If I have faltered more or less,
In my great task of happiness,
If I have moved among my race,
And showed no shining morning face,
If books and my food and summer rain,
Knock on my quiet heart in vain,
Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take,
And stab my spirit broad awake.
-Robert Louis Stevenson
Monday, July 10, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Celestial Seasonings Surprise
Who could have known that Colorado of all places would be the home of one of the biggest tea companies around? I've never been much of a Celestial Seasonings drinker because I'm somewhat of a tea snob and go straight for my Yorkshire Gold imported from England.
But after the lovely trip up to Boulder to their plant on Monday, I might be at least a little swayed. In fact, I'll even give the herbal teas a try. I'm going to try them anyway if only because I love the whimsical artwork, the delightful quotes and the fact that the company was begun by four college kids looking to make a delicious, heatlh tea. That tea turned into the "Sleepytime" Blend so beloved of so many people.
I love stories like that, especially when they're carried out in such creative, colorful ways. Anyway, I was delightfully surprised. If any of you wonderful people ever visit, I shall take you up to see this rather fascinating little place.
And as a plus, we'll drive back home through the mountains.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Artists and Easter
I have been in a whirlwind of thought lately, especially regarding God's grace and beauty as being tangible in our lives because of His incarnation. With Easter hovering round the corner, I want to know what redemption looks like as it is lived out in ordinary lives. But I have also been thinking about resurrection reality as regards the heart of artistry and creation.
Eucharisto's latest post was incredible. (Now there is a spirit-filled artist) And it set me thinking about the validity of being called specifically as an artist. There seems to be a sense that you can be creative on the side, (do music/art/writing/whatever) but keep your day gig and do something productive with your life.
But isn't a faith-kindled imagination and commitment to make God's spirit known through crreation a worthy enough life pursuit for God's kingdom? What else is the imagining of stories, the capturing of color and light but an attempt to picture God's beauty in a tangible way. Great artistry is born of, as Eucharisto said, looking into the void and then seeing the light that lives beyond it. Art is a picturing of that eternal, hopeful light and I think it has incredible power for the drawing of hearts to God.
We need to see that creation is still possible, it's a universal yearning. Here on earth, we are all trapped in the chains of a void reality, and I think we begin to forget the possibility of grace and redemption. Even Christians begin to fall into a gridded, legalistic spirituality that is void of grace, miracles, beauty. In our sort of dungeon reality, the dank shadows begin to close in on us, forcing themselves upon our minds as the only ultimate reality.
But it is the artists, the dreamers who run forward in the shadows with kindled eyes and urgent voices to proclaim that God's light cannot be comprehended or overcome. They gather people into groups around the small struggling fires of faith, singing the ancient songs and re-telling the oldest tales of wonder, scribbling on the sandy prison floor until the real world leaps to life in the hearts and minds of the captives.
Artists are in many ways, the stewards of tangible grace, of touchable goodness. Through their Christ-enchanted pens and paintbrushes and music they speak creation into the void again. They picture beauty, they present mercy in color to the world. And their creation speaks to the yearning that keeps watch in our souls, desiring redemption, hoping for new creation.
So I've decided not to worry about whether or not I'm practical or productive in a worldly sense, as long as I am redemptively creative. I want Christ to live in me in such a way that my very life is a work of art, a new creation that speaks of His grace. May the risen Christ will be present in me in all His beauty.
Happy Easter!
Eucharisto's latest post was incredible. (Now there is a spirit-filled artist) And it set me thinking about the validity of being called specifically as an artist. There seems to be a sense that you can be creative on the side, (do music/art/writing/whatever) but keep your day gig and do something productive with your life.
But isn't a faith-kindled imagination and commitment to make God's spirit known through crreation a worthy enough life pursuit for God's kingdom? What else is the imagining of stories, the capturing of color and light but an attempt to picture God's beauty in a tangible way. Great artistry is born of, as Eucharisto said, looking into the void and then seeing the light that lives beyond it. Art is a picturing of that eternal, hopeful light and I think it has incredible power for the drawing of hearts to God.
We need to see that creation is still possible, it's a universal yearning. Here on earth, we are all trapped in the chains of a void reality, and I think we begin to forget the possibility of grace and redemption. Even Christians begin to fall into a gridded, legalistic spirituality that is void of grace, miracles, beauty. In our sort of dungeon reality, the dank shadows begin to close in on us, forcing themselves upon our minds as the only ultimate reality.
