Grandma’s Simple Faith

Grandma’s Simple Faith
(for Grandma Van Horn and Grandma Pier)

Lord, take me home to the peaceful valley,
down the winding rivers
to the city of souls.
I’ve grown so tired,
and my heart’s too heavy to walk any longer.
to your cities of gold.

As I drove down US 27 back towards my childhood home to visit my grandma for what would be the last time, I happened to have a Ryan Adams CD cycling through my player with the song “Peaceful Valley.” Something struck me about his music that I hadn’t thought about much before. Ryan Adams would never be categorized as a “Christian singer,” yet there is a faith that runs deeply through his music like an untapped vein of ore. It is a simple faith that cannot be communicated through theology or dogma . . . or even lines of praise choruses or hymns. No, this is a faith that is guttural. A faith that runs deep in the bones. A faith that stands against the tide of hardship and suffering. A faith that only comes to us through the tangibility of the finite and concrete.

This faith is not unlike the faith we often encounter with our grandmothers. I’ve often thought to myself, Imagine living all those 97 years, experiencing all those decades. For example, my Grandma Van Horn could tell stories about riding buggies in a time when everyone used horses, not just the Amish. And how many times have I watched a historical movie and thought, Wow! My grandma lived during that time. Such long-lived grandparents always bring the question, how do they do it? How do they live so long? Theories abound, from avoiding sex to eating certain type of foods. There can be no doubt in my mind, at least from my experience with grandmothers, that the secret can only be this simple faith.

What exactly is this simple faith, some might ask? I don’t know about other grandparents, but mine rarely spoke of faith. Sometimes, I might get a proud comment about my Bible knowledge, but not much more. And yet, my grandma’s faith is more real to me than any theologians. I did not experience it in words, but with my senses. I can even now smell the melting of bacon grease on the skillet as she prepared my favorite dish of chipped beef, or the soggy milk bread she fed me when I was sick. I can hear the sound of an old Singer sewing machine as she patched up my threadbare pants. Or the soft touch of her skin, as she handed me a drink of water. When I was hungry, she fed me. When I was naked, she clothed me. When I was thirsty, she gave me something to drink. She was a Jesus far more real to me than the Jesus of my Sunday school coloring books.

But it makes clear sense to me now. Jesus entered into this world and became flesh through a mother. Grandmothers are merely the most-practiced in motherhood. So of course, one way Jesus becomes real in our lives is through our grandmothers. When I enter into heaven to encounter Jesus face-to-face, I will not recognize him by the theologians I’ve read or the fancy words I know. I will smell the bacon grease melting. I will hear the sewing machine singing. I will feel the soft touch of his skin. And I will know that he is truly Jesus. This is the inheritance left us by our grandparents. This is the simple faith that we must come to know as we walk down the “winding rivers” of our years. And, ultimately, this is the simple faith we must learn to pass down ourselves. For this is the faith that can withstand two world wars, a depression, and countless other hardships. And, in the end, this is the faith that will withstand death itself.

Schopenhauer on Harry Potter

I was preparing for teaching this semester and decided to use some essays from Schopenhauer. Few writers are infinitely universal. Clearly, the book industry has not changed, and he might as well be talking about things like Harry Potter.

Writing for money and preservation of copyright are, at bottom, the ruin of literature. It is only the man who writes absolutely for the sake of the subject that writes anything worth writing. What an inestimable advantage it would be, if, in every branch of literature, there existed only a few but excellent books! This can never come to pass so long as money is to be made by writing. It seems as if money lay under a curse, for every author deteriorates directly he writes in any way for the sake of money. The best works of great men all come from the time when they had to write either for nothing or for very little pay. This is confirmed by the Spanish proverb: honra y provecho no caben en un saco (Honour and money are not to be found in the same purse). The deplorable condition of the literature of to-day, both in Germany and other countries, is due to the fact that books are written for the sake of earning money. Every one who is in want of money sits down and writes a book, and the public is stupid enough to buy it. The secondary effect of this is the ruin of language.

Schopenhauer, “On Books and Writing.”

The Long Slow Death of Radio

Recently, while listening to some of my songs on itunes, I heard a few songs that took me back to the nineties, when I actually listened to the radio — back in the day when there was decent radio. I don’t know how it is in bigger cities, but in Fort Wayne, there is no good radio for creative, “alternative” music. The best we’ve got is some small station out of a suburban high school, and that doesn’t come in very well.

Anyway, I was once again amazed at how the songs that were played on the radio during that time can transport me back to those days. The strange thing is that this effect only occurs with songs that originated in the 80s and 90s. Perhaps there are a few in the 00’s, but it is only because I played the cds over and over again.

