Christmas reflection on the Virgin Mary

My appreciation for Mary is slowly growing. Its difficult to overcome my inherent protestant fears of this mysterious figure of the Gospel, but the symbolic and spiritual weight of her character in the gospels I can no longer ignore. There are a number of views that seem to be particularly fruitful foci for understanding Mary in light of her uniqueness.

First, there is the view of  Mary as mother of mankind, an angle which plays up her singularity as the mother of the Christ.  It can not be denied that Mary is the vessel by which the first Man makes His way into the world; before this there existed only shadows of man, which were themselves shadows of Man.  Strange and wonderful, then, is Mary, whose DNA was to provide source of the Messiah's genetic code (Though I'm not sure what I think of the historical credibility of the virgin birth, it is nonetheless interesting to speculate that Jesus' genetic code would be, if the virgin birth is factual, solely based on Mary's patterns.  I wonder, then, how many times he heard, "you favor your mother" :)).  What does it mean for Mary to be the mother of mankind?  There are extreme positions: one makes this fact a justification for her apotheosis via religious ritual practices, the best example being the recitation of the Rosary, varying in spiritual significance from community to community, the other minimizes this fact to the point of nonexistence.  What is a healthy understanding?     Not sure, something to think about.

 
Second, there is the view of Mary as a unique physical symbol of the Christian's spiritual reality as well as a call to all mankind.  This view of Mary I heard recently in a homily given during a catholic funeral for my great Aunt.  It seemed new to me at the time, but upon reflection I realized I heard it before in the last verse of the traditional Christmas song, "O Little Town of Bethlehem," which begins,

"O little child of Bethlehem,
descend to us we pray,
cast out our sin and enter in,
be born in us today."    

In these few lines we see articulated the perpetual rebirth of Jesus in the new Christian's heart.  Mary was, in fact, the first Christian.  She opened her womb to the Messiah, accepting, quite literally, the Christ.  Interestingly, she does not accept this weight with a mere 'yes'.  Rather, she says, "Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word."   Her acceptance is in the form of a declaration that she is and will be a servant of the Living God.  One might argue that the acceptance of Christ is much more complicated than a simple agreement to live as the servant of God, but I'm not convinced that it is anything more than that.  Of course, there is the forgiveness of sins going on somewhere in the background, but, in essence, Jesus' gospel is a call to enter into the Kingdom of God as a servant, to have the will of God played out in one's life and to bring about the will of God in the lives of others.  Thus, Mary's acceptance of the Messiah is a physical symbol of the spiritual event that takes place in a new Christian.  Christ is born in the heart of a man or woman and then matures and grows in him or her till He bursts forth from them as light, love, and truth.  Christ's birth and growing in a Christian is not parasitical, being a kind of possession or take-over, but rather synergistic, uniting God and man mysteriously resulting in the new, complete Man.  Christ's explosion out of a person is seen in the self-actualization of the person and his or her highest expression of innate self for the benefit of others and the glory of God.  Mary is the physical symbol for this event, but, in being so, she is also more.  In the same way the story of those who have experienced this ultimate spiritual event serves as testimony and a call to others, so does Mary stand as a physical testimony and a call to all men and woman—will you too 'prepare Him room' in your heart and accept the call to enter into the Kingdom of God as a servant? 

There are other views of Mary that are worth discussing, but that's all I have the energy to write about right now (Mary as a paranormal phenomena, Mary is a cultic object of worship, Mary as the goddess of Christianity,  etc.).  There are some great essays and works of art that make highly idiosyncratic symbolic uses of Mary that would be worth a look if you're interested and which have contributed to my growing interest in her as a figure.  To name a few,  the film director Godard, if I remember correctly, held her in high esteem, discussed her from time to time and made a movie about her;  Octavio Paz has a great chapter in his book, El Laberinto de la Soledad [The Labyrinth of Solitude] , in which he discusses her role in Mexican Catholicism; Sion Sono's, a terrific Japanese director, recent film, Love Exposure, uses Mary as a central motif as well as various other Christian symbols throughout in fascinating ways; Chris Ofili's has a terrific Mary painting that caused a lot of controversy (seen above);  Bresson's Journal d'un curé de campagne [Diary of a Country Priest] contains some great material as well.                  

P.S. In an increasingly visual age, my passions and loves feel more and more obsolete and shabby (the written word in its many forms and practices...).  I want to write a eulogy in the form of a book to the recent passing of the Word to help me properly mourn.

I'm going to regret posting this later

An Attempt to Tip the Scales
Bright Eyes

Did you expect it all to stop at the wave of your hand?
Like the sun's just gonna drop if it's night you demand.

Well, in the dark we're just air, so the house might dissolve.
But once we're gone, who's gonna care if we were ever here at all?

Well, summer's gonna come, it's gonna cloud our eyes again.
No need to focus when there's nothing that's worth seeing.

So we trade liquor for blood in an attempt to tip the scales.
I think you lost what you loved in that mess of details.
They seemed so important at the time
but now you can't even recall any of the names, faces, or lines.
It's more the feeling of it all.

Well, winter's gonna end, I'm gonna clean these veins again.
So close to dying that I finally can start living.

I listened to a lot of Bright Eyes my senior and junior year of high school. In college I more or less stopped because I got fed up with Connor Oberst's self-pity. Yesterday I found an old burned copy of Fevers and Mirrors in my bedroom cd caseand decided to give it a spin in the good ol' car stereo for old times sake. Expecting to be embarrassed that I had once listened to this album religiously, I played the first couple of tracks and to my surprise thoroughly enjoyed them.

I'm not sure whether to attribute this enjoyment to the simply explosion of pleasure that occurs when you re-encounter a old, loved object or person or to the intrinsic worth of the music itself. I'm leaning towards the former (Evidence: I recently listen to and enjoyed the early Offspring album, Smash). Oberst's music always gave me huge emotional highs in high school and much to my surprise it did once again today. I'm not sure why. It used to awaken my imagination and, almost magically, did so again today. In spite of his many flaws, Oberst can pen a decent song, whose primary strength are the communicate of an ineffable sense of, well, feeling. While that may seem stupid or trite, for INFPers like myself, its huge (Feeling is crack cocaine for an INFPer). Because O'berst songs avoid, for the most part, musical and lyrical predictability, they're good for multiple listens, faithfully giving heavy doses of emotional excess to hungry teenage souls.

The above song is from the second to last track on Fevers and Mirrors. I listened to it multiple times in the car today because I kept wanting to hear the lines "summer's gonna come..." and "winter's gonna end..." I want 'summer' to come cloud my eyes.

