She Left Me for Jesus

Tue - 2008/11/11 in death, grief, PDF | Tags: | 12 comments

So, I’ve really been missing Deb lately.  Again.  Still.  And I was reminded of this goofy little song that makes me laugh but also helps me access my feelings.  If you don’t already think I’m a sick pup, perhaps this will change your mind.

WARNING: Some of you may consider the following blasphemous and all sorts of other ways inappropriate.  I don’t.  Pray for me if you will.  But if this messes with your christology or otherwise offends your world view, I’m praying right back.  🙂

This one goes out to all of the widowers.

The convoluted thing about it is that the song (which I first heard on “Fresh Air,” while I was at the gym a couple of months ago, fwiw) is actually the second major revelation of how I’ve been feeling.  In fact, it was more a reinforcement than a revelation.  The first came through a scene in a movie, of which I plan to write later.  And the third was a segment on “This American Life,” which I listened to today.  The bit on TAL is what got me thinking of the song and made me decide I should go ahead and post it.

Of course, I don’t consider this a completely accurate depiction of who Jesus is or how I relate to Him.  And there are lots of other ways that it doesn’t fit.  But there are some important ways in which it does.  Probably, too, the song without the video might be a little easier to relate to and to relate to my situation, but the video is too funny not to share.  I don’t think I should have to say all of that, but there I did.  Relax already.

Oh, and this isn’t the kind of music I usually listen to, but somehow the genre fits the feeling.  Maybe I can appreciate down-and-out, I-need-another-drink country music . . . sort of.

Most especially, please consider this a response to that “comforting” thought that our departed loved ones have been called up by the Lord because “He needs them” there more than we need them here.  I do love the people who have shared that notion, but it’s unbiblical and it doesn’t help.  Idunno, maybe there are folks who do find it helpful or who can ignore it like so much white noise.  FYI, I’m not one of ’em.  No harm, no foul; now you know.

I have many other thoughtish things to say about this and I may say them later and link back.

Enjoy.  And ponder if you dare.

Update: they yanked the video from Youtube, but I found it on FunnyOrDie. Then it showed up on YouTube again.

(DON’T) “Pity Da Fool”

Sun - 2008/08/24 in death, doubt, faith, grief, memory, PDF, resistance, truth, writing | 7 comments

I have some saddish stuff to say–not necessarily immediately, but eventually, and not continually, but at least occasionally.

And you will perhaps feel the urge to, in those timeless words of Mr. T., “pity da fool.”

Please don’t.  Or please, at least, don’t feel any obligation to do so.

I’ve come up with literally (the literal “literally”, not the figurative “literally”) dozens of arguments against your pity (and may share some later), but for now I’m going to share just a few and, I hope, concisely.

It’s not that I’m opposed to pity per se.  Pity, in its purest form is truly divine.  Indeed–and especially within the last 18 months–I’ve gladly given and received it, a lot.  And to those who have been the source of what I’ve received: thank you, deeply and sincerely.

And maybe that’s part of my aversion.  I’ve received so much and I’m not sure I’m worthy of any more–certainly not any more than anyone else.  Yeah, just the thought of it makes me feel guilty.

Pity can also be a bit oppressive.  In some sense it implies a response of further sadness.  It can be a sick cycle, really.  You pity, the one pitied is further immersed in sadness, provoking more pity and so on; and if we’re not careful, we all end up depressed and suicidal.  Well, okay, it’s maybe not so bad; it can be, but, thankfully, someone usually eventually gets the point and jumps the loop (which, unfortunately, still sounds like a euphemism for offing oneself).  And I do hasten to clarify that the proper response isn’t to carefully tiptoe around the sadness.  The pitied know they are sad and your careful avoidance only accentuates what a mess they’re in.  As best you can–for what it’s worth, IMO, take it or leave it, et al.–don’t shower the pitiable with obligatory pity but don’t pretend there’s nothing wrong or that it can’t be talked about; just be and be honest.  I know that’s not easy, but it’s worth it.