I thought to myself, how sad it is that future generations will not experience true radio. In fact, in ten years, it might not even exist anymore.

Then I thought, wouldn’t it be nice to have some songs connected to 2007 — something I can listen to ten years from now and say, “Wow, remember 2007!” So I’ve decided to try an experiment to see if I can recreate the experience by making a play list for the summer for my car and computer — a soundtrack for summer 2007, if you will. I’ll let you know in ten years if it works .

For those interested, here is my playlist:

A.M. 180 Grandaddy
Commissioning A Symphony In C Cake
Strange Apparition Beck
Penny People in Planes
Lewis (Mistreated) Radiohead
Rockin’ The Suburbs
Revolution Grandaddy
New Shoes Paolo Nutini
Put Your Records On Corinne Bailey Rae
Walk You Home Tonight Badly Drawn Boy
Ostriches & Chirping Elliott Smith
Memory Lane Elliott Smith
Dogs Damien Rice
Summer In The City
The Lights of London David Gray
Stay In The Shade José González
Star Mile Joshua Radin
4th Of July Aimee Mann
Long & Lazy River Nellie McKay
Summersong The Decemberists

The Wooden Wheel Keeps Turning

This is a part of a new thing I’m participating in called the synchroblog — where a bunch of people blog about the same thing at the same time. This month is movies and Christianity. Since I’ve been deathly ill the last couple days, I am reposting an old blog about the Pirates of the Carribean II. Since the new one is coming out soon, it still seems relevent. My last post was also about a movie — 300.

Yesterday, Lindy and I went to see Pirates II, and, of course, the movie had everything a good summer blockbuster should offer–big explosions, ugly monsters, funny jokes, and a hot babe dressed up like a seaman (well, okay, that last one was a bit unusual). Even so, unlike with most summer blockbusters, I found my mind playing with the metaphorical levels of the movie (much like a cat plays with a mouse). In the end, Pirates makes an interesting commentary on the state of today’s society, particularly here in America.

Throughout the movie, there are many images of circular things going around and around. Besides the useful function of entertaining those in the audience with short attention spans, these images developed into a representation of a society that revolves around individual desire.

I first noticed this theme developing when the three men (Will Turner, Jack Sparrow, and the indescript bad guy) were fighting over the key to the chest. Each man desired something different and perceived each of the other men as an obstacle in the way of that desire being fulfilled. As a result, their struggles became an exercise in profound futility, ultimately signified in the water wheel going around and around, but going nowhere. All the while, the heroine of the movie, Elizabeth Schwann, stood aside with the audience watching the tom-foolery, wondering how anything is going to get done this way.

In essence, this is how the movie defines pirates–those who are completely centered on themselves. In this movie, pirates aren’t just ugly men who say “Aaargh.” The pirates are also the colonial powers of the British government trying to exploit the world for material gain. Even the mock hero, Will Turner, is centered around his own selfish need to save his bride-to-be. Elizabeth Schwann alone stands unsullied . . . until she ties Jack Sparrow to the mast of his doomed ship. Jack very wisely calls her a pirate at this point, for now she has acted not for the sake of the other, but for the sake of her own selfish needs.

The end product of this self-centeredness is chaos. Much like Davy Jones’ men slowly became sea creatures, pirates losing touch with themselves, not even knowing what they desire any more. Thus, the compass that points to your greatest desire no longer works for Jack; he doesn’t know what he wants. And when one of the creature pirate’s head gets knocked off, his own body runs away with the loot, showing the ultimate end of self-centeredness–the severed self and a state of unwholeness (and a bunch of severed selves running around on a big wooden wheel).

Ironically, these pirates spend the entire movie running away from the end result of their selfishness. They fear death and the loss of self that death seems to be. Therefore, they will make endless deals with Davy Jones. They will deceive and manipulate beyond reason. And they will sacrifice even 100 souls to save themselves from the jaws of death. And, yet, when Jack Sparrow finally acts on behalf of others and turns around to help his doomed crew, he has found his true self. I would argue with great vigor, that the moment Jack Sparrow faced his greatest fear and stepped into the mouth of that huge Kraken, he became more alive than any of those he saved. His compass was finally set.

As we drove home, then, yesterday, I thought to myself — the world is full of pirates, speeding down the highway in their huge SUVs, talking on their cell-phones, putting on make-up, and cutting me off. We want so many things in America — the latest technology, a big house, an impressive automobile — but how many of us truly know what we desire above all else? I would wager that Jack’s magic compass would not function well in America.

