Bible study in which a person pretending to be a confessing Christian but espousing a nihilistic spirituality was immediately praised as a guru, as Archie was by Hope.

Those experiences are the accidentals surrounding Hope, of course. Surely the person will be granted full personhood in your writing, correct? Not so, I’m afraid. Hope, apparently, managed to homeschool her way through medical school and acquire a residency at a teaching hospital without learning any actual medicine. Her clinical assessments are not medical but maternal; she coos and frets over patients without thinking to discover what’s actually wrong with them or propose a realistic treatment plan. A doctor who practiced like that would be dismissed from her hospital before her employer could be sued, but for Hope, that’s just another purpose-driven day in a normal Christian life.

Hope, I’m sad to say, is a caricature of a practicing physician, which is unfortunate on a show that portrays the gritty reality of medical practice. Worse in this case, she’s a caricature of a Christian on a show that’s capable of much greater nuance and sympathetic sophistication. Worse than either, she’s a caricature of a human being on a show that has held the bar high in its writing of the humanness of its characters.

If you’re going to capitulate to the cultural trend of “just add Christian,” please don’t surrender your creative talents in the process. ER is a great show and could do a great job exploring the ethical and moral dilemmas of living a life of faith in real time; you’ve added the Christian, now add the depth.

PS: If you need a consultant, my rates are very competitive.

My Other Life Is an Avatar

My friend Jonathan sent me an e-mail that coincidentally touches on a conversation some of us have been having at InterVarsity Press. It centers on www.secondlife.com, a web phenomenon that involves navigating a virtual world by means of an avatar which you create. You can buy “materials,” “property” and even “special qualities” for your virtual self on sites such as e-Bay. For example, you can purchase a house, a music player and even super-speed for your virtual self. Beyond the obvious question this phenomenon raises—which superpower would you buy first?—the discussion can go in all sorts of ways. Check out where Jonathan and I took it, then join the conversation. We’re both mere tourists in the land of secondlife, so we would certainly be helped by some more informed perspectives.

JONATHAN: I think people are drawn to these virtual communities at least in part because they can escape their real life and create the life they think will provide fulfillment. I am not saying I could pull this off on my own, but . . . what about building a virtual church? I am not talking about a building; I am talking about a functioning church where people can worship or hear teaching. Does God call avatars (the real person behind him/her) who are hiding behind their false self to risk exploring the God who sees who they really are?

DAVE: I've seen little forays into virtual church before, and I highly favor them, but as you might imagine there are some limitations. First off, although many people simply recreate themselves in their avatars, many people take advantage of the tech to recreate themselves, so a virtual church would face the heightened challenge of false selves congregating. Not that brick and mortar church communities don't have to deal with hypocricy and secret lives, but secondlife almost presupposes it.

JONATHAN: I agree that a "False Self" poses challenges to an authentic life. I wonder how much different the church is, though, with trying to pretend to be something they are not. Also, if people are running or hiding from their true self in the real world, after living that lie for so long don't they at some level want to stop? To be found?

DAVE: I wonder if there's a way of doing "short term missions" in secondlife as a kind of faith laboratory.

JONATHAN: Corporations are currently investigating how they can use virtual worlds to hold training sessions and meetings, and allow employees from around the world to work together on solving a problem. I am by no means an expert, or even an experienced user of virtual worlds. I do wonder though: is there value if someone could receive, say, evangelism training? What about a small group of disciples “entering the world” to spread the gospel? A place of healing where the hidden can be found in supportive groups? If you applied your learning in an online context, would people give you the time of day? Would trainees become more comfortable in their abilities to share the gospel or answer hard questions? Would their experience be transferable to the real world, or would they become yet another false self?

DAVE: In fact, that might be the angle for an online church: "Be Yourself for a While." It provides confessional space for the false avatar and maybe a link to the real world for people who have gotten too addicted to the controlled environment of a virtual world.

JONATHAN: Corporations spend billions of dollars on value transfer—getting their employees to buy into the corporate values, or creating advertising which causes consumers to see, believe and then take the next step. If you attract the avatar, the greater difficulty may be taking them from a virtual church to an actual church.

DAVE: As far as teaching goes, it might be interesting to explore the analogy of an avatar for the propitiation of Christ or the ministry of the Holy Spirit.

That’s as far as Jonathan and I have gotten. Please do join in: what do you think about virtual Christianity? What appeals to you personally about having a virtual presence in a “second life”? What kinds of relationships would you seek out there? What kind of personal support would you need in order to remain true to yourself? What accountability would you need in order to remain true to God?

Petered Out

This year, to mark the events remembered during Holy Week, I will be playing the apostle Peter in our church’s play, The Living Last Supper. For me it’s a promotion of sorts. Last year I played Matthew, the kooky tax collector: I stood up, said my peace and sat down. Meanwhile Peter stood up, said his peace, danced around, sang a solo and wept bitterly. The only bitter weeping I did was over my lack of time in the spotlight.