Yaknow, come to think of it, that’s my main point.  I want to probe this stuff, walk through it, unpack it.  I want to dig into it like it’s a clearance rack of genuinely underpriced, actually valuable stuff (we all have stuff that matters to us; pick yours–it need not be material stuff–and the metaphor will work).  Not the crap that’s usually–brightly and hopefully, in large, friendly uppercase letters on a field of obnoxious orange–emblazened with that invitation.  There’s something good amidst the crap, buried perhaps, but still present.

It’s not so much a clearance sale, but more like an unwanted shopping spree.  You didn’t buy it–at least you didn’t mean to.  But they took your money–took more than your money, took most of what mattered or made any sense or had any value, at least most everything that you could hold and call, however imprecisely, your own.  However unwillingly, you’ve paid the price.  And, now goddamnit, you’re going to get something out of the exchange (though even calling it an “exchange” is the kind of affront that makes you want to throw up and punch somebody simultaneously–which would be a neat trick and, I imagine, potentially both satisfying and uniquely effective).

So now the price has been paid and all that’s left is to pick through the cheap baubles and find something worth salvaging.  And what I’d really like, if you don’t mind my asking, is someone at my elbow to say, “Yes, Joel, that’s a keeper” or “Please, no.  You don’t want that worthless sh**; just let it go.”  This is a blog. Blogging is about open expression and dialog.  Let’s dialog.

And here’s the other thing.  I’m sometimes sad, but I’ve no interest in being morose and I will in one moment weep but even in the apparently same instant laugh–perhaps, you might think, inappropriately.  I want to have fun and be amused and, frankly, whether you like it or not, I’m going to.  I also want to be ruthless with the truth, want to beat it to a bloody pulp if I have to, and if either of us is tentative or inhibited, that kinda gets in the way.  My point: if you want to laugh, please do; if you want to confront my intellectual dishonesty or sloppiness, please do.  Don’t worry that the protocol of pity forbids it.

Well, that’s probably plenty of mixed metaphors for now (I have more and will pull them out later, lest you feel it is not).

I’m asking you not to pity or at least not to excessively express pity.  More precisely what I’m asking is that you feel no need to pity.  It is a favor; I don’t deny it.  And you may deem me unworthy of such a favor and presumptuous to request it.  But, there, I asked.

More transparently, I confess to you that this whole business of pity and obligations and expectations ends up functioning as Resistance.  I will say more of Resistance but for now know that it is essentially this: not writing.  Which brings us back to the beginning: I have some things to say–some things I feel I should and must say.  Perhaps my request will deflect a few distractions.  If nothing else, this public declaration is cathartic and helps me step around them.  Come up they will, but I said I didn’t want them, so, no offense, I’m stepping past them.  In truth, I’m still quite open to pity; I’d just rather not be bogged down by it here (ha: blogged down), if that makes any sense . . . and even if it doesn’t.

In homage to his T-ness, with an obtuse allusion to Adobe, I’m considering marking the most ostensibly pitiable posts with the category “PDF,” yaknow, so you’ll be warned.  And I admit, I think it mildly clever.  Very mildly.  Almost unnoticeably.  Don’t pity that I’m cleverness challenged; that’ll really piss me off.

A Shifty Universe, Truth that Sometimes Lies

Sun - 2008/08/24 in Blogroll, doubt, faith, truth, writing | 6 comments

I’m going to try to do more linking to other people’s blogs instead of jamming them with my comments.  It seems better in lots of ways.  So here I go.

A conversation I had yesterday and two blogs I’m reading have today reminded me of a couple of core convictions.  By the way, these blogs are excellent, so I encourage you to explore beyond the posts I cite.

Brett talks, in the cited post, about Truth, and June about Grammar, but my takeaway from both is that the world is a beautiful place and we’re never quite capable of capturing either its beauty or its horror strictly with rules and formulae and such–which is not to say that we shouldn’t still try.

A commenter on June’s blog, a teacher, points out the paradox of grammar: that one first learns its rules, then how to bend them.  I’ve decided, after several (not an enormous number, but more than a few) years on the planet that that’s one of life’s most important themes.  I can think of no field in which it does not apply.  At every point of revelation, some “truth” we’d been taught to get to that point is exploded by another or simply dissolves in its own insubstantiality.

