CCBlogs thinking critically, living faithfully

One day, a lone man walked a dangerous road in the valley between two noisy cities. The man was overtaken by three burglars, two of whom were truly desperate men and one who was simply malicious and sadistic. As they beat the lone man, the two desperate men thought of their starving families and wept over their own actions. The third burglar, however, laughed maniacally with each blow. They took everything the man had and left him for dead in a shallow ditch.

Soon, a respectable religious official walked by the broken, battered man. He saw the dark pools of blood around the man and heard the soft cries for mercy. The religious official, who was apparently important and very busy, offered a quick prayer for the man and even threw several coins in his direction.

Later, a very compassionate woman walked down the road. She saw the man and was immediately moved. She ran to his side and knelt by the man, careful to not get blood on her clothes. She was on her way to a very important charity event, after all. But she sat with the man and wept with him, glad to be late if it meant she could help this man. Eventually, however, she could spare no more time. She stood up, straightened her appearance, and promised to send the man a good ten percent of what she could raise at her upcoming event. She walked on, knowing full well the good she would soon accomplish.

Finally, the third burglar, the sadist, walked back down the road, quite pleased with himself and proud of his earnings. He saw the broken man and, finding a new and previously unexplored way to indulge himself, he stooped down and picked the beaten man up out of the ditch. He carried him to the nearest motel and tended to his wounds. Using the stolen money, he bought the man food and medical supplies and paid his room up for a full week. The vicious burglar left the man in the care of another guest and went on his way, impressed with his own ability to give.

They all sat in the backyard. They’d been sitting around the fire for a few hours now, telling stories and enjoying s’mores. This was their campground for the night. Their faces flickered in the flames flying skyward from the little Smokey Joe in the middle. Dwight looked around at the people he loved. His wife, Jean, laughed long and loud. She always had, and that’s one of the things he’d always loved about her. His beautiful daughter Hilary (whom this very narrator has a huge crush on) blew out a burning marshmallow and peeled off the burnt outer layer before setting it ablaze again. Her husband, Matt (the lucky bastard), struggled to pull stringy marshmallow leftovers out of his beard. Meghan and Matthew, two of Jean’s family’s cousins (although distantly and awkwardly related), sat somewhat silently but with huge ear-to-ear grins. Dwight noticed how late it was getting, but he suddenly felt inspired.

“Before we climb into the tent for bed, everybody has to chug an Amp energy drink,” Dwight said. His challenge was gladly accepted by Matt (the bearded fool of whom I harbor so much envy) and Matthew, the younger of the two cousins. The three boys chugged energy drinks and climbed into the tent. It had been a long day, and, energy drinks be damned, they were all very tired. Everyone slipped off to sleep without a moment’s hesitation, thinking that perhaps Amp energy drinks weren’t so potent after all.

That is, until about 3:30 in the morning.

“uuhhhhhHHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHARGH!” Everyone in the tent was violently awoken by a sudden scream.

“What the hell was that?” Hilary asked, groggily.

“I think it was your dad,” cousin Matthew said.

There was a moment of silence before Dwight said, “It’s okay, everybody. Daddy just had a bad dream. Go back to sleep.” More silence.

Matt (the bearded one) lay on his back, shaking in fear. What could have possibly affected such a manly man so deeply? What could Dwight have to fear? And how was he supposed to sleep now? Sure, he hadn’t the dream, which had obviously been terrifying for Dwight. But what’s scarier? To have such a dream and to wake up? Or to be so violently awoken by the terror in someone else’s voice?

But who was Matt kidding? That was one of the most hilarious things he’d ever seen. What was really scary was thinking about what Dwight might do to him when he found out how much Matt liked to tell that story to everyone he knew.

Forewarned: The following is a fairly pessimistic critique of what might be and a deeply introspective look at what unfortunately is for me all too often. This foreword serves to make it sound much worse than it is.

Just about everybody has a Facebook. Lots of people have Twitter. A growing number of my friends (myself included) use foursquare to let each other know exactly where we are nearly every minute of the day. Hell, I even use this blog to keep random people informed of my every self-important thought. But why? What is it about social media that so fascinates us? Why tell people where we are or what we’re doing? Why post voyeuristic pictures from our everyday experiences on Facebook for God and everybody to look at? What is my obsession with all of this digital socialization?

