Taking Off and Landing

I’ve not blogged consistently in about four months, I think, mostly because I haven’t had much to say. When I was working at Barnes and Noble and was reading and thinking about more than simply what was next on the docket toward this degree I’ve been churning away at for the last two years, I feel like my writing was a lot more fertile, the words a lot more vivid and meaningful. But recently, that’s not been the case.

Case in point: after I write this, I’m going to churn out 250 words reviewing a book on theologies of baptism.

Case in point: this week, I wrote 1,000 words on the Salvation Army for a different publication.

Case in point: the only things that I’ve felt passionate about writing in the last four months were my travelouges from Kenya and Rwanda, and the debriefing emails since that time.

When I write about life, about real people, my heart and words come to life like a child laughing. When I’m writing sterile analyses of the Salvation Army’s history, my mind feels like a green chalkboard, dust clapping its way into the air as the children choke and the teacher’s eyes glaze over–repetitive, ridiculous, and a bit trapped. In a lot of ways, in this free time of my life, I feel trapped. And I can’t put a finger on it.

So, this is the goal for the next bit: digging to the roots. I’ll be covering what it means to do a doctorate in theology, if for no other reason than to dispell some of the rumors and shed light on the life of a doctoral student. I’m tired of people making the jibes of not having a real job, and of people’s jaws dropping when I tell them that some weeks I put in 70-80 hours between work and classes. I’m tired of people asking if I’m going to pastor when I get done, and of being asked if I’m studying Greek and Hebrew. I love Jesus, but I don’t do Greek or Hebrew, and God help those that have to.

In the process, this is what I hope to do: figure out how to write about these things in ways that don’t come off sounding like cocktail party conversations, and more like telling stories. If life is one narrative, which, for all its twists and turns and frayed edges hopes to have some internal coherence, then talking about my academic life and telling stories should not be two different ventures. My examples are limitless: Rowan Williams, Annie Dillard, David James Duncan, Robert Pirsig–all people who know the strain of taking very big things and telling them in ways that are tangible and split the ribs.

So, here we go. I need this. If anyone reads it, all the better. This is my little apologia, the beginning and the present, with the end firmly out of sight.