the Sound of life

State of The Union Resources

2010-01-28T05:46:00.000-08:00

Text of Speech

Text of SOTU speech

Text of Senator McDonnell's GOP address

News Outlet Analysis

FOX's angry Republican response

NPR analysis

NPR analysis

NPR analysis

CNN panel analysis

New York Times interactive analysis

New York Times analysis

New York Times analysis resource (multiple articles)

Response from various politicians

Justice Alito scoffs at Obama's reprimand

Joe Biden's response

Jeb Bush reacts

Response from various politicians, including Rockefeller and McCain

SOTU fact checks

FOX News fact check

CNN fact check

New York Times fact check

MSNBC fact check

Published!

2009-09-24T10:30:00.001-07:00

That's right...Relevant Magazine's online mag decided to decorate their front page with an excerpt of my book!

Click here to check it out.

two thousand and seven

2008-08-05T17:29:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Matrimony"

A book isn’t really a book without a story about love: a man’s love for his country or his religion or his lover or himself. I have an affinity for the Ernest Hemingway kind of love, the kind that never works out in the end because someone dies suddenly and simply. Of course, you can’t really love someone if something inside you doesn’t die. Hemingway was almost right; love demands death, but I believe that death happens somewhere in the heart.

two thousand and seven

2008-08-05T17:19:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Lunch"

Our lunches came at the perfect time. If I was any younger, I would be too afraid to grow with him while we sit and eat. Now that I am older I can savor knowing my father with truer affection. Though there are times when I wish the process would move faster, I believe that fathers are best understood by the months and years that you spend with them and not just the moments. The zenith of intimacy is the sweetness of passing time.

two thousand and seven

2008-08-05T17:11:00.001-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Surgery"

It was hard to know what to say. Part of me wanted to joke and part of me wanted to say something very loving and sensitive. Either way, I spent most of my time listening to what others said and watching my mother as she endured the waking sufferings of a tedious recovery. When I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t say anything. When everyone kissed her on the forehead as they left, I did too. It was the first time that I remember kissing her. When I wanted to do something to show my support, I brought my guitar into her room and played for her.
Many times Mom was so tired that she couldn’t speak. I think that people’s nearness was more important to her than their words. Me being near her with my guitar was medicine. Music is a good thing for people that are hurting. It is a good thing for binding the wounds of surgery

two thousand and seven

2008-07-29T16:51:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Coffee"

And then there were the opening shifts.

I am hard-pressed to write anything about them no matter how caustic. I’d hate to think that those ungodly 4:15 am clock ins would ever get any kind of recognition. Yet, I am strangely drawn to write about them as if I had the burden of retelling a villainous injustice. Bodies were not made to wake up at 3:30 am for work, and with this in mind I offer my eternal applause to those who make a habit of rising early for their occupation.

I’d wake at 3:30. By 3:35 I was out of bed. By 3:40 I wanted to curse at my roommate, who met the sound of my alarm with a lazy sigh and a cozy roll-over away from the pre-dawn melody. By 3:45, I was finished with a three-minute shower that should have been a fifteen minute shower. By 3:55 I was dressed and dry. By 4:00 I was halfway through a bowl of cereal and headlong into bitterness. By 4:05 I was walking down my apartment stairs into the ugly night/morning. By 4:10 I was three minutes from work and nearly thawed out from my sedan’s heater. At 4:13 I pulled up to my store hoping that it was burned to the ground. By 4:14, I was nodding off to sleep amidst the rude sparkle of the 7-11 across the street. By 4:15 the barista I was working with would be there. I’d get out of the car, croak out a mildly pleasant greeting and unlock Pandora’s café.

two thousand and seven

2008-07-01T17:10:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Matrimony"

The best man in a wedding is the most under-appreciated role player in the modern work world. It requires suave and sacrifice, the ability to sweet talk and strong arm. Plans must made. Hotel rooms reserved. Old friends called. Dinner plans solidified. Fattening snacks to be bought. Poker chips to be remembered. Rings to be protected. Details to be followed. Groomsmen to be herded, quickly and sheep-like. Its the kind of work that deserves a pension plan: shepherd, coordinator, ring bearer, gambler, glutton, maitre'd, operator, concierge and planner all in one.

two thousand and seven

2008-07-01T17:09:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Matrimony"

After my only serious relationship I was afraid to be vulnerable. It was too painful, a searing menace that was supposed to be the fulcrum of love. One cannot be vulnerable without sacrifice and risk, and these are the gates of love. Emma made it worth it to love. The risk and vulnerability were once again elegant.

This elegance, this brilliant foundation of true charity, is ultimately divine. A man’s natural instinct is to remain a mystery to himself. To love requires an unnatural movement away from secrecy towards awkward freedom. The love of God is the melody of self-sacrifice. There is no allocation for self-preservation. “I do” is a calculated choice. It is also a reckless one, a commitment made in a country where the reality of such choices are mathematically as reliable as guessing on a true/false question. Hemingway had it right. Something must die if love is to have its full and divine course.

two thousand and seven

2008-06-23T22:24:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Graduation"

Grad school is one long line of hurdles, the straightaway leg with no end. By June, I was damn proud of everything that was behind me. I could remember back to the beginning of my senior year, and how the list of graduation requirements seemed like the middle prong of Satan’s pitchfork. Now the pitchfork and the hurdles lay in one giant heap and I was standing atop of it all with a smirk and a smile.

two thousand and seven

2008-06-23T22:02:00.001-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Graduation"

Graduation. When it comes to the speeches, it might as well be a casino. Everyone goes expecting a winner and they leave disheveled and tired from sitting through pull after pull, hoping just once for cherries to cross the screen in trio. About the only difference between graduation and a casino is the lack of cigarette smoke and the absence of cocktail waitresses keeping their customers liquored up long enough to wait for the jackpot that will never come. Besides, who can honestly say that halfway through the generic president’s speech the zombies next to them didn’t look like they needed a swallow of whiskey?

two thousand and seven

2008-06-08T21:05:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"April 16th"

I have thought about Virginia Tech many times since then. I go back and forth between which experiences were the most significant. Nothing matches the gravity of the first night we spent at the Williams'. Kent and I were so tired we fought to stay awake as we listened to the most harrowing account of murder and tragedy we had ever heard. As I have written, Cindy wept as she recounted her experiences. Matt wept too. Mike was stoic, but in the way in which other men knew that he was only a few words away from being decimated. We listened to the real history of Virginia Tech for two hours on April 18th, told by a mother whose fiercest fears crescendoed and calmed in a matter of minutes. Her children were alive. Her husband was by her side. In this sense, all that should have been well was well, though it was a fleeting respite. And as her testimony came to a close, she said something to Kent and I that floods me with goosebumps and tears even now.

She looked at us, trying her best to articulate the confusion and astonishment that many felt when they heard we had come from San Diego.

“It’s like God sent two angels to us.”

The truth was, God sent us to an entire community of angels. A grieving mother and father opened their house to us, two strangers. Wounded teenagers ambled along a drill field with lunch in hand, ready to give and grieve without reserve. Blacksburg drew us, outsiders, close to her anguished heart. Yet, the kinship of divine mercy made strangers as close as heaven. For me, few days will match April 16th, 2007.

two thousand and seven

2008-05-27T22:03:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Internship"

In the church world and the work world, I have always perceived interns to be the whipping boys and girls, lackeys to lazy office trolls, grunts that carry the garnish and grime of the gospel, the sherpas of the shadows of the copy room. They are usually college students, and they are usually disenchanted. They work more than they should and they are payed less than they should. “Intern” is rarely synonymous with “dignity”.

two thousand and seven

2008-05-09T13:03:00.000-07:00

This passage is from the chapter entitled, "April 16th". It chronicles my trip with my friend Kent to Virginia Tech University the day after the shooting. The following is a description of what happened the morning I heard the news:

"I had never felt so frantic in my life. The depth of the emotion that was wrenching my entire body is something that I have only heard of in death and love. After rereading the articles, I went to hotwire.com to find a cheap flight. San Diego to Roanoke. The fare was slashed to 425.00 for a round-trip ticket. It left on Tuesday night and returned on Friday morning. I sat in front of my screen feeling absolutely delirious. I remember whispering quietly under my breath, “This is crazy. This is crazy. This is crazy.” I could feel my heart yearning to erupt out of my chest. I was short of breath. Mayhem. I was either dying, falling in love, or being divinely shoved into American history."

two thousand and seven

2008-04-23T22:05:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled:

"Lunch"

My dad has never gone to war. He has been in the military during times of war. Yet, he has been spared the fierce weight of a weapon. As I see it, he has my respect for what he has done in our family. The battlefield is for warriors, the family is for men. Anyone can fire on an enemy. Anyone can incite within themselves hatred towards wickedness and act thereon. It is natural for men to fight against evil.
But to love a family, to confess failure to a son, to sacrifice for a wife, these are epic callings whose fortitude goes beyond battlefields and bullets. They go beyond our natural inclinations, and this is why a man only becomes such when he quenches that primal instinct to remain a mystery even to himself. To love nakedly, to confess openly, to give unquestioningly, these are the accolades of all time. My dad might make a good solider; I will never know. Yet I am sure of this: he is a good man.

two thousand and seven

2008-04-14T22:06:00.001-07:00

From the chapter entitled,

"Lunch":

I didn’t know the sound of my own father’s voice, but I was too young and too preoccupied by the utopia that was my neighborhood to ever care. I talked to my dad only a few times, and not at length. He remarried in the time he was gone. I heard my new mother’s voice once. I went from arranged Italian mother to chain-smoking grandmother to 23 year old mom in a matter of six years. It is hard for middle-class white kids to play carousel with words like “mother” and “father”. It is their unnoticed civil war.

two thousand and seven

2008-03-17T21:29:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled,

"Friends":

Jason used to live above a bar in Santa Barbara. Not a bad situation, considering the Dog and a Dog deal they ran, where for two bucks a lonely sap could score a hot dog and a cold Red Dog for less than it took to ride the train across town.

two thousand and seven

2008-03-17T11:57:00.000-07:00

From the chapter entitled,

"Heart"

There are five of us; one a fighter pilot, one a government agent, one a youth pastor, one a teacher, and me. We are the friends that I’ve always wanted. We’ve gone on a cruise to Mexico. Three of us live in the same neighborhood. We’ve been each other’s best men. Once, the close ties forced a groom to have two best men instead of one, an untraditional move in a tradition of kinship that usually dies when we stop being young. We never stopped being young, though. We are men, but our camaraderie still rolls around in the dirt and dust of a summertime schoolyard.

two thousand and seven

2008-03-05T21:04:00.000-08:00

From the chapter entitled,

"Coffee":

Common drinks like the vanilla latte had to be made to perfection. The process was simple. Someone, usually a girl, would stroll in halfway between a text-message break up and a desperate call to dad for money. Sometimes they were happening at the same time, and somewhere in these terribly annoying interactions she would manage to blurt out a sentence like it was one long, ridiculous word: "medium-I-mean-grande-vanilla-latte-um-did-i-say-nonfat?-can-i-get-that-with-nonfat-milk?-oh-wait-sugar-free-too-thanks-……-daddy-are-you-still-there?"