This year is very different. This year nobody is just standing up, saying their peace and sitting down again. This year we’re all over the stage—every single one of us. And this year I’m playing Peter, who I’m told should be played at times whiney, at times dim-witted, at times cocky and surly. I’m developing a bit of a complex about what the casting director thinks of me as a person.

I’ll be glad when the play is over, not just because then I can stop singing but because frankly, I’m getting Petered out.

Acting doesn’t come naturally to me, but to authentically portray such a significant, familiar person has been especially challenging. This is Peter, after all: the rock on which Jesus would build his church, the first pope, the undisputed leader of the earliest Christian community. But this same Peter denied Jesus, acted without thinking, lied impulsively, could never quite figure out what anybody was really talking about. He was at times whiney, at times dim-witted, at times cocky and surly. He is a sinner, he is a saint. He is, in short, a lot like me.

Ever since I was a kid I’ve identified with Peter. When I’m feeling self-assured, I think of Peter saying matter-of-factly, “You are the Christ,” as though he and Jesus were surrounded by idiots. When I’m feeling especially special, I think of Jesus saying to Peter, “Blessed are you, Peter . . . on this rock I will build my church.” When I get so mad I could cut someone’s ear off, I think of Peter.

I also think of Peter when I’ve screwed up: when I hem and haw my way through an uncomfortable conversation; when I distance myself from my friends, my family, my faith. I think of Peter when I’m trying to stay undercover and when I’m trying to grab the spotlight. When I think of Peter, I think of paradox, and when I think of paradox, I think of myself.

Yep, playing Peter cuts a little close to the ear, so to speak. Getting up in front of a room full of people to brag about myself and then, moments later, to deny everything I’ve said I believe, makes me a bit uncomfortable. Mix in a little singing, and I’m a nervous wreck.

They say that both John Calvin and Augustine of Hippo see a connection between knowledge of the self and knowledge of God. I might add the knowledge of others to the mix, because it’s in getting to know Peter these last several weeks that I’ve come to know myself in a different way. And in the process of learning Peter and relearning myself, I’m coming into a fresh appreciation of all that God has to deal with, and all that God has already dealt with.

I Need Thee Every Hour: The Devotional Journey of Jack Bauer

I am a Christian fan of 24--the television show that chronicles the activities of counter-terrorism agent Jack Bauer in real time. I own four seasons of the show on DVD and three graphic novels based on the series. I enter contests and send e-mails to people associated with 24--some of whom have even written me back. My 24 superfan resume is nearly complete.

One thing I still lack: a book of devotional readings inspired by TV's 24.

Pop-culture-inspired Christian books are common currency in today's Christian publishing environment. Some such books address interesting questions: people everywhere are wondering what Jesus would say to Drew Barrymore, for example, and speculating what we would learn from a gospel according to McDonald's. There's also plenty of exploration going on to see how modern myths and fantasy tales--from the Chronicles of Narnia to Star Wars--correspond to the Christian story. Let's face it: my own book, Comic Book Character, cashes in on this curiosity.

But really, how many Christian books about The Matrix is one person willing to read? So the Christian publishing industry keeps casting the net wider. Recent entries into the world of pop-culture devotionals include meditations on Charlie & the Chocolate Factory and Napoleon Dynamite. Not having read them, I won't comment on them except to say that they have super-cool covers. But the message behind this steady output of pop-culture Christian literature is essentially this: Anything goes.

"Anything goes" is, I suppose, a defensible notion. God told Moses to tell the Israelites to tell the Egyptians to give them all their stuff, and so the Israelites plundered the Egyptians, the argument goes. Why can't we plunder the treasures of pop culture for the glory and mission of God?

That may be true, but I'd like to test the theory (and, in the interest of full disclosure, feed my inner geek) by writing a devotional based on the anti-terrorist exploits of federal agent Jack Bauer. Consider what follows chapter one of my never-to-be-published, completely-tongue-in-cheek, utterly-at-odds-with-my-values I Need Thee Every Hour: The Devotional Journey of Jack Bauer:

Today Is the Longest Day of My Life

"Say it again, or I'll break your other wrist!" In pursuing the cause of justice and national security, Jack Bauer often has to resort to extreme measures. The willfulness of his opponents slows down Jack's progress without slowing down the clock. For Jack, every minute--every second--counts, and so he must count the cost of every delay.

Jack is an extreme disciple of justice--by any means necessary. Ultimately, Jack wins every contest of the wills because he is willing to do more, to his enemy and even to himself, than anybody else. Jack has submitted himself to prison, torture, even death in the pursuit of justice, and in the end his sacrifice is always vindicated.

As we attempt to live lives of personal virtue and righteousness, can the same be said of us? How far are we willing to go to be right with God? How much are we willing to sacrifice?

