I am the conscience clear in pain or ecstacy
and we were all weaned my dear upon the same fatigue
staring at the sun
oh my own voice/cannot save me now
standing in the sea/it’s just one more breath and then down i go–”Staring at the Sun”
**
Because I will be your ambulance if you will be my accident
And I will be your screech and crash if you will be my crutch and cast
And I will be your one more time if you will be my one last chance–”Ambulance”
**
TV on the Radio has some of the most potent lyrics today for my money. Don’t get me wrong: Bill Mallonee’s early stuff and pretty much anything Jeff Tweedy ever put down hold special places for me, but if you sit down with either of TV’s albums and let the lyrics wash over you, you’ll find it hard to get up again. In their words is death and life, hope, resurrection, the whole package, leaning toward the listener.
I picked up Modest Mouse’s new album this week, and while it’s pretty catchy and a more solid album on the whole than their last one, give me some TV in a quiet room with a lyric sheet and a journal. I have to confess that the exercise to read Scripture every day of Lent has been less than successful. In fact, I don’t remember a Lent that was a complete success. Most of them have been largely marginal, a few peaks and a lot of waiting out the season, and then praising its virtues in retrospect. But in the meantime, words like TV’s remind me of Scripture, point me toward Scripture, echo the words of prophets and psalmists.
Am I just lazy? Probably. But geez, I love these guys. After all, Scripture doesn’t say everything. It says enough, but it doesn’t say everything. Otherwise, our own voices would be superfluous. And these, dear children, God delights in as well.
It’s March Madness, and it usually takes about eight hours for my excitement to turn to dismay as I watch my perfectly-coiffed bracket turn to shambles. You have to pick a few upsets; the problem is that sometimes those upsets don’t happen, and Long Beach State doesn’t actually make it to the Sweet Sixteen.
***
I’ve decided not to do the Race for the Cure this year, for the first time in about five years. It’s not that I don’t think breast cancer research is a worthy enterprise; I’m just tired of entering these races halfway prepared, only to be disgusted with myself in the homestretch. I’m not entering another race until I’m ready to race–not just run, or jog, or walk, but race. They don’t put timing chips on your shoe for no reason; the number’s not pinned to your shorts for winks. The purpose of a race…is to race. And I’m tired of entering things just to see what happens.
Augustine writes in Confessions that there are two types of pursuits of knowledge: the pursuit of the true, and curiosity. The former is directed to a goal, aimed at a target, concerned with becoming more able to recognize the true and the good and the beautiful. The latter is there for no reason, looking only to weander, and if the road leads this way, to wander off course, and stop. Curiosity is driven by the novel, the titillating, and if a thing ceases to be that, the curious will just leave it alone. The old collects dust while the curious sock away oceans of shiny, new junk.
This isn’t to say that there’s not something worth exploring in that which is a new question, a new opportunity, and often times, our directions change radically as a result of these novelties. But our lives cannot consist of novelty; we cannot live on starkly new things without becoming exhausted and rootless. The Spirit, while appearing in ways that are fresh and new to us, is not new, is not novel, is not faddish. The Spirit’s leading is older than time itself, and deeper than our imaginations can bear. And so, following the Spirit, in pedantic and rote ways, leads us in tried and true ways to that which is beyond what we could have dreamed of, beyond short-circuiting novelty, beyond shiny, beyond junk, and into a life which is ever-rich, ever-surprising, ever-new.
I charged toward Lent this year with all kinds of joy and thunder. It’s been a long two months since Advent concluded, and the ordinary time just drags on and on and on somedays. The intention of “ordinary days” in the church calendar, as opposed to seasons of Lent or Advent is that the ordinary days take on a…well, less spectacular cast. We’re supposed to lean toward the nature and purpose of the world in all days; the seasons of Advent and Lent, however, are the church’s way of giving a little extra nudge in that direction.
I gave up meat.
For about two days. And then, sickness began to descend, and I resorted to whatever I could get, to restore this mortal coil to full strength. I mean, this next week, I’ve got two presentations at a conference and a class presentation: this is no time for the flu. I think I’m going to give up buying all manner of little toys and trinkets: books, music, and the like. After looking at my bank account, that seems to be the more pressing matter in my soul.
These next weeks, this will be the content: Lenten reflections, thoughts on dust and ash and what it means to repent. Here’s to returning to where we came from.
Jesus is already upon the cross. All the disciples have fled. All his friends minus John, Peter, and Mary have taken refuge in fishing, or home, or sleep.
And so have you. So have I.
Frankly, we like the resurrected Jesus more, as we should. Barth writes that because we live post-resurrection, in the day when things have changed, when we have been given a new being and a new hope, we cannot look to the crucified Jesus, for that Jesus is no more. What we have before us, he says, is the resurrected and exalted one who hides us with himself.
But Barth never had to watch Jesus die.
**
While Christianity hinges on the new life of the resurrection, there’s no getting around the cross, but only through it. Like A Clockwork Orange, our eyes are peeled open as we behold the very thing that we want to recoil from. At last, we can’t stand it anymore, and we run, leaving our clothes behind.