Obviously the answers to such questions are complicated. At its most noble, its about extending community beyond the bounds of geographic or temporal limitations. For example, I have a friend in Japan who, at last check, was waiting to eat some Italian food. (That was two hours ago, so hopefully she’s eaten by now, but the point remains: to know what goes on in her life from around the world with only a two hour delay is pretty incredible.) I’m currently playing Words with Friends with people from the good ol’ SGF, with a friend in South Carolina, and with a guy I only know through social media in San Fran. I have a penpal in Africa. I have maintained relationships with people from high school and even my childhood, all through the wonders of the internet. I can check out pictures of my cousin’s baby in St. Louis. The other day, I literally saw (via Skype) a friend of mine who currently lives in Chile.

But even to call this noble is a bit self-contradictory. See, not only do I have these incredible experiences, I feel the need to use social media to tell you, the third-party voyeur, all about them. In my own estimation, while I do have some incredible relational experiences because of social media, its primary purpose for me is to make sure that random onlookers–the so-called “third Other,” if you will–will be aware of just how meaningful my life is. In large part, this is rooted in my desire to experience “real life.” In his overview of the Real, Lacanian psychoanalyst, Slavoj Žižek cites Alain Badiou‘s estimation of such an obsession:

Alain Badiou identified as the key feature of the twentieth century the “passion of the Real [la passion du réel]“: in contrast to the nineteenth century of utopian or “scientific” projects and ideals, plans for the future, the twentieth century aimed at delivering the thing itself, at directly realizing the longed-for New Order–or, as Fernando Pessoa puts it: ” . . . do not crave to construct in space / which appears to live in the future, / and to promise you some kind of tomorrow. Realize yourself today, do not wait. / You alone are your life.” The ultimate and defining experience of the twentieth century was the direct experience of the Real as opposed to everyday social reality–the Real in its extreme violence as the price to be paid for peeling off the deceptive layers of reality.

Slavoj Žižek, The Puppet and the Dwarf (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2003), 63.

In other words, it seems to me that my desire to experience the Real often translates into a violent abuse of social media to validate such attempted experiences. So, I go out; I get together with friends; we talk and laugh; we drink coffee or beer; we go to shows; we go this place and that place, all around, living. And then I violently (read: somewhat against your will, though you do indeed choose to “follow” or “friend” me, which may say something about masochism) force the description of those experiences on you. I do this not for your benefit but for mine. By informing you of what I’m doing, it seems that I am, at least in part (and it is a part that I greatly resent) trying to make you jealous. If you envy my life, then I must be really living. Rather than simply recognizing what is Real about my life (if such things do exist in my life) and enjoying them, I can prove their authenticity to myself by telling you and assuming that you have deemed them worthy of an enviable life.

So, if Badiou was right, and the twentieth century was obsessed with the Real as something to be realized, I might suggest that the twenty-first century is preoccupied with the perception of the real. Late twentieth century philosophers (such as Badiou) began to question metaphysics, suggesting that there are innumerable narratives that people live in and interact with. In other words, there is no Real (or any other such Capitalized metaphysical Thing). Instead, what took the place of the Real was the contextual, community-defined “reals” that we strive after as our very own Reals. Perhaps the twenty-first century and its dependence on the shared experiences of social media allows us to experience such authentic reals relative to the judgments of our communities, which are no longer geographically determined. Therefore, my obsessive attempts to achieve the Real are really only desperate pleas for affirmation from a community whose approval is much more real to me than the elusive Real.

The only questions then remaining are the questions of value and ethics. If it is this way (feel free to argue that point), should it be? What does it mean to live ethically in a community when so much of my own attempts at living are a sort of selfish plea for approval? To be honest, I’m not really sure. But if I figure it out, I’ll tweet it and let you know. Then you will be so impressed.

I suppose, technically, I could read any book over and over again. But I think the question is: What book would I really want to read repeatedly? That’s easy. I could read any of the Harry Potter books as many times as I could make time. They’re so good.

And that’s all I have to say about that one.

I really miss college.

Scratch that. I miss parts of college. Mostly, I miss living in the dorm. I lived on this hall that was known for causing problems and for staying up all night to play MarioKart or to watch Dog the Bounty Hunter. In other words, we were driven by impulse, consumption, and entertainment. And we loved every minute of it. We sucked at homework and even worse at being polite. I mean, some of my friends peed in a water gun and sprayed it in someone’s mouth, for God’s sake.