Sometimes, if we're honest, we'll recognize that too often we are like the terrorists Jack battles. Our will gets in the way of righteousness, and so our will must be broken. Once broken, it needs to be cast with a stronger mold so that we will what is right rather than what is wrong.

Once our will is rightly set, our story, and the story we find ourselves in, can continue to be told.

"Do not be like a horse or a mule,
without understanding,
whose temper must be curbed
with bit and bridle."
--Psalm 32:9

Once again--and please hear me on this--it's a JOKE! This is categorically NOT what I would want to read first thing in the morning. It would almost certainly guarantee the longest day of my life. Nevertheless, I welcome your comments.

***

For more meditations on why we love Jack Bauer, listen to the February 22 entry at Lin's Bin.

Good News, Sports Fans

There are three (count em) televisions in the men’s locker room at my gym. That’s approximately one every twenty feet—except that two of them are five feet apart. They’re also about seven feet off the ground, which means I can’t change the channels (I’ve got a pretty unimpressive standing vertical leap), which means I’m at the mercy of everyone else for what I watch.

Of course, television is even more captivating in a locker room than in the comfort of your own home, largely because in a locker room anywhere else you look is likely populated by some naked guy. So imagine my distress when I’m happily listening to Katie Couric telling me all about the latest person to get kicked off American Idol, and some seven-foot-tall, python-armed naked brute unceremoniously changes three television stations to SportsCenter. It’s disorienting, it’s emasculating, it’s . . . hmm . . . interesting . . .

There’s no doubt about it: sports reporting is a lot more captivating than news reporting. Part of that is the silliness that often gets reported as news: what Paris Hilton wore to Amy Grant’s CD release party isn’t technically news, and compared to the excellence being celebrated in sports reporting, the overnight weather forecast isn’t terribly compelling. But more than anything, sports reporting is distinctively exciting because sports reporters can often barely contain themselves.

They might be reporting plays that happened moments ago in a key contest or decades ago in career highlights for some sports luminary. They might be looking at the week in review or the season to come. Whatever they’re reporting, sports reporters are passionate about it. Even the most inconsequential sporting event of the week—say, a high school JV football preseason scrimmage—holds the reporter’s full attention and occasionally elicits a yell or a scream right into the microphone. We the viewers find ourselves on the edge of our seats, waiting along with the reporter for someone on the field to wow us.

That’s not so much journalism as it is witness: the sports reporter mediates the experience of unleashed potential for the audience, and we’re all wowed together. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, it all gets chronicled for us, and we trust that one day we will remember not just what these athletes did but how we felt when they did it. And it’s entirely possible that future generations of fans will be able to revisit this moment and witness what we’ve witnessed. The span of time may make news old, but it will never make witness obsolete.

We memorize facts and figures that at some point were news—George Washington was the first president of the United States, the Allies won World War II—but we’re inspired by the chronicles of witness. The Gospels, for example, don’t tell us what we often tell one another about Jesus: “We are all sinners; Jesus came to earth to die on a cross and save us from our sins; Jesus rose again and went to heaven to prepare a place for us.” All this is true and important, which is why we call it the good news. And all of it is contained within the Gospels. But the Gospels tell us Jesus’ story more completely than that, and they tell it through eyewitness accounts. We watch Jesus confront the Pharisees, we hear him raise Lazarus from the dead, we see him transfigured and resurrected, we even touch the scars on his hands and in his side—all vicariously, all through his awestruck witnesses. And their awe becomes our awe, and we realize experientially how awesome Jesus really is.

But we also hear through these witnesses that Jesus calls us to be witnesses as well: not cold, dispassionate purveyors of the mere facts of Christianity but witnesses. That’s how the faith has been communicated down through the centuries and throughout the world, and when people witness Jesus, they can’t help but hear what he says as good news.

***

This piece originally ran at the Sports Outreach website. If you're wondering why a sports ministry would have any interest in what I have to say, I'm wondering right alongside you, but they're good people doing good work.

Good Noise

I'm about to become Charlie Brown. I'm playing the part in a sketch for our church's Christmas pageant. I've got the dance down, which does me no good, because the part doesn't call for dancing. Instead, I've got to figure out how to match Charlie Brown's odd speech patterns and, more than anything, how to move naturally between having no mouth and having a huge, gaping hole of nothingness as I speak.

The scene we're doing is from the Charlie Brown Christmas special--Charlie Brown is talking to Linus. It's an interesting movement from Charlie's desperation to Linus's serene retelling of the Christmas story. I was cast because I'm good at being loud; my counterpart is pretty soft-spoken and a really good dramatic reader.

We ran lines last night, and whereas my big problem was how wide to open my mouth, Linus stumbled over one phrase: "good news of great joy." This was the herald angel announcing the birth of Jesus to the shepherds keeping watch at night, et cetera et cetera. On our first pass the phrase was conflated into two words: "good noise."

