IVP - Strangely Dim

You Are the Marketing Plan

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

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

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 Add to that the common temperament of writers--withdrawn, quiet, bookish, occasionally indolent--and you have a recipe for futility.

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

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

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.

Retreat! Retreat!

Last weekend I attended the annual winter retreat for my church's high school youth group. It was my fifth winter retreat with this group, and while the kids are fantastic, the snow beautiful and the options for activity numerous, to be perfectly honest this retreat usually makes me want to--well, retreat. A long winter weekend in northern Wisconsin with a couple hundred high-energy people does not a happy space-heater-loving introvert make. In years past, the goodness of being away and the fun of being with students were somewhat overridden by coldness, lack of sleep and a desperate desire at some point in the weekend to find some place--inside--besides a small shower or bathroom stall to be alone.

After all that, I get back Sunday night, almost too tired to drag my poor suitcase--overstuffed as it is with almost everything warm I own--through the church parking lot to my car. Then I try to decide if an overpowering need for personal space can constitute a sick day on Monday. I always decide it can't, so I drag myself to work Monday morning after emerging from a sleep so sound that I'm pretty sure not even the arrival of firefighters to put out a fire in my own bedroom would wake me up. (I probably would just enjoy the extra warmth a fire brings.) Needless to say, I approached this year's retreat with some trepidation.

But, even with trepidation intact, the retreat last weekend was a good one--maybe my favorite of the five years I've attended. The senior girls, my coleader and I had a cabin all to ourselves, and therefore lots of time to talk and laugh and eat chocolate. And I actually got to play in the snow--as opposed to just scraping it off my car and driving around in it like I've been doing at home. And the camp has peanut butter and bread set out the entire weekend, day and night, for the snacking. You can hardly complain about a camp that is hospitable enough to provide peanut butter round the clock. Not to mention the fact that the youth group I help with won the extraordinarily competitive broomball tournament, my fellow youth leaders and I successfully snuck the speaker's car onto the broomball court during the final large-group worship session, and I learned that high school students still like to be read to.

In the midst of the fun and the stress and exhaustion of a retreat that was not exactly a retreat, I was tired enough, quiet enough, still enough, open enough to listen to God and watch for God and hear God and see God. I was also reminded what an amazing privilege it is to walk alongside others--especially this small group of fantastic senior girls whom I've watched grow and learn for the past three-and-a-half years--and help them look for and see God too.

I'll admit that the following weekend I thought a couple of times how grateful I was to be in my own bed and apartment, to be warm, to not have to be constantly social. But I've also been even more grateful for the girls I lead, and for the ways and places God speaks. Extraordinary Tiredness met God and had to depend on God in new ways. And God answered--like he does here, in the midst of my everyday life when I'm still enough, quiet enough, open enough to go to him.

While you ponder that, I'm going to go fix something hot to drink and turn up my space heater. I'm still making up for lost time.

I Vote for Waffles

True confession: I'm waffling. Floundering, if you will. And not because I've been eating a lot of breakfast food and fish. Why am I feeling even more strangely dim than usual, you ask? Because we're in the thick of the primaries for the presidential campaign, and because we're actually in the year of the election now, and because I don't know what I think.

Politics and I are like--well, maybe like third cousins: I've heard some good stories about him, I've heard some bad stories about him, we only meet about once every two or four years. Mostly we live as indifferent relatives, with occasional, hard-to-ignore reminders that we are, in fact, related by blood.

Some days it seems to me like politicians are the ones who can really make a difference; they can make the systemic changes needed to really help people. But other days it's hard for me to tell if there's anyone in it for anything other than themselves.

During election time, I generally get cynical: frustrated by the blame on all sides and the obscure mistakes dragged out of candidates' pasts, tired of hearing people talk without saying anything, and sick at the thought of all the money that gets spent on campaigns that could go to, say, paying off the national debt, providing health insurance or improving education (Oh man/woman--to be politically correct--I'm starting to sound like a politician).

But I also think voting is a great privilege, one that I want to take seriously. I appreciate the freedom we have in America. I'm grateful that there are people pursuing careers in public service, fighting for a better life for others through good government. I'm glad--though I cannot for the life of me understand it--people want to run for president.

Now, I realize that some of you Strangely Dim friends may be way ahead of me. Election years might be your favorite years. You might be watching and rewatching every debate, hanging posters of your favorite candidate from your windows, planning your next vacation to said favorite candidate's hometown to take pictures of the house they grew up in and interview their dentist and elementary teachers, and taping said favorite candidate's photo to your travel coffee mug.

Or you might be feeling like I am: a little overwhelmed by it all, interested but confused, conflicted over issues and candidates.

If that's you, here's a story for you, and maybe some help. A coworker of mine and Dave's sent around a link to a charmingly helpful and seemingly objective quiz (probably one of many out there) that helps you see how you match up with candidates on particular issues. Dave took the quiz. I took the quiz. Here were my results: my last-choice candidate and my first-choice candidate (preresearch preferences) tied for first as far as a match for me. For Dave, the two candidates he's most inclined to support wound up in sixth and tenth place, while the candidate he's most turned off by came in first, and someone he's never even heard of took fourth place. How is this helpful, you might ask? It's helpful because it reminds us of the importance of really knowing the issues more than getting caught up in the hype of campaigns and candidates. I had to leave some questions blank, to be honest, because I didn't know enough about the issue to say what I think. The website, however, is a helpful starting point for me in becoming more familiar with candidates and their stance on particular issues.

So that's where I'm at in my election processing: a bit muddled, but relieved I have till November to figure out what I think. Take heart. Persevere; you won't see donkeys and elephants and red, white and blue forever every time you turn on the television or close your eyes. This election year, like all those before it, will end. But, while we're in the speech-making season, allow me to offer a few more parting words (hey, if everyone else gets to make a speech, I want a little air time too.) Ahem. In this election year, 2008, whether you choose to vote or not, and whomever you choose to vote for: choose thoughtfully. What happens in America affects millions of people, here and around the world. Know the issues. Know the candidates. Know what you're choosing and why. Waffling or not, go grab a real waffle and spend some time researching, listening, praying. I promise (and I can back it up), it won't be time wasted. (If you get syrup on your keyboard, though, don't blame me.)

The Words We Use: New Words for a New Year

I'm feeling foursquare about using new words this year. Actually, not so much new words as two very old words in a new way: thank you.

Now, if you know me, you've heard me use those words often. I am unfailingly polite. I always say my pleases and thank-yous, and write thank-you notes after Christmas and birthdays. (I am not, however, unfailingly punctual, so the note may unfortunately arrive a few months late. My apologies if you haven't received a thank-you note yet for the birthday gift you sent me in July.) In high school I think I may, on occasion, have driven a few opponents crazy during tennis matches by my thank-yous when they returned balls to me. I sign my e-mails and end the messages I leave in voicemail with "thanks," even when I haven't asked the other person to do anything and am, in fact, getting back to them about something they need me to do. Thank you, in other words, rolls off my tongue easily.

And I mean it, of course, when I say it. But sometimes I think it comes out a little too easily. Without enough thought. Without me lingering in the gratitude, or really pondering what another person did or said, what they may have sacrificed on my behalf.

Now, I realize that if a word is going to slip out without you noticing, "thank you" is a pretty good choice. No need to cover the kids' ears. But the words are too important to say thoughtlessly. Gratitude is too important a gift to slide over or miss.

Even more, I'm noticing all the times I have opportunity to say thank you (followed by specific words of affirmation) and don't: to coworkers who are excellent at their jobs and who make mine easier, to my landlord who takes such good care of our building, to the pastors at my church who give so much, to family and friends who overwhelm me with their generosity. Every day I miss many opportunities to say thank you.

My goal is not, of course, to simply increase the number of times I say thank you in a day, as if reaching a certain quota will land me a spot on Oprah. Too many thank-yous will most likely drive those around me crazy. And repetition, after all, can cheapen a word, to the point where no one believes you're sincere when you say it. But saying thank you more intentionally, with specifics after it, will, I believe, cultivate a deeper attitude of genuine gratitude in me.

Our consumer culture, obviously, tries to make us discontent and nurses a baleful spirit of jealousy, bitterness, anger. Personal struggles have also added a deeper bitterness in my heart that comes out more times than I 'm willing to admit, along with an impatient longing to move out of the stuck places I find myself in. But intentional thank-yous to God and others force me to see what's good, what's true, and help me recognize the gifts around me in people and circumstances.

