About Posting ...

It is so nice to read things like Andrea's asking me to post more often -- would she believe that I have about four different posts I am working on? But, I might not post for a little while, because I have four books I'm in the middle of right now. One of them is The Singing Season by Isabel Paterson, which I got from the inter-library loan and can only have for three weeks with NO renewal. I'm desperate to read this book, so almost every moment not dedicated to momming and wifing will be spent in stolen moments wandering through 14th Century Spain and the adventures and trials and romance that befall the two lovers, Isabella and Roderigo. I'm also reading Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L'Engle, which is so amazing and breathtaking -- I'm just entranced (it's so hard to put it aside, even for The Singing Season). I'm almost done with An Honest President: The Life and Presidencies of Grover Cleveland by H. Paul Jeffers, which has only served to make me more depressed than usual about the political weasels we're stuck with nowadays in the USA. I've also started Disappointment with God by Philip Yancey, which is excellent too, but has the lowest priority (since I own it, but have the others from the library). So, I'm so busy reading, it is hard to find time to put the thought and effort into writing that I find necessary. I'm still reading everyone else's blogs (more reading!) and commenting when I can.

In the meantime, Happy Thanksgiving!! So much for which to be thankful -- my cup runneth over.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning. -- James 1:17

A Dad and the Things He Loves

Father of the Year (1980?)

I tried to blackmail my dad for $2000, but he wouldn't bite, so up this picture goes on my blog. Seriously, it's just too good to keep hidden from the world. Jason calls this photo: Your Dad and All the Things That He Loves. Yep, that's me (6 or 7 years old) in the background. While my dad doesn't smoke cigarettes any more, he is still a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, still enjoys a brewsky, and still loves his little girl. Groove, if you will, on the cabin decor done up in late-Hippie. Bet Dad would love to have that belly back!

The photo's caption was suggested by my dad, but I used it only partly tongue-in-cheek. You see, my dad really deserves to be "Father of the Year" every year. No daughter could ask for a better dad. He was always there for me, my biggest supporter, my number one fan. He filled me with confidence, with curiosity, with courage. I would not be the woman - the wife and mother - that I am today without his loving influence throughout my life. God saw that I needed just such a dad and, in His infinite goodness, provided. My dad is not (yet) a Christian, but he is the kind of father who made it easy for me to accept, when I learned of Jesus' Abba, that such a Heavenly Father was true and good.

I LOVE YOU DAD!

Your Girl Friday

Well, I kept re-taking and re-taking this silly test, trying in vain to get the result that my inner Classic Dame is Carole Lombard. The problem with this particular test is that so many of the answers would work for me, depending on my current mood. I re-took it for the last time this morning, being as honest as possible instead of anticipating Carole-esque answers, deciding that whatever I got was my true match. Behold, your humble blogger houses within the comely form and outrageous attitude of:

Rosalind Russell

You scored 21% grit, 52% wit, 28% flair, and 11% class! You are one wise-cracking lady, always quick with a clever remark and easily able to keep up with the quips and puns that come along with the nutty situations you find yourself in. You're usually able to talk your way out of any jam, and even if you can't, you at least make it more interesting with your biting wit. You can match the smartest guy around line for line, and you've got an open mind that allows you to get what you want, even if you don't recognize it at first. Your leading men include Cary Grant and Clark Gable, men who can keep up with you. Find out which classic leading lady you most resemble by taking the Classic Dames Test. Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the Classic Leading Man Test.

Don't you love this ridiculous hat?

Some Not-So Random Thoughts

One thing that I really admire and envy about the blogs I read is how you folks are able to scan the plethora of news for juicy and infuriating tidbits and then distill the information in a concise manner with added pithy commentary.

