Taking Off and Landing
Whales Cannonized by Some Government Program
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I find it peculiar the ways in which the various saints of Christendom come to find their blemishes rubbed off. People who in life knew their pecadillos and problems somehow find themselves, in death, liften high above the ground and made exemplars of something really, really nice. Case in point:
There was a bit of furor over some statements made by Anne Lamott concerning abortion recently. For the record, let me state that two things are equally true:
1) Abortion ends lives, which is a tragic event, regardless of how it happens.
2) I love Anne Lamott. Her Travelling Mercies was genius. It reminded me of Annie Dillard, who I also love, and reminded me that the road towards the New Jerusalem is long and dirty.
With those two facts in mind, I recommended Anne Lamott’s books every chance I got when I was working in the store, for no other reason than she didn’t put on nearly the show that most of the Christian lit we carried did. The picture of her sitting slouched with dredlocks alone should sell the book. She talks about being pregnant, about an affair, about drugs and George Bush and politics. She’s irreverent and yet, holy reverent at the same time.
In other words, she’s one of us. She knows who she is, and knows that God alone can do anything about it.
**
Martin Luther King Jr. had affairs and challenged a racist state.
Mother Teresa accepted money from dictators and gave the untouchables of Calcutta dignity.
Karl Barth had a mistress and wrote powerfully about the work of Christ.
Gustavo Gutierrez is a Marxist and told us about the suffering of Christ.
Jerry Fallwell is a raving conservative and tells us that people need the Savior.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer tried to assassinate Hitler and told us the joys of Christian community.
John Newton was a slave trader and wrote “Amazing Grace.”
Augustine had a twenty-year affair and wrote foundational theology of the church.
Johnny Cash was addicted to pain killers and wrote great Gospel tunes.
Our saints struggled to live faithful lives, and in doing so, collapse massively. They find themselves in the position of being possessed of the glory of God and unable to fully believe it. They relied on sex, guns, politics–weaker forms of life than the Gospel itself, and yet, these are the ones we look to for inspiration. On my wall, aside from Jesus and my family, I have two magazine pictures ripped out and taped up: Bruce Spingsteen and Johnny Depp. Over the Depp picture is a poem a friend wrote me reminding me that failure is part of the deal. And Bruce is up there as a picture of one, in the words of Harry Callahan, “who knows his limits.”
Resist the urge to gloss over the saints. Know that they believed and trusted and f-ed it up massively. The two are not exclusive.
In fact, if one is going to believe fully, one has to blow up pretty big. The ones who never break their bones never fly. My question to myself is why I’ve only got this crooked pinkie as a reminder.
Listening To The Angels
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First and foremost, this is the Internet find of the century. I won’t spoil the surprise. Just go check it out, and thank my friend Nathan for clueing me into this one.
Imogen Heap, Speak For Yourself. Despite my feelings on the Garden State in general, this spin-off of Frou Frou is really pretty nice. If you need something serene in the background, this is your set of tunes. It’s electronic, melodic, and puts a nice touch on the medulla oblongata.
Arcade Fire, Funeral. I held off for a year or so because it was so highly acclaimed, blah blah blah. They said the “acclaimed” thing about Milli Vanilli once upon a time, for crap’s sake. But these guys were making U2 and Coldplay nervous that they’d have to find a day job. Truly an excellent piece of work.
Tom Waits, Nighthawks at The Diner. It’s true: he sounds like he’s gargled gravel and Clorox. But his early stuff, before the cigarettes got to his voice, is really sharp and witty and what e.e. cummings would have done if he was a bawdy piano player. This is a live set that contains some of the best monologues and intros you’ll get on a live set.
Ani DiFranco, Living in Clip . Thanks to Kevin and E, I’m a believer, and waiting for her tendonitis to heal up so she can get back on the road.
My Morning Jacket, Z. Good old fashioned Southern rock goes astral projection. Good for morning drives when you wish your car would just transcend I-35 and take you to Mars or maybe just the Buffalo River.
Rock and Roll–For Mark
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Just when I was jonesing for some live music, on March 7, my alma mater, Truett Seminary, is hosting…..
Are you ready for this? Can you feel the excitement, the trembling footsteps?
Ladies and gentlemen, saddle up your horses! We’ve got a trail to blaze!!!!
First Keith Urban, now this? I’ve got to get out of this town.
. . .Rock and Roll Will Never Die. . .
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It’s a Sunday, and thanks to a prompting by Jennifer, I got a huge slice of nap pie this afternoon, and woke up feeling better. Celina asks me in church today, with a questioning look on her face, “Are you getting enough sleep?”. The initial question took me back because it sounded like something my mom would ask me.
“Are you getting enough sleep? I mean, are you sleeping enough?”
“Well, like 6 to 7 hours. I’d love to get 8, but you know…”
“Because your eyes just look really tired.”