But it is the artists, the dreamers who run forward in the shadows with kindled eyes and urgent voices to proclaim that God's light cannot be comprehended or overcome. They gather people into groups around the small struggling fires of faith, singing the ancient songs and re-telling the oldest tales of wonder, scribbling on the sandy prison floor until the real world leaps to life in the hearts and minds of the captives.
Artists are in many ways, the stewards of tangible grace, of touchable goodness. Through their Christ-enchanted pens and paintbrushes and music they speak creation into the void again. They picture beauty, they present mercy in color to the world. And their creation speaks to the yearning that keeps watch in our souls, desiring redemption, hoping for new creation.
So I've decided not to worry about whether or not I'm practical or productive in a worldly sense, as long as I am redemptively creative. I want Christ to live in me in such a way that my very life is a work of art, a new creation that speaks of His grace. May the risen Christ will be present in me in all His beauty.
Happy Easter!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Moonlit Dawn
I awoke this morning to a strange and beautiful dawn. The Sabbath came in with a rich blue morning light shot through with the burnished gold of a lingering full moon. Such a sight, such a wondering sight it was to see the full moon resting on the mountain top as the world grew soft with daylight.
Ah Father, that moon hung like a sign in the dawn sky. What are You telling us? That You are here? That mystery and enchantment cluster close about us and great wonders drop miraculously into our skies if we would but have the heart to see? Oh Moon-Maker, my giver of morning treasure. Thank you for waking me. Know that I have seen. I am awake, body and soul this mysterious blue morning.
My book last night said that humankind is innured to the glory of creation round him. But for me I couldn't agree less. Father, this world of yours, this earth and sky trembling with storms, this rolling land of trees and bright mountains and moons like signs of war or glory in the morning sky, how could I be blind to them? Thank You, oh thank You for this picture, this moment of glorious sight. I know in my heart beyond any doubt that I live daily in a reality of sacred mystery. I can't always see it though with these searching eyes. But this blue and gold dawn brought it near, heartbeat, heartsong near.
I am so glad.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
More specifically...
In response to the comment on my last post, I suppose I should give a little more background to my thoughts on this matter. First of all, I don't intend to criticize the many inspired teachers and professors (among whom are some of my greatest heroes) who are giving their best to education. Nor do I have any judgement for the wonderful students (my best friends being among them) who are faithfully pursuing an education at their respective schools. There are, of course, many excellent colleges teaching subjects that I could never hope to comprehend.
However, this study (no matter how faulty it may be, and there is some truth in it) merely confirms a cultural trend that I have observed and studied in the last few years, and it deeply concerns me. As a culture, and as generation of students, we are reading less and less. Dana Gioia, the head of the NEA initiated a study of "literary reading" in our culture, and his findings were alarming. Literary reading is in dramatic decline with fewer than half of American adults now reading literature, according his survey. Reading at Risk: A Survey of Literary Reading in America reports drops in all groups studied, with the steepest rate of decline - 28 percent - occurring in the youngest age groups. And those age groups include college students.
So, whether or not that study of reading comprehension in students is entirely accurate, there is an in depth, far-reaching study that would suggest it holds some truth. And frankly, I think this is something that needs immediate attention. I don't criticize the schools, but I ask what needs to be done to mend this. We are living in an age of media and entertainment which has no doubt contributed to the decline of good, old-fashioned reading. It is understandable that our attention is turning more and more to TV, movies, media, internet. But the ability to read is basic to a well-lived, purposeful life, especially if you desire to have any influence or lead in any capacity whatsoever. Dr. Jeff Meyers (Professor of Communication at Bryan College and founder of the summit worldview program at that campus) is always saying to his students;
"if you want to be a leader, you have to be a reader."
This is a vital skill. The ability to read and fully comprehend what you have just read is how you understand and implement the complex ideas that can change the way you live. Reading forms your perception of reality, opens doors of thought and possiblity that are simply closed otherwise. Reading is necessary to the formation of great minds and souls.
And education obviously has a lot to do with it. Without judging colleges or schools, it has to be said that something is going wrong somewhere. I don't have a cemented argument or plan yet, but I think that these trends and findings should deeply concern anyone interested in a healthy future. In the words of Dana Gioia:
"America can no longer take active and engaged literacy for granted. As more Americans lose this capability, our nation becomes less informed, active, and independent minded. These are not qualities that a free, innovative, or productive society can afford to lose."