[if I were 18 again I could justify writing this post, being 23 makes this embarrassing)

If you decide to listen to this song, I would suggest not listening to the interview.

Sufjan Steven's "It's christmas! Let's be glad"

FUN! :). Terrible quality, but such a yum song. Look for it on one of those free listen sites if you want to hear a better version.

Two Notes to the Below Song

(1) Like most lyrics, these don't really hold up apart from the music -- their magic is in the way they are sung. SO, listen to the song, don't just read. (2) Music videos detract from the personal experience of songs, giving concrete imagery and associations to otherwise ambiguous lyrical content; while that's not necessarily a terrible thing, sometimes its nice to go for the pure encounter (in the below case, it's highly recommended).

:)

On top of being a decent song, Grolandic Edit has some great lyrics:

(The surrealists were just) nihilists with good imaginations

I am satisfied hiding in our friend's apartment,
Only leaving once a day to buy some groceries;
Daylight, I'm so absent minded, nighttime meeting new anxieties.
So am I erasing myself? Hope I'm not erasing myself...

I guess it would be nice
to give my heart to a God
But which one, which one do I choose?
Oh the church is filled with losers, psycho or confused
I just want to hold the divine in mine and forget all of the beauty's wasted...

Pretty Terrific

From my Google Reader feed:

Top 10 Bad Messages From Good Movies

Quality doesn’t generally come into play when it comes to messages in movies: There are plenty of bad movies whose messages are perfectly benign, and plenty of good movies that have messages you definitely wouldn’t want your kids to take to heart. Here is a countdown of the top ten bad messages in good (and at least somewhat geeky) movies.

I always wondered how they made this....

I discovered a "making of" video for one of my favorite music videos of all time.

Here's the original in case you've never seen it:



Here's the "making of":

Christian Command and Conquer?

I don't know how I missed this --- Left Behind: Eternal Forces. Released in 2006, LBEF is a RTS videogame based on the popular Left Behind book series. The game takes place in an imagined post-raptured world, loosely based upon controversial interpretations of the book of Revelation. In order to win the single-player mode, you, the leader of the christian remnant, have to convert as many neutrals as possible through evangelism and prayer and kill those who are militantly opposed to your mission -- that is, opinionated non-believers (which makes them, of course, part of the Antichrist's World order). hm. RED FLAG. Initially backing the project were the folks at Rick Warren's Purpose Driven Life company, but even they realized the awfulness of the idea and pulled out. But, unsurprisingly, Focus on the Family stayed on the straight and narrow, giving the game high praise upon its release. I only wished I would have known about this game in its heyday --- then, I could have bought my little brother a copy....

Here's the game's two trailers and a game play clips:
Trailer 1
Trailer 2 (much funnier)
Clip (the units are so positive!)

and here's a CNN news clip covering its controversial release:
CNN Clip

Finally, if you're still curious, check out the Wikipedia article:
Eternal Forces Article

(I try not to rag to hard on Christian media, but sometimes its just too easy....Don't get me wrong, the game isn't any more depraved or harmful than most games sold, but it is also no more useful as a "truth-teaching" tool than, let's say, Starcraft or Age of Empires, which is, let's face it, the subliminal claim of these types of "Christian" media to which Christians are often blind)

Excerpts from Kierkegaard's Practice in Christianity

" Can One Come to Know something about Christ from History?

No. Why not? Because one cannot know anything at all about Christ; he is the pradox, the object of faith, exists only for faith. But all historical communication is the communication of knowledge; Consequently one can come to know nothing about Christ from history. For if one comes to know little or much or something about him, he is not the one he in truth is. Thus one comes to know something about him that is different from what he is. One comes to know nothing about him or one comes to know something incorrect about him--one is deceived. History makes Christ into someone else than he is in truth, and thus from history we come to know much about--Christ? No, not about Christ, for about him nothing can be known; he can only be believed." pg 26

" 'History, says faith, "has nothing at all to do with Jesus Christ; with regard to him we have only sacred history (which is qualitatively different from history in general), which relates the story of his life in the state of abasement, also that he claimed to be God. He is the paradox that history can never digest or convert into an ordinary syllogism. He is the same in his abasement as in his loftiness--but the eighteen hundred years, or if it came to be eighteen thousand years, has nothing at all to do with it. These brilliant results in world history, which almost convince even a professor of history that he was God, these brilliant results are certainly not his coming again in glory! But this is just about how one understands it; it shows again that Christ is made into a human being whose coming again in glory cannot be or become anything other than the result of his life in history--whereas Christ's coming again in glory is something entirely different from this, something that is to be believed. He abased himself and was wrapped in rags--he will come again in glory, but the brilliant results, especially on closer inspection, are too shabby a glory, in any case a totally incongruous glory that faith therefore never mentions when it speaks of his glory. He still exists only in his abasement, until he, something that is believed, comes again in glory. History may be an excellent branch of knowledge, but it must not become so conceited that it undertakes what the Father will do, to array Christ in glory, clothing him in the glittering trappings of results, as if this were the second coming. That in his abasement he was God, that he will come again in glory--this goes not a little beyond the understanding of history; this cannot be drawn from history, no matter how matchlessly one regards it, except through a matchless lack of dialectic.'

How strange, and then history is the very thing that people have wanted to use to demonstrate that Christ was God." pg 30-31

Commentary:

These two passages come from the first part of Practice in Christianity in (sections) b and c of the subsection, The Halt. Struck by their relevance to discussions on biblical history, I wanted to share a few thoughts. Although originally written as warnings against the dangers of pro-christian positivist/enlightenment theology, these passages also serve as warnings against those of modern strands of biblical criticism (specifically, the historical-critical method). Take the following passage, "These brilliant results in world history, which almost convince even a professor of history that he [Jesus] was God, these brilliant results are certainly not his coming again in glory!" Here, Kierkegaard is rebuking those who would prove Christ's divinity through history ( He insists that all they really do is prove the divinity of a distorted literary Christ with no actual existence -- his argument is actually quite compelling, too bad Lee Strobel never read it :) . Today, Kierkegaard's rebuke applies to a different group of people who claim the exact opposite: the "brilliant results in world history" -- devious 1st century apostles, powerful censors from Carathage, and inconsistent textual traditions - show clearly that Jesus was most definitely not God.

