Monday, March 27, 2006
Installment Twenty Four...
"To be witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one's life would not make sense if God did not exist."
-Emmanuel, Cardinal Suhard as quoted in Madeleine L'Engle's Walking On Water
-Emmanuel, Cardinal Suhard as quoted in Madeleine L'Engle's Walking On Water
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Why Dorothy Went Back to Kansas (My Final Paper For Writing 121)
A dangerous question lurks in the minds of well-meaning people everywhere. A question not dangerous to everyone, perhaps, but for some, especially for families of some English as a Second Language students with whom I’ve had the chance to speak, the question might be unsettling.
“Where are you from?” People will ask, innocently smiling, not knowing that they have touched on a point that shakes the displaced to their very souls. For dammed up in this one question is a potential flood of many other questions, questions which have perhaps not yet been fully answered even in the mind of those who are being questioned: “Where are you from?” leads to “Where is your home?” and “Where was your sense of self formed, and your identity nourished?” These questions eventually lead to “Who are you?”; a startling question for anyone to encounter, and a laborious one to answer on a daily basis.
Still the question must be answered, so as not to seem rude. So those questioned begin to once again dig and scrap, and a kind of frantic pondering ensues as they mentally sort through different pieces of information: many houses and cultures, many stamps on a passport. They are not for the first time, searching, but they hope that maybe this time the answer will come. That somehow a place: a country, town, village - anything - will come forward and make itself known, that someplace will claim them for its own. The displaced must hope that the too-many options will somehow meld into one obvious choice. The child of a refugee or an immigrant finds that there is perhaps one too many homes to choose from, and that he is just as curious as the one who has asked the question to find out what he’s going to answer. More than curious even; anxious is a better word. There is a feeling that something is at stake.
Of course this is not the case with most people; for most “home” is an easy concept. Ask these blessed people where they’re from, ask them even the harder question of where they consider home, and they’ll answer you without the least hint of doubt in their voice, without the slightest shade of worry passing over their face, or trace of uncertainty across their minds. These people, being seen by the gods as somehow the most fit to bear this blessing, will smile an easy smile and tell you where they were born and raised. Born and raised. Home. Easy.
For Mimi’s child the question will not be so easy to answer. Mimi is from Ethiopia, and she has just recently found out that she and her husband are going to have their first baby. Of course they now have a flood of choices before them concerning which culture they are going to raise their little American-born, Ethiopian child in. And in this regard Mimi and her husband are surely not alone; all who have raised children in a culture other then their own have tangled with this beast of a issue. But I wonder whether parents like Mimi, who have to ask the necessary question of what culture they will raise their child in, who have to ask essentially “Where will my child be from?”, know the terrible power they wield. I wonder if they have a choice.
Consider too Claudio, from Mexico, who came to the U.S. when he was a teenager because his father wanted him to come. I wonder where he will now find his identity, if he will find it in the land in which he lived the first half of his life, or the land he will likely live in for the rest of his life. Perhaps Claudio will never really be home; perhaps he will only ever live in a corner which he had no choice but to back into. I wonder if I could grow fond of a corner.
Perhaps it seems frivolous, though, for people to make such a big deal about wanting to live where they were born, or, at least in some way or another wanting to be able to call the place they’re living now “home”. Perhaps to some, wanting to be raised either in the same culture as your parents, or the same culture as your peers seems superficial. But those who are tempted to think this way of the the people whom Judith Ortiz Cofer describes as “the perennial new kids on the block”, would do well to consider the gift they possess, the gift they were born and raised with (562). They posses the gift of being from somewhere. It’s a gift inexorably bound to the most basic of all gifts, the very gift of being, itself. Such might be tortured by the question of where they are going to (in the future or the hereafter), but at least they know where they’re coming from. My heart goes out to the child that can list many places he has lived, but has no clue what to tell people when they ask him where he is from.
For those who are not of any culture, the ache indeed must weigh heavy. However, could it be that these seeming unfortunates, the displaced, the uprooted, and the divided, those who are going through life homesick, but without a place on earth to call home, are better prepared for something in the end? Might they be better prepared, perhaps, for a different home, a home that lies beyond this world?