I have often said that America has become a culture of entitlement. We, as Americans, feel we are entitled to so many things, but few of us want the responsibility tied to these entitlements. We want to be thin and fit, but we don’t want to exercise or eat healthy. We want sex, but not the commitment of marriage. We want straight A’s, but we don’t want to study. We want free health-care, but no taxes. And above all else, we are entitled to a full life, but we fear death, even though it is not as obvious on Coldwater Road as it is in the open seas with a huge sea monster tracking us down.

This is one reason why the simple life is so attractive to me. While the world goes around and around on its stupid wooden wheel, I would much rather sit back and watch, mildly amused, a martini in one hand and a cigar in the other. And when Davy Jones comes to collect his dues, I will gladly shake his hand and walk into the mouth of his beastly monster with nothing but a smile on my face.

See what the other synchrobloggers have to say on Christianity and
film:

• Adam Gonnerman pokes at Jesus Loves Sci-
  Fi
• John Morehead considers Christians and Horror Redux: From
  Knee-Jerk Revulsion to Critical Engagement
• Marieke Schwartz lights it
  up with Counter-hegemony: Jesus
  loves Borat
• Mike Bursell muses about Christianity at the
  Movies
• Jenelle D’Alessandro tells us Why Bjork Will Never Act
  Again
• Cobus van Wyngaard contemplates Theology and Film (as
  art)
• Tim Abbott tells us to Bring your own meaning…?
• Sonja
  Andrews visits The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly:Christ in
  Spaghetti Westerns
• Steve Hollinghurst takes a stab at The Gospel according to
  Buffy
• Les Chatwin insists We
  Don’t Need Another Hero
• Lance Cummings says The Wooden Wheel keeps
  Turning
• John Smulo weaves a tale about Spiderman 3 and the Shadow
• Josh Rivera
  spells well with Christian
  Witchcraft
• Phil Wyman throws out the Frisbee: Time to Toss it
  Back
• Sally Coleman rushes up with Making Connections- films as a
  part of a mythological tradition
• Steve Hayes ponders The Image of Christianity in
  Films
• Kim Paffenroth pondersNihilism lite

  squarenomore.blogspot.com/”>Frisbee: Time to Toss it Back

Saints, Martyrs, and the Lessons of the 300

Tonight, I saw 300 for a second time . . . and I have to say, it only gets better. The first time through, I was in awe at how the artistic techniques managed to create the heightened senses that come into play when in battle. But beneath, there lies an even deeper story.

I took note this time through that King Xerxes claimed several of the titles that Jesus himself claims, like “King of Kings” and “Lord of Hosts.” Such things are rarely a coinicidence, so I kept my eye out for more. Then it occurred to me that the Spartan king is closer to these titles in the biblical sense. The Spartan king serves out of love for his people, whereas the Persian king forces people to serve him for love of himself. The Spartan king sacrifices himself to save his people, whereas the Persian king sacrifices others for his own sake. Like Satan, the Persian king tempts the Persian king with power and wealth, to no avail. There is even a Judas figure . . . the hunchback who succombs the Pesian king’s temptations.

Towards the end of the film, the Spartan king speaks of victory to his messenger, mystifying the man — how could he speak of victory when all 300 would die that day. Jesus spoke the same way just before his crucifixion, mystifying his disciples. But the Spartan king spoke of the victory ahead inspired by the 300’s martyrdom, the rousing of Greece, and the final defeat of Persia. Certainly, as with the 300, the crucifixion seemed a resounding defeat. But it showed the whole world, Satan’s weak spot. Even today, at times, it seems that the Church is surrounded, cut off from heavenly forces. But as the gospel is passed down from generation to generation, the martyrs and the saints point ahead to the final victory. Though the dark prince claims diety over this world and perhaps far outweighs the good in numbers, the resurrection will be our final victory.

Dog Put to Sleep

They say it is painless,
a quick prick
then a slipping away.

But they must not see,
the string of blood swallowed
by the syringe.

They must not see,
how his eyes never close,
looking one last time.

They must not see,
the last puff of air, blowing
through the clenched cracks
of my hand.

Baudelaire on a Plane

Like thin cotton pulled lightly
between two strong thumbs,
the clouds dimly veil
a land checkered

by the soft mechanizations
of burrowing worms.

The Poet cannot help but unscramble
each word painfully
etched by chisels of flesh.
Bored, the Poet sighs

his soul evaporating
on the exhale of a wing.

All look down but the Poet, crowned
by thin fibers of light,
falling gently across the brow.
The Poet looks upward

breaking with a glance
a single pane of glass

until his sight disperses
and falls
like warm rain
on bare earth.