Being fueled by simmering bitterness, I’d bend down beneath the espresso machine and grab the nonfat milk. A turn to the right with the hips, and the water-like liquid was filling up a steel pitcher. Once it reached the 16 oz. line, I’d pull the jug back and in one motion I’d bend down, put the cap on, open the fridge, slide the milk in and close the fridge. I’d pop up, grab the pitcher with my right hand, pull the steam wands out with my left hand and push the steam button.

All legitimate baristas are self-conscious, but their foremost worry is their foam. Light foam full of big bubbles was the fare of lesser naves. No, good foam was thick, the kind that could be sprinkled with sugar and enjoyed with a spoon.
The bubbles were small, almost indecipherable. The foam tasted sweet, and when you pushed it with a spoon, it pushed back. It started with a coarse steam, the noisy kind that made coffee houses famous, the “kooshhhhhhhhhhhhhkkhhhhhhkhhhh” that wakes miserable eyes like the Hallelujah chorus. After three or four seconds of the koooshhhhhkkkhhkkkhh, I’d pull the pitcher up so that the steam wands sunk into the layer of milk just beneath the freshly steamed foam. It was in the following seconds that made one’s foam legendary or laughable. I’d tease the milk with an intermittent “tssssst….tssst…tssst”. This ensured that any big bubbles fashioned by the initial foaming were settled in tiny hints of air. At about 115 degrees I’d push the steam wands all the way into the beginnings of the sugar free nonfat whatever and push the button to start the espresso shots.

The shots would finish pouring just after the milk stopped foaming. I’d pull the pitcher out, set it on the counter, wipe the steam wands, dump the shots in the cup, grab the big spoon and smack the pitcher twice to settle the milk. Then came the pour; I’d be careful to hold the foam back while the milk underneath cascaded in the white cup. I’d stop pouring a quarter of an inch from the top and drop a Picasso-esque spoonful of foam just before I put the lid on. The Catalonians had to be jealous of my work.

From there, I’d pick up the cup, slide it across the counter by the bar and yell in sarcastic delight “Grande non-fat sugar free vanilla latte!” Of course, the cup wasn’t marked that way. No “SFV” in the syrup box or “N” in the milk box. Not even an “L” in the drink box. We had come to know this particular drink as the “SS”. That was it. The Sorority Special. Our store was right across the street from a prominent university that was home to roughly 2/3 of the world’s population of blond sorority girls. It was their drink of choice, and we loved to remind each other of it. Besides, why write five letters when two can tell the same story?

And, of course, we were frequently reminded by Schultzie (my nickname for the Zeus of all things Starbucks, Howard Schultz) and his quality control crew that this whole process from order to delivery was supposed to take place in less than 180 seconds. Otherwise, our customers wouldn't be happy. I don't think ours ever cared. After all, ordering coffee was just another chance to break up, beg for money, and bemoan the mysterious meaning of the letters, "SS".

two thousand and seven

2008-03-01T15:01:00.000-08:00

From the chapter entitled,

"Surgery":

In the hours leading up to the operation we marked out our homestead on the second floor where the surgery would take place. My uncle sat in the chair next me. My dad and grandfather sat next to us with my grandmother. Men are at their strongest when they bind together for the sake of a woman. I’m sure that we were all scared that day, but none of us ever let on to it. We talked. We ate. We watched movies together. I do not remember us ever confessing our fear, though. Yet, as it is with men, we didn’t have to say we were afraid to know that fear made us one. As devastating as the occasion for our gathering was, there have been few family moments as powerful as that day.

two thousand and seven

2008-02-21T22:13:00.000-08:00

This is an excerpt from the chapter called, "Cancer". My family and I were staying in a hotel in Virginia, a few weeks after we found out that my mom had breast cancer:

That night we melted onto the beds in our hotel room, wearied from the cross-country travel. My brother’s grueling one year journey had come to a close, and he joined us in our depletion. The TVs were flashing their colors into our quiet space. I almost forgot that my mom had cancer.

While the girls were swooning, while that frigid air was churning, while brothers were wading through mysteries, cancer was still campaigning against my mother’s will and good spirits. When she called me to my parent’s bedroom I saw her lying on the bed. She looked tired. It was a deep kind of tired, where you can see that the spirit is exhausted and not just the bones and blood. The sickness was very real.

Yet my mother, as she did many times over the next two months, was able to raise the corners of her mouth and mold a smile of hope and strength that marshaled faithful rebellion against her enemy. It reminded me that cancer, in life and death, is not the end.

She motioned me beside. "Read me something from the book of James. There is something in there about suffering, isn’t there?". I didn’t have to say anything; I didn’t have to furiously build a bridge between word and emotion. My mother was gracious. Sometimes you don’t have to say much around the people who love you past your fears. That night, all I had to do was read.

two thousand and seven

2008-02-07T21:36:00.000-08:00

"Hours"

Public universities are not the ideal place for ministry training, but as I grew fond of music, I set my mind to becoming a worship leader. As such, I needed to change my major at San Diego State, so I entered the music program. Entrance into the program required that every incoming student take a skill test that would dictate where each student would start their musical journey.

I sat in the audition room with a piano and a professional musician. What ensued was ten minutes of the most foul musical mishap ever experienced on earth. My scales were terrible; rather than gliding up the graduations of tone with ease, I clowned my way sideways, backwards, and downwards what seemed to be an impassable incline. The hundreds of hours I had spent in the backyard of my fraternity house singing and strumming were as useful as an inflamed appendix. Blind men on the battlefield have fared better than I did on that exquisitely embarrassing day. However, convinced that ministry was a merging of my calling and my “talent”, I started the General Music degree program.

two thousand and seven

2008-02-04T13:32:00.000-08:00

There are two things that I have always thought impossible: writing a book and running a marathon. While I don't have the knees to do 26.2 miles, my brain still works great and my fingers still type fast. So, I'm starting an autobiography called, two thousand and seven. I'll post excerpts every once in a while.

Prologue:

Today I went to pick up a friend to watch a movie. At a stop light on the way, I noticed a middle-aged man walking down the sidewalk. From what I could see, he had an affliction that caused him to walk awkwardly, as if his muscles looked strong enough to carry his frame but were, in fact, too weak to take him more than a few steps. He leaned against a six -foot walking stick made out of grey PVC. A 44 oz. McDonald’s cup was tied to the pole with a hanger that was wrapped around the cup once and around the pole several times. He labored through two or three steps and then stopped, leaning up against the pole in exhaustion. He wore an oversized jacket; his hat was angled awkwardly on his head. Shuffle. Lean. Rest.

What caused my eyes to fill with tears was not his affliction, per se. I nearly cried because in that man I saw my own soul, weaker than it looks, shuffling, leaning, and resting on the very clear and benevolent grace of God. It is no secret to myself nor my Father that I am far from a perfect man, and that the amount of faith, strength, and wisdom within the legs of my life are only strong enough to carry a few mangled steps before I cannot help but stop fully and await renewal.

My story of 2007 is the story of that stranger struggling across the concrete. It is the shuffling of feet and legs too weary to carry their given frame. It is the leaning and resting against a stark and embarrassing plastic cylinder. It is, in all of these things, that my heart and my identity are the identity of a lame man too weary to walk under his own power. It is the acknowledgment that this marvelous composite of twelve months is a true and sure recognition that God does not love His children for their perfection, but for His perfection in them. There is beauty in leaning and resting, friends. There is beauty in the gentle shuffle our weary and inadequate feet.

J.R. Duren
Meade St. and Florida Ave.
February 2, 2008

6:57 pm

2008-01-27T00:56:00.000-08:00

"Good to meet you today.
Luv the way you drive!
I will call you to pick up my jacket!
Stay warm."

These staccato lines were sent to my phone by accident this evening at 6:57 pm.

I fancied them beautiful words, the last lines of a chapter about the infancy of the warm shadows of romance.

Cold faces. Seeing your breath. Going to the mountains. Snow.

And then that drastic thought ran through my mind,

"Is everyone in the world in love except me?"

Notion of Peace Amidst Warring Nations

2007-11-12T11:05:00.000-08:00

Let us say what we will about peace. I assent to the notion that discussions of peace at this point in history are necessary and copmlicated. What new light can we bring to a discussion that often begins in dark and dangerous tones? In response to the preceding discussions of the Christian duty of peace and the subsequent responsibilities tied to this duty, I am deeply and significantly moved by the words of Mother Teresa as she recieved the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979. In twenty years time the world had suffered through a massive war against Axis powers and a massive mystery in Vietnam and Korea. Peace was begin redefined every decade, and with every decade to the promise of peace became thin and vulnerable. Kennedy and later Reagan would stand in Berlin and champion freedom as the foundation of peace. Kruschnev and Gorbechov would disjoint peace with pure power and fear. Teresa, however, would approach the ideal of peace from a different culture, one of eternal truth and practical implication. Her words are as follows:

"The single greatest destroyer of peace today is the cry of the innocent, unborn child. For if a mother can murder her own child in her own womb, what is left for you and me? To kill each other."

Is there no one person in modern history who has embodied the ideals that we have spoken of previously, that is, to love the world as a means of effective and transformational witness? And yet the love of one Albanian woman was irrevocably and undeniably riveted and fastened to an ethic of divine love and divine truth. On the world's most respected stage she spoke of truth in simple terms: peace must begin in the home, and thus extend to the nation and eventually the world. She closed her speech with sense of humble finalty and reverence, saying, "For the child is God's greatest gift to the family, to the nation, and to the world."