So I've determined to start and end each day with thanksgiving. Some days, I suspect, I will say my thank-yous to God with gritted teeth, and there will be long pauses between the first and second item while I rack my brain for something to thank him for; my vision, unfortunately, can be extremely dim and extraordinarily unimaginative. But the intentional stopping and thinking of what I'm truly grateful for, and the act of actually saying thank you to God in recognition that he is good, and he gives good gifts, seem like hopeful steps toward becoming a truly grateful person, whose heart and mouth overflow with thanks in genuine gratitude for what others and God give.

So let me say to you: thank you for reading, for commenting, for being willing to let me process and share the ugly and beautiful with you. I'm truly grateful.

Saying Goodbye

I have never been good at saying goodbye. Part of the reason is probably because my family is very rooted—I grew up in the house that my grandparents built, that my father grew up in, and that I hope my own children will live in (or at least visit). I attended the same elementary and high schools as my grandmother and my father, and my friends remained the same for the first eighteen years of my life. As you can probably imagine, I don’t like change. I like stability. I appreciate rootedness.

But I am in my twenties and very little is certain right now. A year ago, I married my best friend, and Michael and I are still unraveling how to live life as partners, as a team. Friendships continue to morph as our friends accept new jobs or get accepted into new schools and trek across the country to pursue their respective dreams. Job opportunities open and close, and relationships there must be pursued or ended, released or revisited.

And that is why I am writing today. I will be taking a different job in August, and today is my last day at InterVarsity Press. The decision to leave was a difficult one, and my tendency to shy away from change made it even more difficult to choose to go. I love the vision of the company and the ministry that flows from the work that we do in this office. Above all else, I love the people in this publishing house—there are wonderful souls within these walls. The Press has become a home for me, steady in the midst of all of the other changes I have been experiencing in this last year.

But change comes, and I am trying to embrace this one. The job that I am taking in August will simplify my life—instead of a twenty-five minute commute to and from work, I will be walking three minutes to my new office. This job will also give me the opportunity to work on the same campus where my husband and my sister attend school, deepening my relationships with them. I am sad to leave InterVarsity Press, but I am trusting that the Lord has opened this door and will enable me to walk through it well.

I know that it is only one of many changes I have yet to experience in my life, but I also know that there is one source of rootedness in my life that cannot be moved: Christ himself. He is unchanging, immovable, unshakable. He is the cornerstone that cannot be removed, he is the vine that will never be uprooted, his is the kingdom that cannot be shaken. Christ is the constant that I cling to as I move into these changes, the one who leads me through that which is easily shaken in this world.

So wherever you are in life, and whatever change you are inevitably experiencing, God’s peace to you. I would receive the same blessing from you as we move forward into the change that must come. May we cling closely to Christ as we embrace whatever he brings our way.

Moving in the Direction

I've had directions on the mind since Memorial Day weekend because, if you'll remember, I am not so good with directions and because, I'm proud to say, I successfully navigated myself from my safe, familiar neighborhood

into the Big Scary City of Chicago,

        from said Scary City to a bridal shower in an Unknown Suburb

                and from said bridal shower to O'Hare Airport--

all while my personal GPS (my sister) was on a plane and therefore out of my "I'm lost and starting to panic" reach. I'm still feeling the glow of accomplishment. Some credit for the successful navigation, admittedly, has to go to MapQuest (okay, maybe a lot of credit), but there is something to be said for following directions well--so feel free to post your ooohs and aaahs of awe and congratulations. (Also feel free to send money.)

A need for direction is inherent in our being, I think. And we seem to crave movement, though I'm pretty sure this is not inherent in us but rather a result of the culture we live in. As inconvenient and stressful and frustrating as it is to be lost, in American cities built for driving we don't have to drive too long before we know we missed our road or took a wrong turn, so we can regain our direction and keep on moving relatively quickly.

Being lost figuratively, however--whether it's trying to discover what career we should pursue, struggling to build meaningful relationships, testing gifts to see where we fit in ministry--is often not nearly as easy to fix. In those cases we can easily wander (move) directionless for a few years or more, unsure even what destination we're trying to reach.

I hate being lost. But even more, I hate being stuck. Stuck means no direction and no movement that we can detect. We can get stuck in recurring sins, negative thought patterns, unhealthy relationships, jobs we feel no personal investment in. It's a scary place to be in; often we can't see when or how we'll get unstuck. Frustration and exhaustion mount.

I've been lost and stuck. Neither is fun or easy. But I've learned, and am still learning as I go, the importance of moving toward God in those moments.

That's a nice Christian answer, right? Conveniently vague, something that's easy to tell other people when they're struggling but that means nothing to you when you're actually stuck or lost? Moving toward God is, of course, what I hope to be doing all the time. I have very noble desires about what direction I want to move in in general: more holy and distinct from the world, more compassionate, more generous, more patient, more affirming, more truthful, more . . . But when I'm stuck or lost, the list seems large and overwhelming and, if I'm truthful, not so desirable. In the moment when I'm stuck I'm not sure I even want to be more patient or compassionate. I want someone else to be those things toward me!

The way I'm learning to move in the direction of God right now is to tell him everything. I think about things all the time. I worry about things most of the time. But I don't often talk to him about the daily, nitty-gritty details of my life, which are what mostly consume our thoughts, especially when we're lost and stuck.

I'm a little ashamed to admit it, honestly. I've been a Christian pretty much my whole life, and talking to God is such a basic principle, one I've heard over and over and over since I was young. But it's harder than it sounds. It's hard to be honest with God, even though he knows everything about us. And it is especially hard to talk to him honestly about where we're at when we're feeling

Stuck. 

      Lost. 

            Detached. 

                  Doubtful. 

                         Broken. 

                                Tired. 

But, after years of being a Christian, I'm finally learning to do it more--and finding that it actually works. It's much better to tell him what I'm thinking about (and even that I can't see how he'll help) than to not tell him at all. And much better to tell him I'm angry (even with him) than to not tell him at all. And better to admit that I'm worried than to worry and not tell him at all. Because telling--especially at the point we feel most detached from him--keeps us moving toward him, in his direction. And I suspect that, as I move toward him through communication, I'll start to move in the direction of some of the other good-but-sometimes-overwhelming list of virtues.

So, after a successful weekend of moving in the right direction, here's to MapQuest and arriving safely to see friends. And, after years of getting lost and getting stuck (and more years of it to come), here's to talking to God in the midst of it, about all of it, wherever we are.

Mix It Up Day

Yesterday, apparently, was Mix It Up Day at InterVarsity Press. (It was also Sarcastic Wednesday, according to Hallmark's Hoops and YoYo.) Yesterday I parked in the parking spot normally taken by the director of production and fulfillment (gasp!). Yesterday the associate editorial director led a meeting normally led by the editorial director (wow!). Yesterday the director of sales and marketing sat in the seat normally occupied by the senior marketing manager (huh?!?). Yesterday the editorial intern took the favorite lunch spot of Craver VII. And yesterday the editorial department cancelled its weekly popcorn meeting in favor of a Thursday bagel meeting. I even switched stalls.

We were all mixin' it up yesterday. This post even mixed it up; I scheduled it to go online yesterday afternoon, but here it is, one day late. We didn't plan Mix It Up Day, but in all sorts of ways we honored it.

It's good, I think, to mix it up on occasion. It's far too easy to settle into habits and routines that once were refreshing and innovative for us but have become regimented, subconscious, automatic.

Some things, of course, lend themselves to becoming regimented, either by their nature or by design: our bodies require regular rhythms of sleeping, eating, whatnot; we discover the most efficient path to a repeated outcome, and we repeat it because to do otherwise would be silly, wasteful. Those things notwithstanding, I think there often comes a time when we need to look squarely at what we've become accustomed to, in order to determine whether we've become enslaved to it. Dietrich Bonhoeffer (my favorite Dietrich) gave at least one example in his book Life Together:

"Let him who cannot be alone beware of community."
"Let him who is not in community beware of being alone."

I'm struck by this pairing of statements both because they caution us against the type of settling we're vulnerable to--when we seek out community or solitude by default, we miss out on the benefits and responsibilities of their opposites--and because the paradox itself mixes it up for me. Every time I read these statements together, my initial reaction is "Huh? . . . Wait a minute . . . Huh?"

So for a time at least I get interrupted from my presumptions about what it means to be in community or in solitude, and I revisit my own understandings of what I need from others, and what they need from me. What happens next is unpredictable, which is, I suppose, why we don't often like to mix it up.