So, how does Kierkegaard's idea come into play? It is by his definition of knowing. Christ is not known in history, but in experience (which Kierkegaard equates with faith); He is not known in the past, but the present. Therefore, it doesn't matter whether history suggests Christ is or isn't God; history is past, Christ is present -- and it is only experience of what is present that can prove either way. Sounds stupid, but I think he's making a good point (and it serves as a good reminder). According to Christianity, Christ is not dead, but alive. Why is it then that the church so often insists that he can only be known through 2000 year old accounts of His life? Do we come to know much about anyone by their fingerprints (besides identities of criminals)? In the first half of Practice in Christianity , Kierkegaard drives this idea home again and again: Christ must be encountered as a contemporary, a present presence in this world and not a distant figure of history; history is always of secondary importance.

More specifically, of history, he states,

History may be an excellent branch of knowledge, but it must not become so conceited that it undertakes what the Father will do, to array Christ in glory, clothing him in the glittering trappings of results, as if this were the second coming.

Modern biblical scholarship is devoted to the task of uncovering Christianity and Judaism's human roots. Personally, like Kierkegaard, I find this task praise worthy. Its findings help to remove unnecessary theological complexities and reduce unhealthy emphases on the supernatural. But its useful work often come with unwanted baggage -- the uncovering of the great humanness of the bible covers over its equally present divinity via divine inspiration. As a result, we should render the above passage as, "but it [History] must not become so conceited that it undertakes what Satan seeks to do, to disrobe Christ on the cross, clothing him in the blood and glistening sweat of man, stripped of everything divine, as if this was his one and bitter end." I am in constant need of reminder that the Christ I encounter is not the Christ of history -- a weak ideological Christ trapped in the pages of an ancient text -- but a Christ of the Present and the Now, a Christ who continually reminds me to come, tired and burdened by sin and strife, and find rest. Biblical scholarship, whether it affirm or deny the divinity of Christ, should never replace the living and present Lord we worship with a dead and mythic historical conception.

Cheese

"I have no doubt that in reality the future will be vastly more surprising than anything I can imagine. Now my own suspicion is that the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose."
-J.B.S. Haldane

Today during an oddball dinner conversation with my mom and sister, my faith in reality's utter bizarreness strengthened. I learned, among other things, that Human Breast Cheese is produced as a commercial product in France (check it out here). As a resolute Terrencian, my heart warmed with this new revelation -- I am now more human.

Peace, be still

The Scriptures in hand

beneath the spout of human knowledge,

I stand watching

The Holy Pages soak.

Till the words no longer speak

and a familiar asphyxiation takes hold.

When in a panic,

an image of a

BOY in a

Green and brown and trees

Kneeled before a

White  tree and CROSS

becomes a New Word

The Chicken is My Youth, the Blood My Twenties

I am a chicken, sin cabeza,
running 'round the lawn;
a fountain of blood bathes the children
who scream wildly
tossing my head back and forth
covered in October sunset.

Beautiful

I rediscovered this song yesterday evening in my car within the stack of unmarked Memorax, 80 min CD-Rs. The whole album is worth a listen. A mixture of a sermon, personal testimony and powerful musical performance, its difficult not to be moved -- that's not to say there aren't duds on the record, a few of the songs I can't listen to for more than a minute. Nonetheless, the above song as well as Mystery of Iniquity and War in the Mind is undeniably powerful. Worth a look.

The Conquering Lion is incredibly simple - two couplets repeated over a single chord progression (C-F-Em-Dm) with slight rhythmic and melodic variations. What distinguishes the song is the passion and confidence with which its sung. If it wasn't for Lauryn's personal commentary found before and after the song on the record, one might view these characteristics is simply part of a good performance, but in the context of the record, these words are sung as a unashamed declaration - Hill believes what she is saying and is declaring it to the audience in a very direct, confrontational manner. Of course, its done in a good spirit, so, as far as I can tell, people aren't generally offended by it, which is interesting. I think they should be. If one really wants to encounter this song, an response to Hills declaration is necessary. Within the inner chambers of being, an emphatic Yes or No should arise. (Although, I suppose there is also the response of indifferent curiosity, "hm" or "huh").

Memories

My sister's choir concert concluded with this piece. Brought back memories from High school, when we used to sing it. I remember really enjoying it. Not terribly complicated or obscure -- from what I gather from the youtube message boards, every high school choir in the south seems to have sung it at one time or another --, its played-out, simplicity does not detract from its beauty.

Home brings out the strongest feelings of consciously acknowledged disdain and pride. I noticed it yesterday sitting in my old high-school cafeteria, listening to my sister sing. Strong revulsion at the homeliness of my surroundings overtook me; the sight of a bunch of middle-class, country folk, watching their mediocre sons and daughters preform was too much. I felt indignation that God had placed me here again.

And what could I do? Those were my thoughts. I knew they were wrong, but I couldn't stop them. I felt ashamed, my base emotions and unconscious thoughts gave me away. Who am I anyway? Do I really think that just because I received an Ivy League education, I am no longer part of a broader humanity - one that my Ivy League personality spits upon, seeing it as homily, embarrassing and laughable? Similar emotions sweep over me at the audit classes. If the people in the room knew what I thought of them as they bumble over seemingly easy material, they would kick me out of the room.

I was not a genius in High School. There were other kids smarter than me, and I could admit without a problem. Now, after four years of elite education, I've forgotten myself. Ivy League education didn't make me smarter. Sure, I'm a bit more knowledgeable, a bit more refined, but that doesn't make me more intelligent. Part of me, a part I can't seem to access, a part that needs a good wake-the-hell-up kick in the ass, thinks going to Princeton made me genius. If anything, Princeton made me a fool. Life is a gift. Intelligence is a gift. Strength is a gift. Looks are a gift. They are not to be used to "lord" over others, but to serve them. Thus,

Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothin, taking the form of a servant, being born inth e likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself be becomeing obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.

Many of these thoughts drifted through my head while watching my sister preform. The music was beautiful, and I realized I preferred high school choir's rendition of classic pieces because you hear a paradox: the beauty of the music shines forth in spite of and through the imperfect harmonies, faulty rhythm and unpolished voices as does the Glory of the Lord in each one of his children.

Today at the Record Store

Every time I walk into a record, I start to feel uncomfortable, like I'm in the presence of someone with a terminal illness. Its simply depressing to watch these stores die. The shelves full of ~5x5 polygons, which once seemed worthy of my hard earned twenty dollar bills, now appear pathetic, almost like the sight of high priced handmade goods in street markets begging to be bargained down.