I would posit, in light of this unique perspective, that as the premier superpower in the world, our allegience to peace is not strengthened by our saavy in foreign affairs, but rather in our fundamental belief in the right to life and the fundamental, ethical evidences of divine love and truth therein.

Failure to Launch

2007-10-11T21:51:00.000-07:00

One of the great knocks on the current generation is that many couples enjoy the fruits of an empty nest far too late in life. The problem? Their college educated children are not leaving home! What is it that is sapping the motivation out of our young men and women to leave home and assume ample responsibility for their life. Get married! Get a job! Get an apartment or a condo, but please, stop freeloading at your parent's place.

I was wrestling with reasons for this strange trend. Before I propose the following two explanations, remember that my diagnosis of the problem does not excuse the offending generation from moving out of their parents house.

My insight is this: With the onset of widespread divorce (America's only real epidemic) the "father" figure is in the same class as Zeus and Hercules; a myth. Young men in particular have no example of masculine responsibility. Nor are they receiving any help from pop culture, which only offers them a horn-o-plenty of ambiguous neo-Eastern religions and angry feminists. Second, the workplace has also been redefined. Children that grew up glued in front of AIM and XBox are now realizing that they can get jobs that let them do their work in front of the same screens they grew so accustomed to in the first place. "Work" has shifted from the sweat of the brow to the ease of the screen.

When kids grow up locked in their room being fathered by hard drives can we really expect them to take on a world of real people and real conflict? I think not.

the Sheep are being led by another shepherd

2007-09-21T09:38:00.000-07:00

Christian opposition of the war has reached idiotic and meteoric heights. What is our proof text for this opposition? "Love your enemies..."

So let me pose a question: How many Christians opposed World War II? You who speak so causticly of the current administration, would you have opposed WWII? History proves that you wouldn't have. And please, don't use the argument that we are more "informed" or "cultured" or "(any other evolutionistic word you want)". Just because we were born in the 70s and 80s doesn't mean that we are any smarter than the generations before us.

So I ask again, would you have opposed World War II? As I said before, you probably wouldn't have. Nor do I think you've spent enough time thinking on your own to apply your emaciated theory to other wars (besides the overplayed Vietnam hand). If you were a Christian in World War II, you probably would have signed up to fight and not sat at home dreaming about how Jesus would have gone to Hitler's doorstep with a Gideon Bible and a hug.

The anti-war lobby is primarily the product of liberal circles, circles which are much father removed from Christianity than they were in 1940. They are the ones influencing your thought, not the Bible.

Your anti-war sentiments are more a product of the secular culture around you and not your own free-thinking. The sheep are being led by another shepherd.

sleepless nights

2007-09-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

It's so hot it is impossible to sleep. I cannot sleep under sheet or comforter. I cannot sleep on top of sheet or comforter. Both make me sweat. Last week I woke up and watched an hour of "The Perfect Storm" before I was tired enough to fall asleep amidst the weight of the night's warmth. Last night, I went across the street to the library steps and sent a few emails at 1:30 am. Then, fighting my way through the soupy air, I went to the gas station/garage and bought a bottle of water. By 3:00, I was tired enough to sleep. My roomate (all business on a holiday), with surfboard in tow shut the front door at 6:30, rousing me from slumber. I put the big fan that was on the floor onto his bed and pointed it at me. I was able to salvage another hour and a half of sleep before dawn smoked me out of the room. Now I am in a big chair at cold Starbucks. The fight continues.

My advice to you, however, is not to retreat from the heat. Don't run from it, run to it. Think of the last thing you would want to do while you sit in your living room envying the icebergs of the North Atlantic. For instance, "It's so hot right now. The last thing I would do is go hiking." Screw the heat! Hike, and as you breath in the mid-day fumes of another summer scorcher, laugh your way to the top of the mountain. Run the mile that you would never run. Drive around with your windows up and your A/C off. Screw the heat! Revolt; now.

thoughts: Gloucester City, NJ

2007-08-20T02:55:00.000-07:00

If you want to know who a man really is, watch him around his family. The batlefield is for warriors. The family is for men.

People With Cameras

2007-07-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

There is an annoyingly pervasive whisper in my artistic conscience that tells me that the beauty of photography, to which I have only recently become acquainted with, has become the mistress of Best Buy credit accounts and EBay auctions. I get the feeling that many treat photography like a business. Their stilted intimacy with the art begins with questions like, "I can make a killing in wedding photography...how much does a new 20D cost?"

I get the sense that there is a whole corral of people that have breathing room on their Visa or surplus in their savings just waiting to be spent on bags of new equipment...tripods, flashes, lenses, bodies. They treat it like they would treat one of the brown buckets at the end of the salad line...a scoop of ranch, a scoop of Italian; drenched over mundane greens for flair rather than genuine fancy. I know all this sounds tongue-in-cheek, but I mean every word of it.

Maybe it is better explained like this: there seems to be a group of people that take pictures because their cameras are life to them, because it is a magic box that accidentally makes beautiful things that can be sold for a decent lump of cash. Then there are those who have a life inside of them, an artistic one whose conceptions cross causeways of keyboards, canvasses, and cameras into the living world under motivations of empathy, truth, and life.

I hate sounding so caste-ish, but it has been my observation that there are people with cameras and there are photographers .

diatribe

2007-05-30T20:04:00.000-07:00

If an enemy came into your house and was ready to attack your family, would you kill him? Killing is wrong, right?

When Jesus said, "Love your enemies", was he talking to politicians (after all, we are Republicans or Democrats, we're Christians right)? Or was he talking to Christians? Was he talking to people that would go to war, or was he talking to people that would be persecuted for their faith?

When Jesus said, "Love your enemies", was he negating God's massive, ordained slaughter of Israel's enemies in the Old Testament?

Twenty-something Christians, stop mindlessly aligning yourself with anti-war advocates; we are over-playing our "Love your enemies" hand. Did we ever stop to think that the responsibility of interpretation lies in the people who have the Holy Spirit and not the secular masses with impeachment petitions in hand?

Stop letting secular cultrure attach irreverent, political philosophies to the Scriptures of the church, described by Paul as "the pillar and support of truth". Are we so gullible to chirp with others as they rip one verse out of a Bible that they will never open, save for the one moment they need a "Christian" byline to oppose a "Christian" president?

Christian, use your mind; stop letting it be used.

Be the pillar and support of the truth.

A Critique of Our Kind

2007-05-17T17:17:00.000-07:00

The following is a critical piece that I wrote on Peter Jordan's excellent book, Re-Entry:

Pg 75
"Returning Missionaries often bring back an unspoken and subconscious message that they are “special,” that the things they have done and learned on the mission field set them apart from other Christians who have stayed at home."

Pg 76
"Therefore, a returning missionary must be very careful not to judge others because they are not on the mission field."

-----

The problem here isn’t the mentalities that missionaries face when they arrive home. I believe the problem lies in the missionary’s mentality before he or she leaves for the field. A call to the mission field is not an individual one, nor is one’s success on the mission field an individual one. Missionaries would not exist were it not for the support of the body of Christ around them and the culture around them.

When missionaries leave for another culture, they need to go with a different mentality than what is currently acceptable. I propose that every time we go we are a representative of a few, simple, powerful things on the mission field: 1. Christ, 2. Our faith communities, and 3. The United States of America. These three things are not a matter of choice, either.

Thus, every time we leave our homes to serve another culture, we are always going on behalf of Christ, on behalf of our churches, and on behalf of our country. We cannot change those things! Thus, since we cannot change them, we cannot choose them. We are theirs, and they are ours. What does this mean for us on the field?

It means that if we return and find ourselves maintaining bitterness towards our church or our culture, then chances are we didn’t acknowledge how important those things were to our identity when we first left. Part of proper re-entry is a proper understanding of our place in the world as a missionary. Though we often go as one, we are one of many in our church and one of many in our culture. Self-loathing has no place here.

The missionary that feels detached from their faith community will return feeling bitter and isolated from that community for longer than what is allowable. The missionary that cannot accept their Americaness is the missionary that will return with contempt for their own people. I do not mention our representation of Christ, because often we limit our representative role to Him and Him alone. Unfortunately, it has become “noble” to return with a deeper love for Christ but a deeper skepticism for the local church and the national culture.

What is noble is that missionaries leave to their destination believing and being inspired by their belonging in a spiritual, a church, and a cultural family. This family mentality is one of the degenerative weaknesses of our culture. However, I believe that it is necessary to adopt this frame of mind and heart if we are to face an easier, more truthful re-entry process.

What is noble is that missionaries are willing to embrace their culture because of its flaws rather than rejecting it because of them. We do not need short term missionaries who find the full rejection of their culture to be an honorable act. Rejection of culture is a rejection of a significant part of self. This is foolishness. Of course, one's cutlure becomes a different entity when one chooses to remain on the field in a long-term capacity. In these situaitons, the metamorphasis of one's cultural identity becomes a more fluid concept.

What is noble is that we can admit that we are dependent on others.

What is noble is that, over time, our passion for our home churches will equal our passion for other cultures.

What is noble is that we have the dignity to say, "I am going for God, I am going on behalf of my church, and I am going on behalf of my culture."

So far, I belive we can only say one of these truthfully. Let us change.

2007-05-04T13:25:00.000-07:00

I would like to share with you my heart for mission. It is almost an indescribable existence for me. When you have been gone for some time, everything about you and your world is redefined. The things that you knew about God have become refined and amplified. Silence becomes a cherished friend, and its words reveal the mysteries of God's character. Helplessness becomes an asset of utmost importance, delivering you from the deterministic and control-based culture of America.

You will realize that God delights in you as you delight in the beauties of a new culture. He laughs with you when you screw up a phrase from the language you are trying to learn. When you are exhausted, He is sufficient. When you are envious and critical, He is swift and merciful. When you cannot move because you are sick, He heals you and waits with you until you can stand up again.

You come to realize the honor of declaring his name among the nations. You are left with tears in your eyes when you see His glory in the farthest reaches of the earth. You realize that he is real, that he heals, that he is miraculous, and that His love can conquer the worst circumstances.