I agree.
However, this study (no matter how faulty it may be, and there is some truth in it) merely confirms a cultural trend that I have observed and studied in the last few years, and it deeply concerns me. As a culture, and as generation of students, we are reading less and less. Dana Gioia, the head of the NEA initiated a study of "literary reading" in our culture, and his findings were alarming. Literary reading is in dramatic decline with fewer than half of American adults now reading literature, according his survey. Reading at Risk: A Survey of Literary Reading in America reports drops in all groups studied, with the steepest rate of decline - 28 percent - occurring in the youngest age groups. And those age groups include college students.
So, whether or not that study of reading comprehension in students is entirely accurate, there is an in depth, far-reaching study that would suggest it holds some truth. And frankly, I think this is something that needs immediate attention. I don't criticize the schools, but I ask what needs to be done to mend this. We are living in an age of media and entertainment which has no doubt contributed to the decline of good, old-fashioned reading. It is understandable that our attention is turning more and more to TV, movies, media, internet. But the ability to read is basic to a well-lived, purposeful life, especially if you desire to have any influence or lead in any capacity whatsoever. Dr. Jeff Meyers (Professor of Communication at Bryan College and founder of the summit worldview program at that campus) is always saying to his students;
"if you want to be a leader, you have to be a reader."
This is a vital skill. The ability to read and fully comprehend what you have just read is how you understand and implement the complex ideas that can change the way you live. Reading forms your perception of reality, opens doors of thought and possiblity that are simply closed otherwise. Reading is necessary to the formation of great minds and souls.
And education obviously has a lot to do with it. Without judging colleges or schools, it has to be said that something is going wrong somewhere. I don't have a cemented argument or plan yet, but I think that these trends and findings should deeply concern anyone interested in a healthy future. In the words of Dana Gioia:
"America can no longer take active and engaged literacy for granted. As more Americans lose this capability, our nation becomes less informed, active, and independent minded. These are not qualities that a free, innovative, or productive society can afford to lose."
I agree.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
What is the world coming to?
There is a new study out last week that says that 50% of all students at four-year colleges and 75% of students at technical/2-year schools lack the basic reading comprehension necessary to understand a credit card offer. Or a newspaper editorial.
What is the world coming to?
What does this mean for our generation?
And with Professor Digory (of Narnia fame) I say, "what are they teaching the children at those schools?"
What is the world coming to?
What does this mean for our generation?
And with Professor Digory (of Narnia fame) I say, "what are they teaching the children at those schools?"
Monday, January 09, 2006
And Yet Again
How many times does one have to restart in order to become regular at writing? I'm not even going to explain myself this time. I'm just glad I'm here with enough free thought to want to write. There has to be a little bit of margin in life if you're going to write because you have to have owned your thoughts. It seems to me lately that everyone else owns my thoughts: work, family, all the busy things in life demanding immediate attention. So, in a bold and daring move of recovery, I'm taking them back! I'll recapture the castle of my time and thought and begin here.
I am reading a book that will probably go on my list of "books that define my life", you know, the kind that you would almost be tempted to grab if there was a fire. (Even if I could buy a new copy, all the times I've underlined and made notes would be lost.) It's Eugene Peterson's new book Christ Plays In Ten Thousand Places. It is magnificent. The title comes from Gerard Manley Hopkins captivating poem, and the phrase comes from the last stanza:
I say more, the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is;
Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs and lovely in eyes not his,
To the Father, through the features of men's faces.
That title was well chosen because that phrase captures the heart of the book; Christ, the God who became incarnate into our world, the Spirit who dwells inside of us, plays in all places, in all parts of our lives, making every breath and every minute something sacred. Peterson says he wanted to write a book about "spiritual theology", that is, our knowledge of God (theology) incarnated into lives that are full of His spirit (spirituality). I have loved how he has begun, taking stories from the life of Christ and noting the interchangeable use of the words "spirit" and "breath", both are apparently the same word in Greek. His conclusion is that when we are truly living in Christ, we "breathe God", every minute of every day. So now, he is going to show how that happens in Creation, History and Community.
This book (and most of Eugene Peterson's writing) is a marvellous ballance intellect and captivating creativity. It is prose, but sometimes he gets carried away with his ideas and his writing comes near to poetry. I think this book could, as Anne of Green Gables says, mark an "epoch in my life", if only because it calls me back so strongly to the glory of God lived out all around me.
