Dallas Willard

On Sunday morning this week, my husband and I had church at home (where two or more are gathered…). We listened to a Dallas Willard talk then spent an hour or so praying and meditating, thinking on the nature of God, reading the ancient creeds together. But this post isn't about our Sunday worship, it is about Willard's lecture.
In his talk, Willard examines the four “great questions of existence,” including the nature of reality, what the good life is, who a good person is, and the how of becoming this good person. Willard recalled the Rodney King question that has become our cultural catch-phrase. “Why can’t we all just get along?” We can’t, he argues, because we all want our own way, our own kingdom to advance. When you fix your reference of the nature of reality on humans, you end up with competing wills. The question of ultimate reality begins with and centers on God. The only way to harmonize the good we desire, justice (social, moral, or otherwise), grace, love, is to become part of God’s kingdom, who is justice, mercy, grace, love, forgiveness, righteousness, good. The only way to harmonize each other, to get along, is within His kingdom.
As Hegel argues, God remains transcendent but is also fully involved in human history. It is God who overcomes human divisiveness and human suffering.
This view of salvation, this gospel presentation, I may term it, is compelling, outside of ourselves and yet inclusive of ourselves. It is victorious of the evil in our lives and the evil in the world. It reminded me of Donald Miller’s view in Blue Like Jazz.
Of course, these are only my reflections of one hearing of this lecture. I highly recommend listening to it yourself here. (There are also PowerPoint slides available.)

It's Thrifting Time

I had my first thrifting experience on Saturday. (For those of you who don’t subscribe to the urban dictionary, “thrift” has now metamorphosed into a verb.) Well, technically, not my first. I went twice in high school. My usual shopping experience consists of a plan: I know what I need; I run in (usually to Old Navy) to the designated area; I try on; I check-out; I’m back in the car. Wshoo. I check my stop-timer. Have I beat my previous time? Thrifting is a completely different realm. You shuffle through five-point-five million clothes. Personally, flipping through so many crammed clothes as the hangers screech across the metal bar can only be done while being distracted by my friends’ stories of the week.
There may or may not be a dressing room. Our first stop had such a room. I pulled on and off more clothes in that time than a supermodel at a runway show. I squeezed into jeans that I needed a can-opener to remove. I tried on a lady-in-red dress, a Hawaiian patterned dress that matches one of my husband’s favorite shirts, and a pirate flair-sleeved shirt (pirate blood courses through my veins). The second destination contained no dressing room. We yanked the jeans up under our skirts and slipped dresses on over our clothes.
The clothes may or may not have been in fashion within the last five years. As my friend, Christina, said, “It’s sad when the clothes in a thrift shop look nicer [and trendier, I might add] than the clothes in my closet.” The first shop had last week’s Express garments while the second shop included more of the vest and below-the-waist sundresses of the eighties’ variety. But the second place had great jeans and a few a la mode dresses if you were willing to pick (which, four hours after our starting time, I wasn’t – I was growing less optimistic about dress possibilities by the cloth).
I got home to show my new treasures to my husband: a new pair of jeans, softly worn yet sans holes or tears, a new white linen breezy blouse, a surfer girl fitted tee, and a red tank top.
“Because you don’t have enough tank tops,” my husband laughed. (I’m a sucker for the built-in shelf bra.)
“Yes, but I didn’t have one that is red. With a handkerchief pattern. And wooden beads.”
All of these finds for $15.
That, in a nutshell, is thrifting.
Now if I could only find a shirt that reads “Drama Queen.”

The Joy of Reading

I’m adopting the previous rule of not using the Bible as any answer. You need to appreciate my adherence to the “one book” rule. At least a baker’s dozen titles popped into my mind for all 9 questions, all clamoring for attention (picture 6 yr olds when the magician asks for volunteers, all pretending to remain in their seats with at least one butt cheek raised, one hand raised while the other helps stretch the raised arm, “pick me” squealing from all mouths). And I did indeed pick one book for each category.
1. One book that changed your life:
Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery

2. One book that you’ve read more than once:
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

3. One book you’d want on a desert island:
Oy vey. Just one? How about the complete works of Mark Twain? Bound in one edition, of course. Since my M.T. is bound in two editions, I’ll be fair and pick the edition that has Huck Finn.