For the European, His words cut through the darkness of riches like they did through darkness at the moment of Creation. For the African, His healing presence restores the body and soul as it did when Christ stood before the grateful leper. To the Latin American, His authority liberates millions as it did when His Son walked out of the grave.
Mission is a thousand miracles happening at once all over the world. Joy and grace are one brilliant star as God allows His children to travel far from home to witness these miracles. Honor becomes the stories of those you know for weeks but love into eternity. Beauty is at its most severe depth in environments of difference. Change is beauty's most precious countenance.

So it is that we, as missionaries of weeks or years, find our deepest joy in being most like Christ to those that are most different from us. We leave our wealth because we believe that treasures lie unforeseen in foreign places and foreign people. We leave what is comfortable because we believe apathy dulls compassion's urgent movements. We leave home because we know that “home” is not a place, but the presence of Christ at every intersection of longitude and latitude. We go bravely because we believe that death is a better fate than ease.

blacksburg

2007-04-21T14:30:00.000-07:00

In such great sorrow, few heartbeats were left after many churned through tears and memories. Faint pulses. Heads down. Thought after thought. And there, on the green, sat one of the broken. His eyes were down, looking on a page of words and chords. Thought after thought. Head down. Friends were lost. I could see him; he started to play. Parts of him, near dead and confused, gasped as drowning men getting more breath. He sang, and while his body stayed near mine, something in him stood up and walked.

He went from person to person on the green, placing his hand on theirs. He cried with each one. He sang to them. His pain and his hope were theirs. He walked from the green to the classroom. He went past the police, through the door, and into the place where they died. He went to each of them and placed his hand on theirs. He cried for them. Their pain and their hope was his. He sang for them. He turned to the angry boy.

He walked to him. He placed his hand on his. He sang for him and gave him his wearied love.

He left the room and went through the police. He saw his friend at the top of the green. The friend was weeping and shaking. The friend turned to him and took his hand. His words came from the place that caused his shaking. He said, "I love you. I will not fail you."

The words entered the walker. With hands cradled by the friend and with shallow breath, he said, "I will wait for you." Thought after thought. Head down. Faint pulse.

The friend drew him close. He lifted him from the ground. A hand once cradled was a life now cradled. The friend carried him back to where he began.

He cralwed through the verse of the song. His eyes were closed. His breath was shallow and he almost could not finish the last line. The silence afterwards was broken by redemption, by the words of the friend. "I love you. I will not fail you."

Later, rain ended the singing. Many who walked the green went home. Under the shelter, we stood with brothers and prayed, "We will wait for you."

2007-04-03T23:49:00.000-07:00

My neighbor loves to smoke weed, and he loves to date the wrong women. One time, he locked himself out of his apartment because he changed the locks on his door to keep his woman out. He only had a key to the knob and not the deadbolt. He accidentally locked the deadbolt. I tore the screen off the opening between our back porch and his and let him crawl through to his territory. He always has fights with his woman. We hear it through the walls. She likes to call him a monkey. Last time she wouldn't leave, he called the cops. The cops have come to our apartments only three other times: once for a looney who locked herself in a delivery van in our parking lot, once to investigate the greasy fingerprint the car thief left on my rear-view mirror, and once I saw two undercover cops leaving the ever-shady #9.

death of a salesman

2007-02-06T11:03:00.000-08:00

Have you ever seen those guys that run around in the heat of the afternoon in suits selling random toys with sweat and gusto? It doesn't seem too fun. My theory is this: they are in MBA programs and one of their assignments is to run around and sell these toys. In doing so, they learn the grass-roots principles of sales (and sweat).

Hope In Ruins

2006-12-05T23:54:00.000-08:00

He stood in front of a grey chain link fence trying to figure out what was on the other side. He felt like he was looking at those pictures of Pompeii in history books, the kind that showed old ruins covered in dirt and grass. They made you wonder what happened and what kind of legends and tragedies were suffocated under those piles of rocks.

The whole area in front of him wasn’t much bigger than a half-acre, big enough for a house and a backyard but too small for anything that hope could have built. He walked a few steps along the fence and stopped at a small plaque tied to it. The ruins were leftover from the Second World War. Two countries fought bitterly for the city and all that was visibly left from that destructive back-and-forth was this simple plot of sorrows.

He knew that in a place like this that grass and flowers and such were metaphors for hope. Not so. There weren’t that many flowers and there wasn’t anything special about the grass. It was barely green; one dry month from being brown.

The site was near the middle of the city much like the heart of a man is near the middle of his chest. When you die of a heart attack, everything about you looks normal except for a spot just left of center underneath the skin, a spot where something failed, where two forces pushed and pulled and volleyed and ravaged until the heart was forced to quit.

There was too much irony here for him to remain quiet.

“Nobody builds a city knowing it’s going to be blown to hell,” he said to the plaque. He was right. Nobody moves into a city if they know its going to be destroyed. Nobody builds a house hoping that it will soon be leveled. Nobody should ever do anything good if they know its going to be screwed up by someone else’s greed or hunger or envy.

Pleased with his observation, he turned to see other parts of the city. He was used to this kind of thing, this turning and leaving.

He didn’t need to look back at the broken heart because he knew that there weren’t any worthwhile notions of hope left to take with him. Hope, as he understood, was life after death. There wasn’t any life here. The fence was old, the grass was practically brown, and parts of the plaque were weathered and unreadable. Every cliché about death and fate leveled him like the city was leveled.

He remembered his family and how much of it was broken. No one had died, but there was enough collective tragedy to make someone suffocate. Hope became much less of a light. This old acre of land was dead for good, and he knew it. Everything about his life and about this place beyond the fence seemed very small now.

He looked past the piles of rocks and fate and saw a modest building. It was moored between two streets. Those streets were little corridors of life. Kids and cars and old people went up and down them.

“Idiots,” he mumbled.

How could anyone ignore this ugly tomb in front of him?

“Typical,” he added.

“What do people do when there is something dead in front of them? Nothing! They just keep walking by it until it doesn’t bother them anymore. That’s what hope is,” he thought.

“Hope is tolerating dead things until they don’t make you nauseous anymore.”

Seventeen minutes later, he was crying and hoping.

He wasn’t looking at anything when he saw it. It appeared in his mind, which by now was too dark to see much of anything. It was there, however, and it was making him uncomfortable. He closed his eyes and saw it again.

He opened his eyes and it was there in front of him, thirteen inches from his feet. A headstone lay on its back staring up at him. He quickly ran down his list of skeptical responses….recreated....reconstructed…replaced….reformed. It couldn’t have been an original piece from the bombings. He ran out of words and kept staring at. A hideous Cyrillic name sat on the stone like the stone sat on the grass.

As if the memorial was not enough as a whole, here was another sign of lifelessness. It was death upon death.

“Live with death and live with hope.” The saying fought its way from one ear to the other, passing through some very ugly parts of his life.

"Very tidy," he thought.

He shoved the thought into the ground past the fence. It was impossible for him to think that thought. Family, war, sickness…it all was true. This thing he heard could not have come from him. He took pride in this.

He was right again. It didn’t.

By now the sun was nearly gone and he had wasted twenty minutes of his life staring at something that he had known for nearly thirty years.

“Sometimes they say ‘broken things’ instead of death. Either way, it robs you doesn’t it?”

The voice was weathered like old mountains.

He shut his eyes and opened them again.

“What!”

He moved his face to the right intending to crucify whoever spoke. When he looked, he saw street lights sparkling off a white bundle of hair. The face beneath the sparkle was muddled by half-hearted darkness.

“Robs what?”

“Bitterness. Things like that. Worse things too, like cynicism.”

Were it not for the old woman’s accent and the unforced smile she placed on the end of her last sentence, he would have left quickly.

“It’s not very tidy, is it? Leaves lots of unanswered questions, lots of unknowns. My husband died here, you know.”

He heard a literal crashing sound. Usually memories come back one by one, especially when they are painful ones. Tonight they came like one militant regiment. They were merciless. He put his hands to the fence and shut his mouth. He wasn’t staring at the ruins as much as he was staring into them.

“The tombstone is in Russian. The sentence under the name says, “Live with death, or broken things, and live with hope.”

Silence.

“I do it every day,” she said.

“I don’t.”

Just two words. It’s all he could allow without ruining his fast-dying dignity.

“We were on the other side of the city. He didn’t actually die here. All of us did though, and those things are still dead.”

One confession of anger fell from his left eye. Then another.

He didn’t remember much between the crash and the crying.

The woman reached up with her right hand and rescued one of his hands from the fence. She put a piece of cloth in his palm for his confessions. It was warm from being in her pocket.

His left hand stayed at the fence and his right one used the blue cloth to clear his eyes.

She left.

He had witnessed many things in seventeen minutes. The most important one, however, was that truth and had struggled out from underneath fifty years of rubble and had taken his despair ransom.

As it often is with hope, the cost of its presence is counted in but one currency: redemption.

Hope is living with dead and broken things and making life alongside of it. Hope isn’t building new cities on every bit of brokenness from older ones. It isn’t making new families out of old ones. It isn’t replacing old, sick bodies with new, healthy ones. That would be too tidy.

No, he knew that the severity and beauty of hope is that people can keep living even though they are broken and that bodies can keep breathing even though they are not well and that families can keep loving even though their wounds keep hurting.

Hope delights in unanswered questions and unknown outcomes.

Sometimes you only know it’s true because you suffer.

on death and dying

2006-11-06T00:56:00.000-08:00

You want to know the real ironic thing about thinking thoughts like, “Wow….it seems like only yesterday that I was 18”? It’s that the same despair you feel about not being spry and handsome occurs even more deeply when you realize that the speed of the 10 years of yesterday is going to be passed up by the speed of the 10 years of tomorrow.

professor

2006-11-03T17:57:00.000-08:00

The bodies of great men fail.

Nobody wants to see it. Nobody wants to mingle words like death, sickness, brilliance, pain, strength, power, humble, and failing.

The greatest man I ever laid a hand on sat before me in a maroon-cushioned chair. His head was bowed. He was sick: you always know people are sick when they have a “predicted life expectancy”. He had five to ten productive years, his doctor said. That’s when you know its bad…that’s when people start crying.

