I picked up a book about four years ago with the intriguing title, How to Talk About Jesus Without Freaking Out. I just about always freak out when it comes to sharing my faith, which is silly, I know, because it is all the Holy Spirit and not me -- or it would be the Holy Spirit and not me if only I could let go. Letting go is not one of my specialties. I am a clinger -- clinging to fear like a hairy-footed gecko clings to birchy bark. Anyway, what a seemingly good book for me.
So I read the book, and I still have a hard time talking about Jesus without freaking out. But that is not the subject of this post. You see, the main thing I remember about reading that book was that the authors wrote that every believer should have a five-minute testimony prepared to share with anyone at any given moment. That idea completely baffled me. First of all, my road to faith was such a long and winding one -- not something easily condensed into a convenient five-minute time period. Secondly, it seems counter-productive to have your deepest revelation of the soul turned into some kind of rehearsed, salesman-slick soundbite. Lastly, it just seemed preposterous that I would ever be in the kind of situation where such a recital would be appropriate. Brow-beating, head-hunting, soul-counting Christianity repels me on every level; and, though I would willingly, thankfully share my faith with anyone who ever asked or even at an appropriate turn in a conversation (all the while "freaking out" on the inside), I simply cannot justify accosting innocent by-standers with religious rhetoric when they may simply wish to read a book on the airplane, organize their coupons in line at the grocery store, or listen to music at the bus stop.
I would submit to you that the five-minute testimony is a myth. Can anyone who is able to condense the enrapturing of their soul by the Most High in five minutes or less have a faith that is more than skin-deep? It is the same kind of skepticism that I have about revival festivals. We had Luis Palau up here a few years ago for a three-day festival in a local park. After the event, the local Christian newspaper reported that over three thousand people were "saved" and gave their lives to Christ at the festival. Now, perhaps some of these folks had been wrestling with the Lord and their faith -- building up their trust and breaking down their pride -- over the course of time, and their surrender simply culminated at the festival. But, when people are mass-preached to, when their reaction is overwhelmingly emotional, when the altar calls pulsate repeatedly in their ears, when you factor in the unspoken but present peer pressure that prevails in such highly charged settings -- well, I just wonder how many of those people are still even trying to walk with the Lord three years later.
Or, maybe I am completely off-base here. Maybe my journey of faith was the unusual one. I've been thinking about that journey quite a bit lately, since I celebrated my tenth year as a new creation in Christ this past September. I have always said (at least since 1998) that I experienced two conversions. The first was a conversion of my mind. That came in 1995 after three years of reading the Word and becoming absolutely convinced that God is indeed real, that Jesus is His Son and the Messiah, that I'd better get it right with Him, that I couldn't do it on my own, that I needed to fall upon grace. The second was a conversion of my heart. This came when my mother died, and I experienced a miracle that solidified my faith forever. After I experienced my "first" conversion, I knew the truth -- I understood my sin, His holiness, and my need for redemption. After I experienced my "second" conversion, I really knew the truth -- so much more deeply than I had known it before. After that night in November, when my mother was on the brink of death, I had a glimpse of something so powerful and mysterious and frightening and true -- this crashing crescendo of unfathomable love breaking through the barriers of the human, the finite, the fallen to lift the burdens and the brokenness and bring restoration, rest, and that all-surpassing peace.
One thing I've been reflecting on over the past few months is Jesus' teaching on counting the costs of taking up the cross (Luke 14). I wonder if I ever counted the costs. I wonder if I've ever even experienced any of the costs -- I mean, like most Americans, I have a pretty comfy life. If I haven't, have I really taken up the cross? That is one thing that bothers me about the tally-sheet approach to harvesting the white fields. When people simply respond emotionally to the Gospel, when they kneel at the altar after a moving sermon, when they "pray the sinner's prayer" the first time they've been inside a church in twenty years, have they counted the cost of the cross? Point of Grace sings a song that has some lyrics that really annoy me (though, in general, I do enjoy PoG): "But for me to live as Christ -- that would be no sacrifice -- I freely give Him all my life." Shouldn't there be sacrifice in true discipleship? We are supposed to be dead to self in order to be alive in Christ. Can anyone give up their lives as glibly as the song suggests? Well, I sure can't, and I struggle with that every single day.
I hope, I pray, I do believe that when the floods come up, my house will be built on the Rock. I want with all my heart to bear the trials that are coming without one faltering of faith, one stumbling of trust. For, I do believe that those trials are coming, and I too may soon not have a pillow on which to lay my head at night or the luxury of shopping at will for the things my family needs. I too will see my family hungry, torn, sick, as are so many who are persecuted for righteousness sake -- Oh, that these things would not be! But, they most likely will be before my time on earth is out. Have I counted the costs? How about the guy who raised his hand during the last altar call? I just fear that so many will lose their fledgling faith when the Refiner's fire touches them. "An emotional religion will tumble at our feet when we're made to stand and fight." That's from Amy Grant's song, "Too Late." Or, as Keith Green put it in his wonderful way: On Monday, will you still feel as good as you do tonight [at the Christian concert]? If I went by my feelings every Monday, man, I'd drop dead. It is so easy, when the sky is blue, when the weather's fine, when the food's good, and when the fellowship is sweet, you feel like you could get through anything, any kind of tribulation, any kind of terror, any kind of attack. But it is the end of the race that God is looking forward to. Will you end as you have started?
I can also understand why so many people get annoyed with proselytizing Christians. As Difster pointed out, too many of us use clumsy, demeaning, condescending, false, slick, vile, un-Christlike methods when sharing our faith or even simply conversing with others. There is a lot that is working against God in this world, I'm sure He doesn't need Christians adding to it. Don't televangelists make you sick? How about those nasty little Chick publications that well-meaning (I'll give them the benefit of the doubt here) folks leave in public restrooms and telephone booths? Why do we need to hide behind slogans and bumper stickers and WWJD bracelets? Why do we try our hardest to bring people into the fold, and then not equip them to deal with the assaults that the Enemy immediately launches? Why do we smother them with so much coaxing and fear-mongering and trite expressions that they cannot hear the truth above the roar? Why do we encourage people to come to Christ without allowing them time to count the costs? Why do we want the quick-fix conversion and not the long-term fellowship?
I think often of the Christians I knew before I became a believer. Fortunately, they were a wonderful sprinkling of faithful souls, Providentially placed at crucial moments of my life, who never bore down on me and lived lives through which Christ's love shone (though I didn't attribute that to Him at the time, I know now the reason for their goodness). I see in them this thread that was woven since before time began that tied my heart to the Lord's and claimed me as His own -- though I, of course, was unaware of it. Not one of them ever tried to lead me through the "sinner's prayer." Not one of them told me that I was going to Hell. Not one of them did anything that would turn me off to Christ. What a wonderful work they did for His kingdom! Of course, I'm so ornery that I would have immediately been turned off to anything that smacked of propaganda. Just by living lives that shined with His grace, they became important stepping-stones on my walk toward faith. If I ever see any of them again, I will fall down on my knees, weeping with gratitude for them and their ability to communicate God's great love. If I could be that kind of example of Him to only one person on this earth, I would have fulfilled one of my dearest hopes. That is one reason that I believe I have been blessed with so many friendships with non-believers. A thousand little shots of grace to the heart -- done in the spirit of giving and love -- can make a greater impact than one great thud against the head of religiosity and doctrine -- done in the spirit of adding another scalped soul to your believer's belt.
What made me post on this subject was Serena's fascinating entry on her blog Derech Shalom, wherein she has begun what I must assume is a multi-part recording of her testimony. This woman of inspiring faith, whose gracious nature shines through in every carefully considered word she writes, must have an incredible story to share, and her honesty in this first part speaks to a woman who feels no need to hide behind false pretense or imagined righteousness. I would encourage you all to read it, and I'm sure most of you already have. I know that Billy D. has been exploring his path a bit on his blog too. I want more! So, here's an open-ended "meme" for all you bloggers who read this: If you are a Christian, I'd love to read your testimony. If your blog is linked from mine, then know that I visit it every day. I'll bet none of you can condense it into five minutes!
Friday, October 14, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
How Do I Love the PNW? Let Me Count the Ways...
Aaah . . . It is a rainy October day at my house about 16 miles outside of Seattle. This, to me, is perfection. I love this weather so -- probably because I'm a bookworm, and this soggy sublimity screams for couch-sitting and tea-sipping and a good read. Did you know that people in the Pacific Northwest read more books every year per capita than anywhere else in the United States? Yep, even more than in New York. This is almost definitely related to the climate. Yes, it does rain up here as much as you've heard. If it is not raining, it is at least overcast 90% of the time between October and May. I wouldn't want it any other way.
I need to pay close attention to my environment and drink in every raindrop and dark grey cloud this autumn, winter and spring, because they are most likely my last in the Pacific Northwest. Chances are, this time next year, we'll be unpacking boxes in our new house in Sioux Falls, SD. I have so many mixed emotions about this probable move, though I do think that the balance falls in favor of South Dakota in the long run. But, I would like to indulge in a long sigh over my preferred habitat of Western Washington.
Have you ever seen Mt. Rainier? I've lived here for over five years now, and I am still surprised by its majesty -- rising up, snow-capped and imposing, over the southern horizon --when it greets me at the turn of the road.
There is a coffee culture up here to which I can emphatically relate. Little espresso carts or convivial coffee shops cheerfully stand on any given corner, offering liquid nirvana as a bolster against the enshrouding mist.
This is the land of Eddie Bauer, and, while I will certainly be able to replenish my wardrobe anywhere from this national chain, the clothes will never look as at home as they do when they are worn bespeckled with raindrops against a backdrop of evergreens (no self-respecting PNWer will use an umbrella -- we glory in the constant state of dampness).
Where else in these United States are fireplaces standard in every apartment for rent, but air-conditioning is rarely found, even in houses?
Record highs for heat were recorded this summer on days that reached the astonishing temperature of 85! As a native Southern Californian, I have to chuckle at that.
On a more personal note:
I will miss our church. I will miss our neighborhood (library, doctor's office, bank, grocery stores -- all easily navigable on foot). I will miss our Thai restaurant. I will miss my hair stylist (the only person ever to infuse body in my straight, fine hair without a perm!). I will miss the Puyallup Fair. I will miss the hikes, especially the one to the twin waterfalls. I will miss the zoos. I will miss the proximity of water, though I am no boater. I will miss my friend Kadie. I will miss the deer who visits our backyard and hangs out, eating our flowers, for hours.
I wish living out here were sustainable for a family that is determined to remain single-income while increasing in size. It is just not possible. And, I'd rather live anywhere where my husband would not have that worried look on his face everyday.
There is a lot in South Dakota to recommend itself as a place to raise a family:
The cost of living is substantially lower, especially in housing prices. There are grandparents there to provide occasional respite from Bug tyranny. The political environment is more closely aligned with my own philosophies. The homeschooling laws are even more liberal than here in Washington. When Roe vs. Wade is overturned (D.V.), abortion will most likely be illegal in most cases in South Dakota. The business environment is more conducive to starting and running a small business (Jason's dream).
Oh, but I will miss the trees and the rain and the atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest. I will indeed.
Okay, enough sniveling and whining. I'm grateful to have had the chance to live up here for five years, and I will be grateful for our future home in South Dakota. I am grateful for my husband, who works so hard to provide for our family and who will make certain that, so long as his abilities and will have anything to do with it, we will always have shelter, clothing, food, and a certain amount of what can only be considered luxuries and extras. And that's better than a majority of people who live on this earth.
I need to pay close attention to my environment and drink in every raindrop and dark grey cloud this autumn, winter and spring, because they are most likely my last in the Pacific Northwest. Chances are, this time next year, we'll be unpacking boxes in our new house in Sioux Falls, SD. I have so many mixed emotions about this probable move, though I do think that the balance falls in favor of South Dakota in the long run. But, I would like to indulge in a long sigh over my preferred habitat of Western Washington.
Have you ever seen Mt. Rainier? I've lived here for over five years now, and I am still surprised by its majesty -- rising up, snow-capped and imposing, over the southern horizon --when it greets me at the turn of the road.
There is a coffee culture up here to which I can emphatically relate. Little espresso carts or convivial coffee shops cheerfully stand on any given corner, offering liquid nirvana as a bolster against the enshrouding mist.
This is the land of Eddie Bauer, and, while I will certainly be able to replenish my wardrobe anywhere from this national chain, the clothes will never look as at home as they do when they are worn bespeckled with raindrops against a backdrop of evergreens (no self-respecting PNWer will use an umbrella -- we glory in the constant state of dampness).
Where else in these United States are fireplaces standard in every apartment for rent, but air-conditioning is rarely found, even in houses?
Record highs for heat were recorded this summer on days that reached the astonishing temperature of 85! As a native Southern Californian, I have to chuckle at that.
On a more personal note:
I will miss our church. I will miss our neighborhood (library, doctor's office, bank, grocery stores -- all easily navigable on foot). I will miss our Thai restaurant. I will miss my hair stylist (the only person ever to infuse body in my straight, fine hair without a perm!). I will miss the Puyallup Fair. I will miss the hikes, especially the one to the twin waterfalls. I will miss the zoos. I will miss the proximity of water, though I am no boater. I will miss my friend Kadie. I will miss the deer who visits our backyard and hangs out, eating our flowers, for hours.
I wish living out here were sustainable for a family that is determined to remain single-income while increasing in size. It is just not possible. And, I'd rather live anywhere where my husband would not have that worried look on his face everyday.
There is a lot in South Dakota to recommend itself as a place to raise a family:
The cost of living is substantially lower, especially in housing prices. There are grandparents there to provide occasional respite from Bug tyranny. The political environment is more closely aligned with my own philosophies. The homeschooling laws are even more liberal than here in Washington. When Roe vs. Wade is overturned (D.V.), abortion will most likely be illegal in most cases in South Dakota. The business environment is more conducive to starting and running a small business (Jason's dream).
Oh, but I will miss the trees and the rain and the atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest. I will indeed.
Okay, enough sniveling and whining. I'm grateful to have had the chance to live up here for five years, and I will be grateful for our future home in South Dakota. I am grateful for my husband, who works so hard to provide for our family and who will make certain that, so long as his abilities and will have anything to do with it, we will always have shelter, clothing, food, and a certain amount of what can only be considered luxuries and extras. And that's better than a majority of people who live on this earth.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Releasing My Inner Fozzie Bear
Ha! I found this through Crazy Jo's blog.
I'd always suspected as much. Wocka! Wocka!
You are Fozzie Bear.
You are caring and love your friends as if they
were family. For only they will put up with
your stupid jokes.
FAVORITE EXPRESSION:
"Wocka! Wocka!"
FAVORITE AUTHOR:
Gags Beasley, comedy writer
HOBBIES:
Telling jokes, dodging tomatoes
QUOTE:
"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
NEVER LEAVES HOME WITHOUT:
His joybuzzer, his whoopee cushion and Clyde, the
rubber chicken.
What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
I'd always suspected as much. Wocka! Wocka!
You are Fozzie Bear.
You are caring and love your friends as if they
were family. For only they will put up with
your stupid jokes.
FAVORITE EXPRESSION:
"Wocka! Wocka!"
FAVORITE AUTHOR:
Gags Beasley, comedy writer
HOBBIES:
Telling jokes, dodging tomatoes
QUOTE:
"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
NEVER LEAVES HOME WITHOUT:
His joybuzzer, his whoopee cushion and Clyde, the
rubber chicken.
What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Monday, October 03, 2005
Back from the Magic Kingdom (With Pics!)
We are back from the Land O' Mouse, and it was a wonder-filled trip. We have discovered the proper adult-to-toddler ratio for trips of this kind: four adults to one toddler worked peachy-keen. Sadie got to meet most all her favorite characters -- Winnie the Pooh, Eeyore, Tigger, Pluto, Mickey. The lines for the rides were short, and Jason and I managed to hit all the adult-sized ones while the grandparents went on "It's A Small World" with Sadie for the umpteenth time. A joyous time was had by all; and, with Dad and Papa both armed with digital cameras, there are pictures galore. Behold! A few for Grandma Serena's enjoyment and anyone else who does not mind viewing the Bug:
Thank you for any prayers lifted up on our behalf. The trip was safe, and there wasn't any tummy trouble on the Teacups or Dumbo or any other ride. It is nice to be able still to go to a place where so many of my childhood memories reside and have it be as magical and delightful and kid-oriented for Sadie as it was for me. In the midst of its 50th Anniversary celebration, these words from Walt Disney's opening day benediction kept reverberating throughout the park during our three-day stay:
"To all who come to this happy place: Welcome. Disneyland is your land. Here, age relives fond memories of the past . . . and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America . . . with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world."
I miss Walt's America.
One last para-quote from Walt Disney: "Disneyland [is] a world of Americans, past and present, seen through the eyes of [Walt's] imagination -- a place of warmth and nostalgia, of illusion and color and delight." And it is a beautiful thing, dear Mr. Disney. Thank you from parents and children everywhere for making such a place of joy.
Thank you for any prayers lifted up on our behalf. The trip was safe, and there wasn't any tummy trouble on the Teacups or Dumbo or any other ride. It is nice to be able still to go to a place where so many of my childhood memories reside and have it be as magical and delightful and kid-oriented for Sadie as it was for me. In the midst of its 50th Anniversary celebration, these words from Walt Disney's opening day benediction kept reverberating throughout the park during our three-day stay:
"To all who come to this happy place: Welcome. Disneyland is your land. Here, age relives fond memories of the past . . . and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America . . . with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world."