Now, I've had two distinct consumer soft-spots in my life - DVDs and CDs. I've forked out thousands of dollars accumulating hundreds of little, shiny discs and skimpy booklets. With the shift to digital, my goods have lost their value. Bummer. The internet is the new printing press, and the seemingly endless repercussions of this powerful invention terrify me.

The Everyman

The young father knelt

beside his wife

who was dying of cancer

and prayed, "Lord, please heal her."

The Theologian

While thinking on
A FUTURE,

ever elusive,

A REDEMPTION,

ever postponed,

A FULFILLMENT,

ever absent,

A LORD,
ever hidden,
A REDACTOR,
ever disguised,
A TRUTH,
ever plural,
the young man prayed,
HOLY GOD,
ever obscured,
HOLY AND STRONG,
ever secret,
HOLY AND MIGHTY,
ever invisible,
HAVE MERCY,
every helpless,
ON US,
ever confused.

Pale Fire Quote

"I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff -- and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky."

I first read these lines in high school, but they are still stuck in my brain. There's such an elegant simplicity here -- I've never been able to put my finger on it, but its power moves me. Unfortunately for anyone that reads these four lines here in this post, their effect will probably be lost. For some reason, the magic of the written word is reduced when found quoted online, especially in a blog, detached from the whole.

Genderless Poetry

A down-on-your-luck moment,
it´ll pass,
just like the wheat
in fields becomes
Mrs. Barid's 100 percent
whole grain bread.

Blue sky blushes as wind sweeps across his face;
the psalmist said, "that´s you, buddy," in Hebrew,
and I took my friends word for it:
"its hard to translate things like that."

Quote

"I bet a man invented the glass shower"
- my sis

Preface: Get Over Yourself; Reflection: The Miracle of Birth

(Preface: I have a problem posting. I write something, then self-consciousness kicks in, and I file it away as a draft. Worse, sometimes I put it in a word document. It lengthens, usually to about 2500 words, and is left, forgotten.

So, Zach, what's the lesson here?

Don't take yourself so seriously. )

Two weeks ago, a couple [S&M] with whom I'm friends had a child. I visited them in the hospital the day after and was struck by two events. The first occurred upon seeing the child for the first time -- I felt my spirit swell with delight as when seeing a friend for the first time in months. I can't explain why. My emotional state on my way to the hospital was flat; I looked forward to seeing S, M and A, but didn't expect to be spiritually moved. So, yes, that was the first memorable moment. Lesson learned: the sight of a child awakens within the soul a "yes" to life -- my soul saw what was made and spoke, "it [she] is good".

The second notable moment happened later in the afternoon. When I'm at home, I spend most sunday evenings with S&M participating in their small house liturgy -- a fresh break from the mega-church service I attend in the morning. Since this afternoon happened to fall on a Sunday, we held liturgy in the hospital room; only this time, it was a special service: a ritual blessing for A. We, the grandparents, parents, relatives and visitors, about 12 in all, each read part of the blessing. Now, if you've gone to church dedication services before, this blessing might not seem particularly moving or interesting, but there was a uniqueness to it this moment. There was no place for spectacle, the necessary distance for 'pure' observation could not be found - everyone simply knew each other. Furthermore, there was no pomp or pretense. There was no church. There wasn't even a minister. There was only a small group of people, believing fully that the Christ stood in their midst, dwelt in their hearts, watched over the child and blessed him -- either embarrassing foolery or profound reality, the experience was memorable.

Lesson learned: Ritual Blessings (naming, included) have value; they play important parts in spiritual expression and are a derivative of the broader category of prayer and worship. Therefore, we should take them seriously.

Music Review

Recently wrote a music review for the recent Sunset Rubdown album, Dragonslayer. If you're interested, you can find it here.

Three Things

There are currently three things that frighten me, no more, no less, and they are the following:
1) China
2) The next ten years
3) God's displeasure

The relation of these three fears is minimal, although not negligible. That's all for now.

(Facts?) of Personal Interest

[The information below was stolen directly from my professor's lecture; although it may read like I know a lot about the ancient Greek language and history, I don't. In fact, this information comprises about 90% of what I know about them. Nevertheless, I found it cool and wanted to share =)]

Today, I learned that of the many books in the New Testament the only 'sermon' like ones are 1 John and Hebrews. [I'm not sure if this is actually true; our Greek professor told the class the information. Feel free to correct me.] This was exciting news as my deep affection for 1 John and Hebrew, two of my favorite New Testament books, now makes sense - they were poet/academics!

Hebrews and 1 John's status as homiletic texts is not totally surprising given the distinct styles of these books compared to the rest of the new testament; nonetheless, it's still interesting to note that this status, at least in the case of 1 John, I learned, is not just just a product of style, but also structure - not only does John read like a homily, it is intentionally presented as such. In the John 1:1, we find at the end of a series of relative clauses, the phrase, περὶ του λύγου τῆς ζωῆς [transliteration: peri tou logou tes zoes; roughly, concerning the word of life]. Apparently, this typical, 1st century declaration was used in the introduction of all homiletic texts at the time. Writers would inform readers of the their topic by placing the main idea/subject directly after περὶ τοῦ. Thus, the writer of 1 John declares his main topic to be λύγου τῆς ζωῆς (the word of life) when he writes, περὶ τοῦ λύγου τῆς ζωῆς.

Now comes the really interesting question: what the heck does the writer mean by 'the word of life'?

J.S. Bach and His Partita No. 2 in D minor

Ever since a friend played this piece earlier in the year, I have not been able to stop listening to it. Why is unclear, but that doesn't make the compulsion any less powerful; in fact, if anything, it is the very piece's mysterious quality that keeps me bound to it. Somehow, despite having played hundreds of times in my headphones, it continues to sound fresh, almost organic, as if the piece were secretly rearranging itself every time.

This is not insignificant. Why can only be explained by a personal confession of apostasy. It began in high school with an early falling out with 'main-stream, commercial' music. This disillusionment led me to embrace the redemptive message of the independent music movement, very popular at the time. 'Indie' music was, much to my dismay, a sham. When I discovered my messiah to be false, a regular Sabattai Zevi, I returned to the mundane, but occasionally beautiful world of pop music, a prodigal son, but also a broken man. I let radio music keep me alive - low nourishment, quick buzz hooks, beats that keep the body active, fending off decay and apathy. It wasn't much of existence, but I couldn't complain. Sure, I still kept tabs on indie music, but no longer a true believer, my curiosity was infused with a twisted disdain and loathing, which was, undoubtedly, unhealthy for my soul. Music had ceased to delight me. No longer did I believe in its powers; nor, I thought, would I ever again.