True to all of time, the others and myself could not remain stoic. All of us caught our breath, prayed, and shut our eyes and it wasn’t in that perfect order.

school

2006-11-03T17:41:00.000-08:00

I know that it is snowing somewhere right now. Not a violent kind, but an elegant kind that falls to the earth with grace. In this snow someone is watching from a warm window with the fondness that only exists in this moment. They are silent because of beauty, and because they know its the last snow that they'll see for a very long time. This is described as the feeling of loss, the knowledge that what you love will be departed because of matters, whether by providence or chance, that are beyond your control.

This kind of loss is like an old friend and one yet to come staring at you, whispering goodbye with their eyes.

Delicate is the word, a color of delicate that goes without sounds or speeches or eulogies or any words at all. Everything favorable in the past is colliding with everything favorable in the future and everything fond in the present. In other words, I am not lacking anything here in this place where it is snowing somewhere and two people are rapt in the very same way.

Yesterday is gliding to the ground and it is not making any noise. That’s when you know you have lived fully; that’s how you know tomorrow has a chance of being just as full.

The Violin Maker

2006-11-02T19:16:00.000-08:00

“It’s sad when you begin to lose your sight and your hearing.”

He just got done telling me about the house he had in the mountains. The pictures were spread across the workbench. There were pictures of the blue sky in the mountains and of the rock and slate house. There were other pictures of a smoky sky, and still others of the charred rock and the missing roof. He lost thirty violins in the fire. He lost the only guitar he ever made. He made it for his son.

“You don’t have to see to make a violin though. Most of it is just feel.”

He pointed to the pale spruce leaned up against the wall. A corner of it had been smoothed. The feeling was unreal; it felt fake because it was so slick. It was natural though: no lacquer. “You can feel that; you don’t have to see what you’re doing.”

His loft was split in half. The front of it was filled with side lit violins and bows. I saw the violins from the street one evening. The back half was the workshop. Beautiful hand tools lined the walls. Their handles were made with all types of wood, some dark, some light. He gave me a hand plane.

“Once you see them you have to touch them.”

It was heavy because of the brass. Feeling the weight was like magic, like the feeling you get when you meet an old relative and their handshake is warm and soft and strong.

A 4x6 of sitka spruce leaned up against the wall.

“It’s fifty years old. They were going to use it for a mast or a boom.”

“Like on a ship?”

“Yes, they like to use it for the mast because it’s strong and light.”

I think I used the word fantastic half a dozen times while I was there.

“Its more aromatic than the Englelmann spruce.”

I smell wood by habit. The Engelmann used for the top of the violin was subtle.

“So does this wood get darker with age?”

He pointed up to an unfinished violin.

“Maple ages really well. It gets red.”

Red wood is an instant antiquity, especially if its used for something elegant like a violin.

“You have to let the wood age for at least five years before you use it. Once the violin is made, they usually hang it out in the sun for a week. The ultraviolet rays darken it.”

I wondered if anyone had the audacity to play a white violin. Audacity isn’t really the right word because there was nothing audacious about the soul of the wood that lay in the open ceiling of his workshop.

When I said things too quietly he would nod and say yes; the bad hearing was only a problem if I didn’t speak up.

“Sometimes I’m in the restaurant and I answer yes to things and then they bring me food I don’t want.”

He reminded me of Beethoven, who made my favorite composition when he was deaf and ridiculed.

Enchanting is a good word to use when the place you are in or the people you meet are disarming and honest like good violins. He was all three.

2006-10-30T17:04:00.000-08:00

His professor was old, and he knew he was old because during class the guy presented a slideshow from 1967 and he was skinny and tan and had brown hair. Now the professor was more round, pale, and it looked like snow fell on his head. About thirty minutes into the history of archaeology, the professor stopped what he was saying.

"It'’s a good time for a break. Let's take a ten minute break and be back at 2:00"”.

The student went crazy with theories as to why this old man was escaping class so brusquely.

His eyes followed the professor as he walked the length of the white wall to the door. Then, he heard the noise. At first, he thought it was a fluke. Then it happened again, and again.

Flatulence. That’s why the professor had left. Actually, diarrhea may have been the cause and the passing disturbances were more of a weather detection system signaling inevitable, unmentionable doom. Either way, the professor walked through the door, merrily tooting his way to the nearest restroom.

LF III

2006-10-30T17:03:00.000-08:00

“Being on top of the world is a cliché you idiot. It’s boring. It’s like naming your first kid Mildred.”

“Boring? What are you talking about? Have you ever been on top of the world; do you know what its like?”

“Riiiight.” he said. At this point, his hands flew through the space in front of him planting seeds of sarcasm, “This coming from the girl who just stepped off Everest. How was that trans-atlantic flight, anyway? Oh wait…that’s right, there was no trans-whatever flight and you never did climb Everest. Stop using the fricking cliché. It’s love. Just say love, or infatuation, or interest, or whatever you want to call it. Say “exhilarating” or "breathtaking…”

“Cute. Are you finished now?” She said it while gazing into her monitor. At this point, “Why Walking 5 Miles is Healthier Than Running 5 Miles” seemed more fulfilling than “Why Hope Is a Cliché-Using Idiot”.

“Yes; and I feel like I’m on top of the world, right next to your footprints.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll pretend like you said goodbye.”

“I’ll pretend like you didn’t call me an idiot.”

“Whatever.”

LF II

2006-10-30T17:02:00.000-08:00

Her best friend was a guy who got new best friends with every season. She hated how he used the word “juicy” and the word “hot” to describe things he liked.

“Did you see the game last night. It was juicy. The Bears were hot; their defense is amazing.”

Juicy or hot. Hot or juicy. He could be talking about football, Dostoyevsky, the presidential race, or religion. It didn’t matter. He did it. She hated it.

“God is not juicy, and neither are the Brothers Kamaranozomov,” she thought while she watched him pull on the emergency brake. “Steak is juicy. Bubble gum is juicy. God is not steak or bubble gum.”

“Did you see the parking job I just pulled off? I barely had two inches on each side! It was like this close! Juicy...”

“I hate steak.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

little fiction

2006-10-30T17:01:00.000-08:00

“Fanatic”.

When he was younger, it meant that you were nuts about what you believed. Fanatics killed people. No one wanted to be a fanatic, but they all wanted to believe in something. For the most part, they did.

Now he is much older. His collection of canes dictates where he can go, not his legs. The movement of his life is more an epic of finesse and grace than it is of power and momentum.

As he methodically glided down his driveway to pick up his morning feast of news, currents, and sports, he paused for a moment of polemic vigor.

“Ha!”

“Fanaticism? I am a fanatic? I have belief. Why is that fanatical?”

2006-08-09T23:47:00.000-07:00

Oh, the pressures of living with a hot roomate. I don't know how girls handle it, but I imagine that the jealousy card is the cause of many word wars. Jason, my new roomate, is chiseled from stone. I guess I will continue in anonymity and let him take all the glory!

2006-08-07T13:50:00.000-07:00

Being a wedding photographer has many rewards...mainly monetary ones. However, I would be lying if I said money was the only motivation. There are many fabulous moments that are breathtaking, or, as John Muir would say, sublime. And then there are the moments that are forgettable and regrettable but at the same time, utterly captivating like a stomach-turning David Hasselhoff music video.

On that note, I must preface this talk of sublime and sub-sublime moments with a casting call. Each wedding has a Shakesperian collection of players. There are stars, villians and jesters. For instance, there is always the goof. The goof is the guy that makes it into every picture and he (usually a he) makes the same face in every picture whether serious or comical. His crowning moment comes at the garter toss, where he has the uncanny ability to wrangle the garter every time, most often snaring it with his teeth. Then there is the vixen...she is typically that forty-something, over-tanned, underdressed singleton whose only rule is that the men she hits on must be at least one half to three-fifths her age. She often makes her way to the goof because she knows that she will recieve her attention quota from him. However, the goof has no realistic chance with her. Its one of those symbiotic relationships where only one member benefits. She also can be fond of the photographer, granted he meets the age requirement. The mooch is an easy one to spot...look for all the empty champagne glasses and you will find him finishing off one more. The open bar is his best friend. And of course, we cannot forget the sleaze. The sleaze is a multi-talented "gentleman" who knows how to do three things: schmooze, dance, and drink. Often, these three chemicals all combust together in one nauseous scenario. His favorite move often involves the vixen at the expense of the goof and to the chagrin of the photographer's pricey camera. The sleaze's glistening machismo often creates a fantastic lens flare, frequently ruining otherwise delightful pictures. His favorite tool is the freak, a.k.a. the "freak nasty", the "dry dock", the "dry hump", or the "zipper on the hips".

At this particular wedding, I caught the sleaze and the vixen doing what they do best. Notice the tractor-beam suave of our main man. Notice also the way that the vixen shakes her well-endowed caboose like a tasty pork chop. Bon appetite!

bigotry; alive and well

2006-06-27T17:48:00.000-07:00

My dad was away on business a few weeks ago. He and two other guys flew to Texas to repair a radar system at a military facility. One night they went into town to get some dinner at "The Kettle". They walked in to find a seat. Before they had a chance to sit down, someone said, "The boy ain't from around here, is he?" One of the three, a Mexican-American, said, "Who, me?" "No," the man said, "...the boy." Between my father and his colleague stood the final member of the three, an African-American from Mississippi. They left.

My mother has a friend who lives near Thousand Oaks. She is Puerto Rican. Her neighborhood is very affluent. One afternoon a woman from the neighborhood came to the friend's house. She opened the door and said, "Is the lady of the house here?" In other words, she looked at my mother's friend and assumed that she was the maid.

Bigotry, alive and well.

on women, men, and the church

2006-06-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

One of the things that I find difficult to understand is the following cultural insight:

At the time of Jesus, women were denied rights, treated poorly, and recieved blatant discrimation. Their treatment, by and large, was contrary to the biblical principles of spiritual and social equality. At this time in history, women were below the biblical line of value and dignity. What Christ did to honor women was counter-cultural.

Today, as we look back at how Christ treated women, we are left with this question, "If Christ gave women more respect than their culture afforded them, shouldn't we do the same?"

The question makes sense. But, the answer that is given and the practical implications that result from that answer don't make sense.