I miss Walt's America.
One last para-quote from Walt Disney: "Disneyland [is] a world of Americans, past and present, seen through the eyes of [Walt's] imagination -- a place of warmth and nostalgia, of illusion and color and delight." And it is a beautiful thing, dear Mr. Disney. Thank you from parents and children everywhere for making such a place of joy.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Princess Sadie Visits the Magic Kingdom
We're off tonight to Anaheim for Sadie's first trip to Disneyland! She has met the three requirements for being able to go that we devised when she was two months old:
1) She's no longer nursing.
2) She can walk for hours at a time.
3) She's potty-trained!
So, as promised, off we go!
I'm actually pretty excited. I haven't been in years, though, as a kid growing up in Southern California, I was always rather blasé about the whole Disneyland thing. Now, as a parent, I'm giddy to think of the wonder that Sadie will experience in a few more hours. Everything of this sort is more fun with kids. Her South Dakota grandparents even came out to experience this magical trip with us.
So, this is all a lengthy explanation in advance for an absence from posting this week. I didn't want anyone out there to think that Hewie II kicked the bucket so soon. Your prayers for safe travel and health (think here of the Mad Teacups ride) would be much appreciated.
Peace to all!
1) She's no longer nursing.
2) She can walk for hours at a time.
3) She's potty-trained!
So, as promised, off we go!
I'm actually pretty excited. I haven't been in years, though, as a kid growing up in Southern California, I was always rather blasé about the whole Disneyland thing. Now, as a parent, I'm giddy to think of the wonder that Sadie will experience in a few more hours. Everything of this sort is more fun with kids. Her South Dakota grandparents even came out to experience this magical trip with us.
So, this is all a lengthy explanation in advance for an absence from posting this week. I didn't want anyone out there to think that Hewie II kicked the bucket so soon. Your prayers for safe travel and health (think here of the Mad Teacups ride) would be much appreciated.
Peace to all!
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Book Review: A Prayer for Owen Meany
**I'm no longer calling these "Summer Reading Reviews" since, alas, summer is just about gone. Okay, I say "alas," but I really mean "hooray," because, at least in the Pacific Northwest, summer is my least favorite season.**
Title: A Prayer for Owen Meany
Author: John Irving
Publisher: Ballantine
It will not surprise anyone who has ever traveled down the sidebar of this blog that I am a big fan of singer/songwriter Carolyn Arends. There is no musical artist in my opinion who combines musical virtuosity with lyrics of such depth, intelligence, gentle humor and relevance. Seriously, if you have not had the pleasure of experiencing her songs and stories, visit her site, listen to some clips, read her blog, drink it up -- she is a Providence-given oasis in the desert of hokiness and banality that unfortunately encompasses much of the genre of Christian music.
So, back in 2000, Carolyn Arends wrote an incredible book called Living the Questions: Making Sense of the Mess and Mystery of Life. You should buy this book. Okay, the Carolyn Arends commercial is now finished, and the review of the A Prayer for Owen Meany commences.
In her book, in Chapter 16, The Donation, Carolyn writes the following passage:
As I write this, I consider for the first time the slightly eerie significance of Rich's [Rich Mullins -- a singer/songwriter of almost equal power as Carolyn Arends -- who died in 1997] great love for John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany -- the funny and ultimately heartbreaking story of a boy who had a premonition in which he saw his tombstone and some of the tragic details of his eventual death. When Rich was encouraging me (ordering me, really) to read the book, he told me that anyone who did was instantly inducted into a secret Owen Meany Society. He claimed a simple recitation of the novel's last sentence could bring tears to the eyes of any club member. He was right, and the tears come now as I remember the prayer that ends the story. O God -- please give him back! I shall keep asking you. (pg. 174)
Any club that includes Carolyn Arends and Rich Mullins, for whom I have unreserved respect, is a club in which I would like to be. So after reading LTQ, I went to my local Barnes & Noble (not a difficult task, since I worked there at the time) and purchased A Prayer for Owen Meany. I sat down to read it, made it almost through the first chapter, then put the book down in boredom, filed it with the novels on my bookshelves, and mostly forgot about it. Every once in a while, when I would be re-reading LTQ or simply walking by my novels, I would see it wink at me from its granite-green spine.
So, the years went by. In the meantime, I had a wee bookclub with my dear friend, Kadie, and we picked as a selection Irving's most famous novel, The World According to Garp. I hated The World According to Garp. With purple passion. Extremely. Even remembering it now, I'm disgusted that I wasted so many hours on that lame book. Also, the movie, The Cider House Rules, clouded my view of John Irving beyond redemption. I consigned him to the outer rings of authorial hell and went on with my life. I even thought about selling off A Prayer for Owen Meany, should my hypothetical garage sale ever become reality.
Then, then, then . . . I went to a week-long Christian family retreat up in British Columbia, Canada. One of the main presenters at that retreat was Carolyn Arends (not by coincidence). We ended up on a hike together through the beautiful woods that cover most of the Pacific Northwest, and I finally got to "talk books" with someone whose breadth and scope of literary knowledge inspires me and whose ability to cull from that knowledge and add to it in creative output humbles me. So, of course, what is the first novel she brings up? Yep. A Prayer for Owen Meany. Oy!
So, I set my jaw and gritted my teeth and picked up the durned thing. And I read it through -- every single word. And now I have done. And the worst part is that I suffered through the 617 pages, and I still don't get to belong to The Club. My eyes will never well up with tears when I hear that last sentence: O God -- please give him back! I shall keep asking you. Here's my prayer: O God, I shall keep asking You to make John Irving stop writing books. Trees have better reasons to give their lives.
That said, the last third of this book was not a horrible as the first two. That's the most positive part of my review. No, wait, I also must say that John Irving does not lack imagination. His premise is interesting. I just guess that I hate the way he writes. I must admit, though, that none of my favorite novelists are men (excepting writers of children's literature, which is split between the sexes). Almost all of my favorite non-fiction writers in every genre are men. But, for tales woven from imagination, I turn to those of the feminine kind. Isabel Paterson, Jane Austen, L.M. Montgomery, Sandra Dallas, Isabel Allende, Agatha Christie -- all chicks. P.J. O'Rourke, Bill Bryson, C.S. Lewis, Jim Powell, Stephen Cox, Thomas Sowell -- all dudes. So, maybe, John Irving was working with a handicap from the get-go. Also, I had previous prejudices based upon his other works to deal with. So, out of the gate it wasn't looking too good for ol' Irving.
My main quarrel with this book was that there wasn't a single character in it for whom I cared a lick. Good novelists, in my opinion, will make you care deeply about the characters and what happens to them, but I didn't care at all what happened to any of the people in Owen Meany. Maybe John Irving's voice is a little too detached for me -- his directions for the characters are a little too obscure and schizophrenic. He delights in making his characters do or say things that just do not ring true to me as ways for people to behave or talk. I know that in life, in the make-up of a human soul, there is no set definition for "normal," but the whole scope of the novel seems so disjointed and off-kilter, that you wonder if John Irving actually interacts with humans in the course of his life. People do weird things, but, even in their idiosyncrasies, there are consistencies. No one acts like the people that John Irving writes about. And so, since you never really get to know these people, you end up not caring about them.
Here's the novel in a nutshell: In New Hampshire ("Live free or die!" -- best state motto ever, but I digress) there are two families, the Wheelwrights and the Meanys. The Wheelwrights are the oldest family in Gravesend, NH, with the gentility and wealth that comes with established names and distinctive bloodlines. The Meanys are no-names, poor strange folks on the margins of Gravesend, owners of a granite quarry that encapsulates the reality of long, hard work with little financial return. Owen Meany and John Wheelwright are best friends -- Owen is small in stature, but towering in spirit. John is Mr. Average with a mysterious past. Owen inadvertantly kills John's mom, Tabitha Wheelwright, with an errantly hit baseball. Owen inadvertantly kills John's neighbor's dog with an errantly thrown football. John doesn't kill anybody. Instead of a city ordinance's being issued to bar Owen Meany from participating in any recreational sports, life goes on without any indignant commentary. There's a bunch of weird stuff with Owen being all spooky about Angels of Death, Catholics, Christmas pageants, Dickens' A Christmas Carol, his own death, and John's unknown father, and also a rather disgusting depiction of a stuffed armadillo. Oh, and Owen Meany also has a very eerie, distinctive voice, which the author reminds us of constantly by putting all of Owen's dialogue and writings into CAPITAL letters (which will give the reader a headache when Owen goes on a prolonged rant). This, of course, all ties in with that bogeyman of the Annoying Generation (Baby Boomers): The Vietnam War.
An aside: Personally, from the little I know, I think that the Vietnam War was ultimately a tragic, yet inevitable given U.S. foreign policy since World War I, mistake. Nine times out of ten, war is a terrible solution to any problem. It lends legitimacy to the enemy. It destroys more lives than it saves. But, I hate to think of people suffering anywhere. Was the cure in Vietnam worse than the disease? I do not know. Either way, many people were destined to die by the evil man does to man. It sickens me to think that Vietnam veterans were treated so shamefully by many in America. And, since a lot of the anti-war prostesters seem to have been motivated by a love of communism rather than respect for human life, I do not admire them. I do admire Christian conscientious objectors, and those who worked for peace without degrading American ideals. Nothing killed more people in the Twentieth Century than that curse of communism. Abortion got close. My two cents.
As Carolyn Arends wrote, Owen Meany did have a premonition of his death and a vision of his tombstone. I know that this was supposed to be creepy and spine-tingling and deep and riveting. I just couldn't get into it, at least not until the last third. Around page 200, when I realized I was only 1/3 of the way through, I almost wept. I suppose I could have abandoned the reading for the second time, but I was determined to read through a book that affected so deeply two amazing artists like Rich Mullins and Carolyn Arends.
Probably the most creepy contrivance that Irving intended was one I had been expecting. I don't want to write more, in case this review does not dissuade you from pursuing this tome. Suffice it to say, it was a climactic moment that only made me go, "Well, duh." One of the plot turns that wholly surprised me was another I do not want to reveal, so I'll just say that the finger thing caught me by surprise. Although, again, the finger thing does not jibe with the way Irving presents Owen Meany's well-established belief in fate and predestination -- it just seems so inconsistent with his character, which is why I was surprised. E-mail me if your interest is piqued and you need to know more but wish to avoid this ponderous novel. I'll clue you in on all of it.
Carolyn Arends and the back of my mass-market edition of Owen Meany both talk about how "funny" or "comic" this novel is. Yeah, if you find train wrecks funny. Except that Carolyn has a great sense of humor, so there's another mystery of Owen Meany.
I think that what I disliked the most about this book is that, in the first paragraph, the character, John Wheelwright, asserts that "I am a Christian because of Owen Meany." If anything, by the end of the novel, it is confirmed that John Wheelwright may believe in a supernatural power because of Owen Meany, but that what he seems to believe most is that that supernatural power is Owen himself. I guess that I was looking for more. Not a Christian novel, perhaps, but a novel about Christianity. If anything, this is a novel about discipleship to a prophet, not to the Son of God. His faith is based upon the things he sees, not the revelation of the heart that only comes from the Creator. Blessed are those who have not seen, yet still believe. John's faith is the kind given by man to man. His last prayer is one requesting the resurrection of his own messiah, not professed faith in the resurrected Messiah. If Christianity were left out of it, I would have a more charitable attitude toward this book. Maybe.
I can see why this book became an "International Bestseller." John Irving is obviously disgusted with the country of the United States of America, and, since so much of the world loves to read Americans bashing their country, the international audience probably ate it up. He has his insipid character, John Wheelwright, complain about Ronald Reagan (dating this book forever at its 1989 publication date) every time the novel journeys out of the past and takes up a contemporary narrative. It jarred me to read such vitriol from the "mouth" of a character who seems so emotionally disengaged throughout the book. Plus, his complete obsession with a country he no longer calls his own doesn't fit with a man living life by the decree of predestination. You ask: why should he care? Does he dislike America because of Owen Meany's death? If he believes that Owen knew when he was going to die, that he was going to die a hero, and Owen made peace with that, then why does he get so worked up over the affairs of man? Did Owen's death set him on fire? If so, why is his life so unobtrusive? It's this uneasy mixture of anger and resignation that makes it so hard to care about John Wheelwright. You mostly just want him to shut up.
The last third of the novel finds the narrative picking up considerable speed. The ending is interesting, even if, by that point, you've come to dislike the characters so much you are just racing to the end. It wraps up with all of the mysteries solved and the fervent prayer offered up. Even so, one burning question still remains: why in the world does Carolyn Arends like this book?
Theory the First: Carolyn likes this book because it is tied in her memory to Rich Mullins, her mentor and friend, whom, I am sure, she misses terribly. It connects her to him, since he had a love for this book. Any reservations she had about the book's awfulness have faded away in time because of her affectionate association of it with Rich.
Theory the Second: Carolyn is Canadian, and the novel is very kind to Canadians. In a burst of patriotism, she decided to eradicate the obvious awfulness of this novel from her mind, and focus instead on the loving descriptions of Toronto and the niceness and decency (which are very real) of Canadians.
Theory the Third: Carolyn read through this book after an unfortunate encounter with saki at a Japanese restaurant and does not to this day realize that this book is awash in awfulness.
Theory the Fourth: Carolyn really does actually like this novel, and she and I just have extremely different views about what constitutes a "good novel." She also secretly hates Jane Austen.
Jason said, "What if Theory the Fourth is correct and she really does just love this book? Does that change anything for you?"
My answer: No, not at all. Nothing she likes or dislikes could ever take away from the amazing art she has produced that has enriched my life and my journey of faith incredibly. What revelation about Carolyn could change my opinion of her character, if not of her genius? If she ceased to love and worship the Lord. That's about it. Even if she secretly (or not so secretly) hates Jane Austen, even that wouldn't change a whit my admiration. And that says a lot.
Read Living the Questions: Making Sense of the Mess and Mystery of Life. It is really good. Right up there with The Jesus I Never Knew (which Carolyn Arends recommended to me also). As for A Prayer for Owen Meany, well . . .
Overall Grade: C-
Readability: D
Subject Interest: C+
Illustrations: N/A
Recommended? No! We've got to stop John Irving! Trees are dying needlessly! Seriously - A BIG BOOOOO-HISSSSS (to use Owen Meany's voice).
Next up: FDR's Folly by Jim Powell
Title: A Prayer for Owen Meany
Author: John Irving
Publisher: Ballantine
It will not surprise anyone who has ever traveled down the sidebar of this blog that I am a big fan of singer/songwriter Carolyn Arends. There is no musical artist in my opinion who combines musical virtuosity with lyrics of such depth, intelligence, gentle humor and relevance. Seriously, if you have not had the pleasure of experiencing her songs and stories, visit her site, listen to some clips, read her blog, drink it up -- she is a Providence-given oasis in the desert of hokiness and banality that unfortunately encompasses much of the genre of Christian music.
So, back in 2000, Carolyn Arends wrote an incredible book called Living the Questions: Making Sense of the Mess and Mystery of Life. You should buy this book. Okay, the Carolyn Arends commercial is now finished, and the review of the A Prayer for Owen Meany commences.
In her book, in Chapter 16, The Donation, Carolyn writes the following passage:
As I write this, I consider for the first time the slightly eerie significance of Rich's [Rich Mullins -- a singer/songwriter of almost equal power as Carolyn Arends -- who died in 1997] great love for John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany -- the funny and ultimately heartbreaking story of a boy who had a premonition in which he saw his tombstone and some of the tragic details of his eventual death. When Rich was encouraging me (ordering me, really) to read the book, he told me that anyone who did was instantly inducted into a secret Owen Meany Society. He claimed a simple recitation of the novel's last sentence could bring tears to the eyes of any club member. He was right, and the tears come now as I remember the prayer that ends the story. O God -- please give him back! I shall keep asking you. (pg. 174)
Any club that includes Carolyn Arends and Rich Mullins, for whom I have unreserved respect, is a club in which I would like to be. So after reading LTQ, I went to my local Barnes & Noble (not a difficult task, since I worked there at the time) and purchased A Prayer for Owen Meany. I sat down to read it, made it almost through the first chapter, then put the book down in boredom, filed it with the novels on my bookshelves, and mostly forgot about it. Every once in a while, when I would be re-reading LTQ or simply walking by my novels, I would see it wink at me from its granite-green spine.
So, the years went by. In the meantime, I had a wee bookclub with my dear friend, Kadie, and we picked as a selection Irving's most famous novel, The World According to Garp. I hated The World According to Garp. With purple passion. Extremely. Even remembering it now, I'm disgusted that I wasted so many hours on that lame book. Also, the movie, The Cider House Rules, clouded my view of John Irving beyond redemption. I consigned him to the outer rings of authorial hell and went on with my life. I even thought about selling off A Prayer for Owen Meany, should my hypothetical garage sale ever become reality.
Then, then, then . . . I went to a week-long Christian family retreat up in British Columbia, Canada. One of the main presenters at that retreat was Carolyn Arends (not by coincidence). We ended up on a hike together through the beautiful woods that cover most of the Pacific Northwest, and I finally got to "talk books" with someone whose breadth and scope of literary knowledge inspires me and whose ability to cull from that knowledge and add to it in creative output humbles me. So, of course, what is the first novel she brings up? Yep. A Prayer for Owen Meany. Oy!