Nevertheless, I welcome you to make your own Mix It Up Day. Share your favorite memory of mixing it up (or getting mixed up) here. Then go, as they say, and do likewise.

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.

Confessions of a Wild Tongue

As a writer, I've been accused more than once of being "elliptical." In my defense, though, I think that particular accusation has always come from the same person. Her less elliptical friend chose to describe me with the less charitable label "nuanced nincompoop"--which I suppose is pretty much the same thing.

To be honest, I think I write in an elliptical fashion--that is, I swirl around and around a theme like other things that swirl around and around in the process of completing their work--because that's how I think. I look at any number of problems like some sort of daisy chain of Gordian knots, and I'm enough of a failed Boy Scout that I can't bring myself to take a knife and cut through to the solution; I must untangle these morasses and thus untether myself.

Beyond my own issues, there's a cultural bias toward oversimplification that it's appropriate to resist. As Brian McLaren writes in the foreword to Neil Livingstone's Picturing the Gospel, "the habit of 'boiling things down' or 'putting things in a nutshell' . . . makes certain things clear and accessible, but it can obscure and distort other things." Life, I feel entirely justified in saying, is irreducibly complex, and quite frankly is getting only more so, so to treat it as simple is to be dangerously simplistic.

But there's what goes on in my head, and there's what comes out of my mouth. I went to lunch with my pastor yesterday in an attempt to give some of my inner perplexity some air, and as I listened to myself articulating the complexity of relationships and missions I see in play at our church, I found myself thinking, I sound like an idiot. And then there's the article I wrote about how Batman as a character has oscillated back and forth between serious and silly to match the vicissitudes of American culture; the one bit of reader response I got was "You make no sense."

So as a writer I face this challenge of acknowledging and authentically representing the complexity and nuance present to the human condition, even to celebrate it in artful expression, without wallowing in--and miring my readers in--nincompoopery and ellipticalness.

A friend at IVP reminded me this week that the curmudgeonly godfathers of English style and grammar, William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White, have come across this particular Gordian knot and took a pretty effective whack at it:

There are occasions when obscurity serves a literary yearning, if not a literary purpose. . . . Even to a writer who is being intentionally obscure or wild of tongue we can say, "Be obscure clearly! Be wild of tongue in a way we can understand!" . . . "Be cagey plainly! Be elliptical in a straightforward fashion!"

Well sure, when you put it that way. E. B. White made a talking spider into an icon of maternal comfort in Charlotte's Web and a talking rodent into an icon of adolescent self-discovery in Stuart Little, so I guess he knows how to pull off the impossible. But as for me and my writing, I fear we will continue to, umm, serve a literary yearning.

The Sublime & the Sick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's in a Name?

What follows is a recap of my Valentine's Day evening:

My Valentine's Day this year is spent with fourteen one- and two-year-olds at my church. Offering free Valentine's Day baby-sitting is a youth-group tradition, and this year, whether out of guilt or out of a noble spirit of Christian love (I'm not sure which), I decide to help.

In the first fifteen minutes of the evening, our adult (me and teenagers)-to-toddler ratio in the giraffe room is about seven to two, and I am ready to send students to other rooms to help. By 7:30, however, our ratio is more like seven to twelve. Diaper bags are popping up all over, sippee cups have appeared on various shelves, and I am trying to remember such details as "Rachel's diapers are in the Bunny room with her sister" and "Nick has allergies so I've brought a snack for him," while holding Little Screaming Ellie and trying to look calm and responsible so parents will trust me.

At first I stand near the door, greeting parents, asking toddlers their name and telling them mine. But soon there are too many kids and too much going on around the room to stay at the door and greet. Also, from pretty early on I am, as I mentioned, holding Little Screaming Ellie, which is not a very comforting way to welcome toddlers ("Hi Ethan, I'm Lisa. I know Ellie here is screaming her lungs out, but I promise you'll have fun!").

So, as the room fills up, I have to try to learn the kids' names from the security tags on their backs as they and I move around the room. Often the cursive is not very legible. Does that say Annie or Anna? I wonder, crawling after one girl and squinting at the name scrawled in pen. Nolan or Nate N.? At one point, in the midst of kids crying and me and the students enthusiastically trying to convince toddlers "how fun!!' puzzles truly are, another adult volunteer stops by to ask if we have Sadie. Sadie? I blankly look around at the waddling nametags and then scan the students' faces. No one seems to be reacting. "I don’t think we have a Sadie," I say. An hour later, after traveling to all corners of the room in an attempt to distract Little Screaming Ellie with some kind of toy and temporarily succeeding (a big shout-out goes to Big Bird and to Sesame Street's puzzle industry), I am sure there is no Sadie in the giraffe room.

By the end of the evening I think I've learned all the names, and all the kids seem to end up with the right parents. I make a mental note to request the three-year-olds next year, so that I'll already know who they are. If I help next year.

The evening helped me see two simple facts that I often ignore: existence transcends naming and naming is important. The kids were all there whether I knew their names or not. But knowing their names made it a lot easier.

I am actually a big proponent of naming material things. Particularly cars (my car is Lucie) and household plants. I am not, however, a fan of having to name what's going on inside of me. Because in order to name it I have to face the fact of its existence. And looking at it means I have to deal with it. And dealing with it will be hard. So I often fool myself into thinking that if I don't name something (a sin, an emotion, a conflict, etc.), it must not exist--or will cease to exist.

But as author Kim Engelmann writes in a forthcoming IVP book called Running in Circles, "Stating [naming] the problem is the first step toward healing." This was made even clearer to me from sermons at my church on mourning--not the most popular topic these days. But that's the point: we all experience loss--loss that affects and changes us--but we don't usually choose to name it, face it, mourn. Naming and mourning take time, and we don't want to stop and be silent long enough to recognize and name what's going on inside us. But if we never mourn and face what's inside, we can't move forward.

The same is true on the flip side. This past Sunday, while I was in Illinois listening to a sermon on mourning, my dad was in Pennsylvania preaching on just the opposite: celebration. I'm guilty of not naming in that area too. I don't stop long enough to recognize and celebrate the goodness and grace God gives in moments. By not naming these, I'm missing out on learning to trust God more as I see his love and care for me, and he's missing out on the praise he so abundantly deserves.

Two days ago we entered Lent: the forty days leading up to Easter that remind us of the agony Christ suffered. Can we set aside some space to slow down, to start recognizing what’s going on inside of us--the good, the hard, the ugly that exists already and needs to be named? I think we'll find, as we name things, a richer understanding of God's grace, deeper knowledge of ourselves and courage that comes as we become more aware of the Holy Spirit in us, with us. And there's a name for what comes after, and often in the midst of, that discipline: it's called redemption.

Nothing to Say

Last week, just one month in to this blogging venture, I started to panic that I wouldn’t be able to keep it up. I was overwhelmed by commitments outside of work and stressed out by projects at work and short on sleep. But mostly (yes, after just a month): I didn’t have anything to say.

Now, I’m all for being quiet. I really do think silence is golden, and not just at the movie theater. But “silence” (read: nothing to say) doesn’t work so well for a blog, for obvious reasons. I was feeling the pressure and starting to sweat.

My mild panic reminded me of an experience I had a few weeks ago during a daylong personal retreat at my church. Most of the day was spent in individual time with the Lord. Very rarely do I set apart that much time to spend with God, completely away from the normal routines and activities of my days. I didn’t go into the retreat with specific expectations or individual questions I wanted God to answer. However, as a college mentor honestly expressed once after a day of personal retreat, when you intentionally set aside that much time to be with God, you want to have something to show for it: some epiphany, some word God spoke, some insight and direction. In addition, I was also feeling pressure to use the time wisely, to make the most of the time I was setting aside, so that God and I could get the fullest possible benefit out of the day. (I clearly have completely escaped the influence of a consumerist, production-driven culture!)

The reality is, epiphany or not, setting aside time to be with God is invaluable; I’m reminded of it every time I do it. And, among other invaluable moments during the retreat for me, one that stands out most was a point in the morning when I sat before the Lord in silence and felt his almost overwhelming delight in my simple presence, nothing else. In that moment, I felt the worth of my being apart from any doing or knowing or speaking. I didn’t have anything to say—and I felt the freedom of not having to think of something to say. I was free to simply be.