In the spirit of your collective (yet highly individualistic) coolness, I'm going to offer a few quick thoughts for (hopefully) easier digestion than my usual prattling essays:

Andrea Yates gets a new trial. I'm sure that post-partum depression is real, but it is still no excuse to murder your children (or anybody else's children). I also do not believe in psychologically treating murderers -- seems like a smoke screen and another way for society to blur the lines between right and wrong. Nor do I believe (in most cases) in the death penalty. I do think that every murderer should be locked up without any possibility of parole for the rest of his or her life. If Psycho Yates were really a "victim" of post-partum depression, then she should have no need for a stay in the looney bin -- i.e. if her hormones made her do it, then those should (four and a half years after her unspeakable crime) be calmed down by now. Do not give her any meds to cloud her memory -- simply lock her away with a clear mind for the rest of her life to contemplate the young lives she brutally took. Have you ever read a re-telling of the way she ruthlessly drowned them? Her oldest child, Noah, having seen his younger siblings drowned, tried to run from her, and then she collared him and forced him face down in the bathtub -- filled with the other children's feces and vomit. And yet he still struggled to come up for air and said, "I'm sorry Mommy," before she forced his head down again. Can you imagine the terror that encompassed that poor little boy's last moments on earth? Can you imagine calling a cold-blooded killer such as she merely a "caring mother suffering from post-partum depression"? And I am really sick of people out there blaming Mr. Yates as much or even more for his children's murders as Psycho Yates. Since when is a poor guy's going to work everyday to support his wife and children with shelter, food, and clothing such a condemnable act? Only in some sort of warped, alternate, man-hating reality where men can do nothing right -- ever. If women are such amazing, brilliant, strong, rational, independent creatures, then why do so many feminists immediately blame the closest man around when a woman does something unbelievably evil? Funny how women love to be victims when it suits them.

I heard a March of Dimes commercial this morning on the radio. Their new fight is against premature birth -- preventing it, helping premature babies, finding out why premature birth is on the rise. My husband commented that "[the babies] probably just want to get out before they are aborted." Many true words are spoken in jest.

Well, in my state, Washington, the elections last night proved disappointing. The state legislature had rammed through a 9 1/2¢ per gallon gas tax earlier this year (soon after the illegitimately elected governor, Christine "We'll Keep Re-Counting the Ballots Until I Win" Gregoire, began her reign). Normally, in WA, all tax increases need to be put the people for a vote, except when there is an "state of emergency." This is how we got Safeco "The $500 Million Ballpark for a Team That Has Never Made it to The World Series" Field after the voters rejected publicly funding it -- twice. The enlightened legislators decided that the prospect of the Mariner's leaving Seattle was a "state of emergency," and*presto* funding was secured. Queen C promised no tax increases (which, for a Dem, is like promising not to breathe) during her campaign against (decent, wonderful, pro-life businessman) Dino Rossi. Luckily for her, she discovered an "state of emergency" regarding transportation soon after she stole the office. Whoo-hoo! Stick it to the commuters! The 9 1/2¢ was to "fund transportation projects." Ah, the political bliss of nebulous promises. The thing is that Western Washington really does have a "state of emergency" regarding transportation. This area has outgrown its infrastructure in a big way. Driving anywhere is an exercise in temple-pulsating frustration. But no one in the state government was willing to specify how much of the increase was to fund which projects. They threw out a bunch of ideas, but did not analyze them in relation to alleviating congestion and cutting commuting times. There was, and I know this will shock you, absolutely no spending accountability. So, a bunch of taxpayers (many from outside the traffic-clogged counties of King, Pierce and Snohomish, who would be paying for Western Washington's transportation projects while not receiving any benefit from them) put forth an initiative to repeal the gas tax -- Initiative 912. This ruffled the feathers of a few big turkeys in Olympia, and they started a massive anti-912 campaign based in many lies and false promises (a.k.a. lies) about how we need new and expanded roads (we do!) and how if 912 passed we would only have more and worse of the same. So, they scared enough people within the populous counties that the whole state got screwed over by 912's being defeated last night. 912 was never about not funding transportation -- anyone who drives a car (even someone who only drives one day a week such as I) knows that we need to create, repair, and widen roads. 912 was about holding bureaucrats responsible for the money they appropriate and spend. Now, the politicos have their 9 1/2¢ validated, and there is still no accountability for how the money will be spent and on what projects. Knowing the proclivities of the commies up here, I figure that most will be spent on public transportation boondoggles (see: Seattle Monorail Project -- that monster having received a final stake in the heart last night in a rare moment of Seattle sanity -- still $150 million in the hole with the car tab tax for funding outliving the ill-conceived project for a few more years -- haven't these people ever seen The Simpsons? "What's that word?" "Monorail!"). Also, Ron Sims of CAO fame was re-elected as King County Executive. I'm beginning to hate this state, despite its excellent weather. Well, it's good to know that we're out of here soon.