Poetry as a State of Consciousness

Recently, my wife and I went to a local poetry reading. I have to admit that it has been a long while since I last went to a poetry reading (at least where I wasn’t working in some form or fashion). Being out of school, I do not get much exposure to poetry or other poets, unless I’m reading a book. I miss the power and energy that comes with just being around other poets.

Lately, I’ve been mostly on a fiction kick. Maybe I am influenced by all the fiction that sells at work (rarely do I see a book of poetry make its way past my scanner). But I also think it has a lot to do with this energy sag. It is hard to sustain a life of poetry without at least some contact with other poets.

As I sat in the coffee shop, merely listening to the poets read brought poetry bubbling to the surface of my brain. It was then I realized (or was reminded) that poetry is a state of consciousness. Lack of material is caused by lack of seeing, not lack of subjects. Simply hearing poetry seemed to invoke this kind of sight, bringing to mind lines of poetry without even thinking.

I believe that this state of consciousness is very similiar to that which is brought on by some forms of comtemplative prayer or meditation. Perhaps prayer is another source of this way of seeing that brings poetry. After all, look at the Orthodox monastics who have lived in isolation, and yet produce pages and pages of poetry.

It is a shame that many western Christians do not see this connection. There is a way of seeing that cannot be sustained by trite sermons, fluffy choruses, or hard-nosed doctrine. Too often, these things only blind us.

The Tolstoy Tangle

Thus it was [with Christianity] from the earliest of times, and so it went on, constantly increasing, till it reached in our day the logical climax of the dogmas of transubstantiation and the infallibility of the Pope, or of the bishops, or of Scripture, and of requiring a blind faith rendered incomprehensible and utterly meaningless, not in God, but in Christ, not in a doctrine, but in a person, as in Catholicism, or in persons, as in Greek Orthodoxy, or in a book as in Protestantism.

Though I find that once a reasonable premise is established, it does not take long for Tolstoy to entangle himself in his argument. Even so, one cannot deny the kernel of truth that exists with these premises, though his response is arguable to say the least.

In the above quote, Tolstoy touches on one of the many misconceptions bred in Christianity by the many doctrinal wars and huffing and puffing through the ages. . . and this is the notion of infallibility. In fact, Christianity has drawn its dividing lines with this very word. If you believe the Pope is infallible, then you are Catholic. If you believe the Bible is infallible, then you are Protestant. If you believe the Church is infallible, then you are Orthodox. For Tolstoy, this claim of infallibility is what breeds stagnate and irrelevant religiosity. If such and such or so and so says so, then it must be.

The problem here is our understanding of infallibility. Yes, infallibility means “without error” or “perfect.” But the word has slowly evolved into something more. Too often, we now understand this word as meaning “contains all Truth.” And here is Christianity’s stumbling block. Does the Church (or Pope or Bible) have to own the Truth to be without error or perfect? Certainly not. Truth transcends space and time (and our tiny little minds). Put it in reverse, if the infallible source does not say it, can it still be true? I think so. I know that if I run naked down the world’s coldest mountain peak, my little nipper is going to get frostbitten. This is true, yet Christianity has not yet made a doctrine for it. If I read in a Taoist writing a truth such as this that has not yet been expressed through Christianity, should I not be happy and glad that this way of seeing has shared this truth with me . . . and in turn, I am sure there is truth I could share with the Taoist.

This is not to say that I do not believe that Christianity is the most True religion (and Orthodoxy the Truest way). I certainly do. [Doesn't any adherent to any philosophy or religion think the same way.] But by no means has God revealed to me the heights of his Truth in such a way that I can say, “I have no more to learn from you.” For some Christians, this would make me a Pagan, for I no longer fit into their doctrinal box. But I love wisdom, no matter from what mouth it comes.

A church is a body of men who claim for themselves that they are in complete and sole possession of the truth.

Though I see and understand Tolstoy’s point, and to some degree, agree with him, I can’t help but notice that he traps himself with his own words. For he claims for himself an infallibility of his own, and creates his own breed of heretics to condemn. Though I can respect him as a philosopher, I can not respect him as a man of religion. Far too many of his words are soaked with the same bitterness of so many religious zealots.

Not to mention, my experience with the Orthodox Church has been far from what he expresses. Infallibility exists within Christ and manifests, as Christ does, within the Church and within the Bible. Certainly, the Orthodox Church has had its problems, but infallibility comes only from Christ — not a book or a person. And in no way does that mean that we do not appreciate Truth wherever it is found. St. Nicholas is the first Church I attended, where I could speak of the similarities between philosophies such as the Tao and Christianity without getting scathing looks.

