Most of the time, I forget how insular Waco can be. For the most part, it’s got what you would want in a college town, minus a Waffle House. In my eyes, Waffle House beats the pants off of the IHOP, if only because at Waffle House, I can watch the food being made: like a really fancy Japanese steakhouse, only a lot more lard and a lot cheaper.
But I digress.
I remember how insulated this place can be every time I go somewhere where questions like the role of a woman in religion is still bandied about willy-nilly. In my mind, that’s a dead horse, and not one I really care to talk about any longer. But for some folks, this is a live stallion, and whether or not it’s going to be taken out back and put down is yet to be decided. Some folks have staked an entire career on this question, seeing this question as paradigmatic for the resurrection of culture.
I’ve been researching a lot on a turn of the century Baptist reformer, Walter Rauschenbusch, and in his day, the same was true. Competing visions of what the mission of the day led to the inevitable splits between the old-school revivalists such as Dwight L. Moody and the new Social Gospel. In retrospect, it becomes easy to say which one held the day, which one was more adept at seeing the conditions of the day…doesn’t it?
Therein lies the problem: history is forever an unfinished venture, and so, how one sees the past is inherently linked to how one sees the present. If in 2006, I see the contemporary American religious scene enamored with questions of personal piety, then one of the possible views of the Social Gospel-Fundamentalist controversy is that the Social Gospel is a relic of the past, having been overcome. If however, I see the contemporary religious scene still ignoring the fundamental insights of Rauschenbusch, then I have to say that in one sense, Rauschenbusch has not been learned from, and thus, still very much alive.
Taking this to the question of gender identity, I look down history and see example after example of women, not only in Scripture, but in the church’s own history who have incarnated the fullest expression of life in Christ, whose lives exemplify the Spirit’s presence in ways that I cannot explain. And for the most part, their examples have been listened to. In the same way that Paul argued in 1 Timothy for Timothy to imitate his own example, and you find early Christian writers asking for their congregants to imitate them, the table is set for us to retrieve these examples of women following Christ in ways that encompass the full witness of Scripture: from Deborah the judge to Pheobe, Junia, Mary, and Martha.
I’ll start off by echoing Gretchen’s exclamation point:
Thanks be to God for Brookhill Ranch with Hettie Lou Brooks. I went to this camp for numerous weeks of my summers growing up. I even worked a week as a junior counselor, providing counsel to the young pups. I don’t think I could work there these days, not because I don’t appreciate farm life, or because I don’t love Jesus, but because that’s not the road down which I can go. I’ve got too many suitcases to carry, too many things to say, and at the end of the day, I don’t think that they fit well at a camp. I’d send my kids there, and Lord willing, they’d be the camp liberals by the end of the week.
But I thank God for it. I love those red t-shirts to this day.
As for the trailer to Jesus Camp, I dare say that the philosophy espoused by the lady yelling, “This is war” is the heart and soul of most of the evangelical movement. There are as many evangelicals as there are ways of categorizing them, and the best way to understand evangelicals is by way of things they hold in common: conversion, belief in Scripture, social witness, and the conviction that Jesus matters beyond being a good guy. If you want more, here’s a good introduction. The net is wide and there’s a lot of wiggle room. I finished reading a proposal for a book last month which argues for the inclusion of Jesse Jackson and Pat Robertson under the same banner of evangelical, for Bob’s sake. For the record, I think he’s right, but the point is that what we find in extravagant pieces such as Jesus Camp surely isn’t the whole story.
Some days, I feel like Randall Balmer, and want to scream until I can’t stop crying for what happens in evangelical life. But I can’t escape it.
Why? Because I believe Jesus matters, and that being involved in society is inseparable from faith, that people need to be transformed, and that the Bible matters. As I described “evangelical” above, that pretty much does me in. Now, how I nuance those things is different, but in the end, the lesson of Jesus Camp is that there are crazy cousins in every family, and there are those aunts who need many, many, many hours of therapy, but they, like it or not, are still family. I may not invite them to family reunions, but then again, it’s not my family to begin with.
Out.
Here’s what I need: watch this trailer and tell me what you think.
I’ll blog my thoughts on Tuesday.
Sunday, we were getting a little tired. 10 hours outside for two days straight, walking around, eating little, beaten by the sun, and one more day to go. This is a great weekend, no doubt, and every year I love it, but every year I pay for it a little bit more by way of work that has to be done on the back end.
But enough of that. Sunday’s set.
Anathallo: I heard a little clip online, which was enough to drag us there even earlier on Sunday than any day before. And it was not without its reward. This little band from Michigan reminds me of Sufjan Stevens’ love child with Broken Social Scene–lots of instrumentation, horns, xylophones, odd rhythms, kettle drums, expansive songs with harmonies, the occasional lyric in Japanese. The best part was that ten minutes into their set, it started to downpour, and they loved it. As the sound crew came in to tape down tarps, they powered on through their set, and we were all rejoicing. It was truly one of the most joyful sets I’ve ever watched. They’re coming to Austin in November, and there’s no way I’m missing them.