Intelligent Design. Our local ABC affiliate, KOMO, is running a special tonight at 11 PM on intelligent design. I can only imagine their take on the controversy. Even before I was a Christian, I always thought that the theory of random evolution was pretty silly. It just didn't fit with the order of the universe around me, or answer the hows of complex biological structures like eyes, the liver, the human brain. When would evolving into a human not be beneficial to an ape? Why aren't cats smarter after all these years? Of course, maybe it is pretty smart after all to find some sucker species to let you live in their homes where you can sleep all day on a down comforter and be fed and petted. Maybe cats have achieved the highest level of evolution! I still accept parts of evolutionary theory, but I mostly hold to creationism. Intelligent design seems to be a middle theory. What do you all think? I've often thought that The Bible, while true, is in many ways a "Reader's Digest" version of historical truth -- i.e. it's "everything we need to know at this point." I've always liked its description as Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. To echo the ending of John's Gospel account, would the true, complete history of earthly time be revealed by God, the world itself would not hold books enough to record it.

The first year is always the hardest -- at least that is what I am thinking. We are trying to extricate ourselves this year from the Christmas Present Merry-Go-Round on which we've been spinning with family and friends for years. Basically, the exchange of presents within our intimate circle has become a ridiculous cycle of "Look! I Got You a Gift!" banality and undue stress. This year, we have really felt that the Lord has placed in our hearts the knowledge that it is time to say, "enough is enough." So, we're bowing out with as much grace as possible. We'll only be giving gifts to the munchkins we know (the only ones who really get pure, unmitigated pleasure from Christmas presents anyhow) and charities this year. It's been very awkward to try to broach this subject, but everyone's seemed rather relieved thus far. I bet most of them have been feeling the same way for years too. These people know that we love them 365 days a year -- and, hopefully, we are showing that love more than one day a year anyway. We really just want to concentrate on the non- and not-so-commercial aspects of Christmas -- the celebration of Advent, the beautiful decorations, the music, the tree, the church services, the Christmas pageant, the Christmas cards, the joy of family traditions, the sharing of His love and the material blessings He has given with the less fortunate (which seems to me the way that Jesus would most want us to celebrate His arrival) -- rather than the dilemma of finding gifts for people who already have so much.

Anyway, those are some things that have been on my heart and mind this morning. Talk to y'all later -- or, as they say in The Prisoner, "Be seeing you."

Downfall

In a makeshift laboratory in the depths of a bunker, a scientist carefully mixes powders and liquids in a large beaker. An immaculately dressed woman nearing middle-age sits tensely by his side. She anxiously inquires, "How long will the effect be?" The scientist answers, "About four hours."

The woman and the scientist take the mixture into another room in the bunker where six children (ranging in age from about four to thirteen) are sitting and reading a bedtime story together. They look up to greet their mother and the man whom she introduces as a doctor coming to bring them some medicine to guard against the dampness of the underground shelter. "But Mutti, it is not damp in here," the youngest little girl interjects. "Quiet now," the mother replies, "Who will take a sip of the medicine first?" The youngest volunteers. The glass is passed from child to child, each one dutifully taking his or her share, until it reaches the eldest girl, Helga. Helga has been watching with growing horror, and refuses to take the medicine. What does she fear? Her mother insists and holds her daughter's head still while the man forces the concoction down her throat. Helga breaks free and collapses sobbing onto her bed. The mother and the scientist leave the room.