So, I set my jaw and gritted my teeth and picked up the durned thing. And I read it through -- every single word. And now I have done. And the worst part is that I suffered through the 617 pages, and I still don't get to belong to The Club. My eyes will never well up with tears when I hear that last sentence: O God -- please give him back! I shall keep asking you. Here's my prayer: O God, I shall keep asking You to make John Irving stop writing books. Trees have better reasons to give their lives.
That said, the last third of this book was not a horrible as the first two. That's the most positive part of my review. No, wait, I also must say that John Irving does not lack imagination. His premise is interesting. I just guess that I hate the way he writes. I must admit, though, that none of my favorite novelists are men (excepting writers of children's literature, which is split between the sexes). Almost all of my favorite non-fiction writers in every genre are men. But, for tales woven from imagination, I turn to those of the feminine kind. Isabel Paterson, Jane Austen, L.M. Montgomery, Sandra Dallas, Isabel Allende, Agatha Christie -- all chicks. P.J. O'Rourke, Bill Bryson, C.S. Lewis, Jim Powell, Stephen Cox, Thomas Sowell -- all dudes. So, maybe, John Irving was working with a handicap from the get-go. Also, I had previous prejudices based upon his other works to deal with. So, out of the gate it wasn't looking too good for ol' Irving.
My main quarrel with this book was that there wasn't a single character in it for whom I cared a lick. Good novelists, in my opinion, will make you care deeply about the characters and what happens to them, but I didn't care at all what happened to any of the people in Owen Meany. Maybe John Irving's voice is a little too detached for me -- his directions for the characters are a little too obscure and schizophrenic. He delights in making his characters do or say things that just do not ring true to me as ways for people to behave or talk. I know that in life, in the make-up of a human soul, there is no set definition for "normal," but the whole scope of the novel seems so disjointed and off-kilter, that you wonder if John Irving actually interacts with humans in the course of his life. People do weird things, but, even in their idiosyncrasies, there are consistencies. No one acts like the people that John Irving writes about. And so, since you never really get to know these people, you end up not caring about them.
Here's the novel in a nutshell: In New Hampshire ("Live free or die!" -- best state motto ever, but I digress) there are two families, the Wheelwrights and the Meanys. The Wheelwrights are the oldest family in Gravesend, NH, with the gentility and wealth that comes with established names and distinctive bloodlines. The Meanys are no-names, poor strange folks on the margins of Gravesend, owners of a granite quarry that encapsulates the reality of long, hard work with little financial return. Owen Meany and John Wheelwright are best friends -- Owen is small in stature, but towering in spirit. John is Mr. Average with a mysterious past. Owen inadvertantly kills John's mom, Tabitha Wheelwright, with an errantly hit baseball. Owen inadvertantly kills John's neighbor's dog with an errantly thrown football. John doesn't kill anybody. Instead of a city ordinance's being issued to bar Owen Meany from participating in any recreational sports, life goes on without any indignant commentary. There's a bunch of weird stuff with Owen being all spooky about Angels of Death, Catholics, Christmas pageants, Dickens' A Christmas Carol, his own death, and John's unknown father, and also a rather disgusting depiction of a stuffed armadillo. Oh, and Owen Meany also has a very eerie, distinctive voice, which the author reminds us of constantly by putting all of Owen's dialogue and writings into CAPITAL letters (which will give the reader a headache when Owen goes on a prolonged rant). This, of course, all ties in with that bogeyman of the Annoying Generation (Baby Boomers): The Vietnam War.
An aside: Personally, from the little I know, I think that the Vietnam War was ultimately a tragic, yet inevitable given U.S. foreign policy since World War I, mistake. Nine times out of ten, war is a terrible solution to any problem. It lends legitimacy to the enemy. It destroys more lives than it saves. But, I hate to think of people suffering anywhere. Was the cure in Vietnam worse than the disease? I do not know. Either way, many people were destined to die by the evil man does to man. It sickens me to think that Vietnam veterans were treated so shamefully by many in America. And, since a lot of the anti-war prostesters seem to have been motivated by a love of communism rather than respect for human life, I do not admire them. I do admire Christian conscientious objectors, and those who worked for peace without degrading American ideals. Nothing killed more people in the Twentieth Century than that curse of communism. Abortion got close. My two cents.
As Carolyn Arends wrote, Owen Meany did have a premonition of his death and a vision of his tombstone. I know that this was supposed to be creepy and spine-tingling and deep and riveting. I just couldn't get into it, at least not until the last third. Around page 200, when I realized I was only 1/3 of the way through, I almost wept. I suppose I could have abandoned the reading for the second time, but I was determined to read through a book that affected so deeply two amazing artists like Rich Mullins and Carolyn Arends.
Probably the most creepy contrivance that Irving intended was one I had been expecting. I don't want to write more, in case this review does not dissuade you from pursuing this tome. Suffice it to say, it was a climactic moment that only made me go, "Well, duh." One of the plot turns that wholly surprised me was another I do not want to reveal, so I'll just say that the finger thing caught me by surprise. Although, again, the finger thing does not jibe with the way Irving presents Owen Meany's well-established belief in fate and predestination -- it just seems so inconsistent with his character, which is why I was surprised. E-mail me if your interest is piqued and you need to know more but wish to avoid this ponderous novel. I'll clue you in on all of it.
Carolyn Arends and the back of my mass-market edition of Owen Meany both talk about how "funny" or "comic" this novel is. Yeah, if you find train wrecks funny. Except that Carolyn has a great sense of humor, so there's another mystery of Owen Meany.
I think that what I disliked the most about this book is that, in the first paragraph, the character, John Wheelwright, asserts that "I am a Christian because of Owen Meany." If anything, by the end of the novel, it is confirmed that John Wheelwright may believe in a supernatural power because of Owen Meany, but that what he seems to believe most is that that supernatural power is Owen himself. I guess that I was looking for more. Not a Christian novel, perhaps, but a novel about Christianity. If anything, this is a novel about discipleship to a prophet, not to the Son of God. His faith is based upon the things he sees, not the revelation of the heart that only comes from the Creator. Blessed are those who have not seen, yet still believe. John's faith is the kind given by man to man. His last prayer is one requesting the resurrection of his own messiah, not professed faith in the resurrected Messiah. If Christianity were left out of it, I would have a more charitable attitude toward this book. Maybe.
I can see why this book became an "International Bestseller." John Irving is obviously disgusted with the country of the United States of America, and, since so much of the world loves to read Americans bashing their country, the international audience probably ate it up. He has his insipid character, John Wheelwright, complain about Ronald Reagan (dating this book forever at its 1989 publication date) every time the novel journeys out of the past and takes up a contemporary narrative. It jarred me to read such vitriol from the "mouth" of a character who seems so emotionally disengaged throughout the book. Plus, his complete obsession with a country he no longer calls his own doesn't fit with a man living life by the decree of predestination. You ask: why should he care? Does he dislike America because of Owen Meany's death? If he believes that Owen knew when he was going to die, that he was going to die a hero, and Owen made peace with that, then why does he get so worked up over the affairs of man? Did Owen's death set him on fire? If so, why is his life so unobtrusive? It's this uneasy mixture of anger and resignation that makes it so hard to care about John Wheelwright. You mostly just want him to shut up.
The last third of the novel finds the narrative picking up considerable speed. The ending is interesting, even if, by that point, you've come to dislike the characters so much you are just racing to the end. It wraps up with all of the mysteries solved and the fervent prayer offered up. Even so, one burning question still remains: why in the world does Carolyn Arends like this book?
Theory the First: Carolyn likes this book because it is tied in her memory to Rich Mullins, her mentor and friend, whom, I am sure, she misses terribly. It connects her to him, since he had a love for this book. Any reservations she had about the book's awfulness have faded away in time because of her affectionate association of it with Rich.
Theory the Second: Carolyn is Canadian, and the novel is very kind to Canadians. In a burst of patriotism, she decided to eradicate the obvious awfulness of this novel from her mind, and focus instead on the loving descriptions of Toronto and the niceness and decency (which are very real) of Canadians.
Theory the Third: Carolyn read through this book after an unfortunate encounter with saki at a Japanese restaurant and does not to this day realize that this book is awash in awfulness.
Theory the Fourth: Carolyn really does actually like this novel, and she and I just have extremely different views about what constitutes a "good novel." She also secretly hates Jane Austen.
Jason said, "What if Theory the Fourth is correct and she really does just love this book? Does that change anything for you?"
My answer: No, not at all. Nothing she likes or dislikes could ever take away from the amazing art she has produced that has enriched my life and my journey of faith incredibly. What revelation about Carolyn could change my opinion of her character, if not of her genius? If she ceased to love and worship the Lord. That's about it. Even if she secretly (or not so secretly) hates Jane Austen, even that wouldn't change a whit my admiration. And that says a lot.
Read Living the Questions: Making Sense of the Mess and Mystery of Life. It is really good. Right up there with The Jesus I Never Knew (which Carolyn Arends recommended to me also). As for A Prayer for Owen Meany, well . . .
Overall Grade: C-
Readability: D
Subject Interest: C+
Illustrations: N/A
Recommended? No! We've got to stop John Irving! Trees are dying needlessly! Seriously - A BIG BOOOOO-HISSSSS (to use Owen Meany's voice).
Next up: FDR's Folly by Jim Powell
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
This Just In: A Camel Goes Through the Eye of a Needle!
I found this wonderful link from Michael Medved's website, so I stole it:
Billionaire Traded Materialism for True Happiness.
Pizza, anyone?
Billionaire Traded Materialism for True Happiness.
Pizza, anyone?
Monday, September 19, 2005
Hooray for Bollywood!
I have always appreciated Indian culture. Their cuisine is so yummy -- spicy and delectable. Their clothing is a model for the world -- what could be more lovely than the beautiful sarees (saris) the women wear or more comfortable than the men's garments? Every Indian immigrant I have ever met has been just a warm and wonderful person. I even love the way patchouli smells. Now, to this appreciation, I can add the most visible element of their popular culture: the films.
If you have never seen an Indian movie, I heartily recommend this one as a starting point. This splashy, flashy, wonderfully romantic tale is ripe with humor and drama and big musical numbers that would make Busby Berkeley smile. Apparently this 1995 release is the longest continually running movie to play in India's theaters. It is not hard to see why.
First of all, you have two extremely likable protagonists, the romantic leads. Simran, played by Kajol, is so beautiful and intense, and yet funny too, that she fills the screen with radiance. Raj, our hero, played by Shahrukh Kahn, is such a scene-stealer, with such an affable and easy presence, that it takes all of Kajol's considerable charisma to hold her own in their shared scenes. There is chemistry here -- real chemistry.
Secondly, the movie is filled with an incredible array of supporting characters. Simran's family, with her delightful mother, traditional (rather scary) father, and quirky sister, are very real. Raj's dad was one of my favorite characters -- so warm and loving and funny. The auxiliary characters from the scenes in India keep the energy up in this long film. I especially appreciated the little gem of a role that was the aunt on Simran's mother's side.
Thirdly, the movie is exciting to watch. There is a lot of action - with scenes in such locations as London, Paris, Switzerland, and, of course, India. The cinematography is very straight-forward -- the director lets the action speak for itself. The characters are constantly moving and speaking, which makes the rare scenes of reflection or still conversation more dramatic. And, without apology or even trying to make it remotely plausible, the characters often break into song and dance numbers, many times with painstakingly coreographed background dancers, in a way that will astonish and beguile you.
Lastly, this picture is funny! I laughed so hard at some of the scenes -- mostly because the actors are very skilled at conveying humor in their facial expressions. It was so light-hearted, and yet, there was an earnest streak too. When the film took dramatic turns, there were tears in my eyes. But, overall, this movie left me walking on air -- brimming over with happy thoughts.
To an American, this film had a slightly less polished look than what we've grown used to. Sometimes the picture had that grainy quality you see in earlier technicolor movies -- or, as Jason put it, this film looks a lot older than 1995. Some of the situations seemed contrived or hackneyed -- this movie was not perfect. But there is so much to delight the eyes and the ears and the soul, that its faults just fade into the background as you become enchanted with the story.
For a Christian there might be some discomfort with prayers to and discussions of the multiple gods and goddesses that constitute the Hindu faith. Hopefully this will not distract from your enjoyment of the film. One lovely scene that nods respectfully to Christianity is in the middle of the first half of the movie during the tour of Europe. Raj and Simran come across a beautiful church in, I believe, Switzerland, and Simran prompts a visit inside to take a look. As Raj goofs off in the church, he looks over and sees Simran kneeling at the altar, praying while facing a painting of Jesus. At the end of her prayer, she makes the sign of the cross. Raj stares at her in wonder, and it is a profoundly moving religious moment. It is a nice gesture toward respecting Christianity made by a filmmaker who, I am guessing, is not a Christian, nor has a Christian audience in mind for his film. How many times do we see earnest portrayals of prayer to Jesus in American movies, wherein the intended audience is almost 90% Christian? Not often. Also, in a much appreciated by this viewer decision by the person who subtitled this film, the English subtitles when, after the prayer, Raj and Simran are talking of God, capitalize the "g" in God, whereas when they refer to Hindu dieties the "g" remains in lower-case. It is just refreshing to see that kind consideration for the faith of others.
This movie is romantic without any cynicism in a way that you do not often see in American films anymore. It evokes the golden age of Hollywood. The hero is dashing and bold, a problem-solver, and an honorable man. The heroine is gorgeous and feisty, with a pure mind and courageous heart. The problems they overcome are mostly external (after getting over their initial dislike of each other), not those pesky post-modern internal demons. It is so nice to see something so unabashedly optimistic and gloriously hopeful. I dare you to rent this movie and not fall in love with it. Heck, one billion Indians cannot be wrong!
So, I have four words for you:
Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (or DDLJ for those in the know)
If you have never seen an Indian movie, I heartily recommend this one as a starting point. This splashy, flashy, wonderfully romantic tale is ripe with humor and drama and big musical numbers that would make Busby Berkeley smile. Apparently this 1995 release is the longest continually running movie to play in India's theaters. It is not hard to see why.
First of all, you have two extremely likable protagonists, the romantic leads. Simran, played by Kajol, is so beautiful and intense, and yet funny too, that she fills the screen with radiance. Raj, our hero, played by Shahrukh Kahn, is such a scene-stealer, with such an affable and easy presence, that it takes all of Kajol's considerable charisma to hold her own in their shared scenes. There is chemistry here -- real chemistry.
Secondly, the movie is filled with an incredible array of supporting characters. Simran's family, with her delightful mother, traditional (rather scary) father, and quirky sister, are very real. Raj's dad was one of my favorite characters -- so warm and loving and funny. The auxiliary characters from the scenes in India keep the energy up in this long film. I especially appreciated the little gem of a role that was the aunt on Simran's mother's side.
Thirdly, the movie is exciting to watch. There is a lot of action - with scenes in such locations as London, Paris, Switzerland, and, of course, India. The cinematography is very straight-forward -- the director lets the action speak for itself. The characters are constantly moving and speaking, which makes the rare scenes of reflection or still conversation more dramatic. And, without apology or even trying to make it remotely plausible, the characters often break into song and dance numbers, many times with painstakingly coreographed background dancers, in a way that will astonish and beguile you.
Lastly, this picture is funny! I laughed so hard at some of the scenes -- mostly because the actors are very skilled at conveying humor in their facial expressions. It was so light-hearted, and yet, there was an earnest streak too. When the film took dramatic turns, there were tears in my eyes. But, overall, this movie left me walking on air -- brimming over with happy thoughts.
To an American, this film had a slightly less polished look than what we've grown used to. Sometimes the picture had that grainy quality you see in earlier technicolor movies -- or, as Jason put it, this film looks a lot older than 1995. Some of the situations seemed contrived or hackneyed -- this movie was not perfect. But there is so much to delight the eyes and the ears and the soul, that its faults just fade into the background as you become enchanted with the story.
For a Christian there might be some discomfort with prayers to and discussions of the multiple gods and goddesses that constitute the Hindu faith. Hopefully this will not distract from your enjoyment of the film. One lovely scene that nods respectfully to Christianity is in the middle of the first half of the movie during the tour of Europe. Raj and Simran come across a beautiful church in, I believe, Switzerland, and Simran prompts a visit inside to take a look. As Raj goofs off in the church, he looks over and sees Simran kneeling at the altar, praying while facing a painting of Jesus. At the end of her prayer, she makes the sign of the cross. Raj stares at her in wonder, and it is a profoundly moving religious moment. It is a nice gesture toward respecting Christianity made by a filmmaker who, I am guessing, is not a Christian, nor has a Christian audience in mind for his film. How many times do we see earnest portrayals of prayer to Jesus in American movies, wherein the intended audience is almost 90% Christian? Not often. Also, in a much appreciated by this viewer decision by the person who subtitled this film, the English subtitles when, after the prayer, Raj and Simran are talking of God, capitalize the "g" in God, whereas when they refer to Hindu dieties the "g" remains in lower-case. It is just refreshing to see that kind consideration for the faith of others.