It was awesome.

One time, we did a trading spaces thing, and another set of guys transformed our room into a womb, covering the walls in red sheets and even hanging gigantic representations of a sperm and an egg. It was epic. And disgusting. But oddly comfortable and safe.

In the cafeteria, we were loud and obnoxious, notoriously known as “The Table of Kids Who Don’t Wash Their Hair,” and we made the biggest, most badass ice cream cones in the world. And then smashed them in people’s faces.

We were terrible people. And I didn’t mind. In fact, I miss it.

When I first met my friend Mallory Roth, I accidentally asked her what she wanted to do after college. I was barraged with reasons why such a question was utterly ridiculous. I quickly repented and begged her forgiveness.

I got to thinking about what she had said, and it reminded me of something. Right after the new year kicked off, as I sat at the Coffee Ethic, enjoying a cup of the house and reading, this random dude approached me from the Springfield Free Press. He told me that he was taking a poll and was curious what people intended to do or change about the coming year. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I hope I make it through.” Something that was then quoted in the paper and made me the “most famous person” my mailman knows, which he likes to remind me of often.

So, with those two experiences in mind, I have to insist that this question is both ridiculous and surprisingly well-worded. Most of the time, when someone asks a question of this nature, it is centered on what someone wants to do with the next ten years. That kind of question is a waste of my time. I don’t even know what I want to do today; how the hell am I supposed to be able to predict 10 years into the future?!

But this question is a little different. It asks, what will life be like in ten years. I may not know the details of what I’ll be doing or where I’ll be living, but I can say that I hope my life in ten years is filled with love, community, and beauty. I can say that I want to be a person who incarnates Grace to everyone I meet. I can say that I want more patience with and more indignation against injustice.

I can’t tell you what I want to do in the future, but I can tell you what kind of person I want to be.

Hilary and I drove up to KC for a wedding this weekend. As soon as we showed up, Dwight and Jean excitedly wished me happy birthday. Jean then pulled out a big bag and handed it to me. Inside was a waffle cone maker. At first, I was speechless. Hilary and I had seen this particular gadget at Macy’s last week and loved it, but we had decided against it for the sake of frugality. So, one week later, to find it waiting for me at the bottom of a gift bag was a wonderful surprise. I jumped up and down a couple time–I know; I probably get too excited about stuff like that–and thanked Dwight and Jean ecstatically.

And why wouldn’t I? I’m gonna make my own waffle cones. Like everyday.

When I was in high school, I dated this girl. Actually, I dated a lot of girls, which collectively may constitute my favorite mistake, but I can think of one particular girl who truly represents all such mistakes. I dated this girl for quite awhile, and it was awesome. We had some really good times. But after awhile, I got bored or something. I remember becoming insanely discontent. Part of me wanted the relationship to be over and part of me was really, truly happy with things. As a result, I started treating her really badly. I would pick fights, intentionally “forget” things she had said, and change plans on her. I was very intentionally trying to make her break up with me, so I wouldn’t have to do it. And when she finally did, I was hurt more than I could have thought. I was desperately heartbroken. For a loooong time. I didn’t know what to do with all of my hurt, so I sat through it. I waited it out. And when I finally did get into another relationship, I did the exact same thing. And the next girl, too. And on and on.

So why would this be my favorite mistake? Because it was a mistake. Despite my intentions, it was unintentionally painful. And because I learned nothing from it. Could it even be called a mistake if it were somehow justified?

Yesterday, I went mini-golfing with my wife and my friend. My friend found an extra golf ball on the ground, so he picked it up. Almost immediately after that, a woman on the hole ahead of us hit her ball off the course, through the chain link fence, and across the street. My friend simply handed her the extra ball and smiled. When she turned around and walked away, my friend said, “Everything happens for a reason.”

The reason that my failed high school relationship is my favorite mistake is because it didn’t happen for a reason. Or rather, it happened for a reason (I certainly seemed to cause it), but such reasons served no purpose. In other words, I accomplished something entirely by accident that I had never intended to give to myself or to anyone else.