Side note: I think I’m taking this too seriously, as if this list defines my life. I’m stressin’ out here! Too many choices! What if I pick the wrong one? My blood pressure’s rising. Ach!

4. One book that made you laugh:
Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight by Alexandra Fuller

5. One book that made you cry:
The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

6. One book that you wish had been written:
Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller

Oops. Thought the question said “you wish you had written.” Okay, real answer: (fingers drumming…Got it!) How to Make Your House Clean Itself

7. One book that you wish had never been written:
Joel Osteen, Your Best Life Now. (This was the answer from the previous blogger, but I feel it apt and so will leave it.)

8. One book you’re currently reading:
Walk On: The Spiritual Journey of U2 by Steve Stockman

9. One book you’ve been meaning to read:
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (I’ve actually finished The Brothers Karamazov. One question: did Dostoevsky not have an editor? Did I have to know the life story of every village member [he-he, that made me giggle] to understand the plot? But, still loved and learned from the book. On to my next Russian tragedy.)

10. Now tag five people: Tran, Kathy, and Sandi…sorry, I’m only tagging three.

Two Convicting Movies…Something Old, Something New

Last week I saw The Devil Wears Prada. First, let me say that Meryl Streep played an amazing very mean person. I myself would have quit the admin position in the first five minutes. Though it is easily labeled a chick-flick because the story revolves around girls, it has a great lesson for both genders: relationships are more important than getting caught up in the success trap. Anne Hathaway’s character abandons her family, her boyfriend, and her best friends to please her boss and become successful, even though she would probably not even recognize her goal as climbing the proverbial ladder but just trying to survive. Here’s where I come in. While I would not overtly concede that my goal is to become a corporate success, I love to be appreciated and recognized. But whenever I work toward anything, whether writing, music, being loved, more than sacrificially loving the Lord my God and my neighbor, I am wrong.

Pollock. Oh, Pollock. Love the man’s paintings. Sad, sad life. A man so desperately trying to be loved and acknowledged, so recklessly chasing fame and fortune. He uses everyone in his life without ever truly loving. His wife puts aside her own work in order to promote his. She is forgiving; she is patient. And yet, he pushes her away when his work is eclipsed by another artist’s. His benefactor (Peggy Guggenheim, no less): he conspicuously chases her money. Even their love scene displays his selfishness. His critic-friend: when this critic writes well of another, Pollock lashes out. His mistress: he does not love her, but only loves that she makes him feel young and wanted when the world has moved on to another circus ring.
Again, I ask myself: is this me? I am a drama queen, I admit. Do I seek attention for myself to the detriment of loving others? Do I love others because they make me feel loved? Do I choose friends based on what they can do for me?

Connecting, I Connect

When others were sweating in soccer fields or balancing on gymnastics bars in 4th grade, I began a writer’s club. I persuaded two friends and my sister (my sister took a bit more literal arm-twisting) to join, and together we set out writing (and illustrating) short stories. I named it The Writer’s Block, unknowing, at the time, the frustration connoted in said title. The idea was to sell our novellas in the neighborhood for a quarter a piece. Being more artist than entrepreneur, many a story was written but none sold.
That little girl’s pen still scribbles and that little girl’s dreams still dances with unicorns and tree nymphs. She still writes because she has to write. And she still wants to find those who connect with these imaginings and ideas, with these stories and philosophies. Enter the blog.
The blog glistens with the morning dew on the spider’s silk, reflecting the prism of light in what can be a coldly stunning and life-sucking environment of internet disconnect and barrage of facts without faces. As Anne Lamott wrote, “Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul.” (Bird by Bird, p. 237)
The blog heralds “the need to express, to communicate” (from “La Vie Boheme” in Rent). The blog voices our concerns, our triumphs, the small beauties of our daily life, and the sorrows. The blog finds a sympathetic community when sharing hurts from backlash of rejection, from unpopular notions, from muddied experiences. The blog gives accolades to otherwise unnoticed jubilees. The blog brings together old friends and family separated by miles and kilometers and oceans. The blog discovers new friends through mutual interests. The blog introduces challenging ideas potentially warded off by our contained lives. The blog promotes a collective of philosophies and wisdoms.
I can read stories of chaplains finding hope and redemption in the throes of death and disease. I can read essays of edgy ideologies and epistemologies. I can read struggles of loving the emotionally absent mother.
I can tell you my review of my new favorite book, the lessons I learned from a recent cooking disaster, the colors of the arboretum or the magnificence of the ocean, my reflections on Plato’s continued influence, and my pains from life on this planet. I can write these things, so I can be healed and offer healing to others. I am a writer by blogging and so notice the small details of my backyard bunny, the education I receive from an afternoon with a six year old, and the off-beat comments of reserved friends. I live better when I write better. I share life, and I find life. I blog.