What Helga can only guess at the viewer already knows. We have already watched the mother, Magda Goebbels, agonizing over the thought killing her children. She resolves to end their lives, because she does not want them to grow up in a world without National Socialism, without the German Reich, and, mostly, without der Führer. She and her husband, Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels, have decided to stay with Adolph Hitler during his last few days as Berlin falls to the Russians and Hitler himself falls to the madness and delusions of his own megalomania. They will die with the man to whom they have pledged their devotion and service, and they will take their children with them. Various Nazi officials, including Hitler, try to convince her to spare the children, but she sees no future worth living as the Third Reich falls. At this point, the viewer hopes, knowing that the effect of the "medicine" will only last four hours, that Magda Goebbels has had a change of heart and will only drug her children into a deep sleep while the last vestiges of Hitler's reign crumble.

Jason and I finished watching the excellent German-language movie Downfall last night. It was an experience that will not soon leave me. I went to bed thinking about what I'd seen, and I woke up this morning with scenes from the movie still seared into my consciousness. Never before had I seen a portrayal of that personification of evil, Adolph Hitler, that made him anything more profound than a cartoonish example of madness. Never before had I seen on film a representation of the psychological hold Hitler had on so many of the German people, especially his closest advisors and companions. Nazis are so often presented in American (and other countries') films as nameless, faceless arms of automation -- performing their senseless horror with mechanical precision and without passion. How many "Heil Hitlers" and boot-clickings can they fit on screen before getting back to the real characters in the World WAR II drama at hand? This movie brought to vivid, heart-wrenching life some of the key players in the last hours of Adolph Hitler, and, while it was not attempting the impossible feat of making Hitler and his close associates sympathetic, it succeeded brilliantly in making them human -- fatally flawed, intensely disturbed, incurably insane humans.

The movie is told through the eyes of Hitler's personal secretary, Traudl Junge, a young Bavarian woman who goes to work for Hitler in 1942. The action quickly fast forwards to April 1945 and the unstoppable Russian forces closing in on Berlin. Even as Hitler tries every strategy to rally the German forces to overcome the Russian advance, he prepares his suicide. Key characters in his regime pass in and out of the bunker throughout the movie. One of the areas in which the movie excels is the constant tension created by observing the reactions of those closest to Hitler, as the world for which they have fought disintegrates about them. Who will stay to the end? Who will abandon Berlin? Who will be loyal? Who will betray? Who will fight for the Reich in the bombed-out streets? Who will accept the inevitability of surrender to the Russians? The script is so well crafted, that Nazi officials from sixty years ago become known to the viewer in distinguishable vignettes. Although it is a foreign language film (and I speak some German, but not enough to watch without subtitles) and the actors are all unknown to U.S. audiences (and wearing, essentially, the same uniform), I had no trouble following the actions and motives of the different characters as they chose their fates.

The actor who played Hitler, Bruno Ganz, was amazing. He brought to the role such an ability to round out the personality of a man that everybody knows of, but whose own mistress (later wife) Eva Braun, admitted that nobody knows. You could believe him -- that's my highest praise. You could believe that he loved his dog, was kind to his secretary, was complimentary to his subordinates, was absolutely without mercy toward his perceived enemies, was unconcerned about the suffering of German civilians, and was able to sentence over six million Jews to death. His odd mixture of courtly civility, unbalanced irrationalism, and blood-thirsty self-righteousness simply blended into an incredible psychological specimen -- the mind of a genius and a lunatic.