The Black Angels: Led Zep meets Jefferson Airplane. Their lead singer was a little self-concious of his tambourine, but on the whole, good stuff.
Husky Rescue: mood music from Finland. Good to listen to, boring as mud to watch.
Damien “Jr. Gong” Marley“: one of the most fun sets of the weekend. I’m not that much into reggae, but this was crazy fun. Yes, this is one of Bob’s kids. Apparently, there were many, many kids. At one point, there were three Marley kids up there singing, with the backup singers/dancers going crazy. The pot smoke circling the audience was augmented by the dude with the Jamaican flag who danced on stage the whole time–this was his job: to wave the Jamacian flag, not sing or dance, but wave the flag.
Jose Gonzales: one man and his spanish acoustic guitar. Very mellow, but beautiful.
Matisyahu: a little boring. Yes, for a Hasidic reggae phenom, you would think he’d be good stuff, but it was a little…boring.
Ween: and moving right along to…
The New Pornographers: tight, together, but a little too power-pop for me. File under “everybody’s talking about how awesome they are, but I don’t know why”.
Flaming Lips: I nearly lost my mind during this show. The Lips are famous for their carnival atmosphere on stage. What do you expect from a band whose lyrics include, “Oh, Yoshimi/ they don’t believe me/ but you won’t let those robots eat me.” To set the stage, the band walks out with the bass player wearing a skeleton suit, sans head. Wayne Coyne comes out in a plastic bubble, wheeled out over the crowd, and proceeds to walk over the thousands of fans in this plastic ball. Upon arriving back on stage, the volunteer dancers come out, dressed in Santa Claus suits and space-age go-go dancer outfits. Confetti cannons, fake blood, balloons cascading into the audience, enormous inflatable dolls of spacemen and aliens. And of course, the music was great. It set the bar as far as what a concert experience should be.
MUSE: On the way out, you could always hear the band playing at the far end of the park, which was this band, picking up where Depeche Mode left off, and filtering it through the industrial scene. It’s really good.
Sadly, I missed Tom Petty. But the way the big bands were set up, you couldn’t really see a lot unless you camped out up front where I was for the Lips, and by Sunday night, we were ready to call it a festival. And a festival it was. Until next year, when I’ll worryworryworry about how much work I’ll be missing, and then go anyway.
To be honest, I wasn’t all that jazzed about Saturday at first. Jen and I met up with some other friends and took in some breakfast at Whole Foods, showing up at the festival circa 1:30. I mean, you pay as much as we did for tickets, you show up whether or not you really know what’s going to crop up.
Phoenix: why does Europe have all the good music? I mean, America has a few gems, mostly in the singer-songwriter vein, but Britain for some reason has figured out how to make ROCK AND ROLL. I kid you not: the British invasion is back. I’m waiting for The Darkness to come back around. A cross between Paul McCartney and Danger Mouse.
Galactic: I’ve never seen this band except at ACL, but I’d love to see them for an hours-long show. Think George Clinton has a baby with New Orleans. Good funk/jazz with enough indie rock to make it danceable. Good gravy, I love this band.
Secret Machines: the next in the wave of New York bands (Yeah Yeah Yeahs et al) to make it big. A darker version of the Killers. New wave meets your mom.
TV on the Radio: one of my new favorite bands. Dual vocalists, harmonies, fuzz bass. A bizarre hybrid between hip-hop and atmospheric rock. If an African is leading the rock band, you can almost put money in the bank that it’s going to be good.
The Long Winters: Eh. Seattle’s next round. Overwrought.
Calexico: I had to choose them over Aimee Mann, and they didn’t disappoint. Spanish-influenced band out of Tuscon: horns, guitars, flamenco mixed with the Stones.
Raconteurs: Everybody’s been making such a big freaking deal that Jack White has a new band, etc, etc, that it’s really not possible to miss them if you have a chance. That, and my other option was String Cheese Incident, and by that time of the day, I’d had more than enough second-hand pot. Surprisingly…they didn’t suck. Somewhere between old Guns n’ Roses and, oddly enough, the White Stripes.
Explosions in the Sky: if you ever saw Friday Night Lights, this band was the soundtrack. It’s three guitars playing different parts, with drums, arranged like a monstrous orchestral supernova. If ever I wanted to get high, it would be to this band. I laid down, shut my eyes, and let the music wash over me. I loved watching the middle guitarist, who looked least like a rocker, and played like someone had threatened to kill him if he didn’t play the hell out of his guitar.
Willie Nelson: hopefully, the latest round of drug charges won’t stick. I mean, the man’s 73: cut him some slack.
Massive Attack: why ACL decided to give them the big show, I’ll never know. I was a little baffled at some of the big show selections. Ten minutes of trip-hop, and I’m done. Too repetitive and too mechanized.
There’s far too much to cram into one post with regards to the festival, so we’ll make this a three-post gig. Today’s installment, as the title indicates, covers Friday.
**
I’ll do this bullet-point to save time and to keep me from being bored. I mean, Thailand’s coming apart, man. I want to give a full account of what I’ve seen and heard, but there’s more to talk about than music. Though, to be fair, music does move me in ways that no other voice can.