That doesn’t mean it all dissolves, that there’s nothing substantial or absolute, but mostly perhaps that our plight is one of perpetual misunderstanding, of partial glimpses, of hints and guesses and approximations.  And, really, that stuff itself (both our own concoctions and the world and order that exist to varying degrees independent of us–material and otherwise) is more or less, if not flimsy, at least shifting.  Moreover, in a way that perhaps transcends or precedes (experientially) the universe’s shiftiness, there is perhaps a necessity that we learn lies or half truths on the way to understanding.

I do believe in absolutes, in Truth.  I’ve experienced a bit of it.  But it doesn’t come in a pill or a package.  Of course, even that’s a lie.  Truth is quite capable of sneaking up in a capsule or neatly wrapped container–but eventually, it’s gonna bust out.  We learn lies on the way to truth because so much of learning is the acquisition of definitions, definitions are boxes, and gloriously, thankfully, Reality won’t fit in any box, no matter how elaborate and vast we might make it.

God, the world and we ourselves are fundamentally fraught with Mystery–Hallelujah!

Yes, that’s frustrating.  Yes, I am continually aggravated by certain things I never quite comprehend but still somehow feel that I must.  But there is greatness in surprise and hope and beauty that doesn’t sit nicely in my head or my heart but is always ever tugging at the seams.

Hail, holy light . . .

Fri - 2008/08/01 in cars, Christine, thanks, turn signals | 10 comments

With the same finger you might use to fly the universal symbol for defiance and violent disdain (yes, that; yes, the), you can instead bring peace, harmony, cooperation and communication to the world.  With little more strength than you possess in your daintiest appendage (the pinkie, I mean), you can control–yea, even hold back–one (perhaps many) of man’s mightiest implements of mass destruction.  All that with a single finger on your left hand.

One simple device grants you such power.

I refer, of course, to the noble turn signal–overlooked, underused, quite often despised and prejudicially ignored.  I’m convinced that this erstwhile lowly afterthought of automotive genius is one of man’s crowning achievements.  I believe that its habitual and rightful employment would significantly improve the condition of this sick, sad world.  Who knows, we might even hasten the second coming.  O yes.  For reals.

I can’t say for sure that it was one of my proudest moments, but I was certainly quite proud and felt an unusual warmth in my soul the day I witnessed my grown-up daughter express her own ardent affection for this underestimated instrument of pure goodness.  It went something like this (note that the actual dialog is somewhat interpolated and may be a mash up of more than one instance; there have been a few):

Christine (speaking with uncommon conviction to the rude driver ahead of her on the road): “A turn signal would have been nice.  Does your fancy car not have them?”
Me (hopefully): “So, you feel pretty strongly about turn signals?”
Christine (incredulous that I would even ask): “Duh.”
Me (barely containing giddiness but wanting to be sure): “Well, it’s just that so many people don’t quite recognize how important they are.”
(Brief pause.)
Christine: “I’m not an idiot.  They prevent accidents.  They’re a means of communication.  Th-”
Me (unintentionally–in my exuberance–and ironically acting like the cause of our frustration by cutting her off): “They’re a way to be polite to your fellow drivers. . . .”
(Conversation continues.  By this time I’m glowing and hoping she doesn’t notice my inordinate enthusiasm.  It embarrasses her when I’m too proud.)

Perhaps it’s to be expected.  My devotion has surely spanned more years than she’s been alive.  I did help teach her to drive and before that she was a frequent passenger when I drove.  But it’s not the kind of thing I remember making a big deal of.  Her recollection might be different (sigh; it often is).  Really, though, the turn signal is almost something I take for granted.  You’re going to turn?  You’re about to change lanes?  You signal your intentions.  To do otherwise would be akin to taking your hands off the steering wheel and closing your eyes while you accelerate.  Sure it could be done.  It probably is done . . . by idiots.