I am reading a book that will probably go on my list of "books that define my life", you know, the kind that you would almost be tempted to grab if there was a fire. (Even if I could buy a new copy, all the times I've underlined and made notes would be lost.) It's Eugene Peterson's new book Christ Plays In Ten Thousand Places. It is magnificent. The title comes from Gerard Manley Hopkins captivating poem, and the phrase comes from the last stanza:
I say more, the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is;
Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs and lovely in eyes not his,
To the Father, through the features of men's faces.
That title was well chosen because that phrase captures the heart of the book; Christ, the God who became incarnate into our world, the Spirit who dwells inside of us, plays in all places, in all parts of our lives, making every breath and every minute something sacred. Peterson says he wanted to write a book about "spiritual theology", that is, our knowledge of God (theology) incarnated into lives that are full of His spirit (spirituality). I have loved how he has begun, taking stories from the life of Christ and noting the interchangeable use of the words "spirit" and "breath", both are apparently the same word in Greek. His conclusion is that when we are truly living in Christ, we "breathe God", every minute of every day. So now, he is going to show how that happens in Creation, History and Community.
This book (and most of Eugene Peterson's writing) is a marvellous ballance intellect and captivating creativity. It is prose, but sometimes he gets carried away with his ideas and his writing comes near to poetry. I think this book could, as Anne of Green Gables says, mark an "epoch in my life", if only because it calls me back so strongly to the glory of God lived out all around me.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Autumn Storm
Autumn is here, glory be! She came tonight like a thief in the night and we were taken completely by surprise. At five o clock the sun was out and laughing, by seven, the world was covered in clouds and thunder and the mountains were completely invisible under the winter clouds moving in.
Autumn is here; season of firesides, season of color. Strong wind and music and trees that turn otherworldly in their dying glory. Hot chocolate and mysteries, first snowstorms and last sunny days. Dusky afternoons and cloudy days, oh I love it. It is glorious to the soul of this dreamer who loves to take long walks and think and then write it all down. This is the season of good thoughts I think, there is so much to inspire them.
Autumn is here!
Autumn is here; season of firesides, season of color. Strong wind and music and trees that turn otherworldly in their dying glory. Hot chocolate and mysteries, first snowstorms and last sunny days. Dusky afternoons and cloudy days, oh I love it. It is glorious to the soul of this dreamer who loves to take long walks and think and then write it all down. This is the season of good thoughts I think, there is so much to inspire them.
Autumn is here!
Friday, September 30, 2005
Georgetown
I greet you from the cedar laden streets of Georgetown. I know that this is an odd time to begin writing again after a nearly six month hiatus, but, oh well. Life is a strange, many splendored thing and I just sat down today and started writing. Who knows why, but it's nice to have a spot of time. Now, don't expect anything inspired since I can't write in an inspiring way when I'm hot, and Texas is always hot. (Sorry all you Texans out there, this state and I kind of grate on eachother.)
However, I did discover this quote today which is worth a few more people in the world knowing about. So, to begin my blogging existence again, I will open with these words:
"If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours."
~Henry David Thoreau
I'm thinking in this sort of way lately; life demands an advance in the direction of dreams and I intend to make it. May you all have a dream advancing day.
However, I did discover this quote today which is worth a few more people in the world knowing about. So, to begin my blogging existence again, I will open with these words:
"If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours."
~Henry David Thoreau
I'm thinking in this sort of way lately; life demands an advance in the direction of dreams and I intend to make it. May you all have a dream advancing day.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Novel Thoughts
Life and art always mingle, so here's a bit of a novel whose idea had its birth in my experience of the Anglican church. This idea actually came to me the first time I ever visited one back in Nashville, and this was a sort of idea scene that just came together. Hopefully all these ideas will resolve themselves into one flowing story eventually.
The priest said the blessing and broke the bread. The ushers came forward, and the people began to file out row by row. Usually there was a soft murmur of conversation while the people waited their turn to kneel, but not today. There was a strange hush surrounding them; few spoke, and the sanctuary seemed filled from red carpet to beamed roof with an almost tangible presence of quiet that bade voices be still, and movements hushed. Even the piano seemed quiet in its gentle song. Only the priest and acolytes spoke, moving from soul to kneeling soul, their hands moving slowly in blessing, their robes swishing lightly against the carpet.
