Taking Off and Landing
Snow Angels in the Dirt
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My CD cases are as close as I have to a complete biography. I journal very sporadically, and one day, I’ll go back and print off everything I’ve ever blogged to hopefully fill in some of the gaps, but for the time being, my CD cases tell the full story.
They tell of how I started off as a pubescent, listening to the Newsboys, some Genesis, Carmen. From there, as a teen, it was whatever hard rock Christian music I could get my hands on. As I became comfortable in my own skin in college, it was more acoustic guitar-driven stuff, with some of lyrically driven rock and roll thrown in for good measure. I mean, poo-poo the Spin Doctors if you will–and you will–but this song made a believer out of me. I think “lyrics” explain how I could listen to both Bill Mallonee and Pearl Jam with equal enthusiasm.
Anyway, the rest is just trajectory. Somewhere in high school, my friend Stephen Kennedy, who was truly punk, introduced me, who was just trying to be punk by wearing pants slightly too large and hair too floppy, to this great band called Crashdog. While Crashdog has long since dissolved back to the arms of JPUSA, their albums rest in my collection as both testimony to a time when I was trying to be punk and the seeds of what were to come. I don’t play guitar loud or scream, or go on tour; I don’t have dreads or live in a common-purse household. But I believe with all my heart that people were meant for communal life, and that it requires more of us than our selfishness will often allow us to stand.
**
It’s pretty apocalyptic stuff, but then again, so is a lot of Scripture:
“The future ain’t so pretty
When you’re looking through
The rearview mirror.
‘Cause history seems to repeat itself,
And our sins start to reappear.
We wake up every morning
And things still seem the same,
Resolutions made, the bills are paid,
But the problems still remain.
In the never-ending revelation
Of exactly who we are,
Angels of mud,
Talking of love
While carving out another scar.”– Crashdog, Regeneration
At the time, for a Christian band to speak about sin and redemption was no big deal. Everybody was doing it. But Crashdog made the connection that sin and redemption of the person means the whole person, flesh and bone, and that what keeps a person down often looks like another human being. Today, I have to confess, that I don’t listen to Christian music, not only because 95% of it’s musical backwash, but because the lyrics are too much like wet toilet paper. In the midst of mountains of songs praising God, we forget that the prophets praised God in protest and in clarion calls to corporate sanctity and justice.
Man, I miss these guys. Mostly, I miss music with conscience. There ain’t nothing wrong with Pearl Jam’s Indifference or with anything by Rage Against the Machine, but what these songs miss is their source of strength: the life that keeps flowing positively, that over-flowing life of love of Christ that gives something to live for, and not simply against. Pardon me if I say that Nietzsche was right on this count, that basing one’s life on being opposed to something else is a slave morality, letting someone else define the terms by which you construct morality. While the protest music of PJ and Rage is great and I love it, what it lacks is something better to put in its place. Crashdog, for all its clunky guitars and crunchy lyrics, offered something in place of what we have, a way to clean the mud off the snow angels, as it were.
This one’s for Celina, who I love dearly, and who’s getting ready to leave Waco and go live at one of these kinds of places, washing feet and angels and everything in between.
Simplicity is A Warm Gun
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In case you couldn’t tell, my brain’s been a little bit melted around the edges, and thus, the incisve comments and trenchant, witty banter has been at a minimum round these parts.
Case in point: I find myself drawn more and more to very simple games. Nothing with too many moving parts or rules.
1) Backgammon.
2) Pass the Pig
3) George’s’ 2.50 “Big-O” special on Wednesdays.
It’s not that I’ve lost the taste for abstract thinking, but at the end of the day, after spending four hours in German, and another four at the Press, with another two of German in front of me in homework, the last thing I want to do is play a game that involves a lot of brain power. I can see how my dad’s taste in movies runs to the Mad Max variety. Give me some Steve McQueen and some A/C and call me a happy man.
I stopped through McDonald’s for a burger, mostly because I’m a sucker for the value meal. I mean, $1.08 for a belly full of happiness? Can you really argue for social equity and fair trade when that kind of goodness is staring you in the face? As I watched endless lines of customers pour out of the tour bus, I took myself mentally out of the melee for a second and asked the question that’s been nagging at me all summer:
“What is theology?”