There's a paradox built into the Christmas story: heavenly peace, on one hand, and really loud angels on the other. We're often inclined to equate silence with godliness, stoic impassibility with holiness. But one of most significant moments in world history--the birth of God--was a spectacle of sound and light.

There is such a thing as "good noise," I think, and particularly as it relates to "good news." The prophet Isaiah speaks to it:

How beautiful on the mountains

are the feet of those who bring good news,

who proclaim peace,

who bring good tidings,

who proclaim salvation,

who say to Zion,

"Your God reigns!"

This seems as good a time as any to let you know about my new blog, which will run independently of this one. I've long been a fan of "loud time" as a way to balance an inordinate fascination with the evangelical practice of "quiet time," so I've inaugurated Loud Time as a place to explore and live out the concept of spiritual life together. Check it out and let me know what you think.

In any event, may you have good noise this Christmas, and may you sleep in heavenly peace.

Loud Time

By David A. Zimmerman

I hear all kinds of noise about the "quiet time." It's something of a boundary marker—we prove our Christian faith by how regularly we steal away for private prayer and Bible study; the longer our "quiet time" is, the more spiritual we are. I hear stories about people like Mother Teresa being "too busy not to spend at least four hours a day in prayer." I see a lot of people spell it with capital letters—"Quiet Time," like "Holy Communion"—just to give it some extra gravitas.

Advocates of the "quiet time" appeal to the times when Jesus went off by himself to a quiet place to pray and think. Jesus made major decisions in moments such as these, it's true. But what's most notable to me about Jesus' quiet times is how little ink they get in the Bible. Much more attention in the Gospels goes to Jesus' "loud time."

Now, loud time doesn't share the mystique of a quiet time. Where would you more likely expect to find God anyway—in a cave or at a circus? But we have to ask ourselves what classification most of life falls under—quiet or loud—and the answer is quite simply loud. We are active, communal people, and solitude cannot by itself fulfill our needs.

Of course, I have nothing against the quiet time. Some of my most meaningful moments have been alone with God. But then, I have to say that, don't I? A more mind-blowing statement would be that some of my most meaningful moments have been with others and God. God, after all, is not Snuffleupagus—some imaginary friend who goes into hiding when other people come into the room. In fact, Jesus tells us that "where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them." God wants to be found by us—as many of us as are willing.

God speaks to us through others, and he speaks to others through us. A greater awareness of God's presence and guidance comes through a devotional engagement in conversation, listening for God's voice in the voices we're met with. But it's not only the sound of voices that characterizes loud time. As much as Jesus' major decisions were made in quiet, God's major interventions in history were noisy. Witness the parties that commenced after the Jews crossed the Red Sea, the annual feast of Purim and the mayhem surrounding Pentecost. There are many, many more such occasions of celebration, and each occurrence is thick with spiritual meaning and loud as they come.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that gentle Jesus is meek and mild while God the Father is raucous and unruly. Jesus could be as noisy as the next guy: he raised a ruckus in the temple area and shouted down the hypocrisy of the Pharisees. Much of Jesus' ministry was conducted out loud, following in the great tradition of prophets from Amos to Zephaniah.

To be frank, quiet time without loud time would be meaningless. What kind of life would it be if nobody said nothing all the time? Of course loud time without quiet time would be likewise untenable: I would lose my mind if I lived, moved and had my being in an arcade or a casino. But whether we are quiet and alone or loud and in the thick of it, we have this promise: we are always accompanied by the one who will never leave or forsake us. And that is cause for all kinds of noise.

Blame God

You knew someone was going to say it, and worse yet, put it on the Internet. And that’s what happened; some preacher is preaching online that God sent Hurricane Katrina to purge New Orleans of sin.

Really though, posting something stupid online is a national pastime, isn’t it? I do it every week, and nobody makes a big deal of it. But a local radio station has been grinding its teeth about this particular statement, with DJs taking opportunity to make public mockery of people of faith.

Meanwhile, here are some of the similarly obnoxious theories about the source and intent of Hurricane Katrina, found on Google yet unchallenged on radio:

New Orleans mayor fears CIA to take him out

Did the Shadow Government decide to sacrifice an entire city, New Orleans, to cover up the coming news of Bush fraud and bribery and in order to further rig the price of oil?

As the White House unsuccessfully insists on seizing control of the Louisiana National Guard to institute full-blown martial law in New Orleans, it has brought in foreign troops moving on the Western and Eastern borders of the state.

Ivan and Katrina: These are both very Russian sounding names. . . . The former Soviet Union (fSU) developed and boasted of weather modification technology during the 1960’s and 70’s with deployment against the United States coming in 1976.