At the present time, women, by and large, are treated far better than they were in the first century Ancient Near East. For the most part, women are being treated as the Bible would have it: they have the same rights as men, they are allowed to lead companies, own homes, and certain social stigmas like not having children are no longer frowned upon as severely as they were in the ANE. In other words, there is a significant environment of equality. Whereas women were treated below the biblical line of value in Jesus time, today women are treated in a way that is congruent with what the Bible would have (keep in mind that I am talking about society at large here, and not the church). Of course, there is some argument as to whether the trend of equality is biblical or whether it starting to overstep the prescribed biblical grounds, but regardless, let's assume a conservative estimate of the social environment.

So, when we answer the question I posed above, our answer should be an emphatic YES!, but we must answer with the following in mind: there is a large gap between the treatment of women today and the treatment of women in Jesus time. Thus, attempts to offer women dignity and value in the present time are in jeopardy of overstepping the divine design of gender relationships and roles.

If women are given the dignity that they never had in the first century, then what are we to do today? If we answer yes to the question above, then what is there left to do? Do we turn to the culture to find creative ways of dignifying women? Or are these new, creative ways merely secular notions of manhood and womanhood whose foundations are far from biblical foundations?

I would certainly argue the latter: pop culture's idea of femininity is absolutely contrary to what the Bible has to say. The current cultural feminine movement is volatile, and there is a certain amount of bitterness and anger towards traditional patriarchal structures. The cry of equality is not based on a spiritual equality (Gal. 3:28). If society is telling us to treat women a particular way, and that way is not founded on biblical truth, then why listen to it?

Now, let's not be overly zealous here. Often, our ears shut down when we are offered secular explanations and prescriptive demands. It will do all of us well to hear the voice of the female today. Within the rhetoric, you will notice some important caveats, one of which is all too seminal: Men have failed society.

I stand by this accusation whole-heartedly. Having experienced a divorce and a separation in my family, I can attest to the damage that fathers do to children, wives, and society at large. But, despite the failure of men to fulfill their biblical role of leadership, let's not get caught up in the following logic: Men have failed to lead, thus their source of leadership, the Bible, is impotent. The Bible has not failed.

If you will, walk through the following thought process with me. Within the heart of nearly every woman is the desire to have a man knock her head over heals and provide for her for the rest of her life. She wants to be rescued, like it or not. This vulnerability, I believe, is not a weakness, but a necessity (at this point, I'm sure all kinds of people are cringing at my assertion that female vulnerability is necessary to a well-functioning society...its not a means of oppression, but of cultural liberation!). As a nation of men, the question becomes, "How do we compliment this desire?" Let's take two competing theories: the secular model and the biblical model.

1. The Secular Model

Let's be honest: Capitalism is great for the economy but terrible for pretty much every other facet of existance. America's mentality is dominated by choice: if you like it, take it. If you don't like it, take something else you do like. This is a very selfish notion. It is predicated upon personal desire and self-preservation. This idea works great for buying a car or finding the perfect bottle of wine. Apply this thought to the family and all hell literally breaks loose. Men leave wives 50 out of a 100 times these days (true, Christians have the same divorce rates..but again, it is because men have failed us, not the Bible...no pragmatism allowed here!). However, who can blame anyone? Society is built on the personal ability to choose, and to constantly look for the better choice! It is an ethic of ease. When things get difficult, the basis for action is not the other, but the self. Though women search for a rescuer, the are often left with hollow, selfish men.

2. The Biblical Model

What exactly happened on the cross? God died for people that hated him. That is what happened. He died to give eternal, fulfilling life to people that didn't deserve it. In an environment of betrayal and utter sin, He sacrificed himself for his betrayers. And, more importantly, God wanted it this way.

Why the cross in a discussion about women and dignity?

"Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her..."

The same society that is spewing warped doctrines of femininity is the same society that gives males the moral right to abuse and abandon their wives by virtue of selfishness and self-preserving choice.

What woman would not want to be spirited away by a man whose purpose was to live for her sake as Christ lived and died for the sake of the church?

What woman would not want a man who, regardless or how difficult the enterprise of faithfulness and fidelity was, remained loyal to her through all sickness, poverty, and difficulty?

What woman would not want a man who wakes up every day ready to die for her on her behalf?

What woman would not want a man that considers himself second, and her first?

Let's think for a moment about this.

What I have just described is exactly how God planned marriage. What is more, God's biblical model for headship and male authority is rooted, in light of Ephesians 5, in the model of the sacrifice of Christ. When we speak of the matter of male authority and headship, we are too often fools because we have been convinced by the actions of weak and uncommitted men rather than the biblical model of authority/sacrifice has failed us.

As we think about this debate that is happening in our church, remember this: be proud of the biblical model of authority and headship. It has not failed us. Headship is not tyranny; headship is the cross. Society has warped femininity because society first warped masculinity and turned into tyranny. By biblical definition, a man has not rightly exercised his authority over his wife unless he has come to the point of bloodshed for her.

As we continue to wrestle, ask the important questions:

What is the root of the conflict between genders? Is it oppressive biblical commands or is it the failure of men at large to uphold positive, sacrifice-oriented biblical models of authority and headship?

Can biblical headship exist without real, tangible sacrifice?

Is the argument of headship and authority a matter of pastoral positions or male responsibility and faithfulness?

Will we be true spiritual models of authority and headship in our marriages?

Are godly marriages the key to resolving authority issues in the church?

Will a revival of godly marriages regain the trust of society’s women regardless of their religious persuasion?

2006-06-16T13:19:00.000-07:00

Here is a question I have been wrestling with the last copule of days..actually, there hasn't been much wrestling at all. For me, the answer is simple:

Would you rather have an all-access pass to the Olympics or to the World Cup?

2006-06-14T23:05:00.000-07:00

One of the most enriching experiences you can have on the internet is located at the top right portion of the screen...the button is labeled "NEXT BLOG >>"

The hours will disappear.

2006-05-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

When you go to Starbucks, there should be a sign that has a picture of a barista on it and, next to the picture, the phrase: "Today I recommend:". This morning I put my picture on the board with the following mischief: "Today I recommend: dignity and aid for Palestine (and a tall decaf cappucino)". Someone mumbled something to me about adding "suicide bomber belt" to my recommendation. Just as I suspected...

2006-05-27T17:17:00.000-07:00

I have officially begun to dig my own grave deep into the nether regions of this generation: I own a MacBook.

2006-05-06T16:36:00.000-07:00

It has occurred to me for sometime now that the men and women who peddle petitions in front of supermarkets and bookstores are doing so because, quite simply, more signatures means more money. I am not sure of the exact number, but I have heard that each employee makes a dollar seventy five for every name that they get. Mathematically, it is frighteningly lucrative: spend eight hours a day getting one hundred names and you take home one hundred and seventy dollars.

Granted, some of these initiatives are frivolous to some and profound to others. However, this polarity does not prevent some of them from being pushed through by voters and lawmakers. This fruition brings change, which is beautiful when wisely administered.

Why does democracy have to be this way? Why is it that our power to amend and petition has been reduced to the dirty work of desperate people (and to their defense, I am not attacking their character but only addressing their needs). It is as if politicians are saying, “If I can throw enough money at my citizens who are in financial difficulty, then I my chances of enacting change are far better.” I am by no means opposed to initiatives, petitions, and referendums. I absolutely love idealism and the power of change. However, I am not sure if the current way of seeing those things through is ethical or should be as permissible as it currently is.

2006-05-04T09:22:00.001-07:00

Last night, just before I went to sleep, I read the following verse no more than five minutes before I fell asleep: "Accept hardship as discipline. God is treating you as His children." This morning I woke up and discovered that my car was stolen.

I got a good chuckle out of the thought that my car is zipping around the county and that its being driven by complete strangers. I hope that they know that it overheats when it idles, and that there is a secret to setting the parking break. They were probably disappointed to find out that the sun roof hasn't worked in years. Other than that, I think they should be pleased. I just cleaned out my car last week.

2006-04-25T21:48:00.001-07:00

Missionaries are the fallen tears of God, living where His weeping expressed His heartbreak and landed on dark places.

2006-04-21T12:34:00.000-07:00

God told Hosea to marry a hooker. How weird is that??!!

2006-04-11T23:08:00.000-07:00

I have made it on two "Other Links" in the world of Blogspot.

On one I am known as "James"...
On the other, "The Dean"...

I can take this one of two ways:

1. Either I am as stodgy as those two words sound

or

2. I am as cool as "James Dean"

I am not sure how to take this...

In the words of a caustic and dear friend, "Easily shaken, my friend. Easily shaken."

Does anyone have a cigarette?

when functionality IS practical

2006-04-11T21:29:00.000-07:00

So I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art again today to get my year long student pass, and I found out that the cannon that I thought I desecrated was acutally intended to be ridden (just not as hard as we were cowboying it). I didn't intend to bring up the subject, but my unnamed dear friend who went with me thought it would be fitting to allude to it. I came clean to the front desk girl and said I committed a devilish faux paux last time I was there. She gasped (with her hand over her mouth and her rolling chair settling a foot away from where she started) and then said, "Are you the guy that knocked over the cups?" Apparently, a kindred spirit was intently scribbling notes about the piece in front of him and didn't notice the stack of cups (art) behind him. I looked like a hero compared to what he did. At his expense, my shenanigans were probably forgotten by everyone. Sweet liberty...

2006-04-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

War is devastating. War is liberating. War is death. War brings life.