The actress who played Eva Braun, Juliane Köhler, created a needed foil to Ganz's Hitler. You would have to be more than a little off-kilter to fall in love with such a madman, and her portrayal of the most infamous mistress in history was pitch perfect. Her laughter echoed off the bunker walls while she cranked up the Victrola and led a madcap dancing party as bombs shook the foundation of the earth. She smoked, dranked, and ate meat (all things that Hitler abhorred); she had giggling girl-chats with the lady secretaries and expressed a light-hearted point of view so far removed from the darkness of the souls surrounding Hitler; and she loved der Führer with unquestioning devotion. When she begs her (newly-married) husband to spare the life of her brother-in-law who abandoned his post and was to be shot as a traitor, and Hitler caresses her face while explaining that there is no mercy for those who betray him, and she sits back and looks at him with a mixture of resignation and complete reverance and says, "You are the Führer" -- that is a great cinematic moment.

Alexandra Maria Lara plays the secretary, Traudl Junge, who witnessed this culmination (much of the movie was based upon her autobiography). She also did an excellent job. Frau Junge was only twenty-two and non-political when she went to Berlin to work for the most powerful man in Germany -- a man she always described as "the best boss I ever had." In the last days, as the Reich was unravelling and the bunker walls were becoming more and more like a prison than a refuge, we see her growing horror at witnessing Hitler's hate-filled invectives and merciless attitude toward the sufferring German civilians. Ms. Lara plays the role with the right balance of naïve surprise and detached world-weariness. For a short while in the film, she and another secretary gladly accept cyanide tablets from Hitler so that they too can die with the Reich.

Some of the greatest revelations of this film are the scenes portraying the German civilians outside the bunker in war-ravaged Berlin. It is hard to find an American movie about World War II that shows the incredible sufferring of the ordinary men and women who lived in the bombed out cities of Germany, and the Berlin street scenes in Downfall are particularly poignant -- maybe in part because it is such a novelty to reflect on this aspect of the War. One thing that the movie shows very well is that many ordinary civilians had as much to fear from the Nazis as from the invading Russian forces. In one brief but powerful scene, civilians are scurrying across the streets in a bombing lull. All of a sudden -- BOOM! -- a bomb hits the ground and the people instinctively dive flat on their bellies. The smoke clears and the people get up again and continue on their ways, except some mothers who huddle over their bloodied children. That low moan of complete despair escapes one mother's lips as she cradles her dead son and cries, "Hans . . . Hans . . ." In another scene, war-weary civilians are hanged from street lamps by remnant Nazi troops for daring to seek mercy from the Russians.

Hitler's suicide is shown as the methodical act of self-will -- not so much out of desperation, certainly not of depression, but an act of pride. He will not allow himself to go into hiding. He will not allow himself to be captured. He will not even allow the Russians to get a hold of his corpse, so he orders it burned upon his death. Eva Braun, not more than thirty-six hours Frau Hitler, applies one last coat of red lipstick and resolutely joins in death the man she made her god in life. Behind a solid bunker door, they each break a thin, glass capsule filled with cyanide between their teeth, and Hitler puts a bullet through his temple simultaneously. Their bodies are taken out to a ditch outside the bunker, doused with gasoline, and set aflame. As Hitler exits in this manner, the German people are still starving and common soldiers are still dying. The juxtaposition of his suicide to a desperate people suddenly abandoned is a skillful way for the filmmakers to comment subtly that this was no noble act, but one of extreme cowardice.