This movie is romantic without any cynicism in a way that you do not often see in American films anymore. It evokes the golden age of Hollywood. The hero is dashing and bold, a problem-solver, and an honorable man. The heroine is gorgeous and feisty, with a pure mind and courageous heart. The problems they overcome are mostly external (after getting over their initial dislike of each other), not those pesky post-modern internal demons. It is so nice to see something so unabashedly optimistic and gloriously hopeful. I dare you to rent this movie and not fall in love with it. Heck, one billion Indians cannot be wrong!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Terrible Apathy
"The opposite of love is not hate; it is apathy."
I have no idea who originally said the above, but it struck me when I first heard it over 15 years ago, and it rings true today.
Apathy, terrible apathy. The emotion that Jesus never seems to have felt is one I feel too often. I've been ashamed even to write about Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, because I have felt little other than apathy. And that is not a Christian response.
Maybe it was the fact that people continued to live in an area below sea level, where no private insurer would provide flood insurance. Maybe it was people who could wade through the muck to loot abandoned buildings but didn't proceed to wade their way out of the city. Maybe it was the immediate whining and finger-pointing, from local governments, advocacy groups and displaced citizens. Maybe it was knowing always in the back of my mind that the majority of these people were going to be just fine -- the government was going to step in a provide generously, no matter how much money private relief offered. Maybe knowing that either way my family was going to be paying for the multiple human follies that escalated this natural disaster to such an extreme level -- in taxes, higher fuel prices, raised insurance premiums -- that made me reluctant to step forward and answer the call to avail myself of the opportunity to serve my fellow man. It was probably a combination of all these things, but also this: there is only so much heartache and horror the human spirit can withstand before the soul callouses and terrible apathy comes to dwell in a tender heart.
The first casualty of the War Against Terror, that first serviceman to be killed in Afghanistan, he was mourned by the country. He was local to Washington, and a public funeral was held up here, drawing scores people touched by someone who would offer his life for others. Banks set up funds in his name to help his family. He was talked about on news shows and radio shows and had a write-up of his life in the local paper -- and probably nationally too. Now, the news casually reports such-and-such number of lost troops per attack. We rarely even hear their names anymore. The bodybags have become too numerous for us to count -- so we close our eyes to them. The loss of a serviceman or servicewoman has retreated back to a private loss for their family or, at most, community. The nation no longer mourns -- it sets its jaw and proceeds on.
If terror ever becomes as common on our soil as it has become in Israel, we will learn to harden ourselves to it as they have. It is a survival tactic -- you cannot live your life if every day is 9/11. And as we continue forward in this insane age, as we fix our eyes on the horizon, we forget sometimes that Jesus weeps over Jerusalem still. He weeps and feels everything that we cannot, for His infinite nature contains all of the pain of the world, as well as all the true joy.
So, in the United States, this nation blessed beyond all reason with material wealth and a generous spirit -- it is difficult to conceive of real human need in this rich land. The vast majority of those people, victims of circumstance and poor planning, will be okay -- there is nothing holding them back but a misplaced sense of despair. I tend to reserve my compassion for cases of oppression wherein the sufferers really haven't any control of their destinies. Cases like political oppression, economic oppression, and, most of all, the depravity of abortion are the ones that tie my soul into knots -- not a bunch of people who will, essentially, after a modicum of discomfort, be as before -- or maybe even, refined by hardship, better off than before.
But, still, as a Christian, I cannot rest on my apathy. Christ was not apathetic to my plight, brought on by my all-too-human condition of sin, so I cannot be apathetic to my fellow man. I have been at work for the past few weeks trying to overcome this burden of nothingness. To whom am I a neighbor? Despite the behavior of too many folks in New Orleans (in particular) that infuriates me -- they are my neighbors. I will be a good neighbor, dammit. Lord, help me be a good neighbor and show Your love, as You will.
My wonderful husband gave to the fund that our church was collecting to send to Calvary Chapels in Louisiana. Today, I gave a little to Caring To Love Ministries, to help support crisis pregnancy centers in that area that are needed now more than ever. Those most at risk now in Louisiana are those who are most at risk even outside a state of emergency -- the unborn. Crisis pregnancy compounds in desperation when the crisis is external as well as internal. This Sunday, we will donate more to our church's relief efforts -- I'd far rather see people receiving compassion from the Church, receiving Living Water with bottles of water, than from Government's misguided largesse.
Your prayers would be appreciated as I continue to battle this apathy. And, of course, prayers to those who suffer -- in the U.S. and around the world.
I have no idea who originally said the above, but it struck me when I first heard it over 15 years ago, and it rings true today.
Apathy, terrible apathy. The emotion that Jesus never seems to have felt is one I feel too often. I've been ashamed even to write about Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, because I have felt little other than apathy. And that is not a Christian response.
Maybe it was the fact that people continued to live in an area below sea level, where no private insurer would provide flood insurance. Maybe it was people who could wade through the muck to loot abandoned buildings but didn't proceed to wade their way out of the city. Maybe it was the immediate whining and finger-pointing, from local governments, advocacy groups and displaced citizens. Maybe it was knowing always in the back of my mind that the majority of these people were going to be just fine -- the government was going to step in a provide generously, no matter how much money private relief offered. Maybe knowing that either way my family was going to be paying for the multiple human follies that escalated this natural disaster to such an extreme level -- in taxes, higher fuel prices, raised insurance premiums -- that made me reluctant to step forward and answer the call to avail myself of the opportunity to serve my fellow man. It was probably a combination of all these things, but also this: there is only so much heartache and horror the human spirit can withstand before the soul callouses and terrible apathy comes to dwell in a tender heart.
The first casualty of the War Against Terror, that first serviceman to be killed in Afghanistan, he was mourned by the country. He was local to Washington, and a public funeral was held up here, drawing scores people touched by someone who would offer his life for others. Banks set up funds in his name to help his family. He was talked about on news shows and radio shows and had a write-up of his life in the local paper -- and probably nationally too. Now, the news casually reports such-and-such number of lost troops per attack. We rarely even hear their names anymore. The bodybags have become too numerous for us to count -- so we close our eyes to them. The loss of a serviceman or servicewoman has retreated back to a private loss for their family or, at most, community. The nation no longer mourns -- it sets its jaw and proceeds on.
If terror ever becomes as common on our soil as it has become in Israel, we will learn to harden ourselves to it as they have. It is a survival tactic -- you cannot live your life if every day is 9/11. And as we continue forward in this insane age, as we fix our eyes on the horizon, we forget sometimes that Jesus weeps over Jerusalem still. He weeps and feels everything that we cannot, for His infinite nature contains all of the pain of the world, as well as all the true joy.
So, in the United States, this nation blessed beyond all reason with material wealth and a generous spirit -- it is difficult to conceive of real human need in this rich land. The vast majority of those people, victims of circumstance and poor planning, will be okay -- there is nothing holding them back but a misplaced sense of despair. I tend to reserve my compassion for cases of oppression wherein the sufferers really haven't any control of their destinies. Cases like political oppression, economic oppression, and, most of all, the depravity of abortion are the ones that tie my soul into knots -- not a bunch of people who will, essentially, after a modicum of discomfort, be as before -- or maybe even, refined by hardship, better off than before.
But, still, as a Christian, I cannot rest on my apathy. Christ was not apathetic to my plight, brought on by my all-too-human condition of sin, so I cannot be apathetic to my fellow man. I have been at work for the past few weeks trying to overcome this burden of nothingness. To whom am I a neighbor? Despite the behavior of too many folks in New Orleans (in particular) that infuriates me -- they are my neighbors. I will be a good neighbor, dammit. Lord, help me be a good neighbor and show Your love, as You will.
My wonderful husband gave to the fund that our church was collecting to send to Calvary Chapels in Louisiana. Today, I gave a little to Caring To Love Ministries, to help support crisis pregnancy centers in that area that are needed now more than ever. Those most at risk now in Louisiana are those who are most at risk even outside a state of emergency -- the unborn. Crisis pregnancy compounds in desperation when the crisis is external as well as internal. This Sunday, we will donate more to our church's relief efforts -- I'd far rather see people receiving compassion from the Church, receiving Living Water with bottles of water, than from Government's misguided largesse.
Your prayers would be appreciated as I continue to battle this apathy. And, of course, prayers to those who suffer -- in the U.S. and around the world.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Summer Reading Review: Ten Big Ones and The Undomestic Goddess
Title: Ten Big Ones
Author: Janet Evanovich
Publisher: St. Martin's Paperbacks (2004)
Title: The Undomestic Goddess
Author: Sophie Kinsella
Publisher: The Dial Press (2005)
I know that someday I will stand before the throne of the Lord and give an accounting of my life. I know that, in this world, my days should be spent in diligence, working for His kingdom, redeeming the time for the days are evil. I know that when Jesus walked the earth He did not, at least as far as the Gospel accounts reveal, spend any time on the beach of the Salt Sea, reading novels and drinking margaritas.
I know all these things, and yet I cannot resist a funny, frothy, silly novel now and then (or an occasional margarita -- but that's another post for another time). Especially dear to me are the novels of Janet Evanovich (The Stephanie Plum mysteries) and Sophie Kinsella (the Shopaholic books and other funny chick-lit). They are very much like cotton candy in book form - airy nothingness that give momentary satisfaction, but quickly fade from memory. It takes only a few hours to read them through, and then it's back to diligent work for the kingdom of heaven (or, at least, slightly more serious reading fare).
So, I'll review them both together, since neither offers the weight alone to merit a solitary review. Of these two, I enjoyed The Undomestic Goddess a little more. Here is why: Janet Evanovich has written about the character Stephanie Plum, comically inept bounty hunter and Trenton, NJ native, in more than ten volumes of numerically-titled pulp mystery (Eleven on Top is currently in trade cloth, and I only read the Stephanie Plum series in mass market format). This character is very appealing, but I think that the premise is starting to wear thin. It's difficult to watch a character in book after book not growing or changing. I'm beginning to get frustrated with her and her inability to commit in a relationship or improve in her profession or hold onto a particular vehicle for more than a week. I did not do much more than crack a smile or two when reading this latest paperback offering. I need a little more from my escape-lit than that.
The Undomestic Goddess, on the other hand, was so delightfully preposterous and the heroine so uniquely endearing (and yet, for Kinsella fans, reassuringly familiar), that I laughed out loud several times in the reading. Sophie Kinsella is one of the most gifted humorists of modern novels. I fell in love with Becky Bloomwood -- self-professed shopaholic -- in Kinsella's first novel, Confessions of a Shopaholic, and have remained enchanted with every subsequent book. What I especially like is the lightness of her touch. Too many women authors take themselves and their characters too seriously -- they have to inject dark themes or miserable secrets even into essentially comic novels. I'm thinking of authors such as Marian Keyes and Lorna Landvik. Kinsella carries her plots and characters along on the wings of levity and benevolence. Even the "villains" never get the upper hand, and the reader never doubts that the end will bring smiles and not tears.
In Ten Big Ones, Stephanie Plum gets unwittingly wound up in crime and depravity by being, as she so often is, in the wrong place at the worst possible time. After witnessing a robbery and inadvertantly seeing the perpetrator without his mask, she learns that she has become an execution target for a local New Jersey gang. In the meantime, she quarrels with her cop boyfriend, Joe Morelli, finds out more about the mysterious über-bounty hunter Ranger, deals with her crazy Trenton family, including Grandma Mazur (who, some fans will be disappointed to learn, does not meet her end and vanish from the series) and her whiny sister, Valerie, puts up with her ineffective side-kick, Lula, and feeds inappropriate food to her pet hamster, Rex. She also loses a car or two in the course of the novel, as happens in every Stephanie Plum book. Rest assured, Stephanie comes out all right in the end and Joe Morelli still loves her (for reasons unfathomable to me) though she refuses to settle down and get married. Same old, same old Stephanie. Janet Evanovich needs to breathe some new life into this series by allowing Stephanie to grow as a character.
The Undomestic Goddess introduces a new character to the Kinsella roster: Samantha Sweeting -- super-stressed, Type-A, London power attorney whose life goal is a partnership in the prestigious firm, Carter Spink. Her hopes for that partnership come crashing down as she discovers a mistake she made that spells doom for her career. In a daze, a "total meltdown," Samantha gets on a train to "anywhere" and ends up in Gloucestershire. Through a series of mistaken notions and mishaps that could only flow plausibly from Kinsella's pen, Samantha ends up as the housekeeper (cook, laundress, maid-of-all-work) at the country estate of Trish and Eddie Geiger. The funny thing is, this MENSA-qualified big-city lawyer has no idea how to cook, do laundry, or clean anything -- she fakes it with aplomb for the first day, hoping to escape back to London when the furor over her error dies down. It's worse than she had anticipated, though, so she deems it best to stay in the country. No fear -- with the help of the sexy, horitculturalist groundskeeper and his sympathetic mum, Samantha learns all that she needs to pass herself off as a "domestic goddess." In the course of "scrubbing the loos" and baking cakes from scratch, she learns a bit about community, family, herself, and the pleasure of having weekends off. The plot takes some interesting twists and turns, but all ends well, with Samantha Sweeting de-stressed, in love, and, for the first time, truly happy.
I think that the reason that these fluffy concoctions appeal to me so greatly is the same reason I love "screwball comedies" from 1930's filmdom: they are light-hearted and reassuring in a world too often black with sin and sorrow. I love to laugh, and it's nice to laugh without a hint of mean-spiritedness. These goofy heroines of Evanovich's and Kinsella's evoke the silly antics of Carole Lombard, Claudette Colbert, and Irene Dunne from seventy years ago. If you need a vacation from reality once in a while, pick up either of these (any Sophie Kinsella, really) and have a chuckle.
My work in this world has been built, I believe, of unequal parts of gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, and straw -- with far too much destined to burn in the fire, but with hopefully some left to stand the test and endure forever. Because my foundation is on Christ, my hope in Him transcends my failing always to be a serious sort of person. He will, I trust, hold harmless my diversion by trivialities that helps a little to mitigate the evil of this fallen world. Heaven will be a place full of laughter, don't you think? Laughter without guilt, pain or smallness of mind. Laughter with the Creator of the universe.
Happy thought indeed!
Your passion is consuming, Your holiness is fire, Your spirit is a hunter that no runner can tire. Your light shines through the darkness to the corners of the earth -- Your laughter is the music of the universe. -- Carolyn Arends, "Not a Tame Lion," from the album Under the Gaze (2004)
Overall Grade: Ten Big Ones - B-; The Undomestic Goddess - B+
Readability: Ten Big Ones - B; The Undomestic Goddess - A-
Subject Interest: Ten Big Ones - B-; The Undomestic Goddess - B+
Illustrations: Ten Big Ones - N/A; The Undomestic Goddess (cover) - B+
Recommended? Ten Big Ones - Read the first few in the series before this one -- they are fresher and more interesting. The Undomestic Goddess - Yes, I would recommend this as an excellent example of escapist literature. You'll probably get some smiles, maybe some chuckles, and, perhaps, a guffaw or two.
Next Up: A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
Author: Janet Evanovich
Publisher: St. Martin's Paperbacks (2004)
Title: The Undomestic Goddess
Author: Sophie Kinsella
Publisher: The Dial Press (2005)
I know that someday I will stand before the throne of the Lord and give an accounting of my life. I know that, in this world, my days should be spent in diligence, working for His kingdom, redeeming the time for the days are evil. I know that when Jesus walked the earth He did not, at least as far as the Gospel accounts reveal, spend any time on the beach of the Salt Sea, reading novels and drinking margaritas.
I know all these things, and yet I cannot resist a funny, frothy, silly novel now and then (or an occasional margarita -- but that's another post for another time). Especially dear to me are the novels of Janet Evanovich (The Stephanie Plum mysteries) and Sophie Kinsella (the Shopaholic books and other funny chick-lit). They are very much like cotton candy in book form - airy nothingness that give momentary satisfaction, but quickly fade from memory. It takes only a few hours to read them through, and then it's back to diligent work for the kingdom of heaven (or, at least, slightly more serious reading fare).
So, I'll review them both together, since neither offers the weight alone to merit a solitary review. Of these two, I enjoyed The Undomestic Goddess a little more. Here is why: Janet Evanovich has written about the character Stephanie Plum, comically inept bounty hunter and Trenton, NJ native, in more than ten volumes of numerically-titled pulp mystery (Eleven on Top is currently in trade cloth, and I only read the Stephanie Plum series in mass market format). This character is very appealing, but I think that the premise is starting to wear thin. It's difficult to watch a character in book after book not growing or changing. I'm beginning to get frustrated with her and her inability to commit in a relationship or improve in her profession or hold onto a particular vehicle for more than a week. I did not do much more than crack a smile or two when reading this latest paperback offering. I need a little more from my escape-lit than that.
The Undomestic Goddess, on the other hand, was so delightfully preposterous and the heroine so uniquely endearing (and yet, for Kinsella fans, reassuringly familiar), that I laughed out loud several times in the reading. Sophie Kinsella is one of the most gifted humorists of modern novels. I fell in love with Becky Bloomwood -- self-professed shopaholic -- in Kinsella's first novel, Confessions of a Shopaholic, and have remained enchanted with every subsequent book. What I especially like is the lightness of her touch. Too many women authors take themselves and their characters too seriously -- they have to inject dark themes or miserable secrets even into essentially comic novels. I'm thinking of authors such as Marian Keyes and Lorna Landvik. Kinsella carries her plots and characters along on the wings of levity and benevolence. Even the "villains" never get the upper hand, and the reader never doubts that the end will bring smiles and not tears.