Maybe it’s even genetic.  Or maybe she’s just wise.  I don’t know, but whatever its cause, it’s one of many things about her that make me happy.  And it’s one of those things that convinces me that we share DNA.

So convinced am I of the worth of this glorious and brilliant light amidst the sea of darkness that is the American roadway, so committed am I to the cause of its proper appreciation and use that, I pledge to you, this isn’t the post that I write about turn signals; this is, in fact, merely the introduction to a recurring feature in this blog.  Indeed, in my mind, this is a spiritual issue.  You heard me.  I have much to say about the turn signal–much, especially if you’re scoffing even now, that you need to hear.

Let it flow

Fri - 2008/08/01 in resistance, writing | Leave a comment

In lieu, again, of something more significant, and perhaps in the tradition of bloggy blog, I’m just going to write again today.  And, yeah, I don’t know why that’s such a big deal. I think the just writing is what this is supposed to be, but there’s something evil in the back of my mind (it has a name, and I’ll be writing about it eventually) that makes me think just writing isn’t good enough.  Screw you, thing in the back of my mind.  Indeed, screw you.

I’ve talked to folks lately about learning to be a bad writer–or, rather, learning to let myself be a bad writer.  Which is not to say that I’ve been a good writer up to now.  That’s the point.  I just haven’t been a writer.  Which maybe isn’t exactly true.  I haven’t been much of a writer.

What I’ve decided (I’ve been becoming a decider, lately–slowly perhaps, but still; thanks, Dubya; you the man) is that to get where I want to go, I need to let myself be a bad writer: lacking profundity, grammatically incorrect, stylistically lame, obtuse, convoluted, lacking readers, etc.–yaknow, all the stuff that comes naturally.

All of you fine people who aren’t reading–or, reading, aren’t responding to–my blog are actually helping.  So there.  Er, I mean, thank you.  Really.  It’s sad how dependent I am on people’s responses, or lack thereof.  It’s sad how sensitive I am to being unread or unreadable or so easily misunderstood.  It’s sad that at this stage in my life I am still so fundamentally insecure and hopelessly hanging on the approval and acceptance of others.  But I am, and, there, I confessed it.

There are other sad things, but that’s a whole other post.  What’s funny (I don’t know about you, but I’m coming to the conclusion that if it’s funny one way, it’s probably funny several others and the whole bit about “ha ha” and “strange” is just another intravenous line of bullsh** we all accept to our great detriment) is that the acceptance-hungry voice in my head says “don’t promise more sadness; people hate sadness.”  Screw you, acceptance-hungry voice.  Though (and this is not a concession to AHV, that dirty bastard–he is, in fact, a bastard, btw, but that too is a whole other post) I will add that much of what I mean to write about the sadness is that it’s also a place of laughter, curiosity and enlightenment–maybe mostly laughter, as far as I can tell.  That doesn’t make any sense, you might say, if you were reading this and responding to it.  Ah, but it does, I might respond, were we interacting.  Stay tuned.  Which obviously makes no sense if you’re not already tuned.  But there, again, I said it anyway.

I have a point.  What’s funny is that I keep having it.  This then may become a blog largely about blogging–or about not blogging or about the incipient potential of the blog.  Probably not.  Probably I say that because I’m self-conscious about a dozen different aspects of my and my blog’s inadequacy.  But I notice that others blog about the blogging and the not blogging.  Again, why this should matter to me, an adult–at least I have the chronological accumulation to suggest I might be an adult–I’m embarrassed to ask (I do ask–in case you’re curious–in my head, and fire back the answers I don’t want to hear).

So, yes, the point (implied but not quite yet spoken in the preceding paragraph): I will write and keep writing.  I will be bad.  I will be unread.  Oh what a glorious thing it is.

A bloggy blog . . .

Sun - 2008/07/27 in spontaneous, writing | Tags: | Leave a comment

So, I’ve got a ton of stuff to say, but none of it is in a form that I want to post, so I decided that I’d do a kind of blog freewrite.  Sort of.  Maybe not quite so free, not quite so sloppy.  But free . . . ish and definitely sloppy.