Blame Christians. Blame the CIA. Blame the Mexican military. Blame the evil Soviet weather machine. Blame God. No matter how you slice it, it’s still crackers.

What can you say to a person who floats such a cockamamie theory? On the flip side, what can you say to a person who exploits such absurdities in order to spout their own unedited ejaculations about the government or the culture or the Creator?

We’re faced with a dilemma of biblical proportions: Answer a fool according to his folly, or don’t answer a fool according to his folly? In his book Orthodoxy, G. K. Chesterton dealt with this sort of manic cockiness better than just about anybody, so I’ll quote him at length:

The lunatic’s theory explains a large number of things, but it does not explain them in a large way. I mean that if you or I were dealing with a mind that was growing morbid, we should be chiefly concerned not so much to give it arguments as to give it air, to convince it that there was something cleaner and cooler outside the suffocation of a single argument. . . .

Perhaps when the man in the street did not seem to see you it was only his cunning; perhaps when the policeman asked you your name it was only because he knew it already. But how much happier you would be if you only knew that these people cared nothing about you! How much larger your life would be if your self could become smaller in it; if you could really look at other men with common curiosity and pleasure; if you could see them walking as they are in their sunny selfishness and their virile indifference! . . .

Perhaps you know that you are the King of England; but why do you care? Make one magnificent effort and you will be a human being and look down on all the kings of the earth.

Or it might be the third case, of the madman who called himself Christ. If we said what we felt, we should say, “How much happier you would be, how much more of you there would be, if the hammer of a higher God could smash your small cosmos, scattering the stars like spangles, and leave you in the open, free like other men to look up as well as down!”

***

Now in English!
My book Comic Book Character has been picked up by a publisher in the Philippines. Everything about the book is identical to the American edition--right down to the flip animation--except that apparently the generic superheroes on the American cover won't play in Manila, so they've replaced them with all-new generic superheroes. I guess we could think of it as Justice League: Far East.

Anyway, if you happen to be in the Philippines, pick one up!

Putting Words in Jesus' Mouth

A friend of mine passed me a link I wanted to pass on to you. Some church somewhere found some films about Jesus and overdubbed the dialogue with some of the common misconceptions about how God relates to us. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll laugh . . . Link and instructions follow.

Go to

www.vintage21.com

and then it's tricky because the videos are pretty deep into the site

first "enter site"
then click on the video projector toward top left of screen
click on "videos"
go to page 2
"downloadable versions available here"

Confessions of a Former Catholic

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.

Building a Better Giraffe

Depending on your perspective, I'm either really good or really bad with kids. I can get them riled up like nobody's business--get em jumping and screaming and dancing and singing--but I can't get them to stop. I'm the crazy uncle, not the disciplinarian dad.

Usually I'm cool with that. I like to goof off, and goofiness loves company. But every once in a while I like to get serious. This week, for example, I was the master of ceremonies for our church's vacation Bible school: Serengeti Trek (where kids are wild about God!). I've had five straight days of kids screaming at me, climbing on me, dancing with me and running past me. Good times.

The first night I got a bit carried away and tried to pick up a delicately assembled cardboard giraffe. It promptly fell apart, causing no end of trauma to my screaming minions. I made a joke of it and moved on. Good times.

Every subsequent night I destroyed the same giraffe, again and again, like some torturous ritual. You'd think that Presbyterians hate giraffes for all the carnage I practiced. But the kids got appropriately desensitized, and their concern for the giraffe turned into sick, twisted laughter. Good times.

The theme of our last night was "Work for God," and I decided that I could illustrate what it meant to participate in God's redemptive work by repairing the giraffe. Because God loves me, and because God has made right what I made wrong, I can now work with God to continue to fix what's been broken. I can restore the giraffe to life and health. We can fix broken relationships and help our friends and loved ones to give their troubles to God and be healed. Brilliant, right?

So I shared my little metaphor in front of a crowd of fidgety kids, casting a vision of working for God while fixing the giraffe right in front of them. By the time I finished, they were looking directly at a better giraffe, and I led them in prayer. Good times.

As soon as I finished my benediction and sent everybody off for donuts, a kid ran up to me and shouted, "Time to kill the giraffe again!"

I've built a better giraffe and created a congregation of giraffe killers. God help us all.

***

It's official! I'll be serving as chaplain of the Wizard World: Chicago comic book convention from August 4 through August 8. Should be fun; I'll be giving a homily and everything. God help us all.

Keep an eye or an ear out for my reports on the convention at Pop Matters.com, Infuze Magazine and Bill Hogg's radio program in Seattle, Washington.

Rocky Mountain High

by David A. Zimmerman

I’ve heard of mountaintop experiences for years now, but I think I finally get what people are talking about.

“Mountaintop experiences” in religious jargon refers to the sense of awe that we experience when we’re away from our normal context and being exposed to challenging concepts about God and his call on our lives. Or something like that. Whatever they are, they’re fundamentally different from our ordinary experience.