In Ten Big Ones, Stephanie Plum gets unwittingly wound up in crime and depravity by being, as she so often is, in the wrong place at the worst possible time. After witnessing a robbery and inadvertantly seeing the perpetrator without his mask, she learns that she has become an execution target for a local New Jersey gang. In the meantime, she quarrels with her cop boyfriend, Joe Morelli, finds out more about the mysterious über-bounty hunter Ranger, deals with her crazy Trenton family, including Grandma Mazur (who, some fans will be disappointed to learn, does not meet her end and vanish from the series) and her whiny sister, Valerie, puts up with her ineffective side-kick, Lula, and feeds inappropriate food to her pet hamster, Rex. She also loses a car or two in the course of the novel, as happens in every Stephanie Plum book. Rest assured, Stephanie comes out all right in the end and Joe Morelli still loves her (for reasons unfathomable to me) though she refuses to settle down and get married. Same old, same old Stephanie. Janet Evanovich needs to breathe some new life into this series by allowing Stephanie to grow as a character.
The Undomestic Goddess introduces a new character to the Kinsella roster: Samantha Sweeting -- super-stressed, Type-A, London power attorney whose life goal is a partnership in the prestigious firm, Carter Spink. Her hopes for that partnership come crashing down as she discovers a mistake she made that spells doom for her career. In a daze, a "total meltdown," Samantha gets on a train to "anywhere" and ends up in Gloucestershire. Through a series of mistaken notions and mishaps that could only flow plausibly from Kinsella's pen, Samantha ends up as the housekeeper (cook, laundress, maid-of-all-work) at the country estate of Trish and Eddie Geiger. The funny thing is, this MENSA-qualified big-city lawyer has no idea how to cook, do laundry, or clean anything -- she fakes it with aplomb for the first day, hoping to escape back to London when the furor over her error dies down. It's worse than she had anticipated, though, so she deems it best to stay in the country. No fear -- with the help of the sexy, horitculturalist groundskeeper and his sympathetic mum, Samantha learns all that she needs to pass herself off as a "domestic goddess." In the course of "scrubbing the loos" and baking cakes from scratch, she learns a bit about community, family, herself, and the pleasure of having weekends off. The plot takes some interesting twists and turns, but all ends well, with Samantha Sweeting de-stressed, in love, and, for the first time, truly happy.
I think that the reason that these fluffy concoctions appeal to me so greatly is the same reason I love "screwball comedies" from 1930's filmdom: they are light-hearted and reassuring in a world too often black with sin and sorrow. I love to laugh, and it's nice to laugh without a hint of mean-spiritedness. These goofy heroines of Evanovich's and Kinsella's evoke the silly antics of Carole Lombard, Claudette Colbert, and Irene Dunne from seventy years ago. If you need a vacation from reality once in a while, pick up either of these (any Sophie Kinsella, really) and have a chuckle.
My work in this world has been built, I believe, of unequal parts of gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, and straw -- with far too much destined to burn in the fire, but with hopefully some left to stand the test and endure forever. Because my foundation is on Christ, my hope in Him transcends my failing always to be a serious sort of person. He will, I trust, hold harmless my diversion by trivialities that helps a little to mitigate the evil of this fallen world. Heaven will be a place full of laughter, don't you think? Laughter without guilt, pain or smallness of mind. Laughter with the Creator of the universe.
Happy thought indeed!
Your passion is consuming, Your holiness is fire, Your spirit is a hunter that no runner can tire. Your light shines through the darkness to the corners of the earth -- Your laughter is the music of the universe. -- Carolyn Arends, "Not a Tame Lion," from the album Under the Gaze (2004)
Overall Grade: Ten Big Ones - B-; The Undomestic Goddess - B+
Readability: Ten Big Ones - B; The Undomestic Goddess - A-
Subject Interest: Ten Big Ones - B-; The Undomestic Goddess - B+
Illustrations: Ten Big Ones - N/A; The Undomestic Goddess (cover) - B+
Recommended? Ten Big Ones - Read the first few in the series before this one -- they are fresher and more interesting. The Undomestic Goddess - Yes, I would recommend this as an excellent example of escapist literature. You'll probably get some smiles, maybe some chuckles, and, perhaps, a guffaw or two.
Next Up: A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Summer Reading Review: The Jesus I Never Knew
Book: The Jesus I Never Knew
Author: Philip Yancey
Publisher: Zondervan (Harpercollins) (1995)
One of the best depictions of the infinite nature of the Creator that I have ever read is from C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle. The last battle of Narnia is over, the stable door looks out onto the desolation of that old land, and Aslan's own are standing on the edges of eternity. They look about them, rather unsure of what to do. Suddenly, Roonwit, a centaur who had previously been killed in Narnia cries out, "Further in and higher up!" and gallops off into the West. Then, Aslan, the Great Lion, turns from the cold, dead darkness beyond the stable door, commands Peter to lock it, and, with laughter in his eyes, runs off, crying, "Come further in! Come further up!" One after another, the other characters come to echo his cry. Further up! Further in! From the limits of the finite, they run into the boundlessness of eternity. Always further up, always further in.
Sometimes I get too complacent in my walk with the Lord. It is not so much that I think that I have Him all figured out, but more that I have become comfortable with a certain level of discomfort with His unfathomable ways. So, in knowing that I can never understand Him, I spend more time on the things that I think I can understand. Because of this, I tend to hesitate before reading the genre known as "Christian Living." What more, I wonder, can I really know about Jesus?
Philip Yancey felt that there was so much that he had not known about Jesus that he needed to write a book exploring the Nazarene almost two thousand years after He "put on flesh and dwelt with us." I am so glad that he did. In reading The Jesus I Never Knew, I realized afresh that in walking with Him I have only been on the edges of eternity. This book has helped inspire me again to go "further up and further in." It is a testament to the infinite nature of God that so much wisdom is yet to be reaped two thousand years after John the Beloved was gifted with The Revelation.
To the woman at the well, Jesus identified Himself as "Living Water." No wonder, then, that reading The Jesus I Never Knew was like taking a long drink from a cool, deep well. In other words, it was refreshing. I almost do not know where to start in reviewing this book, except to say that I loved everything about it. It's been a while since I have had such unreserved admiration for words put on paper, bound and sold, but I cannot remember one thing about this book that struck a false note. Certainly, there were many moments of discomfort, of particular poignancy and application that did not sit well on my sense of self-satisfication, but I have come to expect that from any encounter I have with the Most High. He's not here to make me feel comfortable, to stroke my ego, to fatten my rounded belly of conceit -- He's here to save my sorry, sinful soul in spite of myself, through His unconquerable, unshakable, undeniable love.
If I had to pick a favorite chapter, I would probably go with Chapter 6, Beatitudes: Lucky are the Unlucky. I had the amazing privilege to attend a week-long retreat in Canada this past July with sessions led by the finest singer/songwriter of any genre, Carolyn Arends. The theme of the retreat was "What Love Looks Like," which is also the title of a song she wrote a few years ago (and if you have never heard any of Carolyn Arends' songs, please treat yourself to a to visit her site and listen to a few clips). Anyway, one of the best sessions was a discussion that she led on the Beatitudes. It ended way too quickly, but it was really an eye-opener for me.
I had not spent too much time really thinking about the Beatitudes in my previous readings of the gospels. I skimmed them with each read-through, nodding in agreement without putting much effort into comprehension. After all, the Beatitudes have almost become clichéd nowadays. Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are the meek, blessed are those who mourn . . . We've heard them all a thousand times. And I who loved and cherished all that Jesus said, reading His words time and again, why had I never stopped to consider exactly what He was communicating? Certainly it was important -- Jesus never did or said anything that wasn't. Most likely, though I did not have enough inner-reflection to consider it, I was made slightly uneasy by the proclamations so boldly, yet enigmatically, put forth by Jesus.
Carolyn Arends used Chapter 6 of The Jesus I Never Knew as a springboard for discussion. In this chapter, Yancey puts forth three ideas about the applications of the Beatitudes. The first idea is that of "dangled promises." The message was "to the poor, the mourners, the meek, the hungry, the persecuted, the poor in heart," a specific assertion that "their service would not go unrecognized. They would receive ample reward" (pg. 111). "To people who are trapped in pain, in broken homes, in economic chaos, in hatred and fear, in violence -- Jesus offers a promise of a time, far longer and more substantial than this time on earth, of health and wholeness and pleasure and peace. A time of reward" (pg. 113).
The second possible application of the Beatitudes that he offers is "the great reversal." That idea that the Beatitudes also "describe the present as well as the future. They neatly contrast how to succeed in the kingdom of heaven as opposed to the kingdom of this world" (pg. 113). An interesting addition to this theme is Yancey's dwelling upon what Catholics have termed "God's preferential option for the poor." In examining this preference, he includes a list compiled by Monica Hellwig of the "advantages of being poor." The one that she listed that stopped me in mid-breath was number nine on a list of ten, which was: "When the poor have the Gospel preached to them, it sounds like good news and not like a threat or a scolding" (pg. 115). Of course, that goes hand-in-hand with number ten: "The poor can respond to the call of the Gospel with a certain abandonment and uncomplicated totality because they have so little to lose and are ready for anything" (pg 115). Too often has my own response to the Good News been tinged with guilt instead of filled with gratitude!
The third contemplated reading of the Beatitudes is that of "psycholigical reality;" Jesus "set forth a plain formula of psychological truth, the deepest level of truth that we can know on earth" (pg. 117). This idea is the one that has helped me the most in re-reading the Beatitudes. Jesus seems to be saying that those who are broken will be the ones most filled, those who are the most beaten down will be the ones most restored. Blessed are the poor in spirit -- for they are the ones who realize that the are completely dependent upon God. Blessed are those who mourn -- for they have learned not to place their hopes in the things of the world. Blessed are the meek -- for they will not get hurt by being knocked from their pedestals. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness -- for they will never hunger again once they have been filled. Blessed are the merciful -- for they will reap what they have sown. Blessed are the pure in heart -- for a divided heart will not keep them from God. Blessed are the peacemakers -- for they understand the value and necessity of reconciliation. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake -- for these are the ones who learn the holy refinement that occurs during suffering. Are these not things that believers learn to be true, over and over and over again? Isn't the first step toward the Lord the one wherein you know without a doubt that you are "poor in spirit," absolutely dependent upon grace? To me, more than anything, these describe the realities of believers -- and Jesus assures us that we are blessed to experience these realities. Not many people of faith have come through horrible, devastating life-experience without having their faith strengthened. It is not that we ask for these trials by fire, but they are part of human reality in the finite, and, in grace, we are blessed.
This paperback is now striped through with flourescent yellow. I had a field day, highlighting passages that cried out for future reference. Here is a sampling of a few that I found pertinent:
I believe God insists on such restraint [of using His mighty power for swift retribution and puppetry] because no pyrotechnic displays of omnipotence will achieve the response he desires. Although power can force obedience, only love can summon a response of love, which is the one thing God wants from us and the reason He created us. (pg. 78)
People liked being with Jesus; where He was, joy was. (pg. 89)
"Indeed," wrote C.S. Lewis, "if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he can not imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea." (pg. 111)
From the movie Ghandi:
Ghandi stops [a Presbyterian missionary running from thugs]. [He asks] "Doesn't the New Testament say if an enemy strikes you on the right cheek you should offer him the left?" [The missionary] mumbles that he thought the phrase was used metaphorically. "I'm not so sure," Ghandi replies. "I suspect He meant you must show courage -- be willing to take a blow, several blows, to show you will not strike back nor will you be turned aside. And when you do that it calls on something in human nature, something that makes his hatred decrease and his respect increase. I think Christ grasped that, and I have seen it work." (pg. 121)
Thuderously, inarguably, the Sermon on the Mount proves that before God we all stand on level ground: murderers and temper-throwers, adulterers and lusters, thieves and coveters. We are all desperate, and that is in fact the only state appropriate to a human being who wants to know God. Having fallen from the absolute Ideal, we have nowhere to land but in the safety net of absolute grace. (pg. 144)
Faith is not an insurance policy. Or, as Eddie Askew suggests, maybe it is: insurance does not prevent accidents, but rather gives a secure base from which to face their consequences. (pg. 181)
In many respects I would find an unresurrected Jesus easier to accept. Easter makes Him dangerous. Because of Easter I have to listen to His extravagant claims and can no longer pick and choose from His sayings. Moreover, Easter means He must be loose out there somewhere. Like the disciples, I never know where Jesus might turn up, how He might speak to me, what He might ask of me. As Frederick Buechner says, Easter means "we can never nail Him down, not even if the nails we use are real and the thing we nail Him to is a cross." (pg. 226)
As Søren Kierkegaard wrote, "The bird on the branch, the lily in the meadow, the stag in the forest, the fish in the sea, and countless joyful people sing: God is love! But, under all these sopranos, as if it were a sustained bass part, sounds the de profundis of the sacrificed: God is love." (pg. 268)
Overall Grade: A+
Readability: A+
Subject Interest: A+
Illustrations: N/A
Recommended? Absolutely! Unreservedly! I wish I could get a copy of this book into the hands of every believer and seeker in the world. Fantastic book -- well researched, thoughtfully considered, beautifully written.
Next Up: Undomestic Goddess by Sophie Kinsella and Ten Big Ones by Janet Evanovich
Author: Philip Yancey
Publisher: Zondervan (Harpercollins) (1995)
One of the best depictions of the infinite nature of the Creator that I have ever read is from C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle. The last battle of Narnia is over, the stable door looks out onto the desolation of that old land, and Aslan's own are standing on the edges of eternity. They look about them, rather unsure of what to do. Suddenly, Roonwit, a centaur who had previously been killed in Narnia cries out, "Further in and higher up!" and gallops off into the West. Then, Aslan, the Great Lion, turns from the cold, dead darkness beyond the stable door, commands Peter to lock it, and, with laughter in his eyes, runs off, crying, "Come further in! Come further up!" One after another, the other characters come to echo his cry. Further up! Further in! From the limits of the finite, they run into the boundlessness of eternity. Always further up, always further in.
Sometimes I get too complacent in my walk with the Lord. It is not so much that I think that I have Him all figured out, but more that I have become comfortable with a certain level of discomfort with His unfathomable ways. So, in knowing that I can never understand Him, I spend more time on the things that I think I can understand. Because of this, I tend to hesitate before reading the genre known as "Christian Living." What more, I wonder, can I really know about Jesus?
Philip Yancey felt that there was so much that he had not known about Jesus that he needed to write a book exploring the Nazarene almost two thousand years after He "put on flesh and dwelt with us." I am so glad that he did. In reading The Jesus I Never Knew, I realized afresh that in walking with Him I have only been on the edges of eternity. This book has helped inspire me again to go "further up and further in." It is a testament to the infinite nature of God that so much wisdom is yet to be reaped two thousand years after John the Beloved was gifted with The Revelation.
To the woman at the well, Jesus identified Himself as "Living Water." No wonder, then, that reading The Jesus I Never Knew was like taking a long drink from a cool, deep well. In other words, it was refreshing. I almost do not know where to start in reviewing this book, except to say that I loved everything about it. It's been a while since I have had such unreserved admiration for words put on paper, bound and sold, but I cannot remember one thing about this book that struck a false note. Certainly, there were many moments of discomfort, of particular poignancy and application that did not sit well on my sense of self-satisfication, but I have come to expect that from any encounter I have with the Most High. He's not here to make me feel comfortable, to stroke my ego, to fatten my rounded belly of conceit -- He's here to save my sorry, sinful soul in spite of myself, through His unconquerable, unshakable, undeniable love.
If I had to pick a favorite chapter, I would probably go with Chapter 6, Beatitudes: Lucky are the Unlucky. I had the amazing privilege to attend a week-long retreat in Canada this past July with sessions led by the finest singer/songwriter of any genre, Carolyn Arends. The theme of the retreat was "What Love Looks Like," which is also the title of a song she wrote a few years ago (and if you have never heard any of Carolyn Arends' songs, please treat yourself to a to visit her site and listen to a few clips). Anyway, one of the best sessions was a discussion that she led on the Beatitudes. It ended way too quickly, but it was really an eye-opener for me.
I had not spent too much time really thinking about the Beatitudes in my previous readings of the gospels. I skimmed them with each read-through, nodding in agreement without putting much effort into comprehension. After all, the Beatitudes have almost become clichéd nowadays. Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are the meek, blessed are those who mourn . . . We've heard them all a thousand times. And I who loved and cherished all that Jesus said, reading His words time and again, why had I never stopped to consider exactly what He was communicating? Certainly it was important -- Jesus never did or said anything that wasn't. Most likely, though I did not have enough inner-reflection to consider it, I was made slightly uneasy by the proclamations so boldly, yet enigmatically, put forth by Jesus.
Carolyn Arends used Chapter 6 of The Jesus I Never Knew as a springboard for discussion. In this chapter, Yancey puts forth three ideas about the applications of the Beatitudes. The first idea is that of "dangled promises." The message was "to the poor, the mourners, the meek, the hungry, the persecuted, the poor in heart," a specific assertion that "their service would not go unrecognized. They would receive ample reward" (pg. 111). "To people who are trapped in pain, in broken homes, in economic chaos, in hatred and fear, in violence -- Jesus offers a promise of a time, far longer and more substantial than this time on earth, of health and wholeness and pleasure and peace. A time of reward" (pg. 113).