Maybe one could say that I must have learned something from that experience. I must have been changed and formed in some way, which I suppose is true. But then I suppose–if I’m not mistaken–there would be no mistakes. This is not to say that everything happens for a reason–a sentiment I simply cannot get on board with, mostly because I think it’s just too easy for fortunate people to say so. It is to say that there are no mistakes. Everything we do is on purpose, and mistakes are impossible. In order to truly be a mistake, such events would have to be entirely unforeseen and useless. They would cost time and gain nothing.

I can think of one pure mistake. One day, my father-in-law stood outside a store facing the parking lot. A woman approached him from behind and grabbed a healthy handful of his ass. Neither looked at the other, assuming that acquaintance was obvious. After a brief pause, they glanced at each other and realized that he was not her husband, as she had thought, and she was not his wife, as he had assumed. She stumbled through an apology and walked away awkwardly. The beauty of this mistake is that it served no purpose or gain whatsoever. Although, I guess he did get felt up.

Maybe it was a mistake to write this . . .

This summer, I’ve been working for Touchpoint Autism Services, hanging out with kids and adults with autism. What I appreciate most about the job is that it requires me to state everything positively. We aren’t allowed to use phrases like “Don’t do that.” We have to find ways of expressing positively what we want the kiddos to do rather than constricting them by what they can’t do. And we are supposed to praise every little thing they do that is good. It’s a very particular kind of technique for a very particular kind of communication, but I think it’s a kind of communication that I have mostly neglected in my pessimism and cynicism. I tend to be very negative, finding the things I hate about every topic or idea. I suppose that’s my inheritance as an “academic” (if such a thing exists, and I might rightly be mistaken for one). Academics are rigorously trained to spot the weaknesses in every argument, but Touchpoint has dared me to find anything I might enjoy and to highlight it.

Interpersonally, positive communication is just nice sometimes. Every once in a while, I like to be told what I’m doing right, even if it’s fairly insignificant. Otherwise, the only feedback I really receive from people are harsh corrections. I’m gonna try to take that with me when I leave Touchpoint (later this week); I’m gonna try to find the little things that people do and to honestly express how much I appreciate those things.

Since school got out, I’ve been working 40 hours a week. This kind of thing has cut severely into my schedule. I’ve also been reading a bunch of fun-fiction and spending a lot of time with friends and family. I haven’t spent near as much time reading or thinking explicitly about theological or philosophical issues. However, that doesn’t mean I haven’t been doing theology. Sharing life with my wife and my friends is an explicitly theological act. Resting and recovering from a long year at school is theological. Everything is theological. Everything that I do reflects my experiences with the Divine. Unfortunately, some of those experiences are more positive than others, but I can’t deny that every moment of my life is profoundly meaningful, especially the mundane ones.

All that to say, I haven’t really had much to say lately. I’m not sure that I’m at a place where I can really express theological thoughts in discourse and words and such. And I don’t feel bad about that. Not even for a minute.

Most profoundly, I’ve noticed the amazing wonder that happens with food. Yesterday, I had biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs at my aunt’s house for breakfast. I sat and chatted with my aunt and my grandfather, enjoying stories and laughing. For lunch, Hilary made marinated turkey burgers and a huge fresh salad. My aunt, Clutter and his dad, and Hilary and I sat there for an hour just talking about food. Then we had Pineapple Whip to top it all off. For dinner, Clutter made pulled pork sandwiches and grilled asparagus; Hilary fixed some peaches and cream sweet corn. Tonight, my friend Lindsey is coming over, and we’re all going to do some serious baking.

We’re lucky to live where we do and to be able to enjoy such delicious food. But all of this food has been a reminder to me that it isn’t what’s on the table that matters, it’s who is around it. And everyone is welcome at Christ’s Table.

Last week, we had some folks over to sit around a kiddy pool and read some poetry. We started the night by listening to this poem (watch out–there’s some language in it):

I really like the idea of community. I like the idea of sharing life. I like the idea of sharing laughter and good beer. I like the idea of talking about what matters. I like the idea of sitting silently with those I love. But I tend to suck at actually pulling it off, especially as of late. I’m not really sure what’s going on in my head, but I can say for sure that it’s something. And I think it’s something that is leading me somewhere. Somewhere good. But in the meantime, I’ve been sort of a recluse. In the meantime, I’ve thought and thought and thought about community while isolating myself to think and to become more cognizant (to quote a friend) of things going on in me. I think these kinds of moments are necessary to be able to contribute to a community. We all have shit to deal with from time to time, and some of those times, we have to walk that path alone. I’m okay with that.