“Where are you from?” People will ask, innocently smiling, not knowing that they have touched on a point that shakes the displaced to their very souls. For dammed up in this one question is a potential flood of many other questions, questions which have perhaps not yet been fully answered even in the mind of those who are being questioned: “Where are you from?” leads to “Where is your home?” and “Where was your sense of self formed, and your identity nourished?” These questions eventually lead to “Who are you?”; a startling question for anyone to encounter, and a laborious one to answer on a daily basis.
Still the question must be answered, so as not to seem rude. So those questioned begin to once again dig and scrap, and a kind of frantic pondering ensues as they mentally sort through different pieces of information: many houses and cultures, many stamps on a passport. They are not for the first time, searching, but they hope that maybe this time the answer will come. That somehow a place: a country, town, village - anything - will come forward and make itself known, that someplace will claim them for its own. The displaced must hope that the too-many options will somehow meld into one obvious choice. The child of a refugee or an immigrant finds that there is perhaps one too many homes to choose from, and that he is just as curious as the one who has asked the question to find out what he’s going to answer. More than curious even; anxious is a better word. There is a feeling that something is at stake.
Of course this is not the case with most people; for most “home” is an easy concept. Ask these blessed people where they’re from, ask them even the harder question of where they consider home, and they’ll answer you without the least hint of doubt in their voice, without the slightest shade of worry passing over their face, or trace of uncertainty across their minds. These people, being seen by the gods as somehow the most fit to bear this blessing, will smile an easy smile and tell you where they were born and raised. Born and raised. Home. Easy.
For Mimi’s child the question will not be so easy to answer. Mimi is from Ethiopia, and she has just recently found out that she and her husband are going to have their first baby. Of course they now have a flood of choices before them concerning which culture they are going to raise their little American-born, Ethiopian child in. And in this regard Mimi and her husband are surely not alone; all who have raised children in a culture other then their own have tangled with this beast of a issue. But I wonder whether parents like Mimi, who have to ask the necessary question of what culture they will raise their child in, who have to ask essentially “Where will my child be from?”, know the terrible power they wield. I wonder if they have a choice.
Consider too Claudio, from Mexico, who came to the U.S. when he was a teenager because his father wanted him to come. I wonder where he will now find his identity, if he will find it in the land in which he lived the first half of his life, or the land he will likely live in for the rest of his life. Perhaps Claudio will never really be home; perhaps he will only ever live in a corner which he had no choice but to back into. I wonder if I could grow fond of a corner.
Perhaps it seems frivolous, though, for people to make such a big deal about wanting to live where they were born, or, at least in some way or another wanting to be able to call the place they’re living now “home”. Perhaps to some, wanting to be raised either in the same culture as your parents, or the same culture as your peers seems superficial. But those who are tempted to think this way of the the people whom Judith Ortiz Cofer describes as “the perennial new kids on the block”, would do well to consider the gift they possess, the gift they were born and raised with (562). They posses the gift of being from somewhere. It’s a gift inexorably bound to the most basic of all gifts, the very gift of being, itself. Such might be tortured by the question of where they are going to (in the future or the hereafter), but at least they know where they’re coming from. My heart goes out to the child that can list many places he has lived, but has no clue what to tell people when they ask him where he is from.
For those who are not of any culture, the ache indeed must weigh heavy. However, could it be that these seeming unfortunates, the displaced, the uprooted, and the divided, those who are going through life homesick, but without a place on earth to call home, are better prepared for something in the end? Might they be better prepared, perhaps, for a different home, a home that lies beyond this world?
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Baby You Can Write My Paper
I'm sorry for having abandon you all; I'm submerging myself in homework and won't emerge till spring break. I hope to make up for it by linking to a great post I just read, talking about last Monday and why it's special.
Without further ado, here's Andy Whitman's thoughts concerning the first Monday of March (also known as "Casimir Pulaski Day").
See you spring break!