I was wrong. One day this past April (?), a saw a miracle, a Dirty Projector's concert. Suddenly, I felt again. Swept off my feet, elevated by the tight harmonies and strong rhythms, my soul awakened - but only for a moment, this was no reconversion experience; I was not shaken, only stirred. Then, around that same time, a friend preformed Bach's Partitat No.2 in D minor, and sweet music, once again, penetrated the depths of my hard heart; I almost repented there, on the spot - yet again, I resisted. Now, I continue to listen, testing this piece to see if it is a sham, waiting for the all-telling dull resentment and the hateful desensitization to once again arise. But, I wonder, could I be wrong?

A Few Details

Today and Yesterday's Notable Events:

Worked out today for the first time in ages with my old man; the result: tired- and sore-ness. Got up at 5 p.m. to drive to Austin's highest 'mountain' and break my body.

Had my first day of class for two audit courses I'm taking at a local seminary (Ancient Greek and Hebrew). Courses are full of people 10-30 years my elder. The professor's are both PTS grads.

[My stance towards listing uninteresting details about daily life - previously unfavorable - may be shifting]

In other news, this video provided some laughs last week for my family and myself:



I don't really understand what William Shatner, or for that matter, the persons in charge of this event, was thinking. [<-- is it 'was' or 'were' there?] Anyhow, apparently it was a common error an aesthetic sensibilities at the time; As evidence, I present exhibit B:

Story I heard from a mother at dinner tonight.

"We've been working with Connor's anger issues lately. He's still been throwing a lot of fits and beating up on his little brother, Paul. In fact, the other day he pushed him down the stairs. Frustrating, really. When Paul got back up his back was bleeding; I was pretty angry . I showed Connor and asked him, 'Do you like the way this makes you feel? Do you enjoy causing your brother pain?'. He looked at me for a second, contemplating*, and replied, 'No, it makes me feel like a loser'."

*The mother clarified: "He contemplated to the best of his ability as a six year old"

Paul Tillich and Forgetting

I recently finished reading a collection of sermons and meditations by Paul Tillich found in a little book entitled, The Eternal Now. The preface to the book immediately caught my attention in its description of Tillich. Highly attuned to his times, Tillich was convinced that, "the core religious issue of the modern age is raised not, as it had been in past eras, by death or guilt but by all that threatens to make life meaningless" – understandably so, considering his service in the first world war. This makes Tillich particularly relevant for today as well. With the advent of video technology, instant communication, and the overabundance of information about the world, Christianity is stretched to its limits in attempts to explain reality; meaninglessness and the absurd are faith’s biggest opponents. Thus, Tillich’s incredible insight and delicate touch on difficult topics is refreshing. In this collection he discusses, among other things, loneliness and solitude; inequality; and the nature of language and man. If you get a chance, you should pick it up (Note: Some of his implied theology is problematic; most flagrant is a latent universalism that runs throughout).

The first collection of sermons centers on humanity and the complexities of being human, discerning the fears and desires of men with rare clarity. Within this section there is a particular mediation/sermon entitled, Forgetting and Being Forgotten, that offers an incredible description of repentance and forgiveness. Tillich, in a typical german manner, expounds extensively on the word, Forget, and its many derivates. In parsing out Paul's statement, "One thing I do, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead", he determines there are at least three types of forgetting. He begins by pointing out that Paul never, in the literal sense, forgets his past – namely, his life as a Pharisee and his persecution of the church. And he is right. Directly before Paul’s statement about forgetting, Paul has written in great detail about his past (phil. 3:1-10). In other letters, such as 1 Timothy, we find more indications that he never truly ‘forgot’ his past. Thus, forgetting here must mean something else.

Tillich explains by expounding on three types of forgetting. First, there is natural forgetting: the unconscious process by which our brains let go of superfluous information (e.x. Last week's weather, the shirt color of a friend seen two days ago). Clearly, this is not what Paul means; his forgetting is active and not passive in nature; his forgetting requires effort, while natural forgetting is an unconscious process, like breathing.

Next, there is repression: the cutting off and suppression of unpleasant and painful memories. Never completely successful, repression has subtle, debilitating effects, marking in crippling ways, and failing to function at the most inopportune times. Paul cannot mean this type of forgetting either. The gospel offers freedom. There is no freedom in repression; one remains chained to the past. How can the experience of the 'up' in the upward call of Christ occur in someone chained to the past? There must be another type of forgetting. Therefore, he proposes a third type; I quote in length:

Then there is a forgetting, to which Paul witnesses, that liberates us not from the memory of past guilt but from the pain it brings. The grand old name for this kind of forgetting is repentance. Today, repentance is assoicated with a half-painful, half-voluptuous emotional concentration on one's guilt, and not with a liberating forgetfulness. But originally it meant a 'turning around', leaving behind the wrong way and turning towards the right. It means pushing the consciousness and pain of guilt into the past, not by repressing it, but by acknowledging it and receiving the word of acceptance in spite of it. If we are able to repent, we are able to forget, not because the forgotten act was unimportant and not because we repress what we cannot endure, but because we have acknowledged our guilt and can now live with it. For it is eternally forgotten. This was how Paul forgot what lay behind him, although it always remained with him.

Here lies one of the most beautiful descriptions of the new life promised to us by Jesus. In spite of our acknowledgement -an active and outward remembrance of our sinful past -, God receives us. This Yes finds its origin in the cross of Christ. And because of this Yes - a yes to our historical being, to our unerasable past - we are able to say yes to ourselves, able to forget the guilt and shame of the past. It is eternally pushed aside by the Christ’s death and resurrection. Hence, another Christian paradox: The believer’s sins are held peacefully as completely forgotten and remembered.

(PS: Thanks TK, if you ever see this, for the book)

Home

"What do you fear," someone once asked me with a sharp grin.
I replied, "Hearing the old voices every morning when I wake up, seeing the same landscape every afternoon as I drive home, experiencing the past as present, forgetting the gains and loses of four years, and not minding any of it".

2x good news

1) My boss lent me a guitar, a beat-up classical, but something to play nonetheless.
2) My order from amazon.de arrived. Three books by Karl Barth, Einführung in die evangelische Theologie, Dogmatik im Grundriß, and Der Römerbrief, a book by Franz Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung and one more by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the classic Gemeinsames Leben. When or how I will get through all these books are both questions without clear answers: someday, somehow. My justification for splurging: free shipping. Herr sei gnädig.