What I’m a little scared of is becoming to comfortable as a recluse. I’m afraid of becoming this:

“I love mankind,” he said, “but I marvel at myself: the more I love mankind in general, the less I love human beings in particular, separately, that is, as individual persons. In my dreams,” he said, “I would often arrive at fervent plans of devotion to mankind and might very possibly have gone to the Cross for human beings, had that been suddenly required of me, and yet I am unable to spend two days in the same room with someone else, and this I know from experience. No sooner is that someone else close to me than his personality crushes my self-esteem and hampers my freedom. In the space of a day and a night I am capable of coming to hate even the best of human beings: one because he takes too long over dinner, another because he has a cold and is perpetually blowing his nose. I become the enemy of others,” he said, “very nearly as soon as they come into contact with me. To compensate for this, however, it has always happened that the more I have hated human beings in particular, the more ardent has become my love for mankind in general.”

Instead, I pursue this:

By the experience of active love. Try to love your fellow human beings actively and untiringly. In the degree to which you succeed in that love, you will also be convinced of God’s existence, and of your soul’s immortality. And if you attain complete self-renunciation in your love for your fellow creatures, then you will unfailingly come to believe, and no form of doubt will ever be able to visit your soul. That has been tested, that is precisely true.

I’m not sure how to get from the former to the latter, but I hope to God that the Elder is right.

It is sufficient that you grieve over it. Do what you are able, and it will be taken into consideration.

The weakness in me is a need to feel special. I want to be unique. I’m not willing to be a part of something unless I have some sort of control over it or uniqueness in it. I want to be silent for a bit (he blogs publicly). I want to be a face in the crowd. I want to be a quiet supporter of the people I encounter.

Christ, as a light
illumine and guide me.
Christ, as a shield
overshadow me.
Christ under me;
Christ over me;
Christ beside me
on my left and my right.
This day be within and without me,
lowly and meek, yet all-powerful.
Be in the heart of each to whom I speak;
in the mouth of each who speaks to me.
This day be within and without me,
lowly and meek, yet all-powerful.
Christ as a light;
Christ as a shield;
Christ beside me
on my left and my right.

Recently, I shared an interesting conversation with some dear friends on the road back from Bolivar. I find that driving makes thinking and conversing easier. A conversation is motion from one place or thought to another. The constant hum of an engine, the whirring of rubber on the road, and the flashes of scenery flying by the windows inspire me to move my thoughts forward, though I’m fairly sure that I’m usually headed in the wrong direction.

It was a conversation about death and resurrection, and particularly the death and resurrection of God in Jesus. It was about the things we’d always heard, the parts of what we’d heard that we still thought were important, and the possibility of new ways of thinking. And it reminded me of another conversation a couple months ago. This time, I was at the Coffee Ethic with my friends on a Friday afternoon. And instead of motion, we were exploring rootedness and regularity. Sitting in a comfortable place, sipping on coffee and having no intention to move for several hours, we stumbled into a conversation about resurrection. It was nearly Easter time, so the topic was heavy on my own mind. A friend challenged the concept of the resurrection, questioning that validity of the historical event in favor of a perpetual corporate resurrection in the Church. At the time, I jumped to the defense of the resurrection, insisting that it had extreme historical importance. As I sat in that familiar place with the smell of my favorite coffee surrounding me and keeping me safe, I passionately defended an idea that I inherited. As we talked, I realized that I was being defensive because there was something inside of me that was unwilling to even question the resurrection. My tradition had trained me to never question such things for fear of losing any goodness in my soul.

But more recently, as we sped down the road, I began to question. I let the hypnotic white dashes down the middle of the road lead me into different thoughts. I think I started running from my past at 70 miles an hour. I didn’t want to let myself believe anything that I had accepted from my past. I moved. And when the conversation lulled, we turned up the music and let our movement speak for us.

I think that the answer to my questions about resurrection is somewhere between the two. I need to believe in it but not in the ways I always have. I hope to find that tension in community and in conversation.