Without further ado, here's Andy Whitman's thoughts concerning the first Monday of March (also known as "Casimir Pulaski Day").
See you spring break!
Monday, February 20, 2006
And Now, For My List!
1. "Casimir Pulaski Day" by Sufjan Stevens2. "Theologians" by Wilco
3. "We Know Too Much" by Mark Heard as coverd by Michael Been
4. "Something Beautiful" by Jars Of Clay
5. "With Or Without You" by U2
6. "Every Grain of Sand" by Bob Dylan
7. "We Have Forgotten" by Sixpence None The Richer
8. "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails as coverd by Johnny Cash
9. & 10. "Fire And Water" by Buddy Miller tied with
"Flash in Your Eyes" by Daniel Amos
11. "Mysterious Ways" by U2
12. "I Walk the Line" by Johnny Cash
13. "Spark" by Over The Rhine
14. "Your Beautiful Mind" by Kevin Max
15. "Mercy Street" by Peter Gabriel
16. "She Walks On Roses" by Vigilantes of Love
17. "In The Backseat" by The Arcade Fire
18. "Hard To Get" by Rich Mullins
19. "One Day Late" by Sam Phillips
20. "Jungle Trail" by Steven Delopoulos
Friday, February 17, 2006
Your 10 Favorite Songs Have Arrived
1. "With Or Without You" by U2 (41)2. "Kingdom Come" by Coldplay (40)
3. & 4. "Casimir Pulaski Day" by Sufjan Stevens (35) tied with
"Where the Streets Have No Name" by U2 (35)
5. "The Hallelujah Chorus" by George Frideric Handel (31)
6. "Fire and Water" by Buddy Miller (30)
7. "Broken Heart" by Falling Up (28)
8. "Mercy Street" by Peter Gabriel (24)
9. & 10. "Born" by Over the Rhine (23) tied with
"Burn In Me" by Tait (23)
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The Rope and the Sword
I was supposed to write a 750-word essay for my Writing 121 class. Out of several writing assignments to choose from I decided on one where I was supposed to make a general statement about a group of people I knew well, being sure not to use the first and second person. Well, I got my paper back yesterday and thought it might be fun to share it with you guys, so here it is, as handed to my teacher:On Those Who Wear Hats
Wearing hats was once a widely enjoyed activity, surpassed in practice only by such entertainments as breathing and sleeping. There is a fellowship among those involved in this practice, one of the more poetically inclusive fellowships known to man; thieves and thespians, priests and pig farmers, wizards and whalers, are all embraced in the order of those who wear hats. Few hat wearers, however, know that they are a part of this group; neither do they know that this group reflects humanity as a whole, but to tell the story of those who wear hats is to tell the story of the Human race, a story both of separation and of a common bond, of categorization and of needs met.
It is not known when exactly mankind first donned a piece of cloth as a hat and the clues history leaves aren't specific. One early clue, cave artwork, depicts animal skins worn on the head, not a hat proper perhaps, but a forerunner to the hat, worn for protection for the elements. Somewhere in between this time and the time of the ancient Greeks and Egyptians the purpose of the hat began to change slightly, shifting from a piece of equipment meant to keep Early Man's head dry while hunting for dinosaurs, to something of significance such as Pharaoh's headdress and Caesar's crown. The hat had now fully emerged, no longer merely a practical expression of survival and common needs, but an ordering device and a sign of rank.
This idea of rank was cemented in the late 14th and 15th century, when the hat was introduced into the world of men's fashion, becoming an integral part of class distinction. In the 1960s and 1970s the hat fell from grace as it fell from the head of the flower child. The hippies threw their hats to the blowin' wind because they saw the hat for what it was, a bond maybe, but also a sign of separation. It was one more restraint cast aside in pursuit of free love and a universal brotherhood.