Poem on Andres Serrano's Piss Christ

Piss Christ

If we did not know it was cow’s blood and urine,
if we did not know that Serrano had for weeks
hoarded his urine in a plastic vat,
if we did not know the cross was gimcrack plastic,
we would assume it was too beautiful.
We would assume it was the resurrection,
glory, Christ transformed to light by light
because the blood and urine burn like a halo,
and light, as always, light makes it beautiful.

We are born between the urine and the feces,
Augustine says, and so was Christ, if there was a Christ,
skidding into this world as we do
on a tide of blood and urine. Blood, feces, urine—
what the fallen world is made of, and what we make.
He peed, ejaculated, shat, wept, bled—
bled under Pontius Pilate, and I assume
the mutilated god, the criminal,
humiliated god, voided himself
on the cross and the blood and urine smeared his legs
and he ascended bodily unto heaven,
and on the third day he rose into glory, which
is what we see here, the Piss Christ in glowing blood:
the whole irreducible point of the faith,
God thrown in human waste, submerged and shining.

We have grown used to beauty without horror.

We have grown used to useless beauty.

- Andrew Hudgins

I want to be your business proposal!

Today, I received an email with the above title. Who would have guessed that spam emails could have such poetic titles? Because the line was so perfect, I immediately turned it into the short ditty below.

Spam

I want to be your business proposal:

ask your friends

and family to sign;

tell them we look good,

on paper.

Movie Review

Recently wrote a movie review for the korean film I'm a Cyborg, But that's Ok (Saibogujiman Kwenchana). If you're interested, you can find it here on Wunderkammer, a new online magazine dedicated to "thoughtful examination of culture and society".

Excerpt from Ray Bradbury's No Particular Night or Morning

I read this short story sometime in middle school, a classic found in Bradbury's The Illustrated Man.  If you're looking for excellent science-fiction, look no further.  As I was glancing at pictures today on Facebook,  this dialog came to mind.  I thought I'd share it.  Their words resonate with conversations that occurred during an overly-long Princeton graduation  (the dialog, by the way, takes place on a spaceship).

“I can see it. I have a good memory." 

“It’s not the same, you fool,” said Hitchcock suddenly. There was a touch of  anger in his voice. “I mean see it. I’ve always been that way. When I’m in  Boston, New York is dead. When I’m in New York, Boston is dead. When I don’t see  a man for a day, he’s dead. When he comes walking down the street, my God, it’s a resurrection. I do a dance, almost, I’m so glad to see him. I used to, anyway.  I don’t dance any more. I just look. And when the man walks off, he’s dead  again.” 

Clemens laughed. “It’s simply that your mind works on a primitive level. You  can’t hold to things. You’ve got no imagination, Hitchcock old man. You’ve got  to learn to hold on.” 

“Why should I hold onto things I can’t use?” said Hitchcock, his eyes wide,  still staring into space. “I’m practical. If Earth isn’t here for me to walk on,  you want me to walk on a memory? That hurts. Memories, as my father once said,  are porcupines. To hell with them! Stay away from them. They make you unhappy.  They ruin your work. They make you cry.” 

“I’m walking on Earth right now,” said Clemens, squinting to himself, blowing  smoke. 

“You’re kicking porcupines. Later in the day you won’t be able to eat lunch, and  you’ll wonder why,” said Hitchcock in a dead voice. “And it’ll be because you’ve  got a footful of quills aching in you. To hell with it! If I can’t drink it,  pinch it, punch it, or lie on it, then I say drop it in the sun. I’m dead to  Earth. It’s dead to me. There’s no one in New York weeping for me tonight. Shove  New York. There isn’t any season here; winter and summer are gone. So is spring,  and autumn. It isn’t any particular night or morning; it’s space and space. The  only thing right now is you and me and this rocket ship. And the only thing I’m  positive of is me. That’s all of it.” 

Will Faust save me from grad school?

Hab nun, ach! Philosophie, 

Juristerei und Medizin

Und leider auch Theologie!

Durchaus studiert, mit heißem Bemühn.

Da steh ich nun, ich armer Tor!

Und bin so klug als wie zuvor;

Heiße Magister, heiße Doktor gar,

Und ziehe schon an die Zehen Jahr,

Herauf, herab und quer and krumm,

Meine Schüler and der Nase Herum -

Und sehe, dass wir nichts wissen können!

Great quote, I wonder though...

Ich muss immer darin denken, was Lenin von der apassionata  gesagt hat: "Ich kann sie nicht hören, sonst bringe ich nicht die Revolution zu Ende". Kann jemand, der diese Musik gehört hat -ich meine, wirklich gehört hat - noch ein schlechter Mensch sein.”

A cat is, above all, a furry animal.

"Isn't ping-pong about giving and receiving? I don't think so! Must one always receive after giving? Can't there be a ping-pong where we only give?"

From I'm a Cyborg and that's Ok

Forgot how funny this movie is...worth a look, if you're bored, or it's raining. 

Handel's Messiah

Saturday, I attended a performance of the Messiah by a semi-professional, German choir. It was overall a great experience. Although, the tempo was occasionally rushed, the pronunciation a bit shaky, the chorus did an excellent job. As for the soloists, although the soprano and alto weren't particularly good, the bass and tenor more then made up for them - particularly the tenor with his youthful energy and memorable gestures.

The piece is not unfamiliar to me. When I was a sophomore in high school, my mom bought me the Sir Colin Davis two-disc recording. Why, I don't quite remember (I think she might have been singing it in her church choir and wanted me to hear it). I remember listening to it and being struck by the last section, the Amen chorus. Sometimes, on the way to school, I would put that particular track on and listen to it with the volume turned up. It gave me a huge buzz; I think it even made me cry a few times, potent stuff.

During my senior year, we performed parts of the Messiah for our giant, middle of the year concert; we hired soloists, orchestra, conductor - everything. It was not a particularly enjoyable experience and our performance was terrible, a risk always taken when performing difficult pieces. (On a side note, our most successful 'difficult' piece, and, in my opinion, the most enjoyable, was Faure's Requiem; a stirring funeral piece, I get chills just thinking about it). Yet, I believe, somehow, through the experience, Handel’s Messiah ingrained itself permanently in my brain.