The quiet grew heavy and present, surrounding the people with an invisible force that had the uncomfortable effect of turning their thoughts deeply inward. Some seemed uneasy in its presence. The well-dressed woman rebelled against it, clearing her throat, moving from foot to foot in restlessness. Anna was awed by it, dropping her eyes from the high altar, and holding her hands to her heart as if something was pressing against her. The old man welcomed it as a familiar friend, and closed his watery eyes that it might rest his old soul as it had so often done before.
The line moved slowly, for the people seemed to linger. Prayers were longer with this cloak of silence to still them. Finally the woman reached the altar, just as her stifled impatience burned her cheeks crimson. She knelt hastily and stuck out stiff hands to receive the bread. She ate quickly and again reached impatiently for the chalice. But as it was almost in her fingers, a slight noise made her hesitate before taking it.
Someone had slipped in late; a stream of sunlight burst upon the silence and then slowly faded. The late man walked swiftly forward and joined the line as the hush descended once more.
But the merest breath of wind had crept in around him. It swirled slowly up the aisle, caressing the hot faces of the waiting people. It reached the impatient woman and cooled the fires in her cheeks, breathing kindly round her warm hands as they grasped the sacred cup. She suddenly felt the coolness of the silver on her fingers, and she lifted the cup to her lips more slowly than she had the bread. Something in the lightness of the breeze bade her look upward. Her eyes met the gaze of the crucified Christ in the stained window above the altar, and a trembling woke a fear in her heart that she had not known since childhood.
This is My blood...
The warm wine caressed her throat and glided near her heart.
Shed for you...
For once, her eyes really closed in prayer, and she knelt much longer than was her wont.
Beside her knelt Anna, her gray eyes large. She too felt the gentle touch of the wind. It brought a tingling to her arms and cheeks; it surrounded her with a bracing cool, like that of starlit air. Her hands also trembled as she took the holy bread, but it was because of the tears brimming in her eyes. Holding the piece of bread in her cupped hands, she lifted her eyes to those of Jesus as He suffered on the cross. The nails in His hands made her blanch.
This is My body…
She ate the bread.
Broken for you...
A tingling rush came over her face, and she lifted her hands to cheeks that burned. She found herself trembling, caught between the coolness of the wind and the heat of her heart, and suddenly, she realized that tears were covering her cheeks. She drank of the wine and realized that her heart had just been broken. But the breaking was sweeter than any former wholeness had been, for it had broken in love.
Still the gentle wind moved among the people, touching faces and hands, stimulating hearts, making a trembling in their very souls. A tiny bit of a girl smiled as the cool blew the wisps of hair from her face. A father brought his baby closer to the warmth of his arms as the air glided by. At the altar, the wind blessed the hands of the priest, and his movements became stronger, his voice yet gentler.
No one in all that grand sanctuary was safe from that wildly gentle wind.
The priest said the blessing and broke the bread. The ushers came forward, and the people began to file out row by row. Usually there was a soft murmur of conversation while the people waited their turn to kneel, but not today. There was a strange hush surrounding them; few spoke, and the sanctuary seemed filled from red carpet to beamed roof with an almost tangible presence of quiet that bade voices be still, and movements hushed. Even the piano seemed quiet in its gentle song. Only the priest and acolytes spoke, moving from soul to kneeling soul, their hands moving slowly in blessing, their robes swishing lightly against the carpet.
The quiet grew heavy and present, surrounding the people with an invisible force that had the uncomfortable effect of turning their thoughts deeply inward. Some seemed uneasy in its presence. The well-dressed woman rebelled against it, clearing her throat, moving from foot to foot in restlessness. Anna was awed by it, dropping her eyes from the high altar, and holding her hands to her heart as if something was pressing against her. The old man welcomed it as a familiar friend, and closed his watery eyes that it might rest his old soul as it had so often done before.
The line moved slowly, for the people seemed to linger. Prayers were longer with this cloak of silence to still them. Finally the woman reached the altar, just as her stifled impatience burned her cheeks crimson. She knelt hastily and stuck out stiff hands to receive the bread. She ate quickly and again reached impatiently for the chalice. But as it was almost in her fingers, a slight noise made her hesitate before taking it.
Someone had slipped in late; a stream of sunlight burst upon the silence and then slowly faded. The late man walked swiftly forward and joined the line as the hush descended once more.