How the heck did it get so confusing? How can be people be so resolute in their support or protest of war?

when functionality isn't practical

2006-03-24T11:47:00.000-08:00

One day I would like to be a missionary to Europe. I want to open up an arts center that is full of art by Christians for the sake of art, but also as a way to evangelize to Europeans. Thus, I am taking greater and greater interest in the local art scene. So yesterday I decided to roll down to the Museum of Contemporary Art in La Jolla with two objectives: to view some good art and to build good rapport with the staff there (things ALWAYS go awry when you force rapport). I walked through the doors of the museum to find that admission is free. I spent the next two hours perusing the exhibit. I took an hour break and came back for the guided tour at 2. The tour was informative, but the docent was in a hurry and seemed to be paying more attention to the two girls I was with who prefaced their participation with a grandiose, "I'm here because I love art." I ended up migrating to the bookstore after the tour. I camped out in a corner and looked through a couple photography books. To this point, I had made splendid acquaintance with Donnie, one of the "Hey, don't step over that line!" guys, and Megan and Jackie, the bookstore girls. All was well...I was methodically working my way into the high-art society of San Diego. Then, ,my good friend Rusty called

Twenty minutes later he strolled through the door. We smiled. We embraced. Jackie, the bookstore girl, passed us on the way to the bathroom and suggested that we go outside to the "Garden Gallery". It was a perfect day; we couldn't object. The first piece was a free standing sculpture of a man's coat and a woman's jacket. Tim ran his hands all over the man's jacket, peppering his movements with his patented exclamations. I was like, "Don't touch that, bro! I don't think we are allowed to do that. It's art." Granted, I am all for functional, touchable art. However, I was getting the sense that everything was sacred here. After passing a few uninteresting pieces, we happened upon a wooden cannon. Rusty walked over to it, and after a few moments of examination, he realized, "This is a see saw!"

I could end it right there and let your imagination smear the last few brush strokes...

He was on one side, I was on the other, and we were both trying in vain to detonate each other's reproductive organs. We hooted. We hollered. We caroused. We....we stopped.

"HEY, THIS ISN'T A JUNGLE GYM!"

Were I a dog in that moment, my tail would have been buried between my legs. The cannon wasn' t a see saw, it was art.

We looked up to one of the windows, and sure enough, a swarthy and steaming "Hey, don't step on the line" guy was sweating us with a look that could have doubled for a neutron bomb. All the rapport; lost. All the dignity; burned. All the friendships; forgotten.

And yes, after we realized what we had done, after we thawed out from an utterly shameful, frozen moment, I looked up to see that half of the staff was pressed up against the glass, gazing down at the cannon as it if were the roadkill remains of Old Yeller himself.

Luckily, there was a back door. We took full advantage of it. Rusty's car was in front of the museum. We snuck into the Beamer and snuck away.

I feel so dirty inside.

2006-03-14T09:38:00.000-08:00

Everyone knows that Jews hate Palestinians and Palestinians hate Jews. With a few minor exceptions, this truth gets more intense and more true the closer you get to the Gaza Strip. That being said, how do we, as Christians in a nation that has long supported Israel both politically and financially, turn a blind eye to Jesus' call to love our enemies? Were we to be biblical about this (and by biblical I am including dispensational AND non-dispensational interpretations of the Bible), wouldn't we group Palestinians with the Zaccheuses, the prodigal sons,the Gentiles, and the Samaritans of the gospels? God clearly presents Himself as the God of the outcasts in the New Testament.

Besides that, can we find no more of a beautiful tale of redemption, compassion and mercy than what we see in Genesis 21:
"Then (Hagar) went and sat down across from (Ishmael) at a distance of about a bowshot; for she said to herself, 'Let me not see the death of the boy.' So she sat opposite him, and lifted her voice and wept. And God heard the voice of the lad. Then the angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said to her, 'What ails you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heard the voice of the lad where he is. Arise, lifet up the lad and hold him with your hand, for I will make him a great nation."

Is it not ironic that Sarah, the mother of the Jews, is the one that sent Ishamel and Hagar into the desert just as the Jews (and, granted, the UN?) are doing to the descendents of Ishmael today?

There IS something to be said about end times theology, however. If you are dispensational, then Israel is still God's chosen nation and will be redeemed in the future. But, does this give us (America and Israel) the right to persectue the Palestinians in both our minds and with our guns? Does being pro-dispensational (which is the unspoken pop end times theology of the American public) mean that we have to be anti-Palestinian? Let me share a moment of honest thought with you: to me, the Jews of Israel are no more Christian than the Palestinians that are found in the same land. Where the heck did our rampant, pro-Israeli bias come from? I don't think it came from the Bible. Worse yet, I think it did...

2006-03-01T13:32:00.000-08:00

The stroll along the beach was pleasant. The boardwalk was mildly busy. The man was laying down in the grass. His gray feet sprawled across the blades and reached for the ocean. He twitched every few seconds. It would have been nice to take him to lunch; he didn't belong. My problem was not that I kept thinking, it's that I kept walking.

2006-02-08T12:50:00.000-08:00

Blogging is dead. Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking: "There are too many '(Insert your own word) is dead.' sayings out there now. It's a cliche." But seriously, it's dead. Myspace has a throat hold on blogging, pictures sharing, and online communities. I went to Wyatt's old blog and clicked on all the friend blogs that he had and only about twenty percent of them have entries from 2006. Everyone else stopped like a year ago. I wouldn't necessarily say that it is a sad decline, but it's a decline nonetheless. And to think that Sarah Dignal is about to say ciao to her blog. Have we finally gotten tired of the post-modern zeitgeist that we call blogging?

And now a few words from my esteemed roomate, Oso: "You know what Poops? Blogging IS dead. You know why? Because blogging sucks."

2006-01-31T23:29:00.000-08:00

Corn is no place for a mighty warrior.

2006-01-30T19:59:00.000-08:00

It's the perfect time for a little sang-froid.

2006-01-30T17:25:00.000-08:00

lessons of the month:

1. Never listen to Death Cab for Cutie when you are thinking about dating someone.

2. Always shake hands with people who have no home.

3. Show me one rich person and I can show you thirty impoverished souls.

4. Close friends rescue you more than you think.

5. The whole game of affection and love is too risky and that is why it is so nice.

2005-12-30T09:06:00.000-08:00

Who says first dates are the most important? I mean, I can't deny that they don't leave an impression, but you can't find out everything you need to know about a person in, let's say, three hours. Thus, additional "dates" must be had. I propose that we think of these additional dates as addendums to the first date, thus creating a string of outings that all fall under the title "first date".

That's right; I went on a DATE.

2005-12-25T08:14:00.000-08:00

Today I am spending Christmas with my family and our honored guest, Clay Aiken.

2005-12-25T08:13:00.000-08:00

Has anyone ever seen any Christmas paraphanelia with fiber optic lights that DIDN'T look creepy or, if you have an angel with such modifications, downright Mormon?

2005-12-21T12:47:00.000-08:00

Betrayal. Have you ever watched a fabulous movie on American history, only to find that the capstone actor, the one that made you so proud, was of all things (gasp) BRITISH? This one cuts deep...

2005-11-13T07:28:00.000-08:00

"What the heck is a champagne brunch?"
"It's where you get brunch, with champagne. I'm just kidding though...I don't want champagne."

2005-11-08T18:58:00.000-08:00

She spells her name weird. Her parents must be hippies.

2005-11-03T10:19:00.000-08:00

Blogger spam....who would have known?

2005-11-03T10:18:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I walked by a rabbit. In my mind, a finger pulled back on a trigger.

Thank you, Jamul.

2005-10-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

There are days that I am keenly aware that there exists, beneath my own heart, a heart that is supernatural. When I am closest to God they beat together like father and child. Stories of pain are what most often convince me that God does exist because when I hear that a mother of three has thrown her children into a bay, my present reality is held ransom by a deepness of sorrow that I cannot claim as my own. Late at night when I see a young man shivering, my jacket nearly makes itself off my own back and onto his.

For all the sharp hurt that exists in this world, thoughts like these are needed but do not belong. Hope is always a stranger. Love will always be alien to our human condition, but welcomed like warm jackets and honest mercy and compassion. Jesus will always be an enemy to men, women, and children who are enemies to themselves and each other. Life here is one grand decay, and life with God is the place in which every dying breath is met with vitality and promise.

Perhaps this is why some whimsically believed that even the breath of Christ and his apostles was enough to heal them.

Salvation comes when dying people are tired of dying, victims are tired of being victimized, and people who decided long ago that sixty years was enough to make them happy are finally convinced that allegiance to the eternal kingdom of God is no wasted fury, and that intimacy with Him is the only legitimate way to rightly experience the intimacy of holy sorrow and pain.

We are needed, not by God, but by people who, with every warm nightfall, lose hope in themselves and their Creator.

...for jason guthrie...

2005-10-05T16:23:00.000-07:00

Our favorite proponent of the Mexican delicacy known as "chorizo", Brian Giles. All hail the king of ground beef smoothies!

the exhibition that never was....

2005-10-04T21:29:00.000-07:00

Welcoming Introduction

There are certain moments that transcend everything you thought you deserved or were worthy of. When these moments turn to minutes, and then to hours, your life changes. To be bombarded by infinitely divine sequences of grace is the inescapable definition of change. For us, those sequences of divine hours turned into five consecutive days of memories so breathtaking, one question was left at the foot of the buses and trucks in which we traveled: Would we have the courage to remember?

Remember transcendent days like these inevitably calls us to action, to embrace the change that god enacted. Thus remembering all that happened is, in itself, an act of courage.

So as you peer into the eyes of these children, rejoice in the work of God. As you embrace the textures and shadows of this country, be grateful for its creation and the change it commanded.

Pray for us. Be willing to remember when God ushered change in your heart, and be willing to embrace the moments, the minutes, and the days.

Be willing to act.

Brothers
I was sitting at the back of the meeting hall and these two boys, presumably brothers, were passing time with a Styrofoam cup and each other’s company. The younger boy was full of life and mischief; the perfect little brother. The older boy was more reserved, but his serious nature could not mask his innocence. As they both peer into the lens, you can sense their wonder and fascination.

Smiles
There are four smiles here, and each one communicates something unique about the soft faces on which they shine. The young boy in the bus is leaving the camp, but is still exhilarated by the memories and does not have time to grieve. I caught the other children during different days and at different times, but the gentle joy of Christ is a constant on each of their faces. Whether holding their hand skyward, or simply standing in security, their happiness is evident.

Babies
Each of their expressions are so different from each other.
In one child, we experience her fierce, terrified attachment to her mother.
In another, a look of expectation and dignity.
In one, two eyefuls of tears that search for comfort.
And finally, a look of apprehension that belies a girl’s young age.

Girls
What fascinates me most about each of these girls is that their faces are wearing the look of women. They are communicating a quiet inner confidence that convinces me that they have learned something of life that has strengthened them.

Boys
Like the girls, these young boys are look more like young men. One of the boys is photographed twice. Though captured at two different points in time, you can see somber influences in both expressions. In these few moments, each of these boys became little men.