Is this what it means to be a disciple? To stay and watch at the cross?
Or to run and be called back?
Peter will wait at the sea, fishing, and be wooed back to the one he loves. John waits at the cross, given care of the mother of God. Both will die in response to their lives.
Can we say that one did not truly follow?
Jesus,
I wonder how much longer you can keep this up. All the healing, and teaching, and disruptions–you must be tired. Go, eat something, get some sleep. Passover is done on Saturday, but at the rate you’re going, you’re not going to make it til then.
I watched yesterday, and I have to say that it was like watching a train wreck. That you managed to piss off the Pharisees, one of those crazy revolutionaries, and the Saducee all in a matter of about ten minutes was…impressive? Ridiculous? Breathtaking? Which of these is the right word? Which one describes that feeling you get when you’ve done something that everyone else has been dying to do for months, but that you know is going to have big reprecussions?
Be careful, Jesus. And go slow. It’s a big world out there. I was doing a job down past Jericho last year, almost to the Egyptian border, and I asked them if they’d heard of you. I mean at the time, you weren’t the bigshot you are now, but still, I’d never heard of anyone else raising a guy from the dead. My brother Simon had, but he’s a big shot, travels to Greece and Scythia–what does he know?
Rumor has it you’re having dinner somewhere around here tonight. I don’t know for sure; it’s just something I heard. If it’s not too impulsive, or rude, and maybe it is…I’ve been called a mooch before…
Can I maybe join you?
Hamed
Jesus,
What can I say? I’m sorry; I got lost on the way down the road and found myself at the city gates around midnight or so. I heard word through the grapevine that you were going to be up the road at the temple, but it was late, and frankly, I needed to go see if I could find Omar. He owes me about thirty-five bucks, and everyone knows that guy’s not going to cough it up unless you ask him straight out for it.
If you don’t mind me asking, what in the hell are you doing? Don’t you know better than to go into the temple raising Cain and tossing out things? I mean, if you lived around here, that might be one thing. Well, maybe not even if you lived here…that’s some serious crap disrupting the money changers. Someone said something about zeal for your house, or your father’s house, and that’s all fine and good to be religious, but can’t you just start off talking to them? Can’t you take it a little more low-key and not attract so much attention? I don’t want to call you out or anything, but didn’t you say to turn the other cheek and to pray for your persecutors?
Here’s what I’m wondering: I really, really hate the Romans. It’s not enough that I can’t get outside the city gates without stepping on one, but what really galls me is how they treat Martha. If I didn’t know that they’d kill me, the next time one of those sons of goats touches her…you say a lot of things, Jesus. You say a lot of things that make me think that there is something more going on here. Lots of people hear you saying that there is a new way to be the people of God, and a new kingdom, on and on. You’re the Son of Man, right?
So, tell me this. If you’re the one who is going to make all this right, who’s going to, as my brother Onan says, “restructure the social order” (look at the big brains on Onan), then why are you being stupid? Lay off the temple, man. There’s enough of us around that want to see a new deal in town, and if you keep being ridiculous, it’s going to backfire. That’s all I’m saying.
Hamed
Jesus,
What’d you think of that welcome today, eh? You showed up on a donkey as we sang “Hosannah” to you, and though I was standing in the back of the crowd, I think you were waving. In any event, it was good to see you. I’ve been trying to get in to see you for a while, and with crazy work schedules and all, it’s just been a nightmare. You know how it is: you put in forty hours a week, and it still feels like you’re barely crawling up the mountain? I’m talking to the boss this week about letting me maybe come in early so I can cut out early some days, because dragging in at 7, after dinner and the kids are already headed towards bed….
You don’t have kids, do you? I can’t remember–Hez and I were talking the other day about that thing at the wedding, and I couldn’t remember, but I didn’t think it was your wedding. Anyway, the kids are good and all; I just wish I had more time with them.
But like I was saying earlier, it was good to at least get a glance at you. I’ve still got some leftover bread from that time on the hill; Martha keeps telling me that if I don’t throw out the moldy bread, there’s going to be hell to pay. So, I snuck it out back. I’m hoping that the dogs don’t get to it, but then again, why would they want moldy bread? Why would anyone want moldy bread? It’s crazy, isn’t it? I really should just toss it. And I swear, I’m really not crazy. It’s just a souvenir. Don’t worry about it.
I’m hoping this week to knock off work early and find you. I have this question that I don’t really want to ask in front of everyone else, and you always seem so nice to the others. I’m a little slow about things like religion; all I want really is just to do okay and make sure the kids are taken care of, and maybe some good wine on Sunday. I’ll find you this week, and hopefully make a real introduction.
But, anyway, welcome to Jerusalem. It’s nice this time of year.
Hamed
LeAnn preaches. Thank you, Jesus.
Saturday night, Nickel Creek played the community college in town, and was no disappointment. Again, I say, if you get a chance to see them, do it: the on-stage banter alone is worth the price of admission. There’s nothing like three musical prodigy home-schooled kids melting your face with bluegrass renditions of Radiohead and Randy Newman.