My most recent mountaintop experience was in Vail, Colorado, at the national gathering of an organization called the Vine. I interacted with lots of really smart, really deep people interested in “building the City of God” or, if that’s too churchy for you, “infusing our contemporary context with Jesus’ vision for community life.” Either way, I found myself breathless after nearly every conversation, and near-delirious after every session of communal worship.

In the interest of intellectual honesty and full disclosure, however, I should mention that I also found myself breathless after climbing a flight of stairs or even simply walking from the coffee bar to the dinner table. And I found myself near-delirious after lifting my suitcase from the floor to the bed.

This is Vail, people—I was uphill from Denver, “the mile-high city.” And while that may sound insignificant to people who live among hills, for me this was more than a mile higher than I’ve been for an extended period of time ever in my life. I’m from Illinois, and before that from Iowa, both of which are known for their flatness. The air in Vail is quite a bit thinner than the air in Chicago, and so I was oxygen-deprived for most of the duration of the conference.

Along with my breathless delirium, I was also quite often shocked by the things I was hearing from the podium or the panel. But more often than that I was shocked by the elevator button or the metal doorframe or even my keycard as I slid it into the lock on my hotel room. The air is so dry in Vail this time of year that it’s effectively ready to zap you at a moment’s notice.

So what’s a person to think when they’re at a religious gathering and constantly breathless, delirious and charged with electricity? I’m reminded of the swoon, an experience associated with the Second Great Awakening of the early 1800s. I wrote a song about it once. People would hear sermons and faint—and this wasn’t the falling-asleep kind of swooning that goes on in our own day. Some liken the phenomenon to the bewildering experiences of early Christians in the biblical book of Acts; some attribute the swoon to some kind of social psychology. I’m willing to imagine it a bit of both and leave it at that.

In any event, I’m cynical and perhaps humble enough to be skeptical of the mountaintop experience, particularly now that I’m safely back in the eastern suburbs of the Great Plains. Breathlessness and delirium and shock certainly have their place in the life of faith, but day in and day out I’m going to have to walk by faith in plain old Illinois, which, even though it’s flat, carries its own charge with it.

Fun with Doctrinal Statements

by David A. Zimmerman

It’s the beginning of InterVarsity’s fiscal year, which means it’s time once again for me to annually reaffirm InterVarsity’s doctrinal basis. I’m happy to do so, but as my saintly mommy always says, read it before you sign it. (Actually, I’m pretty sure she never said that, but she’d sign it if she read it.)

As I reread the statement, I realized that I hardly ever read anything like it anymore. So I thought it would be an interesting experiment to write something common, ordinary—like our instructions for people who feed our cats while we're away—in the style of a doctrinal statement. Here goes . . .

Ahem.

The Zimmerman Declaration Regarding Care of Cats

We believe in the regular and persistent nourishment of cats who are in our care—that even in our absence they require and deserve, as creations of the Creator God, food and drink.

In keeping with this belief, we keep a stock of both dry and moist food for our cats, which may be found under the sink in our kitchen.

We acknowledge that our cats, who have not been blessed with opposable thumbs, are at the mercy of human beings to negotiate the packages that contain their food.

We therefore expect that whoever pledges to care for our cats in our absence will regularly prepare and serve both moist and dry cat food to our cats on our behalf.

We likewise keep a dish filled with water easily accessible for our cats, and we anticipate that our surrogate will replenish the water as needed from the pitcher in our refrigerator.

We also strive to keep the lid to our toilet down, in order to discourage our cats from drinking water that we hold to be unhealthy, and we expect similar stewardship of the toilet water while we are away.

We believe that the air quality of our home will be compromised by the neglect, over time, of our cats’ litter box.

We further believe that the contents of our cats’ litter box should not be flushed down the toilet, but instead should be bagged and discarded with the rest of our trash on a regular basis.

In keeping with this belief, we maintain a ready supply of bags for use in discarding the contents of the litter box in the hope that our cat’s steward will regularly dispense with said contents.

We have come to accept that our cats will hide under the bed when strangers enter our home; therefore we expect that our surrogate will rarely (indeed, perhaps never) see our cats while we are away.

And while we mourn, on behalf of this faithful friend, the apparent absence of our cats during the tenure of stewardship, we trust in our cats’ prevailing presence, though hidden.

And we wait in joyful hope for our return home and our blessed reunion with our cats, kept safe in our absence.

With Gratitude,
The Zimmermans

Karen Sloan, an up-and-coming (you might say “emerging”) minister I met at a conference, offered this postmodern-esque critique of my doctrine of cat care:

Pet parents in the emerging culture may look back on our declarations (systematic instructions, etc.) as we look back on medieval litter boxes: possessing a real beauty that should be preserved, but now largely vacant, not inhabited or used much anymore, more tourist attraction than holy place. . . . If pet parenting doesn’t bear fruit in a way or rhythm or pattern of life that yields well cared for cats in real measure, they aren’t interested.