Faceless
Whiles faces capture much of what we know about emotions, these pictures convince us that even the slightest part of a person can tell ten thousand stories. One eye, a pair of eyes, or the back of a delicate, young girl can grab us as much as any mass of faces can.

Abstract
Each of these photographs represents an aspect of our adventure and our experience with God. In this profound trip, a tile countertop suddenly became the redemption and love of the Cross. Three hands become a symbol of intimacy, of the union of God’s love, a child’s innocence, and a servant’s protection. A sandal, a small foot, and a smattering of shade become the mark of a defenseless child kept safe by the shadow the Lord’s wings.

Hand

Every once in a while, a single picture defines ideals and truths that even the earth itself cannot contain. In front you is a picture that encompasses everything that we ever hoped that this trip could be: a tiny, soiled hand pressed against the window of a departing bus grasping memories that will never crumble, reaching out to the strange but familiar people that came to love others and be changed. The face of Christ is etched upon the tender wrinkles of this fatherless child, and that face begs a question that soaks every portion of this moment and all of these memories,

How will you change the world today?

the art of being a wingman

2005-09-24T09:02:00.000-07:00

It was a prime scenario: she planned an night full of poker and cranium. He was a few side hugs away from being in love, and we were there to take everyone's money and be the "life of the party". Together, no woman could stand our triumverate of charm....(wow, that was a nice alliteration)... For the sake of the not-so-innocent, we will use false names. Marge was a school teacher, but merely a substitute. George was a full time teacher. Myself and Ricardo were two twenty-somethings with nothing better to do on a Friday night. Then there was Ryan, the lovable boyhood friend. And next, the gaggle of girl-friends: Nicole, Megan (with a broken leg), Sheree, Rosio, Krista, and Crystal (with the Masters degree in Forensic science). Why were Ricardo and I there? To somehow become the darlings of the party and use that attention to uplift and decorate our beloved boy, George.

Art 1:

I'm not going to lie, George and I were both fasting for wisdom concerning this female, Marge. Thus, we could not touch the massive spread that Marge had cooked for her guests that night. Problem: we were committing a terrible faux paux by not raving about and ravenously devouring the seven-layer dip and tortilla casserole. Being the wingman, it was my job to resourcefully and tactfully resolve this situation. So, in a moment of sheer savant, I quipped to George: "We will ask her if we can take home plate fulls of food so that we can eat it tomorrow. Yes, yes. This is perfect!". Two hours later we were loading into our car with two bags full of hand-made Mexican delight. She was happy and flattered, and we were hungry and soon-to-be-filled.

Art 2:
We instantly befriended the girl-friends of Marge. The charm, mind you, must be genuine and not forced for fear that forced charm may make our pilot, George, as appealing as a bottle of Avon. The names had to be memorized within ten minutes, or we would have been perceived as a three-person throng of high school dropouts. It was simple and sweet: Sheree with the green shirt, Nicole with the straight hair, Megan with the pink shirt, short Krista, tall Rosio, and smart Crystal. No mas, no less.

Art 3:
We absolutely had to be good at poker. The game did not draw interest at first, but eventually, five of the seven girls were watching us. Our pilot, George would be best suited as the lovable loser, the gregarious gambler, the early exiter. After all, his night was not about winning hands, but finding the right opportunity to hold them. Thus, he was the first to lose all his chips. That left Ricardo, myself, and Ryan, the boyhood friend. It was our job as wingmen to beat Ryan in a respectful way, and then, with all the girls' personal stake lost (no George, no Ryan the boyhood friend), end the game as quickly as possible so that we could fire up the Cranium board (community skills are a must for the pilot and his wingmen). Prolonging the game too long would cause the girls to lose interest, and it may have the potential to deflate the night.

The intended plan worked out marvelously. Ryan lost a hand after going all in, only to say that he thought he had the hand won because of a confusion over the rules. As a good wingman, Ricardo offered recourse and gave Ryan his chips back. Two hands later, I put Ryan the boyhood friend to bed with aces and queens, and two hands later, I lost to Ricardo's big slick, and poker was done. Quick. Flawless. For the pilot!

Art 4:
Community time is essential to the pilot's ability to "land the plane" as it were. That is to say, if George had any chance in Hades to find favor with Marge, we had to be the life of party. Again, we were looking for amiable, not Avon. Megan (busted leg, pink shirt), Ricardo and I were on the Red team, and while Ricardo exited at the beginning of the game to talk with his girlfriend, Megan and I made small talk and volleyed back and forth with the Cranium clay, making elementary shapes and guessing them as a warm-up for the real thing. I instantly wowed them all by guessing our first card, a Word Worm zelpuz, within one second of the sand trickling down. We were in. For the rest of the night, we peppered the conversation with organic (natural) one-liners and good old fashioned enthusiasm. We knew we had accomplished our goals when, at the end of the night, Nicole turned to us on the way to the door and said, "You are funny!"

Friends, art takes many shapes and forms. Being a good wingman takes skill, suave, and a certain believable charm that all points to the battle cry of the evening...."For the pilot!".

2005-09-24T09:01:00.000-07:00

When you have graduated from college, game night means one thing: potentially moving seven digits closer to marriage.

2005-09-21T16:23:00.000-07:00

I am officially leaving behind the five o'clock shadow, long sideburns look. Until we meet again....cheers!

2005-09-17T00:17:00.000-07:00

Which one of us carries nothing, continues in life empty-handed?
Which one of us encounters the brilliance of existence without carrying the legacy of our closest loved ones? With realizations like these, that no one exists without the literal blood and hopes of other before us, the simple act of choice becomes a chorus of either harmony or discord. With each choice, we can bury those before us or exalt them in that flash of a moment when we realize that our life was never really about us anyway.

Call it an ode to the family...call it what you want, but when I was writing these words images of my broken uncle, my loving mother, my steadfast father, and my deep brother flashed through my head and I knew that with every decision I make their hand is somewhere in it, plying the healing of a wound or thrusting me into risk.

2005-09-17T00:10:00.000-07:00

One day....

I will write short stories that will make people stand up, cry, and walk across a busy intersection with a quiet assurance that life can change.

I will write songs that will halt empty conversation.

I will take pictures that will only be guilty of stealing breath.

2005-09-17T00:06:00.000-07:00

why i love damien rice:

stones taught me to fly
love taught me to lie
life taught me to die
so its not hard to fall
when you float like a cannonball

.....isn't this so much better than any alanis morisette-ish attempt at lyrical irony?

2005-09-05T19:44:00.000-07:00

With soft music rolling in the background, Grandmother began to tell of the early days of her son's marriage. He was quite busy, and often worked all hours of the day to support his wife and young son. His wife, driven by jealousy, kicked him out on account of suspicion of many things and took care of the only son by herself. On the way to robust nights of dancing and drinking with the girls, she would drop her son off at Grandma's house. As soon as she left, the boy would start wailing. Rocking back and forth at the foot of the front door, he would smack his little hands into the cold wood as he longed for his parents.

As grandmother told the story, the first notes of "Go Tell It on the Mountain" slid into the somber room..."Go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere, Go tell it on the mountain, that Jesus Christ is Lord."

Is there no more stark a testimony about the severity of the Lordship of Christ? Is there no more a crushing blow to human selfishness than to stand atop the highest peak and shout, "Jesus Christ is Lord!"? Oh, were we to take the first line of this song as the edge of a sword!

encore (for my own sake)

2005-08-31T16:35:00.000-07:00

Meat, and me. I was defenseless, and I cannot say that I feel the same way around asparagus.

...witchcraft...

2005-08-30T14:56:00.000-07:00

a small act of rebellion.....
Today I snuck a bottle of Pepsi into my seminary library. I walked up to the third floor, unfolded my laptop, and slowly opened the soda so as not to tip anyone off about my contraband. Twenty minutes later I got up to depart and decided to leave behind what was left of the drink as a mark of my devious act. Two hours later, after going out to lunch with a dear friend, I returned to the original crime scene. The bottle was there. I opened it and drank.

Ahh, the refreshment of insignificant rebellion...

2005-08-23T14:08:00.000-07:00

jig...blog.

2005-08-23T14:06:00.000-07:00

regina spektor

2005-08-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

"Look, Sioux, now you are a private eye!"
"No, both my eyes are public."

2005-08-22T00:36:00.000-07:00

By nature, I am sarcastic. At the height of my mental exercise, I am quick, sharp, and brilliant.

2005-08-13T15:22:00.000-07:00

She made weird faces while she sang. When she chased the high notes, the veins in her neck swelled. Peculiar; I liked it. Thankfully, I am unattached.

2005-08-09T17:20:00.000-07:00

I am in love with Elizabeth Bennet.

2005-08-08T17:49:00.000-07:00

Drats! I logged off again after another intended turn off!

2005-08-08T17:42:00.000-07:00

After logging on and off of camp computers for what seems an eternity, I felt the freedom of using my laptop in the lobby of my seminary. No log ons, no log offs. No angry office managers. No passwords. No nothing. Of course, that didn't stop me from instinctively trying to log off my laptop when I had intended to turn it off. I am a prisoner...drats.

little thoughts...

2005-08-04T17:55:00.000-07:00

Today is the way of the empty heart filled with my overflowing God.

If I really believe that I can change the world, then I must look at all I do by God's grace and refuse to lay it on the cheap altar of comparison.

Within the simple actions of humility, there is a tranquility that assures the heart, "You were created for these moments."

Look at all these children milling around! They wait, I believe, for the thrill of being loved by strangers. Breakfast wouldn't hurt either.

2005-07-30T20:44:00.000-07:00

The kid had a round face and stubby fingers. His mother was a prostitute. She died, burned alive in the kitchen by her pimp. He was a natural photographer, but since mother's passing, he stopped taking pictures.

"He is somewhere else," someone observed. India is hard.

2005-07-28T10:04:00.000-07:00

The problem with believing that you can change the world is that sometimes you think you can't.

igor koutsenko, artist

2005-07-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

His expression was a wound. Once you knew that he was Russian, you understood. After all, he was from a place scarred from the Iron Curtain to the Bering Strait. He told me his life story, and then dryly concluded, "America is child's play."

2005-07-26T00:00:00.002-07:00

All hail the artistic expressions of Creviston.

2005-07-26T00:00:00.001-07:00

Cafe Sugar.