But the merest breath of wind had crept in around him. It swirled slowly up the aisle, caressing the hot faces of the waiting people. It reached the impatient woman and cooled the fires in her cheeks, breathing kindly round her warm hands as they grasped the sacred cup. She suddenly felt the coolness of the silver on her fingers, and she lifted the cup to her lips more slowly than she had the bread. Something in the lightness of the breeze bade her look upward. Her eyes met the gaze of the crucified Christ in the stained window above the altar, and a trembling woke a fear in her heart that she had not known since childhood.
This is My blood...
The warm wine caressed her throat and glided near her heart.
Shed for you...
For once, her eyes really closed in prayer, and she knelt much longer than was her wont.
Beside her knelt Anna, her gray eyes large. She too felt the gentle touch of the wind. It brought a tingling to her arms and cheeks; it surrounded her with a bracing cool, like that of starlit air. Her hands also trembled as she took the holy bread, but it was because of the tears brimming in her eyes. Holding the piece of bread in her cupped hands, she lifted her eyes to those of Jesus as He suffered on the cross. The nails in His hands made her blanch.
This is My body…
She ate the bread.
Broken for you...
A tingling rush came over her face, and she lifted her hands to cheeks that burned. She found herself trembling, caught between the coolness of the wind and the heat of her heart, and suddenly, she realized that tears were covering her cheeks. She drank of the wine and realized that her heart had just been broken. But the breaking was sweeter than any former wholeness had been, for it had broken in love.
Still the gentle wind moved among the people, touching faces and hands, stimulating hearts, making a trembling in their very souls. A tiny bit of a girl smiled as the cool blew the wisps of hair from her face. A father brought his baby closer to the warmth of his arms as the air glided by. At the altar, the wind blessed the hands of the priest, and his movements became stronger, his voice yet gentler.
No one in all that grand sanctuary was safe from that wildly gentle wind.
Copyright Sarah Clarkson, 2005
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Grey
Tonight we are in a towering lodge on a great grey, wintry lake somewhere in the mountains of Maryland. We arrived in late afternoon, to the snow just beginning it’s etching of the air. The chill is bitter, but it has instilled a deep quiet in the earth and the landscape has been painted with a full, subtly tinted palette of greys. The trees are lithely dark and grey, the fields sere and slightly silver, the sky brooding grey, the jutting edges of the rocks a flinty grey. It strikes me that sometimes the wonder of creation is most vividly evident in the vastness to be found within even it's smallest elements. Who could know that you could make the world breathtakingly gorgeous while staying literally within one defined color? It is that “eternity in a hazelnut” as Julian of Norwich said.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Great Music Everyone!
Thanks to all you music lovers out there. What a great list of artists, I've got a lot of listening to do. Someday, I'm going to make a CD of all the very best songs of each particular one. I'm also going to make a compilation CD someday of what I call the "last" songs. It seems to me that on a lot my favorite albums, some of the best songs are the last, "hidden" ones, that never make the radio cut. Examples would be Nicole Nordeman's "Send Some Rain", and Bebo's "All That I Have Sown". Some of the most beautiful songs get put in last, it's like finding a treasure at the end of the album.
Keep on listening and loving that music out there everyone, thanks!
Keep on listening and loving that music out there everyone, thanks!
Monday, February 07, 2005
Random Thoughts From the California Desert
Well, we're back from a week in LA, which just confirms the fact that I never actually want to live there, but it's awfully fun to visit. It's just like summer out there, the perfect kind of summer, flowers everywhere, warm days, breezy beeches, oh my!
However, to get out there, one has to drive two full days through an eye-catching array of flatlands, prairies, mountains and high desert, which, though incredibly beautiful by turns, can also get incredibly monotonous by hours. Thus, we had ample time for discussion and music, and as it happened, we merged the two on this trip. Having listened to a really talented lineup of our favorite musicians, we got started on the subject of what truly makes some music "artistic and creative", and why some music seems to lack that extra element of grace.
What sets apart a Rich Mullins, Michael Card, Bob Bennett, Andrew Peterson apart from so much non descript music. My two cents worth of idea was that I think in writing songs, some musicians say what they have heard to be true, i.e., "God is good, God is faithful" (and a thousand variations thereof), and some musicians say what they know to be true from having lived it. And the difference shows in the music thus written, because lyrics that are written from deep understanding and long experience have a depth, a subltely, even a symbolism that lyrics written without a personal understanding will never have.