Don’t get me wrong; words are necessary and powerful. I wouldn’t write or work at a publishing company if I didn’t think so. But the relief and grace I experienced in that moment of retreat made me aware of how often I feel pressure not just to say something but to say something clever, or funny, or thought-provoking, or revolutionary. If we kept track of our words, I think we’d find that, based on what actually comes out of our mouths, we value humorous or informative words even over kind, encouraging, affirming words. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I more often speak to try to make others laugh or to give information than to affirm others. But what a valuable reminder God gave me of the worth of my being, even in my silence. It’s a gift I couldn’t have received without having nothing to say.

Sometimes having nothing to say is the most valuable gift we can give each other too. Author and pastor John Ortberg preached a sermon on the book of Job a few years ago. He takes a different angle on the book than other sermons I’ve heard. His focus is on Job’s friends who, granted, will not win any “Great Friends in History” awards. However, he expounds not on their hurtful counseling attempts or jabbing accusations but on their first response to Job’s pain: they weep, and then sit with him for seven days and nights in ashes and sackcloth and—silence. At the sight of his grief and pain, they have nothing to say. So they don’t even try. I don’t think anything else could have spoken more grace and healing into Job’s raw and broken soul. Their folly came when they said something in an attempt to sound wise and spiritual.

So, at the risk of contradicting myself by writing about the goodness of not saying anything at all, maybe these words will help us reframe our thoughts on why we speak. Words, of course, are good and valuable and necessary—fallen, too, but able to be redeemed and to bring great redemption through Christ. But probably more often than we realize, the greatest gift we can give to God, to others and to ourselves in a given moment is the gift of having nothing to say.

Nuff said.

Slippin and Slidin

(Note to reader: to liven up your reading of this entry, try clenching your teeth and furrowing your brow.)

This week I received a citation for a traffic violation. The suspect (me) allegedly failed to come to a complete stop at a stop sign. The scene of the crime was two blocks from my desk; the time was 7:45 a.m. Good . . . morning . . .

So I endured the humiliation of the drawn-out ticket-writing process, as countless cars passed me and, I might add, failed to come to a complete stop at the stop sign immediately in front of my car. I think they were just rubbing it in. Then I hurried, as fast as I could go without allegedly violating yet another traffic law, to the parking lot of my office building, where I accidentally banged my head on the roof of my car and then very nearly locked my keys in said car with the engine still running. Then I went inside the office with seconds to spare for a morning prayer meeting. Good . . . morning . . .

It was an odd juxtaposition, moving so quickly from hurling epithets at the universe for the rotten luck I'd experienced on my way into work, to begrudgingly thanking God for the gift of a good job and nice people to work with. Perhaps I hadn't had enough coffee, but I was not in the ideal frame of mind for praying.

I was reminded of a psalm of Asaph:

Surely God is good . . .

to those who are pure in heart.

But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;

I had nearly lost my foothold.

For I envied the arrogant

when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. (Psalm 73:1-3)

Now, I tend to read this psalm and think, Ah yes, I mustn't envy the arrogant; I mustn't covet the prosperity born of wickedness. It's a quick way of reminding me not to get so mired down in envy and bitterness.

But when I invoke this passage and cast myself as the pure in heart, I'm effectively casting anyone around me as "arrogant" or "wicked." That could be a relatively harmless exercise, I suppose: all those people rolling through the stop sign in front of me couldn't read my thoughts, so far as I could tell; and I'll likely never see them again, since I will never drive by that intersection again. But then there are the folks I work with, who I know to be far from arrogant or wicked (most days, anyway), but whom I look at with different eyes on a day such as this.

Not to mention the fact that casting myself as "pure in heart" is a somewhat arrogant thing to do. I mean, let's be honest: I have a pretty enviable life. I have a house and a car and a job where I get paid to read. I have a nice family life and a nice church community and a safe neighborhood to live in. I have broad political freedoms and, relative to the majority of the planet, a ridiculously extravagant life. Given the right circumstances, any number of people could steal a passing glance at me--particularly when I'm being exceptionally twerpy--and find themselves losing their foothold.

The fact is, I wasn't envious so much as I was bitter. So perhaps in the future, when I find myself slipping, I should skip about twenty verses and direct my mind to a later verse in the same psalm:

When my heart was grieved

and my spirit embittered,

I was senseless and ignorant;

I was a brute beast before you.

Yet I am always with you;

you hold me by my right hand. (Psalm 73:21-23)

That's probably about as much as I could call to mind on a particularly irritable day, but who knows? Maybe it will be enough.

Rabbit

Something you should know about Lisa and me: for the better part of a year we've been playing a silly ongoing game that I learned from my brother.The game is simple: whoever says the word rabbit to the other first on the first day of each month, wins. To be honest, I've been secretly plotting this post since Lisa joined Strangely Dim.

My brother played this game in college with a classmate who happened to have the same last name, grow up in the same town and belong to the same church. I always enjoyed watching them play this little nonsense game from month to month, a regular opportunity to be silly together set against a backdrop of trying to track down your calling and be faithful to it. College, I found--and now life, I've since discovered--is hard enough that it virtually demands a bit of silliness now and then to take the edge off.

Lisa and I and our coworkers here seek out silliness in a variety of ways: by how we decorate our workspace, by which e-mails we choose to forward, by what subjects we deem blogworthy. My department takes a break together each week to eat popcorn and catch up (not "popcorn and ketchup" but "catch up and eat popcorn," in case you're inclined to podcast this entry). It's a nice time together, a kind of "tea and sympathy," and almost invariably the time is at least one part meaningful and one part silly. Sometimes the two are so commingled that I daresay the silliness is what gives the time meaning.

Likewise with the game "Rabbit." You're all welcome to play along; it's a nice distraction from month to month, much like rabbits themselves. They don't labor or spin; they just hop along and twitch their noses--they live and move and have their being. We could learn a lot from them, actually: I'll leave you with a line from an old folk song titled "Mr. Rabbit":

"Bless God, I'm made that way! Every little soul must shine."

The Risk of Asking

Here’s something you should know about me: I hate to ask for help. There are certain instances I’ve deemed worthy. One is stopping to ask for directions. I’ve gotten so lost a few times since moving out here that I have no qualms about asking for directional help. My sister is my first choice; she’s my personal GPS: always gracious, never says “How did you get THERE?” and has never failed to lead me safely out of wherever I’ve gotten myself into. If she’s not available, gas-station and convenience-store clerks will do.

I’ll also ask for help if it will save me significant time, such as when I’m shopping. You don’t want to tell people you spent your entire Saturday afternoon wandering around the grocery store looking for wheat wraps because you wouldn’t ask a store clerk where to find them.

But in most other situations in my life, I have a very hard time asking for help. I’d rather take the task on myself than involve other people who already have enough going on in their own lives. Or sometimes I’m not sure who to ask to find the answer I need.

I know the main reason I don’t ask for help, though: I’d have to admit that I don’t know the answer, that I’m so clueless about a situation I can’t even begin to sort out my options, that I’m ignorant or naive or incapable or weak. I can’t get around two details that asking for help always involves: first, I have to name and face my limits. I know I have limits, of course. I accept my limits in many areas (such as in swimming); there are hundreds of skills and tons of information I don't need. But asking means I recognize both my limit and my need in that area. And then comes the second detail asking always involves: recognizing another person's strength or power in my area of weakness and need. That's when things get risky.

But asking, I'm realizing, is powerful. I recently studied Matthew 8 and 9; they’re full of people whose lives were changed by Jesus because they dared to ask him for help. And for most of them, asking took immense courage. Take the leper in chapter 8. He had to walk through a crowd of people who’d been taught since birth to scorn and reject him. He couldn’t hide his disease, his neediness. And he likely had never met Jesus before, so he couldn’t have been sure what sort of answer he’d receive. But he asked anyway, and found a compassionate Savior who was eager to help.

Admitting my own limits and neediness, my dependence on God and others, is the way it’s supposed to be; it’s how God created us. I know that in my mind and can see the practical value of it lived out. But my individualistic, be-independent, American self tries to fight it, and often wins. I’m amazed when I read David’s psalms how natural and deep his dependence on God was; in many ways he was such a strong person (brave warrior, powerful ruler), yet in his psalms he freely and frequently admits--without shame--his utter helplessness and fear, his complete dependence on God. He accepted that that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Jesus reminds us of this in Luke 11: “Ask and it will be given to you. . . . For everyone who asks receives. . . . Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” Asking and receiving are a natural rhythm of any healthy relationship. Especially in our relationship with God, who loves to give help.