You’ve gotta love “ish.”  Thanks for that one, Lord.  And whoever else gave that to us.  I mean, it’s not great.  But it’s great . . .ish.  And somehow that sounds sarcastic, which I didn’t start out meaning it to be.  But there it is and maybe rightly so.

This is a blog.  This is my blog.  So I suppose it makes sense to make it bloggy.  I think I’ll go there today.  Not many people read this anyway, and those that do probably have at least minimal interest in my life and thought.  So here goes.  Briefly.  No, really; not like I usually end up meaning that.

I woke up this morning (it was morning, though a little late) in a state of clarity.  It’s funny how that happens–in the morning, I mean, and especially on the weekends when I’ve actually slept.  There’s something about the combination of rest and coming out of that less-inhibited, less-filtered, more-believing, more-open, altered state of consciousness that is sleep.  Sleep is good.

And sleep–dreamy, REMish sleep, in particular–is a little like speaking in tongues.  Yeah, you can argue that both of them are nonsense, but it seems to me that they’re both just transrational.  And absolutely, IMO, necessary.  Sure: scattered, semichaotic images and sounds.  But there’s an efficacy there.  And “there” is the right word.  It’s a place, a place where healing can occur, where we let down the guard just long enough for the Spirit to slip in.  Because the truth is, for all of our protestations to the contrary, we are constantly contending against the works of Grace.

So, revelation.  And I felt the need to write.  I didn’t want to lose the moment, so I actually used pen and a journal that I keep by my bed but rarely write in.  And I journaled and wept (not continual weeping, but some very good and occasionally very deep weeping) until I’d filled 18 pages.  Which is especially remarkable in that I hate writing more than a few sentences with pen on paper.

And I call it “revelation,” but it’s really just a moment of clarity, which, in that state to which I’ve alluded, is simple, unpretentious, un-self-conscious.  Doesn’t even recognize itself as remarkable.  It’s only the entry into daythought (which–daythought-I have a hard time not viewing as evil, given it’s oppressive, doubtful tendencies) that renders it special, shows it as an aberration against normalcy.  Normalcy sucks, so aberration is decidedly a good thing.

Thank you, God.  You are, indeed, the Lord of the Sabbath and the God of dreams.

So, some teasers.  My ramblings from this morning are probably too rambley–too long, too profane, too chaotic to just spit them out here.  And they might need more shape even for me to keep them in my own thought, let alone introduce them to yours.  I must blog them, though.  And I may try to preserve their form as much as I can.  Who can say?  But here are their abstracts, rambley still, but less wordy than that to which they refer.  And, please understand, I don’t mean to make complete statements here; rather, consider these fragments a promise, to which I must return.

  • My relationship with the LORD is in a state of nominally complete deconstruction.
  • Deb died, as far as I am concerned, at exactly the wrong time.  And that pisses me off for all sorts of reasons.
  • It is very dark here, but God is comfortable and fully aware in the darkness. 
  • God is, in fact, a big Cheater–His seeing in the dark and all. 
  • But I still love Him.  How can I not love Him?  Really, I’ve asked myself about the possibility and it seems increasingly im-, even in the midst of what is an embarrassingly persistent anger.  It is embarrassing.  I don’t feel like I’m continually angry and I definitely have moments where it’s not on the surface, but whenever I think about it, it sure feels as though it hasn’t gone away.  Yes, I am angry.  I’d like to tell you that I’m not, but I am.  But I can no more deny my love and worship than I can deny my anger.  No, it doesn’t make sense.
  • I haven’t given up on God.  It turns out, as far as I can tell, that that’s even part of the anger.
  • We are rebuilding, God and I.  I hope mostly God, because, as I think is abundantly clear, I’m clueless and otherwise not with the program.
  • I and my blog must be a no bulls*** zone.  But this is variously problematic.

That’s all I’m gonna say for now.  I’ve probably already violated (as I am wont to do) the “leave them wanting more” principle.  Oh, and this is brief.

The picture, the subtitle and life as I know it

Sun - 2008/06/29 in doubt, faith, is God asleep?, uncategorized, writing | 4 comments

I keep meaning to talk about this but then don’t because I think that I should say something profound or clever or whatever. A common theme.