There have been oceans of quiet on the other end of asking that.
**
In his Types of Theology, Hans Frei discusses Karl Barth’s relationship to philosophy. By way of neurotically brief introduction, Barth said that one cannot look to philosophy to understand Jesus or revelation, but to revelation to understand philosophy, and thus, philosophy becomes a means to an end, but not a guiding or absolute metaphor. In other words, philosophy and theology are not the same thing. Philosophy speaks in abstractions and patterns, discerning modes and methods, whereas theology, Barth argues, is essentially witness to what has been accomplished in Christ.
And so, philosophy helps theology articulate itself, but philosophy is not the thing itself. Philosophy is helpful, but not neccesary as such. What is neccesary is that this witness be enacted, obedient to the movement of the Spirit, and in doing so, the obedient one will not be fully cognizant of the wide ways in which their actions are finding root. They won’t, as some philosophy is want to do, be able to posit an end, means, and absolute, but rather, the one who is truly being obedient–and thus, truly doing theology–will understand in part, but believe in whole.
As I watched the explosions of grease and flame at the McDonald’s, this question came and pulled on my shirt again. Can one believe apart from prior belief–do I really find only what I’m looking for? Is theology just another term for “cultural acuity”, “mental gymnastics”, “appropriate cognitive direction”? If theology is only a way of thinking or, as the word itself suggests, a way of speaking, then it has forgotten that these thoughts and words are only products of first, a way of being. The reflexive act of thinking comes out of a life lived before God, in response to what has been given to us in Scripture and in the witness of the church, as we become part of the ongoing story of God in the world.
I can’t see how theology can relate to burger making in any other way.
A Tale of Three Randys
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Would you rather be
Randy Watson, hunter extrordinaire?
Randy Watson, relator?
or Randy Watson, leader of Sexual Chocolate?
All I can say is that the children ARE the future.
Out of the Mouths of Barn Burners
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“If we ponder why God created food, we shall find that God meant not only to provide for necessity but also for our enjoyment and hapiness. Thus the purpose of clothing, apart from necessity, is beauty and decency.”
-John Calvin
Killer Track
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Just coming up for air to announce that I’ve heard one of the new Killers tracks.
And it’s pretty good.
Sorry if the blog’s in French. But the music’s all good.
Silence is Semi-Gloss
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It seems as if summer is the time for blogs to nap, and thus, mine apparently has been intermittently sleeping on the job. It’s been six days since the last post, and with German breathing down my neck, I can’t promise I’m going to be much better for the next few weeks. I was out to Little Rock all weekend, and in Shreveport the weekend before. In August, Kevin Still is doing a mini-road trip, and before then, I have some devos to finish for CBF and a class to survive. Oh, and two papers to try to figure out how to resurrect before September.
Word of the summer: intermittent.
Projects of the summer: Stay mobile.
Best of Both Worlds
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Tonight, as I watched the All-Star game, a moment was taken after the 4th inning to honor one of the game’s best: Roberto Clemente. I’ve never been much of a Pirates fan; growing up, for reasons unbeknownst to only God, I was a Giants fan. But as a child, I was a lover of baseball history. I had big, thick books documenting baseball lore, with great stories of Ty Cobb, Roger Hornsby, Juan Marichal, Bob Gibson. I remember reading about Bob Feller and the 1948 Cleveland Indians, about the ‘69 Mets, about Lou Brock. Growing up, these were my heroes.
Roberto Clemente, however, stands apart as one of the rare breed of baseball players who was an amazing human being. Aside from winning 13 Gold Gloves, collecting 3,000 hits, and being a 12-time All-Star, he was a family man and never forgot what was important. Thus, at the age of 38, he was escorting a plane of supplies to earthquake-ravaged Nicaragua, when the plane went down. His body was never found.