Which just goes to show, you can make fun of virtually anything.

***

I can't let pass without comment the two particularly weird advertisements I've seen recently. One is a TV commercial from Mitchum, with all the markings of a beer or hard liquor ad, except that it's selling deodorant: "If you've ever WAITED TILL THE COMMERCIAL . . . [cue hard rock music] . . . to CHANGE A DIAPER . . . then you're a MITCHUM MAN." Even weirder, I think, is the full page sexy ad for Rohto V redness relief eye drops, with the blurred images and the hip font and color changes: "are you ready for the Rohto V experience?" Brought to you, incidentally, by The Mentholatum Co., Inc.

The Cedar Journals, Final Entry

I spent a week recently at Cedar Campus, a camping facility associated with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. I was serving as staff for “Encountering God,” a study track for college students. I drove there alone, and I drove home alone, but in between I ate, played and bunked with a bunch of people I’d never met. Being a neurotically social person, I found my transition into camp life difficult, and I caught myself journaling quite a lot. The journal is presented here, in chronological installments, for your own amusement.

Last one, I promise.

Wednesday, May 18
The worst of my anxiety seems to have passed. I’ve learned and remembered the names of the people in my cabin and my small group. I’ve survived the first of my two talks. I’ve gotten some sleep. I’ve read and written myself to the point that I have little left to explore inward.

And yet I still continue to meet new people—to share table with students and staff whose faces are completely unfamiliar to me. That means a reintroduction, over and over again.

My name’s Dave . . . Nice to meet you . . . I’m not with a school . . . I’m with InterVarsity Press . . . an editor . . . I’m on the "Encountering God" track . . .

There are a lot of people here, and they’re for the most part surprisingly willing to share themselves. In that sense they’re a lot like satellite television. I’m overwhelmed by the range of opportunities before me to meet new people, make new friends and witness God’s work on all sorts of college campuses.

But there’s only so many people I can truly get to know here, and in that sense my small group is a lot like TiVo. I set aside time to settle down with them, getting to know deeply whom otherwise I would have only scratched the surface of.

I guess I miss my TV.

Thursday, May 19
Still Water
When the sun comes out
And the wind stops blowing,
The waters surrounding me come to their rest.

As they rest, so do I.
I soak sun and look past waves and currents
To scan the horizon—
My future wide open.
My sky my only limit.

And yet . . .

There are still these waters.
And still or not, these waters must be crossed
Before I reach my horizon.

And who knows what future they bring me.
And who knows how long my strength will hold out.

But for now the water is still
And I am at rest.

Friday, May 20
The Bridge
There is a bridge
in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
It spans the meeting point of two great lakes
And so it goes on and on and on.

We pay for the privilege of crossing that bridge
when we come to it.
Some believe it leads to Shangri-La
Bali Hai
Utopia
Paradise
Mackinac

But I know it leads to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—
a place no more majestic than the land to its south
a place no more protected from the sins and sons of the earth.

But it does have its bridge,
which goes on and on and on—
far beyond you’d think a bridge could safely go.
Were it not for this bridge
We’d have no promise
of safely reaching our destination
of coming to Paradise
of coming home.

***

If you live in or near McHenry, Illinois, stop by the Borders Book Store there Saturday, July 9, at 2:00. I'll be signing books and would love some company. That's the day after The Fantastic Four opens in theaters across the country, and while I've been skeptical about the film, I must confess I'm now getting giddy.

Recalling John Paul

by David A. Zimmerman

I met Pope John Paul II once. Well, met is perhaps too strong a term. I saw him once, from about a thousand feet away, and I was about four feet tall in a throng of six-footers at the time, so perhaps saw is too strong a word as well. But considering how little I remember clearly of my childhood, the fact that I remember my encounter with the pope is in itself significant.

I was nine when the relatively new pope came to Des Moines, Iowa, in 1979. The rock band KISS was having a concert that night, and I must confess, I wanted to go to the concert. I wasn’t too familiar with KISS, but they wore funky outfits and I could buy their action figures in the toy store. The pope did not have an action figure, and for a nine-year-old sensibility, that made him second-rate.

I remember my aunt and presumably her boyfriend coming to town to see the pope with us. I remember parking at K-Mart and taking a long and hilly walk from there to the Living History Farms. I remember entertaining ourselves with songs and word-games and various other distractions. I remember John Paul stepping off a helicopter and kissing the earth. I remember next to nothing of what he said, but I remember thinking that our deacon must be pretty important, as he was in the progression of church officers who greeted our special guest.