Frau Junge decides to make her escape. The viewer gets the impression that she has seen enough self-destruction and murder to turn her away from the idealistic decision to die with the Führer. She decides that she would rather take her chances on the streets of Berlin, filled with the advancing Russian forces, than spend one more minute in the poisonous atmosphere of the bunker. It was interesting to learn (from the documentary included on the DVD we rented) that Frau Junge's husband has been one of Hitler's personal servants, but he had volunteered to go fight on the front lines because, as he told his young wife, "The longer I stay here, the less I can call my mind my own. I echo everything the Führer says. I go to sleep thinking about the Führer; I wake up thinking about the Führer. Better to go to the front lines and possibly lose my life than stay here and lose my soul." He soon lost his life in battle. Knowing this, though, I wondered if his young widow remembered his words as the regime crumbled, and decided she would rather not lose her life or her soul. Her escape from Berlin is one of the uplifting moments in this profoundly disturbing and dark film.

And what of the young Goebbelses? What of those six precious children who were left in the bunker? What of those Kinder -- the truly innocent pawns in this game of death?

Back in the bunker, Magda Goebbels enters her childrens' room. They are sleeping a deep, drugged sleep. Resolutely she goes to the first child. Her face is set like a mask -- absolutely no emotion. She pries open her daughter's mouth and places a cyanide capsule between her teeth. Then Frau Goebbels pushes the child's jaw up to crush the capsule and release the poison -- a small spasm and then the small girl's head lolls to the side, lifeless. This act is repeated another five times, until all of the children are dead -- robbed of their young lives by a mother blinded by her fanatical devotion to a cult of death and destruction. Magda Goebbels pulls the blankets up over each of their heads. She leaves the room and closes the door. She sinks to the floor -- not in a faint, but in mental and physical exhaustion. Her husband stands a few yards away and stares at her in mute sympathy. In a minute, she arises and says nothing but sits at a table and calms herself with a game of solitaire.

Soon, Frau and Herr Goebbels go outside the bunker to the courtyard. He shoots her and then himself. They too are burned in the ditch -- the minister of Nazi propaganda becoming the final ironic statement of absolute devotion -- offering not only himself, but his wife and children as sacrifices upon the altar of a demonic political philosophy.

This movie is very difficult to watch, especially the scenes with the children. It is hard to believe that these events happened only sixty years ago. More than anything, I was left feeling so grateful that I worship the Lord of Life and not the government of men. It is so scary to see what happens when people put their faith in governments and not in the Creator -- whether that government is Naziism, Stalinism, or any other system made by sinful man. I would recommend this film with the only reservations being the violence on screen and the emotional drain. It is an important movie and a worthy addition to the cinematic examinations of the horror of World War II.

Quick Update for Those Who Visit

The family (Jason, Sadie and I) are back from a recent grandparent-visiting trip to the Midwest (South Dakota and St. Louis). We three are completely exhausted and are looking forward to hanging our travelers' caps on the hook by the door for six months at least. After a twelve-hour journey home from St. Louis last Wednesday, I'm still in bone-tired mode. If you are ever tempted to think that airline-employee, non-rev, stand-by travel is glamorous and thrilling -- whoo boy! -- I could learn ya a different tale! You out there with toddlers know what I'm talking about. Traveling with Miss Two-And-A-Half is hard enough without being bumped off of three different flights for lack of space. I am grateful to be able to give Sadie that all-important grandparent exposure, BUT moving out to the Midwest ourselves (and closing the grandparent-proximity gap) is looking mighty attractive after a trip like this one.

Anyway, I am desperately trying to get caught up with all the sidebar blogs I read. Goodness, I do love what you people out there write! I'm as addicted to your writings, dear Cyber-Community, as I am to sweet, sweet java nectar. And that says quite a bit if you know how much coffee I wash down my gullet every day. So, a big "thank you" to all I read -- you bring me laughter, tears, teeth-gnashings, and always, always something to contemplate. And thank you for stopping by this blog o' mine.

I've got so much to write about -- especially the scores of books I've read and not yet reviewed.

Thought the old blog could use a winter-themed facelift. What do you think?

I love you guys! Happy blogging to all and KEEP ON WRITING!

Head-Hunting for Jesus or The Myth of the 5-Minute Testimony

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!

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.

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

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.

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!

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

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?

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.

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!

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.

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

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)

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