**
Reflecting upon my time at the farm, more and more I find myself drawn to those theologians whose work makes an intimate connection between the events of history and the task of theology. If theology has nothing to say to the farmer, then I have to question the value of speaking of it at all. If the language of theology, as has been argued, is really just a matter of psychology, or economics, or physics, then why bother learning this new language of causality, of sin and redemption, of contingency and grace?
Charles Marsh teaches theology at the University of Virginia, and is fast becoming one of my theological heroes. In November, I’ll hopefully be able to shake his hand and tell him thanks for being an example of those that pull together the world of suffering and the world of philosophical theology in a way that, for me, makes sense.
His books on civil rights and religion are matched only by his one on Bonhoeffer, another one of my loves. But here’s the best part: he directs a center at UVA called The Project on Lived Theology, which connects theological reflection with real social action. Unlike a lot of social action projects which never get their hands dirty, Marsh’s project is explicitly involved with getting people involved in thinking theologically and getting their hands in the air. I love it; it’s one of my pipe dreams to find a way to sneak in the back door there.
So, on this day of baseball, here’s to those that do practice their craft and do it with the right ends in mind: that gifts are for giving away, and that our art is for healing. Thank you Charles and Roberto for reminding me that there are those who do what they do, and not for themselves.
Go National League.
In My Ear
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So much good music as of late. I call Kevin sometimes and start conversations like this:
“Man, I’m listening to ______________, and I just had to tell somebody how good this is. That’s all I got.”
Postal Service–Get Up–I don’t really care that this is 2004’s album. I just got around to listening to it. And listening to it. And listening to it. The first four tracks just kill me. The number of memorable lines per capita should make this a triple album. Lines like, “I’ll be your platform shoes/ And undo what genetics did to you/ So you won’t have to strain when you look into my eyes”, just make me want to pull the car over. Ben Gibbard, if I ever see you in concert, I may have to shake your hand.
Smashing Pumpkins–Siamese Dream. How can people not still love this album? I’m not ready to tattoo a droopy heart on my chest or anything, but Billy Corgan really outdid himself on this one. It perfectly captures the early 90s–angsty, loud, guitar-filled. And smooth as butter.
Broken Social Scene–Broken Social Scene I’m a sucker for bands that use a lot of instumentation and aren’t afraid of wind instruments. Toss in two or three guitars, multiple lead singers, and the occasional use of trumpets, and you’re good to go. Lush, odd time signatures, and a lot of crunch. You could alternately fall asleep and rock out to this collection.
Fine Young Cannibals–Fine Young Cannibals. 80s one-hit-wonder? Maybe. Or maybe they just quit while they were ahead. Either way, you can’t go wrong with a little drum machine and falsetto.
I’m trying to resist buying the new Keane album. Yes, Kellen, I’m sure it’s great, but I’m slightly aware that I have two road trips coming up, as well as Fall school expenses, so that may have to sit on the shelf. When I can find the plasma donation center in town, I’m going to be a regular.
I Am the Country Mouse
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More farm photos here. It’s the one labeled, appropriately, “More Farm Photos”. Tonight, I tried to study German and about went crazy trying to sit at Starbucks with four conversations, the roar of traffic and the gusty breeze around me.
I missed the farm today. I’m going out there once a week to deliver their staples, and I think I’ll just forget to come back one day.
My Least Favorite Holiday
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“Okay guys, one more thing, this summer when you’re being inundated with all this American bicentennial Fourth Of July brouhaha, don’t forget what you’re celebrating, and that’s the fact that a bunch of slave-owning, aristocratic, white males didn’t want to pay their taxes.”
–Dazed and Confused
**
I have an ambivalent relationship with today. I have cousins and uncles who I love who have served in the military. And I enjoy living apart from the fear that the government will knock down the door because I worship Jesus. But it’s days like today when I wonder what has been gained and what has been lost. After all, freedom is not simply being able to do what you want, but being able to tell the difference between your wants and your needs.
People need breathing room. And peace.
We don’t need seventeen choices in breakfast cereal.
Unfortunately, the church often fails to discern that even the formers are not defined by cartographical boundaries or by the absence of violence. They are defined by the presence of God in our lives, in our world, and in our sharing.