So, as I said, the piece is not new to me. In fact, when I heard it on Saturday night, I was surprised by how much I not only recognized, but actually knew. Yet, in spite of all my knowing, something unexpected occurred during the concert: the piece I knew so well became transfigured. The notes hung suspended in the air, glimmering, their echoes of the cold, grey stone filled the room with light. During the course of the more than two hour concert, I reflected, literaly; the music shone down upon me and filled me with thoughts.

Here's one distinct 'reflection' I remember. It occurred to me during the section, "He trusted in God". The short section is a little over two minutes, depending on how it’s sung. There aren't to many words: "He trusted in God that He would deliver Him, let Him deliver Him, if he delight in Him". Throughout this short piece, these words are repeated over and over again. The four voice parts cascade over each other in typical Handle style, repeating and slightly modifying earlier motifs (a fugue, I believe), only to have all four voices come together at various, climatic moments.

While listening, an image came to mind - Jesus on his cross with onlookers saying those words: "He trusted in God that He would deliver him, let Him deliver him, if he delight in him". Not to anyone particular, they said it as a question to themselves, those around them too, and then, finally, to Jesus. And as the words repeated, I saw Jesus on his cross listening to them (in fact, I really did see Jesus – a giant stone Jesus hanging in the back of the church). And then, as the choir continued singing, I imagined him dying.

From this thought, I arrived at a memory. Two years ago, a friend passed away from Leukemia. During the time of her illness, people were in constant prayer for her. There were even fasts and 24-7 prayer chains. For a while, it looked like she was going to get better; there were even rumors that a prophetic women had 'seen' her recovery. Yet, despite these ‘signs’, things took a sudden turn for the worse and she passed away. As this memory came and passed, the choir continued singing.

As the song ended, I realized two things. First, everyone claiming to believe in the Christian God will hear this song as they go through inexplicable suffering: "she trusted in God the He would deliver her, let Him deliver her, if He delight in her" (or, perhaps, in substitute for the last clause, “if He exists”). Of course, these aren't necessarily malicious thoughts; they're perfectly natural. The implicit questions - some would call them accusations - are directed at both her, Christians in general, and God. Had she done wrong? Did she not trust in God? Had the Christians praying for her done wrong? Did they not trust in God? Did God do something wrong? Did God care? Was and is God there? There are others, more difficult and complex, but those seem to be the primary questions.

Are there answers? Yes, but only indirect and paradoxical, which lead me to my second realization. The only comfort during times of inexplicable suffering for a Chrsitian is to know that Jesus, the despised and rejected one, dwells within the sufferer and comforts them. If the sufferer dies, he enters fully into Christ’s death. Then, the question is asked once more, has God delivered them. If Jesus’ resurrection did happen, the question is paradoxically answered: yes and no. The life of Jesus was to suffer and die by the hand of man and God; the death of Jesus was the path to eternal life, peace and joy. The life of a Christian is to suffer and die with Chirst; but his death is the place of rebirth/ressurection through Jesus into eternal life, peace and joy, as a heir to the Kingdom of God.

A poem from 04/05/06

Inununme

The navel undulates
Like a ship on throbbing water
The rage of my own tempest in her belly
Tensed as to birth a screaming world
Shaking the 57 sq foot cosmos in a white room

My love
She floats
On black linoleum sea tiles
Kicking like a horse
Her body sweating clouds
I watch her shrink as she spills
into the ocean all around her

The ceiling stars
Look down
Stationary and hard

I am a cloud
The sea beneath
the mist between

Post

If you're lonely, send yourself an email.  Then, at least, you'll know someone cares.

Musically Uninspired

I'm going through a dry spell. Little has caught my ear for the past two years, and I'm wondering why. As far as I can tell, there are two root causes. The first, hormonal changes; the second, overexposure.

When nothing inspires you, it is hard to create. Maybe this is just an excuse, maybe not.

What am I doing in Germany?

I used to write gefühl poetry, an excess not easily forgiven.

So, Lord, what seed am i now - you know
the parable, fear always arose when
i heard it because i knew
the two possibilities, and now,
with thorns on every side,
and one crawling up my leg,
i wonder, is it a
a ruler or a picture.

A poem by John Donne written during a near fatal illness:

I read this poem in high school and it made a strong impression on my young, religious mind. Alongside two or three other religious poems by George Herbert and a few others by Donne, I periodically return to its words in reflection. Two years ago I sent the poem to a very sick friend who, unlike Donne, did not recover, which for me imbued the poem with a deeper significance. Today, I rediscovered the poem in an old document and decided to share it here. Its effect remains strong on my middle-aged, religious mind.

A Hymn to God the Father

i.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

ii.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

iii.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;
And having done that, Thou hast done ;
I fear no more.

[ps: the typography of this poem is very aesthetically pleasing. it is unfortunate that blogger does not preserve it through cut and paste! Look here for a prettier version]

Yes.

"the reality of my written work echoes the harsh reality of life: there is but one draft."
-SBG on 'The Thesis'

this quote means a lot to me right now considering the state of my own thesis and its immanent due date.

The Crucifixtion (1880, Thomas Eakins)

I find this painting conveys the weight of the Crucifixion particularly well. "For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God". I'm not really even sure what that means, but when I imagine Jesus becoming sin, I see him shrouded in shadow. As God's face is too bright, Jesus' face on the cross is too dark - God himself turned His back, hence, 'Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani'. To look on Jesus in that moment is to look on death itself - a sight too terrible for men. Yet, this terrible sight is the site of redemption. To look upon him is to die with him and in doing so find life

Welcome to the Stalk Market

My compulsion to read others blogs is getting out of control - help.

In other news, Ted Haggard has been on my radar ever since his disturbing behavior in the movie Jesus Camp; needless to say, I wasn't surprised when I heard about his scandal. Here's a video from before he was caught; can you feel that something's a little off? (btw. he was denounced by a male prostitute for having sex with him and doing crystal meth)



I was curious how this would turn out in the end. Peoples histories are case studies for the way life works; pay attention and you'll learn a lot. Anyway, today I found this (the whole interview can be found in five parts on youtube, but these guys did a good job at picking out two of the most interesting clips):



and than this,



All in all, I feel there's a lot to be learned from TH's story. If you have time, you should look at some of the other interviews on youtube.