Lent thus far has been, shall we say, illuminating. Chief of the abstainences is the beer, and as the weeks go on, it becomes more and more apparent to me the number of places I go where beer is part of the background noise. Whether it’s a local hole with some friends on Tuesdays or at a dinner gettogether on Friday night, the hops find their way in the front door and into my heart. But with Lent in full effect, I’ve put them aside and as a result, I find myself more and more aware of how often they knock on the door.
Now granted, they don’t knock more than once a week usually, and I’m inclined to let them in for a spell whenever they come around, but have you ever noticed that when you’re not doing something, it’s all that shows up? For example, Saturday night, Nickel Creek. I have a standing policy that if I’m at a really great show, and it’s not outrageous, a Shiner goes well with face-melting tunes. And this Saturday was no exception. Sitting next to a friend in some illictly acquired front-section seats, I enjoyed a cold, crisp Shiner Boch with bluegrass.
And rejoiced.
The point of Lent, after all, is not what you are denying yourself, to prove that you can, or that you should. The point of giving up is that you might put in something of better worth: Scripture, prayer, meditation. I’ll say that I’ve done a pretty dung job of the latter, while managing to do the letter of Lent pretty well, as if driving out seven strong men was going to keep them from coming back and f-ing up the place worse on the rebound.
During Lent, I have lied.
During Lent, I have lusted.
During Lent, I have been two-faced and unclean.
During Lent, I have revelled in my bustedness and habits.
But I almost kept from drinking beer.
**
One of Nietzshce’s sharpest criticisms of Christianity, aside from it being slave morality, is that it lacks life and vibrancy, that it takes life-denial and makes a fine art out of it. And while I’ve said before that part of denial is so that we might receive the thing back in the right way, there’s something to Nietzsche’s bark. When Christian practices of giving up become ends unto themselves, we’ve lost our way to Jericho, and gotten the crap kicked out of us by bandits and robbers. When denial is for the sake of denial, and not so that we may rejoice more greatly in the presence of God, we’ve stuck around moaning about the cross and forgotten that all we see now is the resurrection.
Eat. Drink. Be merry.
Tommorrow, you die. Tommorrow, your denial of life will be final as dust fills up your lungs. Tommorrow, you will enter into life unknown.
And God forbid you be unprepared with how to rightly celebrate.
Friday, I went to DFW and picked up Amy, who was coming into Texas for her Spring Break, and got to have dinner with her dad and sister, who are a load of fun. Note to self: when the waitress says that the wait is thirty minutes on a Friday night, that’s in an effort to keep you at the door. Like when I was at Barnes and Noble at we’d tell the customer, “Oh, it’ll be four days max til that’ll get here”, it’s an idealistic ploy totally designed to play off the experience of one guy in Wichita who, in fact, really did get his book in four days. Or, in our case, the table of four that really did get to sit down in thirty minutes when there were fourteen tables in front of them.
An hour later, I’m drifting in and out of conversation. I’ve been up since 6 a.m.; it’s 8 p.m. and I’m starving, still working on the meatless thing, and dying for a beer. I mean, the fact that I was denying myself a beer with Mexican food was really starting to bug me. Why did it matter? It was a stupid promise. It was one designed to prove to myself that I could, or that this thing that I enjoyed wasn’t a neccesary part of my life. And to be true, it’s not a non-negotiable. Someday, I may find myself living somewhere again that sitting with a few friends on a Tuesday night for a pint isn’t a real possibility. I hope not, but it’s a real possibility. Such is the cross you bear when you’re a teacher of religion, because people don’t really know what to do with you. You’re not working for a church; at heart, you’re an academic, but you’re teaching….religion. But I digress.
In the doorway of Don Pablo’s, the tired, the hungry, the stress, the anxiety of being single–all these things came tapping on the shoulder and said, “You know, you should go have a beer.” And normally, I’d oblidge. I totally understand the forces that would drive a person to being an alcoholic. I think hard liquor is disgusting, and I don’t have the frame for more than a pint or two, but I understand the drive that would put a person there, the momentary relaxing of the muscles and the mind, the easing of the spirit, the deliberation of the hands around a cold glass that eventually engulfs a lifetime. And I know in my heart of hearts that it is only the Spirit of God who drives me beyond these impulses, in the willing and the doing.
As much as I like beer, I know that recognizing the Spirit’s work in life is more foundational than enjoying the feel of the cold glass. I whine too much; it’s been a week in, and I talk about this like it’s been six months of restraint. When you’ve trained yourself to satisfaction in little ways, undoing large habits is a long road. The aescetics had it largely right, I think, when they affirmed the goodness of food and wine, but would deny themselves of it for a time, if only to recognize the difference between the thing and what it leads us to. Loving beer for beer is like looking at a road sign for I-35 and thinking, “I-35 is a green sign? I always thought it was a highway.” In this case, I’ve some of the best conversations and moments of my life over a beer, and will again. But for the moment, coffee and caramels will have to suffice.