The second possible application of the Beatitudes that he offers is "the great reversal." That idea that the Beatitudes also "describe the present as well as the future. They neatly contrast how to succeed in the kingdom of heaven as opposed to the kingdom of this world" (pg. 113). An interesting addition to this theme is Yancey's dwelling upon what Catholics have termed "God's preferential option for the poor." In examining this preference, he includes a list compiled by Monica Hellwig of the "advantages of being poor." The one that she listed that stopped me in mid-breath was number nine on a list of ten, which was: "When the poor have the Gospel preached to them, it sounds like good news and not like a threat or a scolding" (pg. 115). Of course, that goes hand-in-hand with number ten: "The poor can respond to the call of the Gospel with a certain abandonment and uncomplicated totality because they have so little to lose and are ready for anything" (pg 115). Too often has my own response to the Good News been tinged with guilt instead of filled with gratitude!
The third contemplated reading of the Beatitudes is that of "psycholigical reality;" Jesus "set forth a plain formula of psychological truth, the deepest level of truth that we can know on earth" (pg. 117). This idea is the one that has helped me the most in re-reading the Beatitudes. Jesus seems to be saying that those who are broken will be the ones most filled, those who are the most beaten down will be the ones most restored. Blessed are the poor in spirit -- for they are the ones who realize that the are completely dependent upon God. Blessed are those who mourn -- for they have learned not to place their hopes in the things of the world. Blessed are the meek -- for they will not get hurt by being knocked from their pedestals. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness -- for they will never hunger again once they have been filled. Blessed are the merciful -- for they will reap what they have sown. Blessed are the pure in heart -- for a divided heart will not keep them from God. Blessed are the peacemakers -- for they understand the value and necessity of reconciliation. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake -- for these are the ones who learn the holy refinement that occurs during suffering. Are these not things that believers learn to be true, over and over and over again? Isn't the first step toward the Lord the one wherein you know without a doubt that you are "poor in spirit," absolutely dependent upon grace? To me, more than anything, these describe the realities of believers -- and Jesus assures us that we are blessed to experience these realities. Not many people of faith have come through horrible, devastating life-experience without having their faith strengthened. It is not that we ask for these trials by fire, but they are part of human reality in the finite, and, in grace, we are blessed.
This paperback is now striped through with flourescent yellow. I had a field day, highlighting passages that cried out for future reference. Here is a sampling of a few that I found pertinent:
I believe God insists on such restraint [of using His mighty power for swift retribution and puppetry] because no pyrotechnic displays of omnipotence will achieve the response he desires. Although power can force obedience, only love can summon a response of love, which is the one thing God wants from us and the reason He created us. (pg. 78)
People liked being with Jesus; where He was, joy was. (pg. 89)
"Indeed," wrote C.S. Lewis, "if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he can not imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea." (pg. 111)
From the movie Ghandi:
Ghandi stops [a Presbyterian missionary running from thugs]. [He asks] "Doesn't the New Testament say if an enemy strikes you on the right cheek you should offer him the left?" [The missionary] mumbles that he thought the phrase was used metaphorically. "I'm not so sure," Ghandi replies. "I suspect He meant you must show courage -- be willing to take a blow, several blows, to show you will not strike back nor will you be turned aside. And when you do that it calls on something in human nature, something that makes his hatred decrease and his respect increase. I think Christ grasped that, and I have seen it work." (pg. 121)
Thuderously, inarguably, the Sermon on the Mount proves that before God we all stand on level ground: murderers and temper-throwers, adulterers and lusters, thieves and coveters. We are all desperate, and that is in fact the only state appropriate to a human being who wants to know God. Having fallen from the absolute Ideal, we have nowhere to land but in the safety net of absolute grace. (pg. 144)
Faith is not an insurance policy. Or, as Eddie Askew suggests, maybe it is: insurance does not prevent accidents, but rather gives a secure base from which to face their consequences. (pg. 181)
In many respects I would find an unresurrected Jesus easier to accept. Easter makes Him dangerous. Because of Easter I have to listen to His extravagant claims and can no longer pick and choose from His sayings. Moreover, Easter means He must be loose out there somewhere. Like the disciples, I never know where Jesus might turn up, how He might speak to me, what He might ask of me. As Frederick Buechner says, Easter means "we can never nail Him down, not even if the nails we use are real and the thing we nail Him to is a cross." (pg. 226)
As Søren Kierkegaard wrote, "The bird on the branch, the lily in the meadow, the stag in the forest, the fish in the sea, and countless joyful people sing: God is love! But, under all these sopranos, as if it were a sustained bass part, sounds the de profundis of the sacrificed: God is love." (pg. 268)
In one of the final chapters, Chapter 12, Ascension: A Blank Blue Sky, Yancey considers a crucial question, especially in this late age: Why don't we look more like the church Jesus described? Why does the body of Christ so little resemble Him? Yancey then goes on to offer three observations that help him "come to terms with what has transpired" in the Church since Jesus' ascension.
The first, which too often gets overlooked in our collective conciousness of having fallen short of His example, is that the Church has "brought light as well as darkness." I often shudder to think what this evil world would look like if there were not Christians out there being salt and light -- living, at least on our best days, His word and His love. Also, the most beautiful art and music that has been created by man is for His glory.
The second observation is that "Jesus takes full responsibility for the constituent parts of His body." He told His disciples, "You did not choose Me -- I have chosen you." Jesus chose "rocks" like Simon Peter who, in his "bluster, love, hot-headedness, misdirected passion, and faithless betrayal," Yancey sees as previewing "in embryo form nineteen centuries of Church history" (pg 235), and, it might be added, also previews every single believer who has dared to utter aloud the name of Jesus since the dawn of the Church Age. Which, of course, brings us to observation the third:
"The problem of the church is no different than the problem of one solitary Christian. How can an unholy assortment of men and women be the body of Christ? I answer with a different question: How can one sinful man, myself, be accepted as a child of God? One miracle makes possible the other" (pg 235-236). Truly we must be the Bride of Christ -- He sticks with us "for better or for worse, in sickness or in health," in faith or in disbelief. We fail because, on this side of the curtain at least, we cannot totally break free from sin. But, whenever the Church is willing to recognize its mistakes and fall back on its knees, it rises stronger, more holy. That is the nature of the Foundation upon which it is built, the Rejected Stone our Cornerstone.
One last bit from The Jesus I Never Knew: Philip Yancey writes, "In a nutshell, the Bible from Genesis 3 to Revelation 22 tells the story of a God reckless with desire to get His family back" (pg 268). The Father wants us back, and He wants us whole again -- not stuck dead in our sin or unfulfilled in a one-dimensional faith. He calls so consistently, urgently, joyously to His own: Come from the edges of eternity! Come! Further up! Further in! Books such as this invigorate the soul to answer that call.
Overall Grade: A+
Readability: A+
Subject Interest: A+
Illustrations: N/A
Recommended? Absolutely! Unreservedly! I wish I could get a copy of this book into the hands of every believer and seeker in the world. Fantastic book -- well researched, thoughtfully considered, beautifully written.
Next Up: Undomestic Goddess by Sophie Kinsella and Ten Big Ones by Janet Evanovich
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Hewie The HP: 2002-2005. R.I.P.
Well, as many of you may have guessed, my cyber-hiccups turned into cyber-strokes and eventually led to the ultimate demise of my little laptop HP, Hewie. I haven't been on-line for weeks. I have a lot of catching up to do on all of your blogs, and I'm so excited to be able to do so with alacrity. It's almost like Christmas in the secular sense - a whole bunch of blog-post presents out there, under the Internet tree, just waiting to be read. I'll be haunting all of your blogs like a persistent cyber-spirit until I'm all up-to-date on the pithy and brilliant comments and observations I've come to relish so from my virtual community. God bless you all!
Now I have Hewie II, bigger, faster, and much more protected than his forefather (Jason always said that I would catch something bad with all of my Internet slutting around). I have so much to write about -- not a lot of sleep on my horizon, but I wouldn't want it any other way. Thanks so much for continuing to stop by this long-neglected blog o' mine. Your concerned comments have warmed my heart and spurred my desire to write to a whole new level. Peace to you!
Now I have Hewie II, bigger, faster, and much more protected than his forefather (Jason always said that I would catch something bad with all of my Internet slutting around). I have so much to write about -- not a lot of sleep on my horizon, but I wouldn't want it any other way. Thanks so much for continuing to stop by this long-neglected blog o' mine. Your concerned comments have warmed my heart and spurred my desire to write to a whole new level. Peace to you!
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Computer Issues
My computer is very sick, and I am only able to be online for a few minutes at a time before it crashes. I'm looking forward to catching up with my blogging friends in bits and pieces, between cyber-hiccups. Thanks for stopping by!
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Summer Reading Review: Prince of Pleasure
Book: Prince of Pleasure: The Prince of Wales and the Making of the Regency
Author: Saul David
Pub: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1998
Ever since I learned more about the American Revolution and found out just how little "taxation without representation" was actually going on under our colonialism (hint: a lot less than the "taxation with representation" to which we are currently subjected), I have wondered how a people so secure could ever have been goaded into rebellion, putting their lives, property and sacred honor on the line for an abstract ideal of liberty. Not to say I'm not grateful that they did, nor am I less in awe of the incredible men who founded this nation. It's just difficult to imagine a people rising up, with everything to lose, when they were not under anything truly like oppression. Then, I read Prince of Pleasure, and I am starting to understand.
Is there anything in the world more useless than a figurehead monarch? A parasite on the body politic, leeching off the people of his land, begging the Parliament constantly for more money? King George III, the monarch from whom the 13 colonies declared independence in 1776, was, probably, one of the less disgusting depictions of this particular beast. Had the colonies waited 35 more years to rebel, which would have been during the Regency, they would have probably wanted to sail across the Atlantic and bring back the Prince Regent to tar and feather. He was that much of a schmuck.
My first and lasting impression from this book was a complete agreement with the always perceptive Jane Austen - "I hate him." This guy was, from his earliest pretensions of "independence" (or whatever you call it when you live by sponging off of others), such a prodigal that his debts equalled over £150,000 by the age of twenty-two! Consider that Miss Austen herself earned barely more than £700 for a lifetime of work (keyword: earned), and this amount of debt (paid off by periodic parliamentary increases to his income) verges on obscene. I have no problem with wealth that has been earned, or even inherited fair and square, but the Prince seems to have had no income stream other than imposing constantly upon the English Parliament. I think that, nowadays, the royal family in Great Britain has their own streams of revenue, and I'm not sure why the Prince Regent did not.
Then, there was his womanizing. He was a big hypochondriac, at least when it came to arousing the sympathies of reluctant ladies by stressing his imminent demise if they did not succumb to his advances. That seems to have been his wooing pattern: when initial rejection was met with, he went into decline until the maternal nature of most women would be activated. Add to this the fact that he constantly chose as mistresses women of a certain age, and the maternal connection becomes even clearer. The woman who suffered the most from his attachment was a Catholic widow, known (and this is delightful, really) as Mrs, Fitzherbert. I just love that! This woman was married to the Prince of Wales in an illegal ceremony, and was his longest lasting love. Yet, history knows her primarily as Mrs. Fitzherbert. I don't know why that tickles me so. It just seems so quirkily formal and British to hold to "Mrs. Fitzherbert," and not "Maria" - her Christian name. Poor woman! She comes off the best out of all the people associated with the Prince in this long biography.
There is a lot in this biography of political maneuverings before and during the Regency. There was the constant debate of "Catholic emancipation," of which I knew nothing before reading this book, and, though it was a pressing issue of the time and one that the Prince went back and forth on repeatedly, it seems so elementally decent to allow Catholics to vote and be full citizens of England, that it's hard to get too involved with the arguments back and forth into which the author delves. Then, of course, there is the whole issue of the French Revolution. The Prince should really have been happy that he was not in power during this tumultuous time across the Channel, since his excesses might have inspired a similar outcome in England. Instead, his father's more balanced lifestyle repressed any similar tendency in the hearts of English commoners and deflected the heat of indignation at that crucial juncture. There was also, in France, the Napoleonic era and that mighty little fellow's determined march through the continent and grandiose designs on Russia and England. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But the real issues of import in a study of the Prince are not the political. Politically, he was an opportunist - tending Whig when it irked his father to do so, then bending Tory when he needed that majority alliance. His main points of interest to the casual modern reader were personal (i.e. his marriages, legal and illegal, and affairs) and the mark he made on defining the culture of the time.
His marriage to his legitimate (according to the Church of England and the 1772 Royal Marriages Act) wife, Caroline of Brunswick was a disastrous union. He was repulsed by her person (apparently she had cleanliness issues), and a child (Princess Charlotte) was conceived after only three acts of consummation - the only three in the entire twenty-six years of their marriage. Although she disgusted him beyond further physical contact, he really cannot be forgiven for the base way that he treated her, both as a husband, as her Prince, and as the father of their child. She was gauche and debauched and vulgar, but he was simply an insufferable jerk. Miss Austen can be counted on, as usual, to provide a succinct and pithy view of the entire royal marriage mess:
Jane Austen voiced the disgust which most people now felt towards the Regent for his unpardonable treatment of his wife in a letter to an acquaintance on the 16th [of February, 1813]. "Poor woman," she wrote of Caroline, "I shall support her as long as I can because she is a Woman, and because I hate her Husband . . . [If] I must give up the Princess, I am resolved at least always to think that she would have been respectable, if the Prince would have behaved tolerably by her at first." (p. 341)
So, Princess Caroline took lovers. The Prince of Wales took lovers. Pretty much everyone in the uppercrust of society took lovers. (For an excellent book and a fun read on the utter immorality and impropriety of Regency aristocracy, you may wish to peruse An Elegant Madness: High Society in Regency England by Venetia Murray (1999).) The reason that the Prince fell under so much censure is that, as the figurehead of England if not the primary power, his behavior set the tone for England's presentation to the world. Plus, and this is probably the greater reason, he lacked panache. He lacked that sort of exuberance of spirit, that "devil-may-care" insolence, that allowed so many other colorful figures of the era to escape public condemnation. He seemed to have had some charm and erudition - an especial appreciation for the arts was one of his defining and greatest triumphs - but those personal qualitites did not translate over into his public persona. While he made a miserable Prince of Wales and, later, Prince Regent and, even later, King, it is difficult to say whether he had sufficient bravura to have been one of the great aristocratic bounders of an age that overflowed with such rakes and cads. He seems to have stumbled at every try for a distinct personality. Sometimes, with people like that, you just need to shove them away into a little corner of a government job wherein they can exercise little havoc and pain. Could he have been anything more useful to England than the King? Probably not.
Maybe it is because I am a twenty-first century American who has never lived in a country ruled by such a creature as a monarch that I find it difficult to see the point of the Prince Regent, later George IV. He didn't lead any battles to victory (although, to be fair, he was always trying to get a higher military appointment than the ceremonious one he possessed). He didn't inspire his people toward any higher goal or ideal. He, the nominal head of the English church, did not bring to his country one iota of Christ's love or magnamity. He was not a great thinker, an accomplished anything. He had a certain amount of education and tendency toward self-betterment, but he did not sufficiently exercise his privileged background to improve his court or his country. In the midst of some of the great debates of human dignity and liberty (e.g. slavery, Catholic and Jewish emancipation within the kingdom, even - before his reign - the American revolution) he wavered back and forth, never taking a position that stood up for righteousness against the tide of oppression. Probably, the best thing I could say about him was that his favorite novelist was Jane Austen. So, I commend him for his literary taste.
Was he, as his educator, the Bishop of Coventry, declared of his then fifteen-year-old charge, an "admixture" of "the most polished gentleman" and "the most accomplished blackguard in Europe" (p. 429)? Well, his biographer declares that the answer to that question is: Yes. I say: No. He did not have nearly enough of the "gentleman" about him to make up for his gross lack of character and feeling - his general want of propriety in matters personal and public. The British people deserved better for their monarch dollar, ahem, pound than this creep.
This biography was well-written, with one exception: The author quotes as authority twice George MacDonald Fraser's book, Black Ajax. This is an historical novel by the author of the Flashman series, this one featuring Flashy's father, Captain Buckley Flashman. Nowhere in these quotes does Mr. David indicate that they are from a fictional source. He treats a dialogue between Capt. Flashman and Lady Jersey as an historical event. I'm not certain if this is sloppy research, or if the author is intending in some dry, British way to be funny. What tends me toward the latter is the way in which he frames the quotes. He uses the phrases "according to" and "is said to have" in both instances of quotes, which is rarely used in the rest of the book. I did find one or two other examples of his framing cited quotes as such, though, and those are not from fictional works, but from memoirs. So, it's hard to say for certain.
Overall Grade: B
Readability: B
Subject Interest: B-
Illustrations: B- (could have used more political cartoons from the era, a lá The Unruly Queen)
Recommended? Yes, with reservations. This book will not change your life or make you a better person. It probably will make you appreciate not living under a monarchy (if Charles, Diana, Camilla, et al, have not already done that). It wasn't a particularly fun read, but it was informative. I came away feeling that I knew everything I needed to know about the Prince Regent. If you are interested in some of the history that was taking place at the time Jane Austen was writing (my main reason for reading this book), it's probably a fair read. This world of the Prince was a far cry from the decent country gentry that JA liked to write about (although you really begin to see the dichotomy of country values and city values portrayed in Mansfield Park as being a relevant issue).