This is why I need road trips and coffee shops. This is why I need home.

She asks, “Are you cursed?”
He says, “I think that I’m cured.”

Everybody and their brother has had something to say about LOST since it ended. I, on the other hand, haven’t really talked about it since the final credits rolled. I’m not sure that I want to now, either. In fact, I haven’t had much to say about anything. Here’s what I’ve been thinking about in my silence:

I like to work more than I like to contemplate. I like contemplation because it feels like a productive way to spend my time, and it contributes to what I believe is my worth and reputation. Through some very eye-opening experiences, I’m beginning to see the value of contemplation so that I can be more Christ-like and truly human to those I encounter in the world. In other words, I want to desire profundity less and to crave healthy spirituality and community.

That’s exactly what I liked about LOST. Life matters. It’s difficult, and we all make mistakes, but in the end, we will all be together. There is hope for redemption, and there is a chance to remember the people and events that have made us into who we are.

All of this has resulted in a rather silent blog, for which I apologize. But I know that my most faithful readers will bear with me until I feel confident enough in my own skin to blog regularly again. Or, they won’t. It’s whatevz.

An open road.
“Go West, young man.”
A banjo led me out of town.
The early morning sun lit my path,
the deadly drive towards the grapes of wrath,
to find work, to lose a life.
Dysentery, snake bites, and broken fords,
an Oregon Trail of my own design.
I’ve killed them off, I’ve let them live.
I’ve been cheap,
I’ve been selfish,
I’ve been asleep,
and I’ve been helpless.

A day spent West, and all alone.
I saw the sunset,
and I felt compelled to ride off into it.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I’m no hero.
I remember when she said, “Come home soon.”
But we have no home.
We wait for rain.
And we meander.

Once I knew a girl in the hard, hard times.
She made me a shirt out of fives and dimes.
Now she’s gone, but when I wear it, she crosses my mind.
And if the best is for the best then the best is unkind.

Last week, I finished up everything for my first year of grad school. It was sort of bittersweet. It was insanely busy, and I learned a lot. I accomplished a lot. I read a lot. I wrote a lot. I presented papers a lot. I did all sorts of grad school-y things a lot. It became my life. And now that I have a break, I can’t feel anything except tired. I feel dread for the future. Should I take this summer class? Should I rest? Is it okay to rest?

I realized that Illinois was more than I could stand.
They say working’s best cause poverty is hell on a man.
Now I ride a lazy river through the Mississippi fan,
And if the best is for the best then the best can be damned.

I still think too much, and I spend a lot of time thinking about not wanting to think so much. I crave something inexpressible. I remember something in the book of Acts about times of refreshing. I never understood what that meant, but it sure sounds nice. Unless it has to look like something so damn demanding. It always seems to happen like that.

I spent a few years on the Queen of Spain.
She was a leaky little boat that went up in flames.
When the boiler blew some people started naming names.
But if the best is for the best I guess the best is to blame.

I’m not so sure I know what it means for me to be me these days. I’m not sure if I should let myself be what I do, or if what I do needs to change in some way. I do know that I won’t have time to do it all in the future. Lately, I’ve chosen the things I wouldn’t normally choose, and I feel guilty for doing so. Then I feel even worse for letting myself feel any guilt. I just don’t know which instinct to trust.

Now I listen to my sweetheart and I listen to my thirst.
I don’t spend time listening to other people’s words.
Sometimes they’re right, most the time the reverse.
They say the best is for the best when the best’s for the worst.

Isn’t it okay to be selfish sometimes? Isn’t it inevitable? I can’t seem to escape it. So, don’t go. Stay.

Once I knew a girl in the hard, hard times.
She made me a shirt out of fives and dimes.
Now she’s gone, but when I wear it, she crosses my mind.
And if the best is for the best then the best is unkind.

Then anger rose up in the old man’s face, and he said, “I have heard my teacher say that whoever uses machines does all his work like a machine. He who does his work like a machine grows a heart like a machine, and he who carries the heart of a machine in his breast loses his simplicity. He who has lost his simplicity becomes unsure in the strivings of his soul. Uncertainty in the strivings of his soul is something which does not agree with honest sense. It is not that I do not know of such things; I am ashamed to use them.”

Quoted in Understanding Media: The Extensions of Men by Marshall McLuhan