But what if everyone in history took such a negative view of hats? Had the hat never graced history's stage, organizations such as The Red Hat Society, would perhaps simply be know as The Society, G. K. Chesterton would have to change the topic of his famous essay, "On Running After One's Hat"; the reader of the altered essay ("On Standing Still" perhaps) is pitied. Hats can play a large role on how those who wear them are perceived; consider the career of John Wayne, might he still be known only as Marion Michael Morrison had the cowboy hat never been invented? And it is doubtful whether George Washington's strategic crossing of the Delaware would have been quite as grand if his three cornered hat had not so heroically perched itself upon his powdered locks. Don't forget to take Abraham Lincoln into account too; separated from his trademark stovepipe hat, he would scarcely be distinguishable from any other emancipation-proclaiming, six-foot-four, self-educated politician with which history presents us. It's clear that history and culture would lose a little of their flavor had the hat never stumbled into the light of existence.
But as flower children age into senior citizens the hat finds itself accepted once again. It still binds like a rope, uniting all those throughout space and time who have worn hats, and separates like a sword, rending bishop from pawn, king from farmer, with the mere placement of a feather or shaping of a brim; both Eminem and the Pope don a hat for official reasons, there is a connection there, a brotherhood, but those same hats also separate them, placing them in vastly different worlds.
For average people the hat still bears signs of what it once was, its anonymous wearers perhaps carrying a slight odor of divisiveness, but for the man or woman on the street the bond outweighs that, and when they see each other they acknowledge the history worn on their heads; we are like brothers they say, who have fought epics together, we are like people of the same village, who have loved and hated side by side, we carry the mystery of that scattered tribe called the human race on our heads. But none of this paradox of separation and of unity is put into words; instead, what comes out is simply, "Nice hat."
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Note To My Future Father-In-Law (Whoever You Might Be): Please Don't Get Any Ideas
I thought I'd link to a story and break the monotony of (avoiding) studying.
The story (presented in the form of a blog) is called Jay and the Canoe.
One of the girls here at the WorldView Center gave us the web address for the blog because she knows the guy in this story. By the way, this is a story for which all of my adjectives are very girl-ish sounding so I'll just say this: Girls, prepare to sigh at least once, and guys, take notes. And since it's a blog be sure to start at the very bottom and work you way up. Happy reading!
A couple of side notes:
I hope to have the results for the second annual Foolish Knight "Song Vote" ready by Thursday, and my own list (with commentary) posted as well.
I also plan on posting a paper soon about people who wear hats. It's my first Writing 121 assignment that would be of interest (hopefully) to you guys and I'm waiting for feedback from my teacher before I post it.
(By the way, I love my writing teacher dearly but it is my abiding fear that one day she will stumble on this blog and be horrified at case after case of poorly worded sentences, incorrect grammar, and all around bad writing, all of which have been known to sneak into this blog from time to time. Or worse: I think, maybe she's reading it RIGHT NOW! That would be the scariest of all! Does anyone else have fears like this?)
One more thing: The swelling has gone down so I think I can say this: I'm pretty sure that my nose is broken, seeing as how it doesn't quite point in the same direction as it used to point before I knocked a kid over with it on Wednesday night. Not to worry though, it doesn't hurt and it kinda conveys an air of rugged handsomeness. I hope. And it's not really VERY noticeable that much anyway.
Monday, February 06, 2006
WWJW
Sorry, I don't have a lot of time so this is going to be rough (and short).
I think that God probably wants you to watch Steve Taylor's movie The Second Chance, on February 17.
Steve Taylor is one of my new heroes, not because of his great music, or the fact that he's a wonderful producer, but something more, what he's doing now to be precise. I mean to put that kind of career on hold, and mortgage your house to go into the SUICIDAL world of filmmaking (more on that later) just because God is leading you there. Well, that's just crazy, however poetic it might be.
Not only is it crazy but it's something I plan on doing one of these days, God willing. So please, go out and see this film on opening weekend and, if it helps, pretend it was me who made it.
I think that God probably wants you to watch Steve Taylor's movie The Second Chance, on February 17.
Steve Taylor is one of my new heroes, not because of his great music, or the fact that he's a wonderful producer, but something more, what he's doing now to be precise. I mean to put that kind of career on hold, and mortgage your house to go into the SUICIDAL world of filmmaking (more on that later) just because God is leading you there. Well, that's just crazy, however poetic it might be.