Maybe a profounder or cleverer me will come back later and do better. Until then, here’s simple me in a hurry.

The picture that’s currently my banner is important. I awoke one morning asking God the usual questions. The answer I got is Joshua: “. . . walk . . . be bold and courageous” yadda yadda (not to be confused, well, maybe to be confused but only later, with “yada’ yada'”). Almost immediately, the image enters my head of Peter stepping out of the boat. Yep, walking.

I’m twisted enough to believe that this is God’s idea of a joke–a joke, which is not to say that He’s not also quite serious. Walk, never mind that you’re walking on water. And one might argue that it’s a loose interpretation of the verb “walk” (hence, the “or not”).  There’s no guarantee you won’t fall precipitously, or that, in the falling, you won’t inhale lungs full of water. My mind goes a million places–joyous, scary and wonderful.  Maybe more scary than joyous or wonderful; consider it an optimist’s sandwich.

I’m twisted enough that I laugh. The truth is, it makes more sense than most things. It makes sense, in fact, of all of the things that don’t make sense.  It makes even more sense now than it did then.  That’s the beautiful, sucky thing about this kind of revelation.

I believe that this is life. It is, if nothing else, the life of faith. It may sometimes seem cruel, when the water gives way, as water is wont, beneath one’s feet. As I’ve said before, I don’t believe, in the final analysis, that it is cruel but it is certainly a compellingly realistic and frightening facsimile of cruelty.  Despite my supposedly knowing better, it usually convinces me.

Part of me believes that an über me (the me God meant when He dreamt me) will one day glide effortlessly across the surface of the broiling sea or even, if über me so chooses–rather, if God says (because, the key thing about über me is that he hears the voice of God with perfect clarity and, hearing, responds without hesitation)–dive deep beneath the surface, because, you see, über me not only walks (actual walking not just “walking”) on water but breathes water as if it were air.

As this thought germinates and its roots take hold of my heart and my head, I begin to see a motif in Scripture that had erstwhile eluded me. It is this: that often, as we face this difficult–often watery–path, God seems absent or asleep. Indeed, in one account of the disciples tossed on the sea, Jesus is or appears to be, at first, not there. When He does show up, they think Him an unfriendly ghost. Then come Peter’s baby steps. In another episode on the stormy sea, Jesus is, quite literally, asleep. Asleep in the bottom of the boat. Nice one, Lord.

If you doubt the legitimacy of the motif, consider what Jesus quoted on the cross. And don’t even start with the “that’s not exactly what He meant” or whatever other dishonest bastardization you’ve conceived or borrowed to make His outburst palatable and theologically correct.

Jesus experienced the absence of the Father so that we wouldn’t have to. What else is there from which we more urgently need saving? And still we are, or seem to be, not fully saved. Who doesn’t wonder? Who doesn’t doubt? Who doesn’t feel, at times, somehow all alone or, seeing the foggy or distant apparition, more frightened than comforted by the presence of the Lord?  Whoever you are, I’m not sure that I want to know you.

In November, 2006, Deb and I visited Christine in KC and, at our daughter’s behest (I say this to give her credit because it was a great idea for which I am grateful), we visited the Nelson-Atkins Museum.  Some museums (such as the Dallas Museum of Art) get all uptight about people taking pictures–pbbbbt on them for that, btw–but Nelson Atkins did not, so I took several.  This is a clip from a painting of Jesus asleep on the boat.  He’s the serene one on the left, sleeping while everyone else panics.  The painting really spoke to me.  What it said is more than I can contain here.  In any case, it seemed the hand of Providence, so I made it my banner.

So, anyway, there you have it.  No great claim to faith or power.  As I say, “walking” on (or under) water isn’t exactly a choice, except inasmuch as I see Jesus there, He calls and I answer (or something like that).  It’s the theme.  I’ll say more.

In Memory of Sallie Scott

Sun - 2008/06/29 in memory | 9 comments

There’s a ton of stuff that’s rolling around in my head, some semi-clever or marginally profound ideas, several of which I’ve already started to put into words and several more that I’m hoping will eventually get there.  But I’m not ready with any of it.

