Saved from Homogeneity

Not long ago, I had the high privilege of sitting down to lunch with seven students. We were talking about language, and we were able to discuss idioms in Korean, French, Spanish, Mandarin, Cantonese, and Vietnamese, all in English. Then, the ceiling opened up, and a light shone from heaven, and a dove descended. And a chorus of voices in these languages said what I'm sure was, "this is diversity, in which God is well pleased."

How the Mighty Pen Will Fall

In West Africa, "traditional" West Africa, to write something down is to kill it. As soon as the story is parted from the human mind, the human heart, the human voice, the story has died. People who can afford it hire a family story teller to keep track of the family and to keep them alive in hearts to come.

In Western contemporary culture, writing is tantamount to immortalizing oneself. Oral history is seen as unreliable, silly even. But written history - don't we see? - is stagnant. It does not keep up with the flow of the river. Writing is a pool all its own, becoming more and more removed from the water that flows. Eventually, the collected debris builds up in the little eddy. And sediment collects to form a thin shaft of land. And the story persists forever in its pool. But fewer and fewer people come to visit.

It is only a matter of centuries before one must study for years to even get at the most elementary meaning of the landlocked text. It gets further inland, further from the flow. But it is immortal. But it is alone.

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Stanley Hauerwas calls ours a culture of death.

We laugh at cultures less ornately technological.
They have witch doctors and poor health.
They have missing eyes, or limbs!
They have a strange growth that the "witch doctor" cannot cure,
It must have come from an angry neighbor,
Never considering food allergies.

We must visit a "real doctor," and have a battery of tests completed.
"Of course a smile will not cure what you have!
Not a hug, nor the air--
This is exceedingly rare!"

Somehow or other, hopefully by regular visits to the prophet doctor
and worshiping at the hospital shrine, we may satisfy death while living,
and never face it head on.

We write a moment so it will go on living forever.
We take a picture so the moment will have the posterity that we do not.
And only the camera's eye will know the moment.
What a shame! that the camera has not our heart!

What a shame the god science has not found a way to transplant a human heart
into a camera, so that the pain and joy - the beautiful transience of the human condition -
will be
perfectly preserved,
forever.

I Remember

how Ken ruined Battleship for me.

I remember sitting in Ken's basement deciding how to pass the time. He really wanted to just "talk" all the time. And I couldn't stand it. It was too intense. I felt as though I were being mined for thoughts. So I walked to the game shelf and found Battleship. Yes. I had decided, and he was going to play with me. But He was so reluctant. Finally, I shoved the game board into his lap and just told him what he would do. He rarely minded that. He thought it was cute, occasionally, when it wasn't annoying. I couldn't tell what he thought this time, as I readied my board.

"D6," I declared.
"Hit," he responded!
"No way! First guess! Alright, D7."
"Hit. Sunk."
"Your patrol boat? Seriously? Well. G10."
"Hit"... and so on.

One by one, I was halfway through annihilating his fleet when I began to suspect foul play. His giggles should have tipped me off. How silly I must have looked to him, my little red pegs on the top of the board declaring my false triumph. I finally turned his board around to find it empty of pieces, not a ship in sight. He hadn't been playing Battleship, he had been playing me. And what a game it was! I didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening, a preview of years to come.

Elyada: God Knows

On my way home after Christmas, I left my brother's house right before snow began. On the highway, heading south, I supposed I had missed the storm, and I began to praise God. I was so thankful: I hate driving in snow. In my heart, I felt a pressure, and wondered if I would still praise God if it were snowing hard, and the roads were bad. I told God, "Yes. I will praise You then, too!"

Lo, and behold: As my little green Chevy was speeding away down 322 South, just passing Newport, snow began to fall in more than a flurry, in a heavy nonchalance, oblivious to how dangerous it was making the roads. And I began to pray, and praise God for his faithfulness to me at all times, in all things, even if the worst would happen. (I have learned that all people are not as morbid as this. Snow on the road may not cause you to re-evaluate your life purpose, or get right with God. I, however, have never had any illusions of invincibility to which the young are reportedly so prone.) As I prayed and sang, my fear was occasionally uprooted by faith in God, who knows when I will die.

In church last week, I heard voices lifting up his name, voices coming from hearts that have been tested. They have lost children. Their hearts have been stomped in adulterous relationships and divorce. Their bodies have been wasted by diseases and injuries. They have lost jobs, some recently, and been unable to find more work. And they sang out this song:

O death! Where is your sting?
O hell! Where is your victory?
O church! Come stand in the light.
Our God is not dead! He's alive! He's alive!

It's hard to argue with people who know suffering and are still singing about God's love. One friend experienced the loss of his newborn. He said, in the midst of this song, "I can tell you, God is good."

It was a promise that in the worst times, at our weakest, in our fear, God knows.

(Song: Matt Maher. "Christ is Risen." Alive Again. Thankyou Music, 2009 (Admin. by EMI Christian Music Publishing))