Next Up: The Jesus I Never Knew by Philip Yancey
Author: Saul David
Pub: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1998
Ever since I learned more about the American Revolution and found out just how little "taxation without representation" was actually going on under our colonialism (hint: a lot less than the "taxation with representation" to which we are currently subjected), I have wondered how a people so secure could ever have been goaded into rebellion, putting their lives, property and sacred honor on the line for an abstract ideal of liberty. Not to say I'm not grateful that they did, nor am I less in awe of the incredible men who founded this nation. It's just difficult to imagine a people rising up, with everything to lose, when they were not under anything truly like oppression. Then, I read Prince of Pleasure, and I am starting to understand.
Is there anything in the world more useless than a figurehead monarch? A parasite on the body politic, leeching off the people of his land, begging the Parliament constantly for more money? King George III, the monarch from whom the 13 colonies declared independence in 1776, was, probably, one of the less disgusting depictions of this particular beast. Had the colonies waited 35 more years to rebel, which would have been during the Regency, they would have probably wanted to sail across the Atlantic and bring back the Prince Regent to tar and feather. He was that much of a schmuck.
My first and lasting impression from this book was a complete agreement with the always perceptive Jane Austen - "I hate him." This guy was, from his earliest pretensions of "independence" (or whatever you call it when you live by sponging off of others), such a prodigal that his debts equalled over £150,000 by the age of twenty-two! Consider that Miss Austen herself earned barely more than £700 for a lifetime of work (keyword: earned), and this amount of debt (paid off by periodic parliamentary increases to his income) verges on obscene. I have no problem with wealth that has been earned, or even inherited fair and square, but the Prince seems to have had no income stream other than imposing constantly upon the English Parliament. I think that, nowadays, the royal family in Great Britain has their own streams of revenue, and I'm not sure why the Prince Regent did not.
Then, there was his womanizing. He was a big hypochondriac, at least when it came to arousing the sympathies of reluctant ladies by stressing his imminent demise if they did not succumb to his advances. That seems to have been his wooing pattern: when initial rejection was met with, he went into decline until the maternal nature of most women would be activated. Add to this the fact that he constantly chose as mistresses women of a certain age, and the maternal connection becomes even clearer. The woman who suffered the most from his attachment was a Catholic widow, known (and this is delightful, really) as Mrs, Fitzherbert. I just love that! This woman was married to the Prince of Wales in an illegal ceremony, and was his longest lasting love. Yet, history knows her primarily as Mrs. Fitzherbert. I don't know why that tickles me so. It just seems so quirkily formal and British to hold to "Mrs. Fitzherbert," and not "Maria" - her Christian name. Poor woman! She comes off the best out of all the people associated with the Prince in this long biography.
There is a lot in this biography of political maneuverings before and during the Regency. There was the constant debate of "Catholic emancipation," of which I knew nothing before reading this book, and, though it was a pressing issue of the time and one that the Prince went back and forth on repeatedly, it seems so elementally decent to allow Catholics to vote and be full citizens of England, that it's hard to get too involved with the arguments back and forth into which the author delves. Then, of course, there is the whole issue of the French Revolution. The Prince should really have been happy that he was not in power during this tumultuous time across the Channel, since his excesses might have inspired a similar outcome in England. Instead, his father's more balanced lifestyle repressed any similar tendency in the hearts of English commoners and deflected the heat of indignation at that crucial juncture. There was also, in France, the Napoleonic era and that mighty little fellow's determined march through the continent and grandiose designs on Russia and England. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But the real issues of import in a study of the Prince are not the political. Politically, he was an opportunist - tending Whig when it irked his father to do so, then bending Tory when he needed that majority alliance. His main points of interest to the casual modern reader were personal (i.e. his marriages, legal and illegal, and affairs) and the mark he made on defining the culture of the time.
His marriage to his legitimate (according to the Church of England and the 1772 Royal Marriages Act) wife, Caroline of Brunswick was a disastrous union. He was repulsed by her person (apparently she had cleanliness issues), and a child (Princess Charlotte) was conceived after only three acts of consummation - the only three in the entire twenty-six years of their marriage. Although she disgusted him beyond further physical contact, he really cannot be forgiven for the base way that he treated her, both as a husband, as her Prince, and as the father of their child. She was gauche and debauched and vulgar, but he was simply an insufferable jerk. Miss Austen can be counted on, as usual, to provide a succinct and pithy view of the entire royal marriage mess:
Jane Austen voiced the disgust which most people now felt towards the Regent for his unpardonable treatment of his wife in a letter to an acquaintance on the 16th [of February, 1813]. "Poor woman," she wrote of Caroline, "I shall support her as long as I can because she is a Woman, and because I hate her Husband . . . [If] I must give up the Princess, I am resolved at least always to think that she would have been respectable, if the Prince would have behaved tolerably by her at first." (p. 341)
So, Princess Caroline took lovers. The Prince of Wales took lovers. Pretty much everyone in the uppercrust of society took lovers. (For an excellent book and a fun read on the utter immorality and impropriety of Regency aristocracy, you may wish to peruse An Elegant Madness: High Society in Regency England by Venetia Murray (1999).) The reason that the Prince fell under so much censure is that, as the figurehead of England if not the primary power, his behavior set the tone for England's presentation to the world. Plus, and this is probably the greater reason, he lacked panache. He lacked that sort of exuberance of spirit, that "devil-may-care" insolence, that allowed so many other colorful figures of the era to escape public condemnation. He seemed to have had some charm and erudition - an especial appreciation for the arts was one of his defining and greatest triumphs - but those personal qualitites did not translate over into his public persona. While he made a miserable Prince of Wales and, later, Prince Regent and, even later, King, it is difficult to say whether he had sufficient bravura to have been one of the great aristocratic bounders of an age that overflowed with such rakes and cads. He seems to have stumbled at every try for a distinct personality. Sometimes, with people like that, you just need to shove them away into a little corner of a government job wherein they can exercise little havoc and pain. Could he have been anything more useful to England than the King? Probably not.
Maybe it is because I am a twenty-first century American who has never lived in a country ruled by such a creature as a monarch that I find it difficult to see the point of the Prince Regent, later George IV. He didn't lead any battles to victory (although, to be fair, he was always trying to get a higher military appointment than the ceremonious one he possessed). He didn't inspire his people toward any higher goal or ideal. He, the nominal head of the English church, did not bring to his country one iota of Christ's love or magnamity. He was not a great thinker, an accomplished anything. He had a certain amount of education and tendency toward self-betterment, but he did not sufficiently exercise his privileged background to improve his court or his country. In the midst of some of the great debates of human dignity and liberty (e.g. slavery, Catholic and Jewish emancipation within the kingdom, even - before his reign - the American revolution) he wavered back and forth, never taking a position that stood up for righteousness against the tide of oppression. Probably, the best thing I could say about him was that his favorite novelist was Jane Austen. So, I commend him for his literary taste.
Was he, as his educator, the Bishop of Coventry, declared of his then fifteen-year-old charge, an "admixture" of "the most polished gentleman" and "the most accomplished blackguard in Europe" (p. 429)? Well, his biographer declares that the answer to that question is: Yes. I say: No. He did not have nearly enough of the "gentleman" about him to make up for his gross lack of character and feeling - his general want of propriety in matters personal and public. The British people deserved better for their monarch dollar, ahem, pound than this creep.
This biography was well-written, with one exception: The author quotes as authority twice George MacDonald Fraser's book, Black Ajax. This is an historical novel by the author of the Flashman series, this one featuring Flashy's father, Captain Buckley Flashman. Nowhere in these quotes does Mr. David indicate that they are from a fictional source. He treats a dialogue between Capt. Flashman and Lady Jersey as an historical event. I'm not certain if this is sloppy research, or if the author is intending in some dry, British way to be funny. What tends me toward the latter is the way in which he frames the quotes. He uses the phrases "according to" and "is said to have" in both instances of quotes, which is rarely used in the rest of the book. I did find one or two other examples of his framing cited quotes as such, though, and those are not from fictional works, but from memoirs. So, it's hard to say for certain.
Overall Grade: B
Readability: B
Subject Interest: B-
Illustrations: B- (could have used more political cartoons from the era, a lá The Unruly Queen)
Recommended? Yes, with reservations. This book will not change your life or make you a better person. It probably will make you appreciate not living under a monarchy (if Charles, Diana, Camilla, et al, have not already done that). It wasn't a particularly fun read, but it was informative. I came away feeling that I knew everything I needed to know about the Prince Regent. If you are interested in some of the history that was taking place at the time Jane Austen was writing (my main reason for reading this book), it's probably a fair read. This world of the Prince was a far cry from the decent country gentry that JA liked to write about (although you really begin to see the dichotomy of country values and city values portrayed in Mansfield Park as being a relevant issue).
Next Up: The Jesus I Never Knew by Philip Yancey
Sunday, July 31, 2005
They Paved Paradise and Put Up a Parking Lot
The Seattle Mariners are dead to me.
Randy Winn, the best player we had, was traded off yesterday to the National League (for crying out loud!) for two SF Giants players, whom I will now always detest. What kind of name is "Yorvit" anyway?
So, I've taken my disgust and worked it into an adaptation of Joni Mitchell's classic, Big Yellow Taxi:
Late last night, I heard the local news show
Stupid sportscaster said that it was Randy Winn's time to go - Oh -
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Oh sure, they've got $100 million to waste on Sexson and Bletre
But now that Randy Winn's gone there's going to be hell to pay - hey -
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Shoo-bop-bop-bop.
Mid-season trades are just a terrible thing to do to fans. You've put all this emotional investment in your favorite player, and then they trade him right out from under you without a blink. The SF Giants. Sheesh!
At least I got to see Randy Winn's last game as a Mariner on Friday night. He went 4/5. I can't believe we traded him. I would have rather they traded Jamie Moyer (an excellent pitcher and a Mariners icon, but one whose getting old) or Eddie Guardado (a great closer, but, again, tradeable) or either of those two shmoes they spent, collectively, $100 million on: Richie "The Drunk" Sexson or Adrian "Can't Get Used to the American League" Beltre.
I'm going to miss you, Randy Winn. Thank you for four great years of play. You're too good for this loser team, anyway. May your fingers be filled with World Series rings. May the Mariners rot in the pit of crappiness in which they have buried themselves.
Maybe when I calm down a little, I can focus on my second and third favorite players: Raul Ibañez and Willie Bloomquist. Holy cow, this is a staggering loss.
Randy Winn, the best player we had, was traded off yesterday to the National League (for crying out loud!) for two SF Giants players, whom I will now always detest. What kind of name is "Yorvit" anyway?
So, I've taken my disgust and worked it into an adaptation of Joni Mitchell's classic, Big Yellow Taxi:
Late last night, I heard the local news show
Stupid sportscaster said that it was Randy Winn's time to go - Oh -
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Hey, Bill Bavasi, put away your mid-season trade, now!
Ya give me lots of lousy pitching but leave me my boy, Randy Winn, now!
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Oh sure, they've got $100 million to waste on Sexson and Bletre
But now that Randy Winn's gone there's going to be hell to pay - hey -
Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Shoo-bop-bop-bop.
Mid-season trades are just a terrible thing to do to fans. You've put all this emotional investment in your favorite player, and then they trade him right out from under you without a blink. The SF Giants. Sheesh!
At least I got to see Randy Winn's last game as a Mariner on Friday night. He went 4/5. I can't believe we traded him. I would have rather they traded Jamie Moyer (an excellent pitcher and a Mariners icon, but one whose getting old) or Eddie Guardado (a great closer, but, again, tradeable) or either of those two shmoes they spent, collectively, $100 million on: Richie "The Drunk" Sexson or Adrian "Can't Get Used to the American League" Beltre.
I'm going to miss you, Randy Winn. Thank you for four great years of play. You're too good for this loser team, anyway. May your fingers be filled with World Series rings. May the Mariners rot in the pit of crappiness in which they have buried themselves.
Maybe when I calm down a little, I can focus on my second and third favorite players: Raul Ibañez and Willie Bloomquist. Holy cow, this is a staggering loss.
Friday, July 29, 2005
If You Are Pro-Life . . .
If you are pro-life, and do not yet subscribe to the free daily e-mail newsletter from the NRLC (National Right to Life Committee), "Today's News and Views" by Dave Andrusko, I would like strongly to encourage you to sign up to receive it.
It is an extremely valuable cross between news brief, philosophical reflection, spiritual refreshment and encouragement, and, occasionally, political action alert.
It's a great daily read.
Blessings to you!
It is an extremely valuable cross between news brief, philosophical reflection, spiritual refreshment and encouragement, and, occasionally, political action alert.
It's a great daily read.
Blessings to you!
Thursday, July 28, 2005
POP-UPS!! &*&$^*%&%#$#*&&(*&(!!!!!!!
Why?! Why in the world have all these lame-o pop-ups infiltrated my cyber-space? I have a pop-up blocker that used to work very well. Now, though it's turned on, it's letting about 98% of all pop-ups through. At first, they were sly. They were "pop-behinds;" They would pop into the background of whatever legitimate page I was viewing, and only reared their ugly heads when I closed out the other page. Now, they have gotten bold and shoot right past my blocker (useless piece o' blankity blank!) and get right in my face while I'm viewing or typing. This is the pits.
Two of the most annoying are "Aqua" and "Venus123." These two come up with myriad attachments that continually download with an irritating "clickety-click-click" constantly. Also, there is this absolutely infuriating "Search Result" thing that comes up and tries to give me links based upon the websites I was viewing. What sickens me about this un-asked for intrusion into my Internet viewing habits is that I spend a lot of time looking up pro-life sites on the 'net, and this "Search Results" thing picks up that I'm "interested" in abortion, so it brings up all these abortion clinics, especially this one in New York with a woman doctor who will perform abortions in her office so you don't have to go to a clinic (how lovely). I feel nauseated whenever this comes up. If you are going to put software out there that noses into people's private website preferences, you should at least have the sensitivity to figure that people who like unborn babies enough to go to pro-life sites are not going to want you to throw it back in their faces that these little babies are right now being murdered in these clinics (or comfortable office settings) you advertise. Yuck!!
How can I get rid of these pop-ups? I guess we'll have to get a new program to download that does a better job than the one that came with MS Internet Explorer. Any suggestions?
Peace to all (except those pop-up companies - Pooh to them!)!
Justine
P.S. Who in the world thinks that throwing a bunch of pop-ups in unsuspecting peoples' faces is an effective advertising campaign? I mean, c'mon!
Two of the most annoying are "Aqua" and "Venus123." These two come up with myriad attachments that continually download with an irritating "clickety-click-click" constantly. Also, there is this absolutely infuriating "Search Result" thing that comes up and tries to give me links based upon the websites I was viewing. What sickens me about this un-asked for intrusion into my Internet viewing habits is that I spend a lot of time looking up pro-life sites on the 'net, and this "Search Results" thing picks up that I'm "interested" in abortion, so it brings up all these abortion clinics, especially this one in New York with a woman doctor who will perform abortions in her office so you don't have to go to a clinic (how lovely). I feel nauseated whenever this comes up. If you are going to put software out there that noses into people's private website preferences, you should at least have the sensitivity to figure that people who like unborn babies enough to go to pro-life sites are not going to want you to throw it back in their faces that these little babies are right now being murdered in these clinics (or comfortable office settings) you advertise. Yuck!!
How can I get rid of these pop-ups? I guess we'll have to get a new program to download that does a better job than the one that came with MS Internet Explorer. Any suggestions?
Peace to all (except those pop-up companies - Pooh to them!)!
Justine
P.S. Who in the world thinks that throwing a bunch of pop-ups in unsuspecting peoples' faces is an effective advertising campaign? I mean, c'mon!
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
And the Prize for the Most Obvious "News" Story of the Day . . .
. . . goes to The Seattle Times, and their enlightening exposé that - wait for it - divorce is bad!
I will pause a moment to let the collective gasp from everyone who has been living under a rock for the past forty years to reverberate around the room and die out. PAUSE. Okay.
Yes, folks, people like the staff at The Seattle Times are waking up to a fact that every child whose parents divorced for little or no good reason has known for years: Divorce sucks. It's bad for kids. It's bad for society. And - and this is the part that may make the demi-children called modern adults sit up and take notice - it's bad for those who are divorcing.
Oh sure, Seattle Times staff reporter, Kyung M. Song, starts with a disclaimer that what follows in the article will sound like a "conservative (boo! hiss!) marriage manifesto." I'm sure that he wants the readership of greater Seattle to know that he is just as aghast at these statistics as any good liberal should be. But wait (he implies)! Don't discount them just because you've heard "conservatives" touting them for years! This advice will benefit your health too! Tellingly, the article starts out by stressing all of the emotional and physical health risks to divorcing couples. Secondly (always, always secondly nowadays), he looks at the health risks to children of divorce.
Then, the article delves into risk factors for divorce. The predominant ones follow:
I will pause a moment to let the collective gasp from everyone who has been living under a rock for the past forty years to reverberate around the room and die out. PAUSE. Okay.
Yes, folks, people like the staff at The Seattle Times are waking up to a fact that every child whose parents divorced for little or no good reason has known for years: Divorce sucks. It's bad for kids. It's bad for society. And - and this is the part that may make the demi-children called modern adults sit up and take notice - it's bad for those who are divorcing.