Marketing Church

I had a disturbing church experience yesterday. Chris and I decided to visit a satellite church out of curiosity. How does this work? What is all the fuss about? I left with tears, not touched, meaningful, poignant message tears, but tears of disgust.
The service began with a concert. I loved the type of music, and I believe all music can and should be used to praise and glorify God, as long as the Church participates. But the church did not participate. They watched the light show and the dry ice effects and listened to the concert. This was followed by a motivational speaker piped in on what appeared to be an HD screen. The message itself was not terrible. The speaker made good points. The leader/announcer/emcee (?) for the service asked us to fill out the guest cards, which Chris dutifully did (and which I would never have done). We walked out of the auditorium/sanctuary, in and out in exactly one hour. All of the congregation made straight for the exit. No hi’s to one another. No gathering groups in the lobby. Odd. It appeared that no one knew another in the building.
Chris and I walked to the information booth, looking for the guest card drop-off and seeking more information on this Sunday conference. The only community service and other such activities were linked to and done in and around the home church, a good hour, perhaps hour and a half away. Nothing in this community. Were they planning on becoming a local church in our town? Chris posed this question to the volunteer behind the booth.
“I don’t know.” Brilliant.
I was ready to leave, but Chris wanted to make one more stop, the store. Now, I do not have a problem with churches having a shop in the church, supplying the congregation with books, materials, resources, music, etc. But something seemed wrong here. It felt off beam. The first display as you walk through the opening is that of T-shirts and purses. Then we found exhibited on table after table material by the pastor of the main church, books that state how to have a great and happy life. Chris flipped through.
“How is this not prosperity theology?” he asked. We moved on. We came to a magazine rack. The cover announced 10 tips for healthy living, 5 steps toward financial security.
“Do you know what this is?” Chris probed.
“A magazine.”
“The Bible.” And that, my friends, was the proverbial straw. I don’t care if the Bible is printed on magazine paper, if you carry it in a convenient, small package, a large print or thick study bible, on your blackberry, or read it online. But to market Christianity in 10 tips and 5 steps and denigrate the message to being happy with success rather than the true hope of redemption in the midst of this evil and corrupt world… What have we done?
I have spent years studying intercultural communication and cultural anthropology both in general theories and specifics with the postmodern world. I have studied epistemology and ecclesiology, looking at different ways we can know God and reflect God. I am excited about the possibilities of seeing a different aspect of God in different cultures. But I also believe that each culture is corrupt. I hate the materialism and consumerism and convenience-driven life of the United States that takes advantage of poorer nations and overlooks the poor. And yesterday, I tasted this corruptness in the marketing of the church. I wanted to overturn tables. I left and cried. Please, help me understand, am I misunderstanding? Is this only an attempt to make God “relevant” that I should appreciate? Should we address this issue as a problem?

Running Music

So here is my grand thesis for today: there is music that is more or less appropriate for running. Example: if you see me running a good pace but with my ipod thrust to my mouth as a microphone or my arms propelled high and wide in the finishing act on center stage, then you know that I am listening (and singing) to Creed, U2, or a Broadway favorite. If you see me enjoying a leisurely jog with a relaxed smile, I have Jack Johnson or Ben Harper playing, perhaps Jimmy Buffett. Johnson’s chorus, “Slow down, everyone, you’re movin’ too fast” is particularly difficult to run to.
When I was a little girl, my mom always knew if I was “hustling” or “lolly-gagging around.” I thought it was due to the back of the head eyes phenomenon. Many years later, she revealed that she knew how fast I was moving based on the song I was singing.
There you have it folks, music moves at the pace of life, or, maybe, life moves at the pace of your selected music.