And really, figuring things out on my own isn’t all that much fun. Easier? Sometimes. Less complicated? Sometimes. Less humbling? Sometimes. But it's often lonely. It keeps others from opportunities to use their areas of strength. And the sense of accomplishment that might come when I do something myself can't ultimately be as satisfying as the connections nurtured when I do something with others. Because at the core of who we are is a need for relationships.

But asking is still hard. When I do take the risk, I often feel the same way I imagine the leper felt: unsure of what reaction I’ll receive (scorn? ridicule?) and acutely aware of my need. Usually, though, I receive what he did: compassion, and the help that I need.

So why am I so afraid to admit how much I need others, afraid to accept that as part of what it means to be human, afraid to accept my own limits? And how do I get past my fear? Just asking. I suspect that’s the only way I’ll find the answer.

Mixed Blessing

My fellow blogger Lisa Rieck found this Franciscan blessing in the book Prayer: Does It Make Any Difference? by Philip Yancey. She shared it with me, and I wanted to share it with you. The Franciscans are known best, perhaps, for living simply out of solidarity with those in need. But they also have a way with words that I regularly covet:

May God bless you with discomfort
At easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships
So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger
At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,
So that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless you with tears
To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger and war,
So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and
To turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness
To believe that you can make a difference in the world,
So that you can do what others claim cannot be done
To bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

I like the blessing; it gets you thinking in a way that requires a response. I'm reminded of the words of the less artful Henry Pym, Marvel Comics' "Ant-Man," in the epic miniseries The Kree-Skrull War: "Think! And, having thought, act!"

So, how has God been blessing you lately? With discomfort? With anger? With tears? What do you hope will come of those blessings?

For myself, I'm hoping for an extra shot of foolishness.

Go Ahead--Pass Me

In the last few months I’ve started swimming for exercise. I’m not really a swimmer; I just do it once a week to cross-train. However, at 6:00 a.m. at the YMCA, there are many Serious Swimmers. They bring bags of props. They wear caps and goggles. They time themselves. They do the same stroke for an hour. I, on the other hand, am too weak to do the same stroke two laps in a row, so I alternate between four: freestyle, side stroke, back stroke and, um, “kick board stroke.” And I never time myself.

The pool is divided into four lanes, in theory to separate the fast from the slow. The “slow lane” is on the far right and the “fast lane” is on the far left. Helpful signs also tell whether you’re supposed to swim clockwise or counterclockwise in each lane. At first I assumed (with relief) that the “slow lane” is for people like me. But “slow,” I’ve discovered, can mean anything from swimming laps to treading water to draping oneself over brightly colored noodles. It’s difficult to navigate around people with noodles, even if you swim laps as slowly as I do.

So I tried out the second slowest lane. One day I thought I might manage to stay out of the way of the only other person in that lane (a middle-aged man), but he didn’t notice me until he ran into me. And of course, he was fast. I moved over to let him go by, but he took that to mean I was bucking the system by swimming clockwise in a counterclockwise lane. When we reached the wall he informed me of my directional error. Well. I wanted to say that I may not be fast but I can read (and get paid to do it for my job, thank you very much)—but I said okay and tried to swim a little faster in a perfectly counterclockwise kind of way.

Last Wednesday the second fastest lane was open, so I jumped in and was soon joined by a pregnant woman. I thought I might have a fighting chance of keeping up, since she was swimming for two. I was wrong. She swam freestyle, lap after lap, while I had to be particularly careful on the side stroke, because I did not want to kick a pregnant woman.

As more people arrived I moved to the second slowest lane so the faster swimmers could have their speed to themselves. There was just one man in the lane then; once I joined him, though, I realized he was wearing: flippers. Twice the kicking power. We fell into a rhythm that worked, however; he passed me every five laps or so.

When he finished, two even faster men joined my lane. Unfortunately for them (and me) it’s much more difficult to pass a slow swimmer when there are three people in the lane. I started to panic. I tried to swim faster. I paused at the end of the lane to let them go by me. I might have prayed.

My self-consciousness about my slowness didn’t really surprise me. It just reminded me how much I hate to get in the way, to draw attention to myself by hindering others. I don’t think others should have to deal with my weaknesses, especially two guys I never met who just want to have a nice (fast) morning swim.

But as I was about to cut the workout short and escape to the locker room, I was struck with a thought: it’s all right to get passed. I don’t have to keep up; it’s okay and even good to have to cooperate with others to make things work. I don’t have to buy flippers or leave early when faster swimmers come. In fact, staying and swimming at my own pace can serve as a reminder to me on a broader scale that I’m not called to fit in by keeping up, or to follow a pace set by a culture addicted to speed.

So—I think I’ll go for a swim this week too. You can look for me in the pool. I’ll be the one doing the side stroke, getting passed.

Beer Shirts and Bumper Stickers

Once upon a time Christians wore hair shirts. Nowadays I'm considering wearing a beer shirt.

A few weeks ago a DJ answered my e-mail on the air. Yesterday I received my reward: a radio station t-shirt and bumper stickers, a CD, and a Miller Genuine Draft summer survival kit. In case you expect to be stranded on a desert island next summer, don't count on the MGD kit to help you survive: it contains no first aid materials, no food--no beer, even. It does, however, contain a bottle opener and a beer shirt. So, I suppose, if you found yourself stranded on a desert island next summer you'd be able to open a bottle and tear off a portion of your beer shirt to write a message. BYO bottle and pen.

This isn't the only shirt I've been given recently. On my vacation I answered a trivia question correctly and had thrown at me a shirt that says something to the effect of "I Heart Gambling." I'm quickly assembling an entire closet of vice; all I need for the hat trick is a shirt that shouts "Legalize It!"

I'm faced with a dilemma: what do I do with my new wardrobe? I work for a Christian company, as does my wife, and I fully expect that at least some of the people around us would be scandalized by such shirts. So to wear one or the other of them would be to invite trouble on myself. But I won them fair and square! And let's be honest: I've been known to enjoy a beer or two in my lifetime, so to wear the beer shirt at least would be somewhat authentic. (For the record, I categorically don't heart gambling.)

Ancient monks wore hair shirts to remind themselves that they were sinners, and to compel themselves to sin less. I wonder if such a shirt as this would serve a similar purpose: to remind myself (and others around me) that I'm not as cool or as purified and pious or as ascetic as I sometimes purport to be. Maybe it would compel me to live more consistently in the truth.

That, after all, is the value I see in those fish bumper stickers. I doubt that too many people are throwing themselves on the mercy of God because there's a fish crossing the road in front of them. But for me at least, the prospect of driving around with an "I Heart Jesus" bumper sticker causes me to consider just how responsible, deferential and respectful a driver I am. How we adorn ourselves, I think, has some impact on how we conduct ourselves.

Or, maybe it's just a stupid, gaudy t-shirt and I should stop thinking about it and just hand it over to the beer-based Bible study ("the Brew Crew") my friend is running. Summer's almost over, after all, and so far I've survived nicely without it.

Doing My Part by Doing Nothing

Word from two blogs I frequent and the New York Times, no less, is that people have lost the will to take vacation. Read the NYT article here.

Finally, I'm countercultural! I'm going on vacation next week. I'll get to see a good friend I haven't seen in a while, I'll visit a family member we see only occasionally, and I'll eat myself silly on a big ole boat. Mildly embarrassing, but oh so tasty.

I understand the inner compulsion to stay at one's desk, of course. By all rights I should be home from work by now, but here I sit, typing madly away about resting. Meanwhile, the work keeps piling up, the minutes keep whirring past, and my compulsion to prove my worth keeps nipping at my heels.

The church has forever warned against sloth, but it's also warned against the self-exaltation that takes place when we see ourselves as indispensible. The apostle Paul may have written to the Thessalonians that if you don't work, you don't eat, but the prophet Moses wrote to the world that we're to remember the sabbath and keep it holy, just like God does.

Frederick Buechner defines sloth as distinct from laziness:

A lazy man, a man who sits around and watches the grass grow, may be a man at peace. His sun-drenched, bumblebee dreaming may be the prelude to action or itself an act well worth the acting. A slothful man, on the other hand, may be a very busy man. He is a man who goes through the motions, who flies on automatic pilot. Like a man with a bad head cold, he has mostly lost his sense of taste and smell. He knows something's wrong with him, but not wrong enough to do anything about. Other people come and go, but through glazed eyes he hardly notices them. He is letting things run their course. He is getting through his life.

So next week I'll be working on my senses of taste and smell. When I get back, if you're good, I'll answer your e-mails.

Peace out.