Oh sure, Seattle Times staff reporter, Kyung M. Song, starts with a disclaimer that what follows in the article will sound like a "conservative (boo! hiss!) marriage manifesto." I'm sure that he wants the readership of greater Seattle to know that he is just as aghast at these statistics as any good liberal should be. But wait (he implies)! Don't discount them just because you've heard "conservatives" touting them for years! This advice will benefit your health too! Tellingly, the article starts out by stressing all of the emotional and physical health risks to divorcing couples. Secondly (always, always secondly nowadays), he looks at the health risks to children of divorce.
Then, the article delves into risk factors for divorce. The predominant ones follow:
- Having divorced parents
- Marrying young (the article doesn't specify what "young" is, but seems to imply that it is under 20 years of age)
- Living together before engagement
- Being previously divorced or marrying a previously divorced partner
- Having a child before marriage (and to a lesser extent getting pregnant before the wedding)
- Being much older or younger than your spouse
- Marrying someone of a different race
- Following different religions or no religion
- Having low educational levels
Hmmm . . . My parents did not fall into any of those categories, except the religion one, and that didn't stop them from giving up after 18 years. Oh well.
My mom was married three times. According to the statistics of the article I read, this gives my marriage only a one in three chance of lasting. Baloney! I say. Seeing my mom and her failed marriages and all the emotional distress that she lived with day-to-day has only strengthened my resolve never, ever to divorce. Knowing what it was like to grow up as a child of divorce, knowing the heartache of living between two different houses, choosing constantly between my parents, having every cause for celebration (i.e. birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, graduations) become a cause for peeling off once again the scab over my wounded spirit, I will never, ever do that to Sadie. No! No! One thousand times, NO! To this end, I carefully chose a wonderful man as committed to marriage as I.
The opposite view from that in this article, one that may not be borne out in statistics, but one much more closely aligned with my own philosophy, is found in this wonderful closing paragraph from Emily Post's Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage (1965):
"At present, the breaking up of homes is so widespread it may be that those who grow up never having known the completeness of home will find it unessential. Or will it be the other way around? Perhaps the children of today's divided houses will be twice as earnest in their efforts to provide their own children with the priceless security of a father and mother together in one place called HOME!"
(I love that book! I have spent many a delightful afternoon pouring over it in a reverie of nostalgia. It totally rocks - especially compared to modern day Emily Post - which is a little too modern; proper manners and etiquette are timeless and should not be subject to the whims of vulgarity that infiltrate society for time to time. I'll stick with 1965 and earlier versions, thank you very much!)
Of course, the Seattle Times article loves to point out that really abusive or "toxic" marriages should come to an end, for the betterment of all. Duh! The problem is that, with no-fault divorce, any little reason has become de rigueur for unraveling the marital knot. Who hasn't seen their parents divorce for the nebulous reason of "irreconcilable differences" and wondered if it was simply because of boredom or something different, something darker? This vagueness in dissolution leads to children who do not know the line between emotional abuse and the normal back and forth, anger and reconciliation, of two people learning to live under the same roof. They end up thinking that anything other than constant bliss is a terminally troubled relationship. They see the wedding as an act of "perfection" and finality in the relationship between man and wife, and not the commencement of life-long refining and, well, tweaking that is really is. This lie of instant gratification is what is most "toxic" in marriage today.
The one divorce statistic that I have always found most troubling, that is not addressed in the article because it is not part of its scope, is the equal or higher rate of divorce between "born-again Christians" as compared to the rest of society. This is so distressing, because 1) Christians should be "set apart" from the world (John 17:14), 2) our lives should be reflections of Christ's infinite forgiveness and mercy ("Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven." Matthew 5:16), 3) we should place others' (read concerning marriage: our children's and our spouse's) needs above our own selfish inclinations, 4) we should obey Christ's admonitions regarding divorce - His narrow standards for allowable divorce - one of the few social issues He commented upon directly (Matthew 19:1-9, Matthew 5:31-32), and 5) we should remember that the "Lord God of Israel says that He hates divorce" (Malachi 2:16), which, really, should be enough to keep Christians from divorcing for any but the most dire reasons. Once again, just as in the human life issue, Catholics put all of us Protestants to shame.
Anyway, congratulations to The Seattle Times, for this revolutionary piece of reporting. Who knew that disregarding the sacred bond of marriage, which was ordained by the Creator for humans as being the best foundation for society since the dawn of time, would actually be a bad idea? Stay tuned for more cutting-edge investigative journalism that reports:
- The sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s was devastating for society, especially for women.
- Abortion kills actual human children.
- Abortion is bad for women and humankind in general.
- Jesus Christ is the Son of God, Savior of the World.
- Breastfeeding is the best way to feed babies.
- The sun rises in the east and sets in the west.
- You should never wear white after Labor Day.
- Smoking is a primary cause of lung cancer.
- Chocolate tastes good.
These and other exciting reports coming your way from the daring reporters of The Seattle Times.
Friday, July 22, 2005
The Trouble with Forgiveness
I was in Canada on July 7, 2005, on an island retreat, without television, radio, Internet, or newspapers, so all we heard was that there had been simultaneous terroist bombings in London. Not knowing the extent, my mind immediately went to that terrible day, September 11, 2001, and I dissolved into tears. Thankfully, we found out the next day, the terror attacks in London were not of the same magnitude as 9-11, but any time innocent life is destroyed it is a cause for mourning.
Then, yesterday, there was another set of "copycat" attacks in London - I praise God for His mercy that no lives were lost in those attacks.
I have a lot of issues with Islam. My heart wants to find its Christ-center and pray sincerely for these humans who must, as Carolyn Arends so eloquently put it, "live in such a hell that perpetuating these acts seems rational and justifiable." But, I just cannot yet. The first international incident that I have a clear memory of was the hostage crisis in Iran in 1980. Throughout my life, almost every act of terrorism against civilians has been done by people who call themselves Muslims. And then, that dark day, September 11, 2001, came, and my soul revulsed, and the rage poured in. I cannot yet separate these actions from the religion of Islam. I cannot yet forgive them.
But I know that as we have been forgiven by God, so must we forgive others. There is no way around it. Jesus says over and over, throughout the Gospels, that continued forgiveness from God is directly related to our forgiveness of others (Mark 11:26, Matthew 6:14, 15 and 18:21-35). The original forgiveness, the saving grace of God, never washes away, but, as regenerate sinners, we must acknowledge our continual need for forgiveness by expressing true forgiveness. So, I struggle every day with this hatred that I feel.
I think that I could forgive these monsters were it not for their choice of victims. In other words, if they carried out attacks merely against military targets, I would not have this rage against them. I hate for anyone to die, but at least military or political centers have a symbolism that is understandable. It is the fact that this scum targets people just going about the business of living that makes me ill and hardens my heart. Knowing that they hate my daughter Sadie, who is a delight and a joy and a person so free in her love of others and open and trusting - knowing that had she and I been on any of the hijacked flights on 9-11, that had they seen her sweet face, it would not have stopped them from killing her cold-heartedly by ramming that airplane into the side of a building - knowing that they would slit her throat at any given opportunity and record that heinous act on video tape while shouting that "Allah [not God - never my God!] is great!" - knowing all these things - I just cannot "turn the other cheek." Sweet Jesus, forgive me!
One other thing I hate is that so many secularists associate their satanic god, Allah, with the one, true God of Israel. Then, all religious people get lumped together in the secular mind - Christians, Jews, Muslims, oh, they're all the same, dontcha know? Lord God, please keep Your people from ever falling out of Your arms and into the arms of the Evil One - keep us from ever doing the will of darkness under the name of the Lord of light. Help us to be the peacemakers, whom You call blessed.
I am really, really trying to shed this hatred for Islam, especially for Arab Muslims. It is a constant work for God, since my rebellious nature is always getting in the way of His refinement. I want to pray Jesus' last prayer - "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." - and mean it.
I do not want to be bound to this earth - I want my spirit to commune with the Most High. I know that everything suffered through in this fallen world will fade away in light of eternity - yet, I have so much trouble letting go. I know that the evil terrorists will pay forever for their vile deeds, yet that strangely doesn't bring me much comfort. I don't want to think of people being forever separated from the Holy One - I want people to get it right, right now, here on earth and stop causing so much pain. And, maybe that is the key to open the door to forgiveness. When I think of human souls, led so far away from the light, being kept forever away from the Father, having thought all their time on earth that they had been serving God, I pity them.
Oh, but then I think of Sadie's precious face, her love of life, her exuberance, and I think of the person who wouldn't mind blowing her to bits. I think of the killers in Israel who ran up to a car with a pregnant woman and her four daughters inside and didn't stop shooting until they were all dead. I think of those vile Islamic Chechens in Beslan, Russia last year that took an entire school hostage and killed over two hundred children. I think of every bus blown up in Israel. I think of the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993. I think of the eleven Israeli Olympic athletes murdered in Munich, Germany in 1972. I think of the Pan-Am plane that exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland in 1988, killing 270. I think of TWA Flight 800. I think of American troops being attacked in Iraq by suicide bombers while they were handing out candy to children. I think of the USS Cole in 2000. I think of the nightclub bombings in Bali, Indonesia in 2002. This list could go on and on.
Yet, God has forgiven me, I know He has. I know that He has separated me from my transgressions as far as east is from west. Why cannot I let go of these events? Am I a hypocrite? No, I do not believe that I am, because a hypocrite tries to hide his failings behind a mask of righteousness. My righteousness lies only in Christ's sacrifice. I have no problem laying out all of my failures to meet His standards for the world to see. I think a lot of us are struggling with this, especially since September 11, 2001. I am so interested, dear blog reader: how do you deal with forgiveness? Does forgiveness mean inaction against evil? If you take proactive measures to prevent further terrorist attacks, using retaliative force, is this wrong from a Christian perspective?
I've asked seminary students, Christian friends, and myself these questions over and over. I hate war. I think it is so awful to put people in a situation wherein they must become killers. I do not know how our amazing troops handle it without becoming monsters.
Is there ever a reason to use the ultimate force of taking life? Jesus said to "turn the other cheek." Would that have worked against Hitler and Hirohito in World War II? I think even most Christians would say, "No." I cannot believe that Jesus would have thought it better to allow the Nazis to continue incinerating Jewish people, than for the Allies to advance through Germany and Poland, liberating many while killing many too. Can you express forgiveness while, at the same time, fighting an enemy to the death? Can you love your enemy and kill him too? I think that fighting Islamic terror is even more difficult, because it is more insidious, more scattered, more decentralized. How much more easy to bomb a hostile country like Germany which is spreading itself across Europe like a festering boil without falling under the censure of the world, than to detain suspects or detect sleeper cells without violating international laws and civil liberties!
These are the tough questions. One thing that Jesus makes clear is that one of the signs of His Coming will be "wars and rumors of wars." He goes on to advise: See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of sorrows. - Matthew 24:6-8. In light of this, what can we do but get along as best we can - watching, hoping, praying, loving, forgiving? If I cannot be filled with a forgiving spirit now, through the grace of God I can throw myself upon His mercy and pray, similar to the prayer for belief of the troubled father in Mark 9:14-29, "Lord, I will forgive; help my unforgiving!"
And, above all things, despite my many shortcomings of faith and obedience, I am confident of this very thing: That He who began a good work in me will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ - Philippians 1:6. Amen.
Your comments and suggestions would be appreciated. This is a long and continuing struggle.
Then, yesterday, there was another set of "copycat" attacks in London - I praise God for His mercy that no lives were lost in those attacks.
I have a lot of issues with Islam. My heart wants to find its Christ-center and pray sincerely for these humans who must, as Carolyn Arends so eloquently put it, "live in such a hell that perpetuating these acts seems rational and justifiable." But, I just cannot yet. The first international incident that I have a clear memory of was the hostage crisis in Iran in 1980. Throughout my life, almost every act of terrorism against civilians has been done by people who call themselves Muslims. And then, that dark day, September 11, 2001, came, and my soul revulsed, and the rage poured in. I cannot yet separate these actions from the religion of Islam. I cannot yet forgive them.
But I know that as we have been forgiven by God, so must we forgive others. There is no way around it. Jesus says over and over, throughout the Gospels, that continued forgiveness from God is directly related to our forgiveness of others (Mark 11:26, Matthew 6:14, 15 and 18:21-35). The original forgiveness, the saving grace of God, never washes away, but, as regenerate sinners, we must acknowledge our continual need for forgiveness by expressing true forgiveness. So, I struggle every day with this hatred that I feel.
I think that I could forgive these monsters were it not for their choice of victims. In other words, if they carried out attacks merely against military targets, I would not have this rage against them. I hate for anyone to die, but at least military or political centers have a symbolism that is understandable. It is the fact that this scum targets people just going about the business of living that makes me ill and hardens my heart. Knowing that they hate my daughter Sadie, who is a delight and a joy and a person so free in her love of others and open and trusting - knowing that had she and I been on any of the hijacked flights on 9-11, that had they seen her sweet face, it would not have stopped them from killing her cold-heartedly by ramming that airplane into the side of a building - knowing that they would slit her throat at any given opportunity and record that heinous act on video tape while shouting that "Allah [not God - never my God!] is great!" - knowing all these things - I just cannot "turn the other cheek." Sweet Jesus, forgive me!
One other thing I hate is that so many secularists associate their satanic god, Allah, with the one, true God of Israel. Then, all religious people get lumped together in the secular mind - Christians, Jews, Muslims, oh, they're all the same, dontcha know? Lord God, please keep Your people from ever falling out of Your arms and into the arms of the Evil One - keep us from ever doing the will of darkness under the name of the Lord of light. Help us to be the peacemakers, whom You call blessed.
I am really, really trying to shed this hatred for Islam, especially for Arab Muslims. It is a constant work for God, since my rebellious nature is always getting in the way of His refinement. I want to pray Jesus' last prayer - "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." - and mean it.
I do not want to be bound to this earth - I want my spirit to commune with the Most High. I know that everything suffered through in this fallen world will fade away in light of eternity - yet, I have so much trouble letting go. I know that the evil terrorists will pay forever for their vile deeds, yet that strangely doesn't bring me much comfort. I don't want to think of people being forever separated from the Holy One - I want people to get it right, right now, here on earth and stop causing so much pain. And, maybe that is the key to open the door to forgiveness. When I think of human souls, led so far away from the light, being kept forever away from the Father, having thought all their time on earth that they had been serving God, I pity them.
Oh, but then I think of Sadie's precious face, her love of life, her exuberance, and I think of the person who wouldn't mind blowing her to bits. I think of the killers in Israel who ran up to a car with a pregnant woman and her four daughters inside and didn't stop shooting until they were all dead. I think of those vile Islamic Chechens in Beslan, Russia last year that took an entire school hostage and killed over two hundred children. I think of every bus blown up in Israel. I think of the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993. I think of the eleven Israeli Olympic athletes murdered in Munich, Germany in 1972. I think of the Pan-Am plane that exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland in 1988, killing 270. I think of TWA Flight 800. I think of American troops being attacked in Iraq by suicide bombers while they were handing out candy to children. I think of the USS Cole in 2000. I think of the nightclub bombings in Bali, Indonesia in 2002. This list could go on and on.
Yet, God has forgiven me, I know He has. I know that He has separated me from my transgressions as far as east is from west. Why cannot I let go of these events? Am I a hypocrite? No, I do not believe that I am, because a hypocrite tries to hide his failings behind a mask of righteousness. My righteousness lies only in Christ's sacrifice. I have no problem laying out all of my failures to meet His standards for the world to see. I think a lot of us are struggling with this, especially since September 11, 2001. I am so interested, dear blog reader: how do you deal with forgiveness? Does forgiveness mean inaction against evil? If you take proactive measures to prevent further terrorist attacks, using retaliative force, is this wrong from a Christian perspective?
I've asked seminary students, Christian friends, and myself these questions over and over. I hate war. I think it is so awful to put people in a situation wherein they must become killers. I do not know how our amazing troops handle it without becoming monsters.
Is there ever a reason to use the ultimate force of taking life? Jesus said to "turn the other cheek." Would that have worked against Hitler and Hirohito in World War II? I think even most Christians would say, "No." I cannot believe that Jesus would have thought it better to allow the Nazis to continue incinerating Jewish people, than for the Allies to advance through Germany and Poland, liberating many while killing many too. Can you express forgiveness while, at the same time, fighting an enemy to the death? Can you love your enemy and kill him too? I think that fighting Islamic terror is even more difficult, because it is more insidious, more scattered, more decentralized. How much more easy to bomb a hostile country like Germany which is spreading itself across Europe like a festering boil without falling under the censure of the world, than to detain suspects or detect sleeper cells without violating international laws and civil liberties!
These are the tough questions. One thing that Jesus makes clear is that one of the signs of His Coming will be "wars and rumors of wars." He goes on to advise: See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of sorrows. - Matthew 24:6-8. In light of this, what can we do but get along as best we can - watching, hoping, praying, loving, forgiving? If I cannot be filled with a forgiving spirit now, through the grace of God I can throw myself upon His mercy and pray, similar to the prayer for belief of the troubled father in Mark 9:14-29, "Lord, I will forgive; help my unforgiving!"
And, above all things, despite my many shortcomings of faith and obedience, I am confident of this very thing: That He who began a good work in me will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ - Philippians 1:6. Amen.
Your comments and suggestions would be appreciated. This is a long and continuing struggle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)