So then I open yesterday’s mail and discover that one of my favorite teachers died on Deb and my wedding anniversary.  Her name was Sallie Scott.  She deserves more than this, but I know from experience that if I don’t get something down now, my sense of inadequacy will only grow and I won’t write anything.

She was only 59 when she passed.  She taught at Big Sky and Sentinel High Schools in Missoula, Montana.  Sallie Scott affected me deeply.  I only had her for one class, Humanities, which I took in my junior year, but it was probably my favorite from all of high school and it was certainly the source of many of my fondest memories of those teenage years.  The facts that I developed a deep appreciation for literature (and especially for William Blake), that I finally concluded that a literary (v. systematic, dogmatic or philosophical) approach to the Bible is the most frutiful, that I believe that we, the Church, can do so much better, and that I still aspire to write all owe a great deal to her guidance and inspiration.  The following is a random recollection.

She had the most amazing wit and, as I recall, she was the most delightfully sarcastic instructor I have ever had.  I won’t name any names, but one of my friends would sometimes try to fake his way through an answer when called on in class.  My friend was a bright and funny young man and not a bad student, but sometimes he got it wrong.  Mrs. Scott would listen attentively and thoughtfully and then proclaim, with just a touch of mirth and, yes, derision, “Clean miss, Jim.”  It got to the point that it was so much fun hearing her say that I would secretly hope for him to be called on and be wrong.  I’m so sorry, Jim.  And I’m sorry I mentioned your name, but it just didn’t sound as good without your name at the end of it.

Mrs. Scott seemed to genuinely enjoy everything we studied and, as I remember it, she was laughing all of the time.  If she wasn’t overtly laughing, there was a laugh hidden somewhere in her voice or in the corner of her eye.

Mrs. Scott was not too tall (okay, she was short), but she was a powerful and commanding presence.  And as I’ve already mentioned, she didn’t coddle.

Mrs. Scott recognized my background and was always calling on me to explain a biblical story, when it was appropriate.    This did a few things for me.  1) It made me nervous that I was going to get something wrong, but then increasingly confident that I did know a thing or two.  2) It opened my eyes to the pervasive, foundational and profound impact that the Jewish and Christian scriptures have had even on so-called secular society and culture.  3) It fostered a growing disappointment and discontent that so many in our culture–especially those who claim to literally stake their eternal lives on it–know almost nothing about the Bible.  BTW, just to be clear, Mrs. Scott clearly did, as she often demonstrated by filling in a fact or two that I had omitted; I think she was just calling on me to be nice.

I really didn’t know much about Mrs. Scott’s faith, but I knew that she knew the Word and appreciated it as a literary masterpiece and the source and subtext for most of Western literature and philosophy.  As it turns out, in her life outside the classroom, she was a woman of great faith.  And, in the end, her sense of the story and beauty of Scripture have come to mean so much more to me than the sense of theological correctness I had heard most of my life, up to that point, from the Church.

Mrs. Scott introduced me to Northrop Frye, with whom I don’t always agree but whose sprawling prose and enduring belief in an eternal narrative, the ubiquitous Christ, type and archetype are still essential to my understanding not only of literature but of all art and life.

Again, recognizing who I was and what I valued, Mrs. Scott lent me two books that year that continue to rock my world.

One was Freud’s “The Future of an Illusion,” the famous psychologist’s scathing critique and ultimate dismissal of religion.  By no means did the book undermine my faith.  Instead, as I am sure she expected, it gave me deeper insight and respect for valid perspectives that are different from mine.  In fact, some of Freud’s critique hurts because it’s true.  On the other hand, much of what he says derives from flawed presuppositions and thinly veiled prejudices of his own.  In any case, Sallie respected me enough to challenge me to find out for myself.