I Wanna Be Your Manager

I’ve had lots of conversations about management this week. Not the management, of course—in case my boss is reading this. I’ve actually been discussing the concept of management—as a challenge, as a calling—with some friends of mine.

*One friend used to manage a team of people, but his new responsibilities have him working mostly on his own.
*Another friend has an opportunity to manage a couple-hundred people after working for years mostly on his own.
*Still another friend loves her work and the people who report to her, but struggles with being the boss.

Meanwhile, my wife and I are doing some soul-searching to figure out what the next season of our lives is going to be like. She’s a manager, and I can barely manage to stay awake, so her vision-quest is taking on a very different character from mine. Still, I find the idea of management pretty intriguing.

Organizations often group people according to task, and then stack them according to tenure or job experience. That makes sense to me—the person on top is most likely to have already done what everybody else can’t figure out how to do—but what if the person on top is a jerk, or a recluse, or a werewolf, or whatever? What if that person’s tenure came through well-timed acts of character assassination and kissing up to the boss? It’s not all about the steady execution of tasks; the atmosphere that a team operates in is established at least in part by the manager, and I for one would find it hard to breathe with someone like that stacked on top of me.

On the flip side, some people train specifically for management and find jobs in industries they know nothing about: they take care of the people so the people can take care of the work. That seems pretty dis-integrated to me—why would you willingly subject yourself to work you’re not passionate about?—except that the people best suited to that type of job are passionate about managing people. One friend of mine has switched industries two or three times and supervised a team of people at each place; he finds meaning not in the product his work is pumping out so much as the act of management. To hear him talk about it, his staff—even the ones he’s had to discipline from time to time—are like his family.

I read an article earlier this year that profiled a department store chaplain. I’d never heard of such a thing. This woman walks the aisles of her store with an eye toward helping people find what they need. Could be customers, could be customer servicepeople. In some cases what they need is toilet paper or a tennis bracelet, but every so often they need someone to give them a break or lend them an ear or offer them up in prayer. This chaplain is practicing the ministry of what Henri Nouwen once called “pastoral presence.”

I wonder if the role of a manager is at least one part chaplain. You can train yourself to do it, I’m sure, but I suspect that it’s at least one part instinctive: you either want to be pastorally present to people, or you don’t.

Of Surnames and Pseudonyms

I recently met someone with a famous name. I don't mean a bank teller named Thomas Jefferson or anything like that; I mean someone who is blood- and name-related to somebody famous. And now having talked with her, I have a new respect for pseudonyms.

There's all sorts of weight attached to your name. My mother's name was Grady; her mother's name was Brady. One look at her driver's license and you would have pegged her as Irish Catholic, and then you would have imagined her regularly overindulging in potatoes and whiskey while reciting the Rosary. Then my mom married a Zimmerman, took my dad's name, and encountered an entirely different set of presuppositions.

Now, imagine if my dad were famous, let's say for inventing Vitamin C. My mom would go from enduring irrational expectations of her to bearing the mystique of a famous spouse: "Oh, Mrs. Zimmerman, you must be so healthy. What's your favorite fruit? Do you miss potatoes?"

My mom would be spared all that scrutiny and false expectation if only my famous dad had taken a pseudonym. "Miss Potatoes" would be a good one.

I'm told that surnames originated out of people's vocation. "Zimmerman" means "innkeeper"; presumably someone deep in my family's history kept an inn, and the name stuck. Over time, of course, those connections became so distant as to be meaningless. Now our names are simply one way we organize our society--how we alphabetize our phone books.

But proximity to celebrity complicates our self-understanding. Fame transforms a name into a commodity; people are judged by their famous relatives, and their name becomes a brand that they must protect. Roger Clinton has lived a relatively normal life, but in the shadow of his brother, President Bill Clinton, that normal life starts to look pathetic. Even worse, Roger's foibles reflect badly on Bill's reputation, so the pressure on Roger amps up.

You can ride the right name into a supremely comfortable life. Names open doors that otherwise would remain closed; names grant us access to the most power and the best parties. But what if you're not interested in the life afforded you by your name? What if you're a Kennedy who wants to vote Republican? What if you're a Bush who wants to vote Democratic? What if you're a Gates who wants to use a Mac? What if you have something completely fresh and distinct to say or do, but all your advisors and even complete strangers are steering you onto a path carved out for you before you were even born?

So my new friend with a famous name (let's call her "Misty Meanor" just for kicks) faces a number of challenges, among them living up to the fame of her name while simultaneously carving out her own destiny. "Who am I, and what am I about?" she might ask. "What has my lineage contributed to the legacy I'm trying to produce? At what point does Meanor end and Misty begin? How do I handle my second-hand fame responsibly and ethically?"

I heard a song by John Lennon that proved especially poignant to me, because he sings about my surname--Zimmerman--in reference to a pseudonym, Dylan. When you peel back all the layers, Bob Dylan is really Bob Zimmerman, but all those layers are so important that to think of him simply as Bob Zimmerman is to not really know him. Lennon's song, "God," is an attempt to get past the layers to the core of who we are, and to rebuild from there. He sings from the far side of his career as a Beatle, and you can hear the tiredness in his voice as he deconstructs his lineage in search of a meaningful legacy. It's a sad song, really;I'll digest it to reflect what made me hit the brakes:

"I don't believe in Zimmerman . . . I just believe in me."

Ultimately, "me" is not all I believe in. I believe in God, for example--the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen. Et cetera, et cetera. To believe in a God who is a Father, to assert my sonship as a foundation of my belief, is an audacious claim: in doing so I am positioning myself out in front of all of creation. But it's not just a power grab; it also prompts a great deal of responsibility: my legacy will reflect back on the Father I have so audaciously claimed. I call God Father; how then shall I live?

Cooler Than Thou

Believe it or not, as an alternate name for Likewise Books (the new line discussed in an earlier post), people at InterVarsity Press were at one point seriously considering “Cool Books.” Naturally I, the resident authority on comic books, was designated point person for such a line.

In fact, I’m in the process of editing a Likewise book titled Blessed Are the Uncool, which is in part a challenge to American Christians to pick the road less traveled by in how we conduct ourselves with others under God, but is simultaneously a stinging critique of American culture as a product. Ironically, I met the author and began discussing his book idea just a few short months after we began discussing the possibility of publishing “Cool Books.” Being a great fan of irony, I pursued the book with its author, Paul Grant, and we signed the contracts a few months later.

By then, of course, InterVarsity Press had realized that “Cool Books” is a dangerously foolish name for a line of books we hope people will consider cool. Ah, irony, how you continue to bless me with your presence.

The premise of Blessed Are the Uncool is that cool is a cultural force, a concoction made up of disparate cultural values from diverse sources: West African concepts such as itetu (the ability to defuse hostility and tension), hipi (a kind of savvy intelligence) and dega (“to understand”), mixed with the European democratic impulse and the American frontier spirit. Stir it up and add a dash of personal sin, a dollop of systemic injustice and a pinch of supply-side economics, and you have “cool,” defined as "a private performance of rebellion for rebellion’s sake." You can almost taste it, can’t you?

The problem with cool is that it runs effectively counter to Christian virtue.

Christians are meant to be communal, not perpetually privatized.

Christians are meant to be authentic, not preening posers.

Christians are meant to engage in revolution—acts of defiance against unjust principalities and powers that progress inevitably toward repentance and reconciliation—rather than just rebel for kicks.

Cool runs so counter to Christian virtue, in fact, that one could imagine Jesus adding to his blessings in the sermon on the mount: “Blessed are the uncool.”

The problem with me, I’m learning, is that I’m a slave to cool. Seriously—you should see how I’m dressed. I’m not tucked in. I’m wearing a Batman watch. I’m listening to Jewish reggae. I’m trying to be edgy, witty, cooler than thou.

I’m in the right job to be a slave to cool: I get to deconstruct other people’s writing all day every day. I get to weigh in on what will be pitched in the marketplace as “required reading.” I am building cool’s pyramids even as we speak. And I work for a Christian publisher. Ah irony, my constant companion.

Pretty insidious, this “cool.” It’s like a little serpent whispering in my ear. Thank God that he has not left us to overcome it on our own. If we’re willing to endure the social desert of cool-forsakenness, we may just find ourselves stumbling into the promised land of authentic reconciled community, flowing with the milk and honey of human kindness. That’s why God calls us out of cool and into communion with him. You can almost taste it, can’t you?

***

Keep an eye on ivpress.com for an early peek at Blessed Are the Uncool and other Likewise books. And stop by Loud Time if you're in the mood to deconstruct stuff with me.