Now, both Celina and Jennifer aren’t going to just come out and say if they don’t like something, for the most part. Unless it’s for the other person’s own good. For example, Jen didn’t particularly care for my shoes this morning. They were on sale, and I needed a new pair of shoes that wouldn’t hurt my feet. But she wouldn’t say anything about them. But she did say, “Myles, go take a nap.” Later, she called to say, “Myles, go take a nap. Do you want me to call you at 3 to wake you up?” To which I gladly replied, “Twist my arm. I guess I’ll sleep”, as I gladly crawled under the covers, putting off tomorrow’s presentation for another couple of hours. So, for the record, let me say that Jennifer and Celina, you are wonderful friends. I love you both.
I had this crazy lucid dream about a post-apocalyptic world in which all these famous people and myself were in this bomb shelter, waiting for the air to clear. Bizarre stuff. We argued over bread, and the whole time, I wanted to kick Sean Connery in the face for always wanting to be the first person to check outside for clear air. I mean, it’s crowded in that bomb shelter, and I wanted my turn.
So, Mr. Connery, I don’t bear you any ill will. I just wanted to breathe the sweet air of freedom. If you want, I’ll save you a seat for tomorrow’s presentation over Pseudo-Dionysius’ Divine Names. You’ve got my number. Holla at me.
Myles
Hey, Hey, My, My
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The weather outside is disgusting for a February day. If I were living in the Northeast, I’d expect for things to be dour and grey, but not when I live south of the Sandbelt, and in a place where summer goes from April to October. That, and I have about two hours of freedom left for the day, part of which I’m spending writing this blog.
And writing about Nietzsche.
And thinking about how I’m going to coordinate getting a rental car.
Did I mention that someone hit my car this week?
Did I mention that I’m prone to be on the melancholy side?
Did I mention that I’m not a real big fan of change, and that I take change kicking and fighting sometimes? And that I wish I could put things on pause for a few minutes and put a kibosh on the next two weeks, and buy myself an afternoon in the sunshine and breezes, with true love by my right hand?
It’s not that I hate my life. I love it.–I just don’t understand it.
**
Barth writes regarding the process of salvation that it’s impossible to say whether or not something is historical or not, because we ourselves are in the process of history, that we are actors in a drama that began before us, and that was begun without our consent. As such, with regards to the work of Jesus, we can believce it or not, say thanks or not, live into it, or not. It’s not so much a matter of saying whether it is or not, so much as it is accepting that to not accept it is ridiculous.
It’s on days like this that I wish what Nietzsche says is right, that life is truly about exerting our creative will into the world, and creating the world. But I know in my heart of hearts that’s not the case. I wish I could say that our lives were truly about being aesthetic works, that our actions are meant to be the deepest expressions of ourselves, and that was it.
But I don’t believe that.
I believe in a God of providence, one who cares, who guides, intersects, divides, seeks, and finds. I believe in a God who lets Neil Young write a few good songs. I believe in a God who knows that I’m frustrated and happy at the same time, and have no idea how to resolve those two things. I believe in a God who doesn’t want me to simply resign myself to fate, but asks me work with Him, who knows that I don’t get the big picture, and who gets a little antsy when things start to get nuts.
So, God, when I get pissed this week and start to freeze up, you know what’s going on, right?
On Drainage and Achey Knees
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I’m on the tail end of about two weeks worth of not sleeping through the night and nasal blockage so strong, I should sell this stuff to the New Orleans levee project. Anyway, I’m taking the day off from campus and working from home, which prompts the following…
Not-so-Interesting-Question
What’s your favorite activity to do on a day when you have to stay at home?
Me? I’ll be putting on a pot of hot tea. That’s right…..A WHOLE POT. And then, I’ll read and write a little bit and later, for fun, I’ll read some more. I think if my life got any more riveting, I’d have to take Adderol.
MadLibs
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All you need is __________.
God is _________.
If you gave me eggplant parm with a side of cheese fries and Shiner, I would _________ it.
I really want to drive Karl Barth’s _______________ into the wall for writing such long books.
These three things abide: faith, hope, and ________________. But what I really want is some eggplant parm.
I _________ decaf coffee.
Vowel is to armadillo as cactus is to ______________.
This MadLib brought to you by the letter “V” and the word “Day”.
P.S. You really should check out Kevin’s celebration today. Delicious.
The Revenge of the Angry Vagina
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Last night, I went to the annual performance of the Vagina Monologues, in support of V-Day, a national movement to shed light on and stop violence against women and girls. A few nights ago at the Amnesty meeting, the guest speaker from the Women’s Abuse Center in town told us horrific stories of the relative silence there is on the issue, of cops who wouldn’t arrest, of husbands who cyclically beat their wives. I left the meeting at once dejected and questioning the utter futility of my degree.