Sallie Scott is also the person who introduced me to William Blake.  In fact, she handed me a facsimile edition of Blake’s illuminated landmark, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.  The world could not contain the volumes to express what this did for my world view.  The image of plate 5, the inverted horse and rider, is forever engraved (and, I suppose, water-colored–inside Blake joke) on my mind.  And the accompanying text is, to this day, among my favorite passages from all of English literature.  Here’s an excerpt:

“But in the Book of Job Miltons Messiah is call’d Satan.

For this history has been adopted by both parties.

It indeed appear’d to Reason as if Desire was cast out, but the Devils account is that the Messiah fell, & formed a heaven of what he stole from the Abyss.”

Realize, I was in a fundamentalist church and I believed what I was being taught there (and, if I’m honest, to a great extent, still do).  To me this looked like it might be blasphemy (forget the provocative text and images; consider just the title) but I loved it.  And it had so much more depth than the spin-doctored sermonizing and prooftexting to which I was accustomed.  As I would find out, Blake was a devout follower of Jesus and meant not (at least not only) to deride the Church but to rescue her from the bondage to which she had submitted.

I had already come to realize I couldn’t follow the Falwells and Robertsons of this world and was unwilling to accept their narrow and, frankly, false, interpretation of righteousness.  In Blake I found a friend, mentor and source of great solace when all the world around me seemed finally insane.  Blake, like Mrs. Scott herself, was unafraid to laugh at the self-important defenders of propriety; William and Sallie were willing to boldly fight for freedom and human dignity even if the church or larger culture felt that such values were somehow inconvenient, extraneous or out of place.  Blake understood and articulated the truth that the Holy Spirit acts preeminently in imagination and exuberant creativity and not at all, as we so often suppose, with oppression and accusation, with “mind-forg’d manacles of fear.”

Sallie, I will always remember your humor, your passion for literature and thought, your loving concern for your students, your insight and thoughtfulness, your intelligence.  And I can’t ever forget your face–that sometimes sardonic, but still somehow gentle, smile and those laughing eyes–or your voice.  Thank you for who you are and how you lived and what you taught and thank you for changing so many lives as I know you did mine.  I have no doubt that you are laughing still.

Life in the ‘Burbs, the Prequel

Sat - 2008/06/21 in doubt, faith, thanks | 1 comment

Previously, in Joel’s blog, we (a guy named Hafiz, to be precise) suggested that “complaint is only possible while living in the suburbs of God.”

I like that for many reasons . . . most of which I’m not going to discuss right now.

The thought that’s stuck like an earworm in my neocortex is that proximity to God is not necessarily the antidote to complaint, but may in fact be its prerequisite. I’m not saying that God inspires complaint. . . . Um, okay, I guess I sort of am.

A fundamental discontent stirs as we awaken to the presence of the Holy One. When our discontent responds in gratitude and hope, I believe it manifests in an increasingly insatiable desire that propels us toward Him, that motivates all of the illogically, incomprehensibly sublime acts of faith.

On the other hand, the awakening is also a realization of everything that’s wrong–with ourselves, with the world, with life as we know it. We feel many of the same core emotions; it’s just that sometimes we’re looking the wrong way.

The best I’ve been able to work it out so far is that complaint is the buttward approach to the Throne of Grace.

Oops . . . (the ‘Burbs, II)

Tue - 2008/05/06 in distance, faith, spontaneous | 5 comments

Let it rain, let it rain
Open the floodgates of Heaven
and let it rain . . .
(Pocket Full of Rocks, “Let it Rain” from Fascination)

60% chance of showers in DFW, I’m walking from the train station, listening to Fascination and “Let it Rain” is up. The sky is dark and there’s a cool heaviness in the air.

Singing along, ‘Let it rain, let it rain. Open the floodgates of heaven . . .’ Considering the distinct possibility that I might, literally, get soaked before I make it to the office, I laugh and whisper under my breath, ‘But, hold off just a sec, could ya?’

Don’t get me wrong. I love the rain. I love thunder and lightening and the way thick, dark clouds completely transform the landscape—both visually and in their burden’s release. I have happy memories of walking through the rain, the precipitation sometimes so abundant that I’m completely but happily soaked within seconds.

But, yaknow, sometimes it’s just not convenient.