Ted Leo/Pharmacists–too much dance, too little substance.
The Dears–amazing. Brit rock meets xylophones and bandanas. Check it.
Guster–always great. Revamped a few old tunes with new stuff and a fourth touring member and all is well and right with the world.
Stars–terrible. One of my pet peeves is when rock stars start pontificating on George W. Do they know what the hell they’re talking about? I mean, seriously guys, you write music that sounds like the OC soundtrack: why so vitriolic?
Gnarls Barkley–fantastic fun. Had to skip Nickel Creek to see them, but it was worth it to see the band dressed up as John Nash and the Beautiful Minds. Lab coats, and thousands of people grooving to Cee-lo’s fantastic voice.
Cat Power–don’t waste your time. Her backup Memphis band is great and soulful, but they were better off backing Al Green than Cat’s preening on stage. Terrible stage presence, and just plain boring.
Ray Lamontagne–the man kills me. I’m wearing his name on my shirt today, if only to say thanks for making beards so cool again.
Van Morrison–he’s still got it. Mostly. I mean, he’s pushing 70. But he could still make a grown man call his mom weeping.
More to come. But that’s enough for one shot. Needless to say, seeing Gnarls and Ray in one day about blew my mind. But the mind-blowing was yet to come.
Here’s where I’ll be this weekend. Details here.
Here’s where I won’t be.
Sadly, I won’t be here either.
Check the lineup, and tell me you’re not jealous.
Tell me.
I had lunch with Shane Claiborne today, one of the founders of The Simple Way in Philadelphia. By way of brief introduction, Shane’s group in Philadelphia is one of hundreds of intentional communities scattered throughout the country which believe that the Gospel gives us the great gift of living with other people, in community and mission. When Celina was getting ready to leave for Reba Place last month, I started toying with the idea of possibly systematically visiting various communities all over the nation, to see how different places do this thing called community. I’ll keep you posted on that, but after visiting with Shane, I was reminded that yes, this indeed is something I want: intentional community.
Not roommates, not people to share bills with: community, which helps us all actualize the great gift of having our chests pulled open and our lives transformed by encounter with one another, in prayer and in reality.
**
The varieties of Christian community are as wide as the coastlines, and let me hear none of that crap about them all having to look the same. I’ve been in dialogue with some folks as of late who are convinced of the absolute validity of a particular form of church, and I’ll have none of that here. For the church to be church, it must be responsive to the transformative Word, which enters a situation from within and blows off the doors as to what it can be in response, incarnating the Gospel in new and stupefying ways. I dare them to live among the Bruderhof, the Catholic Worker, the Mennonite communities, the peace churches, and to tell them that their encounter with Christ in the world is insufficient.
In our lunch, I was surprised that for the first time in a long time, I was not inspired.
I was not stirred in my soul as to the possibilities.
I was not vaulted into the third heaven with mystical dreams of what could be.
Partly, I wasn’t inspired because I’ve heard this all before. Hell, I’ve even done some of this before. The issue is not with being given creative reorganization of my existing world, nor with needing a kick in the pants to restart the engine.
Because, frankly, I’m tired of being inspired. I am ready to be transformed.
**
Whereas inspiration resides primarily in the reorganization of existing furniture, transformation means that a new moving van is coming in, one that you recognize, but importing new furniture that fits the house more appropriately than you could have ever concieved. It is, in the language of Jurgen Moltmann, the gift of the future, the gift of that life which is coming to meet us from beyond ourselves. I’ve had enough of being inspired to clean up the house, to wash the dishes, and to straighten up the shelves. I’m ready for the house to be gutted and outfitted with new pipes, new wiring, stripped floors and ceilings–functional, sturdy, able.
Inspiration is the lighting of a soul for a moment; transformation is the creation of a new soul altogether, one which we could not dreamed of before seeing. What Shane and those like him present the world with is not inspiration, and let us not cheapen their example by calling them shuffled cards; what they present us with are transformations: new things which were not, new ways which could not have been, brought into being by faithful response to the God who is always beginning and forever renewing.
Do you ever get that feeling like something in you is about to give way? Every semester, I start off feeling fairly refreshed and ready to challenge myself one more time, and then within about two weeks, I wake up with something wrong. Tonight, it was the nagging combination of a spinning brain and an ingrown hair on my jawline that conspired to get me out of bed.
And so, here it is, 1 a.m., and I’m at the computer, five hours before my alarm will go off to start another week. At some point, this has got to stop. At some point, there has got to be a point at which I wake up, smile, yawn, and congratulate myself on a night well-slept.
Craig posted today on the spiritual value of sickness, which I have to confess, is awfully tempting some days: to say that a clear mind is not prerequisite for the encounter of God is often a relief. At what point does having a clear brain get in the way of what God is doing? At what point do paradigms and epistemologies become a loathsome burden and a frail companion better left to die of their wounds?
At 1 a.m., when you don’t have any other words than “God, give me a break here.”