I’ve not regretted missing KISS since the pope came to town, but I have wished that I had a better memory or a better attention span, or that I had been taller or older when he came. But that’s mainly because I am biased toward my intellect: the fact that I was one person among thousands who traveled great distances simply to be the church is less significant than the likelihood that I missed out on something memorable that the pope said.

Where does this elevation of words come from? Why is a pilgrimage, however short, less substantial than a sermon outline, however wordy?

A few years after my encounter, Marvel Comics published a comic-biography of John Paul II. In the comic we read the perspective of a reporter experiencing something very similar to what I experienced on the outskirts of Des Moines: the pope greeting the faithful throng in what was called New York but what could have been Des Moines, Mexico City, Toronto, Warsaw or Havana.

Like me, the reporter’s attention drifted from the words of this speaker to the life and deeds of the pope. Here was a man who had suffered through the Nazi and Soviet occupations of Poland, who had represented his faith throughout the world even before his ascendancy, who had been thrust into the papacy after the sudden death of his predecessor. He was younger than you might expect a pope to be, and for someone so in love with the ground, he spent a lot of time in the air, flying from country to country.

The comic culminates in an assassination attempt and, more important, the forgiveness extended by the pope to his assailant. At that point, all words fell short, and the measure of this man was made clear through the witness of his actions.

I have a friend who has taken an audience with John Paul. He keeps a photo of that encounter in his office, and the look of serenity on his face is more telling than the words he uses to describe the experience or even the words the pope might have spoken to him. I will miss John Paul, not so much for his words or even for his actions: I will miss him because in 1979 I knew that I was not alone, that even when the day ended I remained surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses that extends beyond myself or my house or even my generation. And to be in that number—to have experienced the grace of God that translates so naturally into forgiveness of even the gravest of sins—that is enough.

The Church with Nothing to Say

by David A. Zimmerman

Every time I drive past a billboard with nothing on it I’m a bit startled. I suppose that’s how I know that I’m being affected by advertising—I miss it when it’s missing. I also notice the signs that read “Advertise Here”: I feel something like an obligation to advertise there, to fill the spot that we as an economy have abandoned to loneliness.

But in all my days I don’t recall ever seeing a blank sign outside a church until a few weeks ago. I was driving down the street and realized that this church—a mainstay in my community for decades—had nothing to say to me. I was startled, of course, but I found myself moving through a range of emotions, from offense to confusion to panic to despair to anticipation.

I expect more out of church billboards, I guess. Most billboards sit in isolation from the wares they hawk—they’re jutting out of the ground on a roadside in the middle of nowhere, while the product they promote is being canned, bottled or wrapped in a sweatshop on the other side of the world, for all I know. Or they’re clumped together along the interstate clamoring for attention, sometimes morphing from one message to another as we drive past. Once again the product exists only in the imagination of the observer. It can’t be tasted or touched from where we sit.

In contrast, church billboards sit in the church’s front lawn. You know (or you think you know) who the author is of whatever message they project, and you process that message based on what you read. My all-time favorite church billboard message was a sermon title followed by a general message:

Eternal Conscious Punishment

Visitors Welcome

But this church had nothing to say to me. At first I was offended: it’s the church’s job to say something to me, isn’t it? But then I wondered what it means when a church has nothing to say. It’s a frightening thought, really. This is the institution, we’re taught, that’s been entrusted by God with “the words of eternal life.” If the church has run out of words, perhaps God has run out of words for us—perhaps God has given up on us.

Then again, perhaps God is just clearing his throat. Billboards don’t stay blank for long. They’re either torn down or given a new message. Perhaps the church is preparing itself to convey the next big message from God. As Moses said to the people of Israel, “They are not just idle words for you—they are your life.” This is my life—coming soon to a billboard near me.

The next time I saw the billboard it did indeed bear a new message: “Pancake Breakfast Saturday, 9 to 11.”

***

I haven't given an update on my book in a while. It's still in stores, and I'm still occasionally being interviewed about it. I suspect that the spring and summer movie season will revive interest in the subject matter; there are three major theatrical releases related to comic books in the next four months. I'll be having a number of related articles published soon, and keep in mind that there's a free discussion guide available for download that gives you an excuse to watch six classic superhero movies with all your friends.

If you've read the book and enjoyed it, consider writing a review on Amazon.com or similar bookselling websites. I'd be your buddy!

From the Heart

by David A. Zimmerman
It was a bright and sunny Valentine’s day this year. I opened a card from my wife before leaving for work. Then I had a conversation about how blood is represented by black ink in comic books. Then I had a conversation with a friend who had just cut his wrist. Then I went to donate blood.

On that particular Valentine’s day, red didn’t so much symbolize love and affection as it did blood—which, if you think about it, is appropriate. The heart, which we celebrate so zealously every February 14, doesn’t pump out chocolate or liqueur or butter cream or caramel; it pumps out blood. And blood is as symbol