Coerced by Pizza

I'm feeling the social pressure to help decorate the IVP office building for Christmas. The problem is, I HATE decorating for Christmas. But now there's pizza on the table.

Decorating together isn't just a task, it's a cultural endeavor, in much the same way that eating together is a cultural endeavor. The idea that we at work should eat together and decorate together emulates what will happen in my house and many other houses this weekend, in what's become part of the Thanksgiving ritual as much as asking the question "What are you thankful for this year?" So my work is asserting itself as a kind of family, which I can certainly affirm. But consequently, this new family obligation only adds to my internal sense of responsibility to participate.

I've been running across the concept of "creating culture" a lot lately. Andy Crouch did a whole workshop on it, and I've seen a few authors hint at it in their writing, and it's percolating in my brain as I think about my job as an editor for a particular community of people. And I guess it boils down to the simple fact that if I want to feel at home at my work, I need to treat work like a second home, which means I GUESS I should treat my coworkers like brothers and sisters and honor my family obligations.

Or, I could be the whiney family member who gets out of everything. Tough call . . .

Attention All Spammers

I found out today what type of subject heading works on me:

Expel Disgusting Fats rlPR

I must have deleted fifty e-mails when I got to this one, and in some kind of Ouija board moment my mouse moved from the "Delete" tab to the "Open" tab. Here's what I proceeded to read:

Revolutionary "Hoodia" which works effectively burning fats without hunger, chemicals intake or heavy exercise. Suppress your appetite and enjoying your very nice V-Shape body in just a week. You won't regret.

I'm trying to decide what letter my body resembles currently. For some reason I'm torn between "U," "W" and "B." If we could all figure that question out, we could line up together and send messages to space.

That seems like a good plan, but most of us will have to do without "Hoodia"; otherwise the message we send to space will be "VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV." I'm pretty sure that's offensive to Klingons.

Old School Jazz

A friend of mine sent me two CDs this summer. He had stumbled across long-lost recordings of us from back in the day when we were in our high school's jazz ensemble and members of the best David Bowie cover band in the entire state of Iowa. I’m serious—they loved to hear us play “Young Americans” and “Panic in Detroit” from Des Moines to Ames. We were called Little Queenie, which is the name of an old light-rockabilly blues song, I believe written by Chuck Berry. He, along with Muddy Waters, Sam & Dave and countless others provided the source material for Little Queenie’s barnstorming career. But I digress.

Back in the day I fancied myself quite the musician, an idolater of my own mythology. I embraced the “band geek” identity thrust upon me by the more socially Darwinian students in my class. I was a saxophonist with a paying gig, so I could afford to be typecast. I made plans to study music in college and make my living as a musician.

That was a long time ago. Now I fancy myself a writer, so much so that I blog, endure rejection or neglect from any number of print or online publications, and anxiously track the day-to-day sales of my book while fantasizing about my still-forthcoming appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman . . .

Sorry, drifted off there. Anyway, as I listened to these disks I was struck by a few things, one of which being that I wasn't much of a saxophonist. Oh, I know that in comparison to my peers I was decent—I got a fair amount of affirmation from people who ought to know—but in comparison to my mythology, I was just awful. I played the same tricks over and over. I never ventured beyond simple scales and rote arpeggios. I fancied myself the Eddie Van Halen of saxophonists. Just awful.

However, I was surprised while listening to these disks just how good the bands were. This little high school jazz band, this little white-bread blues cover band—we were really good. The music was filled with energy, the collected individuals played in near-perfect harmony and rhythm, the band members had fun, the spirit was infectious.

I walked away from these disks with a more humble sense of self and a more intelligent appreciation of the talent I’d observed in my friend, my brother and my long-forgotten bandmates. But I didn’t go to the closet and pull out my dusty old alto sax; I started writing about it. I guess I have completed the metamorphosis from band geek to writing geek.

But the whole experience gives me pause, frankly. I know I'm a decent writer—I get opportunities to write from people who know bad writing—but twenty years from now what will I think of this very sentence? What regrets will I have for the words I've put together and put before the public? Even more distressing, though, is the fact that twenty years ago I was convinced that twenty years later I'd be playing saxophone all over the world. I gave up that mythology long ago, but what's to come of the mythology I'm making today?

The core of a young person's mythology is that they'll live forever, and for as long as that forever endures they'll love what they love and be who they are. The young make their moments into eternity, and they generally have fun doing it. We get older and we discover that we are now what we once weren't, that we no longer love what we once couldn't live without, that time has lured us away from our pastimes. It's dangerously easy to lose sight of the joy of eternity.

When those suspicions weigh too heavily on me, it's time to listen to some old school jazz—to remember how long a beatcan be, and just how much you can fit into it.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President

Now that I'm thirty-five, I'd like to officially announce my candidacy for the U.S. presidency in 2008. I want to be really careful not to violate any campaign finance laws, however, so whatever you do, don't send money. Instead, buy yourself something nice, then put it where you'll see it come election day three-and-a-half years from now, and then vote your conscience. Till then I'll be busy picking out presidential china patterns.

If you'd like to apply for a cabinet position, feel free to post a comment. I'm open to creating new cabinet positions once I'm the leader of the free world, so use your imagination.

Cedar Journals

by David A. Zimmerman

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 doing the type of writing that I rarely do--journaling, for example, or in the case of today's post, poetry. I feel like such a hippy.

I present these poems for your amusement, but keep in mind a couple of warnings:

1. These poems don't rhyme, so don't lose sleep trying to make songs out of them.
2. I'm no John Donne, so don't hold me to a poet's standard. I couldn't bear the scrutiny. To quote another would-be-poet, folk singer Jewel, "Please be careful with me; I'm sensitive, and I'd like to stay that way."

***
Tuesday, May 16, 2005
The Chaos of Water
I am an island surrounded by water.
Water frustrates my efforts to extend beyond myself.
Water erodes my landscape
threatens to whittle me down to nothing.
I am reined in
and rained on
by water of my own mind
chaos of my own creation.
And I sink.
And I dissipate.
And I am carried away.

But God's Spirit hovers over the waters.
And God speaks
"Peace, be still"
And the waters recede.

God separates the ground from the water.
God puts the water in its place.
God puts me in my place
And calls it good.

Wednesday, May 18
If Adam Fell, Why Do I Hurt?
It hardly seems fair.
I didn't do anything to him,
And now I'm

dispossesseddislocateddisheveleddisrespecteddiscombobulated dishonoreddisgusteddisguiseddischordantdisreputablediseased disengageddisturbeddisinteresteddistantdisillusioneddisappointed

Let's face it: I'm distraught.

I could blame those who hurt me.
I could blame those who betrayed me.
I could blame those who corrupted me.
I could blame this world that forsakes me.
But it hardly seems fair.
They may have hurt me,
But they didn't hurt Adam.
And we can all trace it all back to Adam.

Still . . .

They did hurt me.
And I suppose I have hurt them.
And Adam is nowhere to be seen.

So . . .

Is Adam our greatest enemy,
or our greatest excuse?

***

My exploitation of superhero movies continues; I'm working on a discussion guide for Batman Begins that I hope to post at an online magazine in July; in the meantime, the same magazine is considering whether to post the discussion guide I wrote as a companion to my book. Trust me--you'll hear all about it when something happens.

I'm biting my fingernails in anticipation of the Fantastic Four movie--here's hoping it doesn't stink.

By the way, my thanks to Rick Stilwell for linking his blog to my Pop Matters article "Cape Fear." Rick has renamed and reconceived his blog, now known as "Caffeinated Adventures." Always worth reading.

The Cedar Journals

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.

Monday, May 16, 2005
It’s quiet this morning, which is nice. I’m finding it hard to know how to talk to people here. It’s not so much that people are unwilling to share themselves with one another. It’s more a dilemma of the blank slate.

When you’re unknown, everything you do or say figures into the image of you these new friends are forming in their minds. I know because I do it: I see a woman who wants to be a grownup but still likes to play dress-up. I see a man dominate all his conversations while painting a picture of himself as marginalized. I see a man who would rather be with his wife and kids at any given moment but knows he can’t and feels he shouldn’t be sad about it. I see a man who manages expectations of himself by self-deprecation while simultaneously presuming his superiority over everyone else.

Oh wait, that’s me.

***

Coming up Wednesday is the release of Batman Begins, the best film of summer 2005. I'm doing a signing at midnight at a local theater, which should be a wild adventure. My guess is I'll be dressed more normally than anyone else in attendance.