Not only is it crazy but it's something I plan on doing one of these days, God willing. So please, go out and see this film on opening weekend and, if it helps, pretend it was me who made it.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Update On the Disney/Pixar Situation
Looks like Lasseter & Co. have already begun to clean things up around the Mouse House. First thing to go? The ill-advised Pixar-less Toy Story sequel.
(Discovered via Looking Closer.)
(Discovered via Looking Closer.)
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
For those who love/hate Disney...
Further evidence of my inherent weirdness: When I read the first item in today's FilmChat Newsbites (especially the part about John Lasseter's future position), I wanted to cry with joy.
There's Still Time!
There's still time to submit a list of you twenty favorite songs! Better make it quick, though, February 2nd is coming up fast!
Draft
It is, of course, far too late to post any kind of "Top Ten" list for the year 2005. That's why this list of my favorite gifts of 2005 only has nine items! Because there's no rule for "Top Nine" lists, right? These highlights are roughly in the order that they happened (hard to put them in any kind of exact order since some of these overlap). Here they are:
1. Reestablishing friendships
Because of the move back to Oregon I got to move beyond superficial relationships with many childhood friends, people at church, family members and the like. A definite highlight.
2. Graduation
Of course, moving has its price too (besides back trouble), and the time spent with those who came up to celebrate my day of liberation, uh, I mean accomplishment was a time of wonder for me.
3. Camp
4. TruthQuest
5. Meeting Jeff and Anne Overstreet
6. Meeting Albert and Elric
7. My birthday
8. Meeting Steve Taylor
9. Trip to Tennessee and Colorado
1. Reestablishing friendships
Because of the move back to Oregon I got to move beyond superficial relationships with many childhood friends, people at church, family members and the like. A definite highlight.
2. Graduation
Of course, moving has its price too (besides back trouble), and the time spent with those who came up to celebrate my day of liberation, uh, I mean accomplishment was a time of wonder for me.
3. Camp
4. TruthQuest
5. Meeting Jeff and Anne Overstreet
6. Meeting Albert and Elric
7. My birthday
8. Meeting Steve Taylor
9. Trip to Tennessee and Colorado
Ecclesiastes 7:2
Dear God,
You say that it's better to be in the house of mourning than the house of rejoicing. Well tonight I'm mourning myself, the things I've done. I'm in mourning for the lustful, ego-driven life I have lived, for my selfishness and for my hate of You. For the manipulation I've used. For jealousy. For raping the souls of my friends. For the hate shown and love withheld. For sacrificing everyone I've loved on the alter of my Self. For the blackness I've spilled or ejected or spewed onto the world. For the lies I've told and the people I've killed. For the girls I've raped and the people I've mowed down.
God, restore me to you. I can't stay in this darkness any longer. God, thank you for your light and you love.
In Jesus' name,
Amen
You say that it's better to be in the house of mourning than the house of rejoicing. Well tonight I'm mourning myself, the things I've done. I'm in mourning for the lustful, ego-driven life I have lived, for my selfishness and for my hate of You. For the manipulation I've used. For jealousy. For raping the souls of my friends. For the hate shown and love withheld. For sacrificing everyone I've loved on the alter of my Self. For the blackness I've spilled or ejected or spewed onto the world. For the lies I've told and the people I've killed. For the girls I've raped and the people I've mowed down.
God, restore me to you. I can't stay in this darkness any longer. God, thank you for your light and you love.
In Jesus' name,
Amen
Little Big Things
Thanks, guys for letting me take a little time to reflect and evaluate, ponder and consider. God's been showing me some things lately and maybe we can work through some of them together, but for now I'll just be trying to keep up with school, though I might throw you a few crumbs here and there. Anyway, thanks again for you patience!
Friday, January 20, 2006
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Magical Mystery Poem # 4
Can you guess who wrote this poem? (If the guessing comes hard then you may use any resources you want - except for the internet.)
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Installment Twenty Three...
“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”
-C. S. Lewis
-C. S. Lewis
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