It's the difference between the "reckless, raging fury that they call the love of God", in the words of Rich Mullins, and the blank statement, which I have heard sung a thousand times in various praise songs, "God's love is amazing". One has experienced the love of God in a way that shapes and drives the words, the other is simply a general statement.
So who are the true artists? I want opinions, artists and songs. Here's a beginning list:
Andrew Peterson
Rich Mullins
Chris Rice
Bob Bennett
Fernando Ortega
Bebo Norman
Michael Card
However, to get out there, one has to drive two full days through an eye-catching array of flatlands, prairies, mountains and high desert, which, though incredibly beautiful by turns, can also get incredibly monotonous by hours. Thus, we had ample time for discussion and music, and as it happened, we merged the two on this trip. Having listened to a really talented lineup of our favorite musicians, we got started on the subject of what truly makes some music "artistic and creative", and why some music seems to lack that extra element of grace.
What sets apart a Rich Mullins, Michael Card, Bob Bennett, Andrew Peterson apart from so much non descript music. My two cents worth of idea was that I think in writing songs, some musicians say what they have heard to be true, i.e., "God is good, God is faithful" (and a thousand variations thereof), and some musicians say what they know to be true from having lived it. And the difference shows in the music thus written, because lyrics that are written from deep understanding and long experience have a depth, a subltely, even a symbolism that lyrics written without a personal understanding will never have.
It's the difference between the "reckless, raging fury that they call the love of God", in the words of Rich Mullins, and the blank statement, which I have heard sung a thousand times in various praise songs, "God's love is amazing". One has experienced the love of God in a way that shapes and drives the words, the other is simply a general statement.
So who are the true artists? I want opinions, artists and songs. Here's a beginning list:
Andrew Peterson
Rich Mullins
Chris Rice
Bob Bennett
Fernando Ortega
Bebo Norman
Michael Card
Saturday, January 29, 2005
9.5 Theses
Please, everyone, go read the great article on Christianity Today website titled "9.5 Theses on Worship". We have had many discussions lately on this topic, as we have been visiting numerous churches, and this guy says what I've been wanting to say myself on the subject. Go Mr. whatever your name is!
Friday, January 28, 2005
January and Mysticism
To all the people who actually had the faith to look back at this blog after me ignoring it for a month, thanks, and happy new year! (Four weeks late)
Christmas and the new year have a way of throwing me off my normal rhythms and it takes me a bit to get back into the swing of things. But here I am, and it's good to be thinking through my keyboard again.
Having gotten Evelyn Underhill's Mysticism for Christmas, I've actually had quite a bit to think about. Far from being a book full of misty speculation on the meaning of transcendence, this book is the kind that takes you by the shoulders and makes you sit down and think. Just in the first chapter, my whole understanding of reality was challenged when she pointed out that each person experiences sensory reality in a subjective way. And though I might argue that we can all touch and feel the books sitting round us, or the house in which we live, what are the elements that make up that reality? A bunch of atoms compressed together? (Or, according to the new superstring theory, which I find fascinating, a bunch of dancing strings?)
Not that physical reality isn't incredibly important. But the point of it all was that beyond the daily reality that we know so well but that is, really quite subjective, beyond even our own limited understanding of spirituality, there is living spiritual reality of love and life that we barely even dream of. And it is where the things we most value in life come from; beauty, love and, her term, religion. So I was reading this in Starbucks the other day, (talk about contrasting concrete reality with the spiritual!), and afterwards turned to my Bible for a bit of study, and came upon 1 Corinthians 2, and was amazed indeed:
Christmas and the new year have a way of throwing me off my normal rhythms and it takes me a bit to get back into the swing of things. But here I am, and it's good to be thinking through my keyboard again.
Having gotten Evelyn Underhill's Mysticism for Christmas, I've actually had quite a bit to think about. Far from being a book full of misty speculation on the meaning of transcendence, this book is the kind that takes you by the shoulders and makes you sit down and think. Just in the first chapter, my whole understanding of reality was challenged when she pointed out that each person experiences sensory reality in a subjective way. And though I might argue that we can all touch and feel the books sitting round us, or the house in which we live, what are the elements that make up that reality? A bunch of atoms compressed together? (Or, according to the new superstring theory, which I find fascinating, a bunch of dancing strings?)