Come join me if you'd like.

The Cedar Journals

by David A. Zimmerman

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.

Sunday, May 15, 2005
I’m here alone, surrounded by four hundred students and staff from InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. I am an outsider—neither staff nor student—and though several staff and even a few students have made welcoming gestures toward me, I am feeling alone.

When I’m alone by myself, I do pretty well. But when I’m alone in a crowd I regress. I’m childishly protective of my space and my stuff; I’m desperately clingy to people who have left me an opening. I eat too much; I don’t think straight. Even my jokes suffer—they’re too forced, too contrived, too desperate.

My cell phone doesn’t work here. I don’t have access to the Internet. There’s no town within range for me to console myself with the trappings of suburbia—no movie theater, no shopping mall, no Starbucks. There’s no TV to watch, and I just read the last page of the book I brought to read.

My only hope against this encroaching sense of isolation is God and the four hundred staff and students he has surrounded me with. My hope—and my fear—is that I will go to him, and he will send me to them.

***

In other news . . .

This summer's theme for youth services in Illinois public libraries is "Superheroes--powered by books!" As a result, I'm getting invited to speak to a number of library groups. It's a book geek's dream, but I suspect I'm going to get shushed by many a librarian before it's over.

If you're bored in the next several weeks, it's not for lack of sweet action movies. Three (count-em) superhero-themed films are coming out between now and the end of July: Batman Begins, Fantastic Four, and Sky High. I'll have articles online related to these films: two on Batman (at Pop Matters in June and In the Fray in July) and one on the Fantastic Four (at Christianity Today Online in July). What can I say? I babble about superheroes.

The Soundtrack of a Long Silence

Some songs, I think, are meant to be heard after a long silence. I recently heard such a song probably for the first time in years: “Lean on Me.” I’m not talking about the “pump it up, homeboy” version of the 1980s; this was the classic, with Bill Withers singing over a slow, deliberate piano, with a soulful chorus joining him intermittently and the gradual fade “Call on me . . . Call on me . . . Call on me . . .”

Songs get overplayed these days. Pop radio formats require frequent repetition of the songs of the moment, so that even the most moving piece of music quickly starts to get on your nerves. Add to that the song-as-soundtrack phenomenon that means every time a movie ad or a truck ad or a shoe ad crosses your television or radio, so does that same mind-numbing song. It’s often taken completely out of context, so that it ceases to mean what it meant to you the first time you heard it. A song that once spoke to your soul now causes you to grimace.

But after a long silence, such a song can still reclaim its spot in your soul. Maybe it’s how I was feeling when I heard it, maybe it’s what the DJ said in the lead-up, maybe it’s the conversations I had the night before or the subconscious worries that plague me every day unawares, but that day when “Lean on Me” came on the radio, everything else came to a halt.

A song like that, in the right moment, reminds me of the friends and family who might just need to lean on me right now; I’m reminded of the people I know whose burdens are more than they can carry but whom I only occasionally help to carry on. I’m reminded of the weariness of the world, and I’m struck by how the weary world of 1972 must have reacted when the first four measures of “Lean on Me” hit the airwaves. After a decade of strife and turmoil, finally came three minutes of rest, and an offer of more where that came from.

Lots of songs can do that: “Everybody Hurts” by REM is one, I think, and even peppy songs like Billy Bragg’s “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward” will get my head nodding in reflective agreement. These are the types of songs that, at age eighteen, I would have fought to the death to have as prom themes or played ad nauseum on my record player alone in my room, to the point where their poignancy would be eclipsed by their nagginess. But after a long silence—when I’ve had time to learn more by experience than by declaration that everybody does occasionally hurt and that waiting for the great leap forward can be a devastatingly discouraging time and that there really are, if you’re lucky, people to lean on when you’re not strong—that’s when I’m ready to hear what they have to say to me.

***

Read a great review of Bill Withers at PopMatters.com.

Deep Calls to Deep All Over the Place

By David A. Zimmerman

I catch a lot of grief for a suggestion I made once, in a meeting that was supposedly a free-flowing brainstorming session, for the title of a book: Deep Calling Deep.

You're probably having the same reaction my colleagues had: "What in the world is that supposed to mean?"

Well, I could be a jerk and say, "If I have to explain it to you, you wouldn't understand." Or I could be an even bigger jerk and say, "What? Don't you read your Bible? It's from Psalm 42, you moron!" But that would just be deflecting the question, because I actually don't know what it's supposed to mean.

Nevertheless, I'm seeing the phrase all over the place these days. I first started hearing it in song lyrics in the mid-1990s, but lately I've seen it featured prominently by books and magazines and websites. It's probably on a t-shirt or necktie somewhere too. It may be too early to tell, but I think it's in the running to become the theme verse of the emergent church.

Lots of people have theme verses, some biblical phrase that has proven particularly meaningful or inspirational to them. Ministries tend to have a particular passage of Scripture in mind when they organize, and that passage becomes their institutional theme verse. But as those organizations will tell you, an important ingredient of a theme verse is intelligibility: ideally, you know what you're saying to the world.

I've been told that The Whittenburg Door, a satirical magazine about American Christianity, picked for its theme verse 1 Chronicles 26:18: "At Parbar westward, four at the causeway, and two at Parbar." But even picking a verse so arbitrarily makes a statement: "Theme verses are for chumps."

So, to redeem myself among my colleagues and to support the theme-verse-challenged among us, I welcome any and all insight into what "Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls" means, and more specifically, what it would mean for someone wearing it on a t-shirt. I do like the rhythm of it, and it could well be a fine theme verse, perhaps followed immediately by something like "It's an emergent thing, you wouldn't understand."

Meanwhile, if I were to give myself a theme verse, I think it would have to be one that is not so much inspirational as descriptive. I can aspire to all sorts of things, but ultimately I am anchored by the reality of who I fundamentally am, complete with all my failings and foibles.

I actually have a verse in mind, and it just so happens to come straight from the mouth of my namesake, King David, in 2 Samuel 6:

"I will become even more undignified than this, and I will be humiliated in my own eyes."

***

Don't think that's a good theme verse? Check out the streaming video at ivpress.com. I'm sure you'll see the sense of it.

If I Could Talk I’d Be Whining

by David A. Zimmerman

I finally have an idea of what a vow of silence feels like: it feels like a prison sentence.

I have lost my voice. (If found, please e-mail dzimmerman@ivpress.com.) I was talking to a room full of junior high students about my book, and now my vocal cords are essentially nonvocal. I can still wheeze out a syllable here or there, but for the most part I’m effectively mute.

You’d think that not having a voice would prohibit me from participating in conversations, but you’d be wrong. I sang “Happy Birthday” to my mom (it sounded more like “Abby Earth Day”), I cracked jokes during a break with my colleagues, I directed a sketch for my church’s drama team, I talked about a book idea with a woman from Nashville, and I scheduled two meals intended for catching up with some friends. If my publicity agent hadn’t exercised some restraint on my behalf, I would have talked on the radio about superheroes for half an hour.

What I’ve learned is that I, like U2’s Bono, “love the sound of my own voice.” Right now no one else does, of course, since my voice sounds like gravel scraped across a chalkboard. Still, you can’t tell by looking at a person that their voice is dead and can kill, and people continue to engage me in conversation until I respond. Then they apologize and let me go on in silence—which is, ironically, the last thing I want to happen.

I was told once that I should take a retreat of silence to confront my need for attention. I did, and it was good, but while my mouth kept silence, my mind kept chattering away. I took all sorts of notes so I could talk about my experience with all my friends. My experience of voicelessness is quite a bit different from that retreat, however: whereas I could have ended that retreat at any time, I’m currently at the mercy of my throat. I can’t talk, and I won’t talk well until whatever has taken my voice gives it back.

In the meantime, I’m missing out on a lot. I have tried to acknowledge people in passing and have failed to make a peep; I have tried to make jokes but couldn’t articulate the punch line; I’ve tried to engage my loved ones but have had to simply listen.

You can learn a lot from listening, it turns out. People generally have a lot of stories to tell, and when you’re not jockeying for the chance to take the reins of the conversation, they actually have the opportunity to tell them. But we’re conditioned to practice dialogue, an equal distribution of talk-time, so when your voice is gone your conversation partners don’t know what to do with you. Ironically enough, when you’re best suited to listening without interrupting, people stop talking to you.

So here I sit, at least temporarily voiceless and friendless. At least my mind still works, so to speak.

***

Happy birthday, Chris!