Contemplation of profane objects is a rich exercise - try it. Is it not true that Jesus' is most radiant as an object of derision, or that the cross is more at home in the bottom of a urinal, then in a ornate chapel? [I lifted these provocative pictures here]

Great Monologue

"I was sheriff of this county when I was twenty-five years old. Hard to believe. My grandfather was a lawman; father too. Me and him was sheriffs at the same time; him up in Plano and me out here. I think he's pretty proud of that. I know I was. Some of the old time sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lotta folks find that hard to believe. Jim Scarborough'd never carry one; that's the younger Jim. Gaston Boykins wouldn't wear one up in Camanche County. I always liked to hear about the oldtimers. Never missed a chance to do so. You can't help but compare yourself against the oldtimers. Can't help but wonder how theyd've operated these times.

There was this boy I sent to the 'lectric chair at Huntsville Hill here a while back. My arrest and my testimony. He killt a fourteen-year-old girl. Papers said it was a crime of passion but he told me there wasn't any passion to it. Told me that he'd been planning to kill somebody for about as long as he could remember. Said that if they turned him out he'd do it again. Said he knew he was going to hell. "Be there in about fifteen minutes". I don't know what to make of that. I sure don't. The crime you see now, it's hard to even take its measure. It's not that I'm afraid of it. I always knew you had to be willing to die to even do this job. But, I don't want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don't understand. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He'd have to say, "O.K., I'll be part of this world."

- Opening monologue of No Country for Old Men.

Didn't agree with everything, but a good reminder/exhortation

unposted draft from 4/21/08 (no energy to write something new)

"When grace descends, the world falls silent before it"

-Philip Yancey

Likewise, when grace descends upon me, a find myself speechless: neither are their words of excuse, a reception of grace is an admission of guilt, nor words of confesssion, all is known.

How hard it is to put to death that which is not of Him, but how much more wonderful to recieve that which is of Him. Lord, daily, but to death that which is not of You, and, in its place, build upon the foundation you have laid within me - Your son, crucified and buried, raised again to newness of life. How blessed are those that are built into a spiritual dwelling; we long for you to indwell us as a community.

Prayers

Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris,
Qui tolis peccata mundi,
misere nobis.

dona nobis pacem.

Joke?

So, David Lynch gives a talk at Berlin University advocating transcendental meditiaton, causing quite a ruckus. I thought the whole situation was a staged joke on the Berlin students. Unfortunately, it was not:



Yes, let's have an unbesiegbares Deutschland. I agree. Let's become invincible.



And then let's fly (also possible through TM):

http://www.yogicflyingclubs.org/yogic_flying.html

Yes we can.

Opps

Today I realized that I've washed my hair with body wash the past two weeks.

Reflection on the movie Oasis

Does God watch over those who live on the street, the mentally handicapped, the poor, and the severely disabled? Theoretically most Christians would answer in the affirmative - 'of course, God watches over all individuals, each person is precious to Him'. Yet, upon an encounter with one such 'everyman', our instinct is often to turn away or to fear.

Why? They are shameful to look at it, without dignity. They stumble on sidewalks, sit on street corners. They limp in the mall, moan uncontrollably, grope in broad daylight. They are poorly dressed with sunken eyes, stained teeth and messy hair. .

If they are painful to our senses, are they not also painful to God's? Are they also His children? Does he 'gladly give them all things'?

Christians readily believe that God does gladly give all things for those who 'love' God, those who look like them who are in the same socio-economic strata and have relatively the same education level. But what about those who are, whether it is verbalized or quietly thought, objectively, at least by society's standards, stupid, ugly, sputtering, dirty, hungry, without shelter or clothing...etc.

How uncomfortable we become when they - they, by the very word we create an infinite distance between their humanity and ours - walk into our worship services. We silence, keep them quite, send them back out with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bottle of water, and a 'go in the peace and blessing of our Lord'. Or worse, we stare and smile uncomfortably.

Has God really 'numbered the hairs on their head'? Has He 'written their number of days in His book'? Does he really unequivocally 'work all things for the good of those who love Him'? Did He really come to 'declare the good news to the poor'? Has he stopped?

Yet, how terrible, we hear a secret: These, those without clothing, food, without shelter or in prison, are not only human, they are Christ himself.

The Beloved one is the wretched one. How terrible a truth. How terrible a sight. How cursed a man. Yet, we sing to Him in our ignorance of who He is - 'glory, power and honor be unto the lamb who reigns forever and ever' - the man, in jail; the women, on the street; the family, without food - Christ.

How terrible these words:

"Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me."

Yes, God does watch. His gaze burns through all pretension and division. We are them and they are us - our false distinctions collapse when He speaks and moves. Yet, God is more than a spectator. He has become us. We are Him and he is us. Humanity has become the divine and the divine, human. The Father reigns and watches, in love, over His many sons and daughters, in spite, yet also through those who are His. "God's dwelling place is with man", let us listen to his voice that we might love and serve Him in every man, women and child without distinction

Comic Relief

Today, while working on my thesis in firestone, I received a troubling email:

From: Chenxin Jiang
Sent: Friday, March 6th, 2009 2:51 P.M.
Subject: Help! : (


Eric and I are stuck in carrel C-1-H-6. The door won't open. Please come help?

.....

I didn't see this email until 3:15 P.M. Needless to say, I was surprised. My heart raced as I ran down to the abyss of firestone - the C floor (C for chenxin: coincidence, perhaps not). To my great relief, by the time I found their carrel, a carrel which happens to be tucked away in a corner in the far east side of firestone, the door was opened. Apparently, they had freaked out after not know how to open the door to the carrel and sent me an email, after which they continued to try and eventually found a way out: a small teardrop-shaped lever, which when turned opened the door.

I'm not sure how long they actually thought they were trapped in the carrel - I should have asked. Regardless, I like to imagine that it was upwards of thirty minutes as that would be much funnier then only a five minute scare.

Reading

The more I read the less I comprehend. The comprehension barrier is a product of two recent developments. First, I simply can no longer understand what I am reading. Each page with its forty to fifty sentences has become a pit of snakes – squirming, black snakes whose heads are indistinguishable from their tails. Staring at the tangle, I get the feeling that there is some horrible, elusive meaning, which I will never quite grasp within each page.

Second, I am being suffocated by words. After about twenty pages of reading, my throat constricts and a rush of nausea overwhelms me. Why? It could be a psychosomatic process linked by some secret conditioning to eye squinting. However, this seems highly unlikely. My most recent hypothesis is that these psychosomatic reactions are a product of a growing unconscious understanding of the essence of text. Given that this unconscious knowledge is producing these strange effects, it may be better that my growing knowledge of text remain unconscious. Thus, ultimately, the psychosomatic prevetion of any conscious knowledge of text is not such a bad thing.