So, though I get what Tolstoy is saying, I’m not sure we could have a reasonable discussion over good Russian vodka . . . then again, who knows? Good vodka can be a magical thing.

Pawel’s Christmas

Pawel watched his urine freeze as it dripped down the side of the dumpster . . . a disgusting sight, but somehow more real than many of the “Christmas moments” he had experienced that night. Every Christmas, after the traditional 9 course meal with his family, Pawel would find a way to sneak out of the flat and take a walk with no other company than himself. His family hardly noticed, heavily sedated with food, good vodka , and trite conversation. For Pawel, it was these walks that made each Christmas distinct and memorable . . . everything else faded into background noise, like the crunch of snow beneath his feet.

As Pawel continued down the shopping district toward the Old Town, he kept his hands in his coat pockets, aching for a cigarette for the first time in several weeks since he quit a few months ago. This would be his first Christmas walk without a pack of fine French cigarettes. In fact, his family probably assumed he had snuck out for a smoke. Luckily, even the kiosks are closed on Christmas in Poland, or else, he most likely would have succumbed to temptation.

Without cigarettes, Pawel found himself observing more keenly his surroundings. He almost never walked the shopping district in Warsaw; its target audience being mostly foreigners with deep pockets looking for overpriced brand names. Its only redeeming factor were the elegant and sophisticated cafes, smacking of old Vienna and the days of great empires. Now, on Christmas Eve, all the shops were closed and the shiny glitter that attracted the annoying gnits of civilization was swallowed up by the thick black eyes of the storefront windows. Occasionally, Pawel could glimpse the ghostly shape of a manequin or the glint of finely shaped jewelry, but they appeared transparent, even in the dim glow of the street lamps, as if their substance had been sucked dry by the viscous black curtain that inevitably surrounded all else in the store.

During these moments, Pawel breathed sharply the cold air and exhaled, watching the warm mist evaporate, cling temporarily to the window pane, and disappear into the dark night. The realness of these moments stood out to him as he continued his walk along one of Warsaw’s main thoroughfares. He began to look forward to entering the Old Town, as he always did, climbing the old wall and looking out across the city lights, watching as they winked out, succumbing to the dark moonless night of Christmas Eve.

This year, though, Pawel did not finish his usual route. Instead, he found himself staring at the stone front of an old Church, just outside the Old City. He took no note of its name or affiliation, only that from the corner of his eye, its shape against the dark night struck him slightly as a swan. But when he looked more closely, this figure disappeared, forcing him to wonder what gave him this impression. His long walk forgotten, he curiously approached the steps leading to its large wooden door.

As he came up close to the huge wooden door, Pawel saw that there was a window in its center panel, guarded on each side by two painted panels. On the right was Jesus enthroned, and on the left, Mary with baby Jesus. Each was painted in an ancient style reminscent of old icons. Pawel tried to peer through the window, but saw only thick darkness. It struck Pawel that this darkness was not empty, as one is typically to think about darkness. No, this darkness seemed alive and full, almost to the point of shining. One might even say that this black shone like light. Curious, Pawel tried the doorknob, but was denied by its strong lock.

As he let go of the door handle, Pawel’s eyes fell on the icon of Mary, which turned out to be unlike any he had ever seen before. She stood with arms open, her sleeves hanging like two curtains, revealing baby Jesus in her womb, surrounded by a circle of black starry night. Her womb almost seemed like a window looking out into space, filled not only with the baby Jesus but all the stars of the universe. Like the darkness in the window, the space between stars was not empty, but filled with such fullness that it seemed to shine with the stars instead of against them. Instinctively, Pawel reached out and touched this stary night.

Instantly, Mary’s eyes seemed to turn pitch black, piercing him with thick beams, like the full force of a fire hose. Upon impact, Pawel felt himself turn inside out, as if his skin had benn sucked into the pinprick of a tiny black hole and then expelled into space. Closing his eyes, he could only see the thick dark sky of the universe with each tiny star throbbing like the firing synapse of an exposed nerve. He felt himself expanding like the slow drift of the Milky Way, opening his arms to the black fur reaching for his beating heart. As he did so, the blackness beneath his skin seemed to inhale, while at the same time giving birth to a thousand more tiny stars.

Like a stunned rabbit, Pawel suddenly opened his eyes, hearing the rumble of a taxi making its journey to someone’s flat, the headlights washing over the church like an ocean tide. After the brief light, the door no longer looked quite the same. Pawel shrugged his shouders, looked up at the stars nostalgically, and turned back towards his family’s flat. On the way, he took his hands out of his pockets, holding them out to feel the cold air flowing through his fingers as he walked briskly back the way he came.