I mean, really…if I wanted to do something about the half a million instances of spousal abuse that happen in Texas each year, I’d go back for a social work degree, right? I have a lot of friends in the department; switching wouldn’t be that painful; there’s not much being offered in the Fall in Theology. More than once, the thought has crossed my mind, and frankly, some days, as I slug through hundreds of pages of ancient theology on the origin of being and the hierarchy of angels, I want to scream out, “I’m not even sure if I believe in angels, but I do believe in justice!”
And it’s true.
I have my doubts about some aspects of theology, of its utility, of its orientation. Part of my frustration with academic theology is that too often it sees itself as a self-encased conch shell, nurturing further outgrowths of its own housing, forgetting that it is part of a much larger ocean. It forgets the legacy of Augustine, Aquinas, Bonhoeffer, and Barth, who were brilliant thinkers and who at the same time were pastors, oriented towards God and towards the world. To forget the second part of this is to forget, as Augustine pointed out, that some things are to be enjoyed, and some things are to be used. Theology, in my estimation, in the academy, has fallen tragicallyinto that former category, when it was always meant to be used in our enjoyment of God.
**
Last night, after the show, a friend asked me, “So when you’re watching this, what are you really thinking?” I had just heard monologues of women’s experiences of being woman, of first loves, of sexual excitement, letting all those private conversations out into the public arena, and making me blush all over again. And frankly, when I hear them, I have no idea what I’m thinking. I’m not a woman; I don’t know what it’s like to have your first period, or to be repressed under the Taliban, or to face the threat of genital mutilation in Africa. When the Angry Vagina monologue burst on the stage, I found myself wanting to belly laugh, but afraid, because frankly, I had no first hand experience with any of the humor. It’s like watching the Kings of Comedy and wanting to laugh, but not sure if it’s okay. It’s an awkward and exhilerating experience, because as you watch hundreds of women crying with laughter, you realize:
“This must be true.”
All the illusions about women’s experiences start to fall off. You start to hear things that women think, but don’t say. As a guy, I start to think about things like hair and romance in ways I never had before. You realize that speaking the truth about a situation has a power that essays can never have, and that is that the speakers stand before you, look you in the eye, hold your hand, and tell what you never even thought about before.
If theology is to regain its’ footing, it must remember that it has feet, that the work of theology is not only in the sitting down, but in the standing up and raising one’s hands. It must remember that it is not an ivory tower, nor a gated castle, but a ribald experiment in making a total jackass out of itself. It must remember that it is not respected, nor exalted, but dirty, extravagant, lively, engaging, disruptive, and a whole lot of fun. In short, it must remember that it has stories to tell which upset the way other stories want to keep quiet, and that the process of telling that story is a great ride.
Insufficiently Awkward
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Tonight was the annual Valentine’s thing, sponsored by the Graduate Theological Fellowship, or the social wing of the Religion Department graduate school. Occasionally, led by our fearless leader Cameron, we’ll organize something designed to get us out of our books for a few hours, mingle with a few folks, eat food, and then muddle off into the night.
I have to confess two things:
1) I hate Valentine’s Day. It’s the most contrived of all holidays, designed to celebrate love in all its splendor through the exchange of sugar bombs. Though I have to say that last year was the exception. I’ll listen to the mix CD I got at a party in awe and wonder and marvel that love takes many forms, including friendship and family.
2) I’m still trying to get the hang of how academia and socializing come together. If you’ve made it to this stage in the game, there’s something about your personality that says “I really like studying and sometimes, I prefer books to people because the books don’t talk back”. I’ll never be the guy who spends all day in the library, but I’ll never be the guy doing the Chicken Dance in the middle of the floor either. I secretly dread all social events linked to academia because in some small corner of my brain, I associate academic socializing with middle school. Everyone sticks to safe topics, and no one really gets to the part of the conversation that has to do with baseball.
That being said, I was pleasantly surprised.
I had a good time.
***
It was a mixer thrown by the Religion folks, with the English, Philosophy, and History grad folks thrown in. Most of them I’d never seen before, but over the course of a couple of cups of coffee and tasty desserts, I met a guy who does Latin American philosophy, compared notes with a friend’s wife about college dorm life, and learned about the inner workings of the scrap metal industry. I think I talked shop once, and that was only in the typical “my-life-blows-how’s-yours” kind of way.
A good time was had by all. And I think I came to peace with this truth: this is in some way my world. This is the environment that comes with my chosen profession, one of integrated awkwardness and ingenuity, a place where, without the social lubricant of beer, we really can be nice and striking people. Forget what you’ve heard about people trying to one-up one another over cups of coffee and talking crap about books they’ve never read. It’s only partly true.
Well, it’s mostly true. Just not tonight. Tonight was about standing around with people I call friends and celebrating an excuse to put on grown-up clothes for a change, and remember that the world does not stop and start with Augustine’s understanding of semiotics.
When It’s Too True To Smile
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Wow.
Go to Hell.
Go directly to Hell.
Do not pass Go.
Do not collect 200$.