Not that physical reality isn't incredibly important. But the point of it all was that beyond the daily reality that we know so well but that is, really quite subjective, beyond even our own limited understanding of spirituality, there is living spiritual reality of love and life that we barely even dream of. And it is where the things we most value in life come from; beauty, love and, her term, religion. So I was reading this in Starbucks the other day, (talk about contrasting concrete reality with the spiritual!), and afterwards turned to my Bible for a bit of study, and came upon 1 Corinthians 2, and was amazed indeed:
"but we speak God's wisdom in a mystery, the hidden wisdom which God predestined before the ages to our glory..."things which the eye has not seen and ear has not heard and which have not entered the heart of man, all that God has prepared for those who love Him..."
The realization that there is a glory out there beyond my wildest imaginations is something that I often lose, but the shock of rediscovering it is always bracing to my soul. And as I sat there in Starbucks, sipping a cappuccino and contemplating the mysteries of God, I felt renewed in my desire to live life with a mind more set on the Eternal.
It's just a beginning, and I will probably have much more mental food to chew on as I read this two-inch thick book. But it is making me think about life in a new way. Anyway, since this is all quite jumbled in my mind, you'll be doing well if you can make sense of it. But it is what I am contemplating lately, which is rather amusing since January always catches me with many very commonplace, unspiritual things I must do. But it's good to remember again the something beyond. And especially to endeavor to live there at least part of the time.
Before long, I may be a mystic myself.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
The Advent of Faith
It is the eve of a lovely Sunday, Christmas lights are sparkling and in the quiet before bed, I have sat down to read my daily Advent email. I signed up to receive a daily reading all throughout Advent from the Bruderhof communities, and I have been absolutely loving it. This particular reading struck me though, and it was so beautiful, I had to share it:
Advent is the time of promise; it is not yet the time of fulfillment. We are still in the midst of everything and in the logical inexorability and relentlessness of destiny. To eyes that do not see, it still seems as though the final dice are being cast down here in these valleys, on these battlefields, in these camps and prisons and bomb shelters. Those who are awake sense the working of the other powers and can await the coming of their hour.
Space is still filled with the noise of destruction and annihilation, the shouts of self-assurance and arrogance, the weeping of despair and helplessness. But round about the horizon the eternal realities stand silent in their age-old longing. There shines on them already the first mild light of the radiant fulfillment to come. From afar sound the first notes as of pipes and voices, not yet discernable as a song or melody. It is all far off still, and only just announced and foretold. But it is happening, today.
The whole thing is much longer, but this bit just seemed like such a jolt of divine reality that it's been in my mind all day. The author was Alfred Delpf, a Jesuit priest and prisoner in a Nazi camp, who, soon after writing this, was hanged for "treason". It was amazing to me that he could write with such clarity of faith, such trust in God. This man had every reason in the world to believe that God no longer cared for him, that God was no longer present in His life. Yet in the season of Advent, the season of "Coming", he celebrated God's presence all around him. For God was with him, and God is with us; with us in prison camps and suffering, with us in our moments of joy and frustration, even with us in the daily days where mundane reality seems to exclude any sense of the divine. And He will never leave, thank goodness.
Advent is the time of promise; it is not yet the time of fulfillment. We are still in the midst of everything and in the logical inexorability and relentlessness of destiny. To eyes that do not see, it still seems as though the final dice are being cast down here in these valleys, on these battlefields, in these camps and prisons and bomb shelters. Those who are awake sense the working of the other powers and can await the coming of their hour.
Space is still filled with the noise of destruction and annihilation, the shouts of self-assurance and arrogance, the weeping of despair and helplessness. But round about the horizon the eternal realities stand silent in their age-old longing. There shines on them already the first mild light of the radiant fulfillment to come. From afar sound the first notes as of pipes and voices, not yet discernable as a song or melody. It is all far off still, and only just announced and foretold. But it is happening, today.
The whole thing is much longer, but this bit just seemed like such a jolt of divine reality that it's been in my mind all day. The author was Alfred Delpf, a Jesuit priest and prisoner in a Nazi camp, who, soon after writing this, was hanged for "treason". It was amazing to me that he could write with such clarity of faith, such trust in God. This man had every reason in the world to believe that God no longer cared for him, that God was no longer present in His life. Yet in the season of Advent, the season of "Coming", he celebrated God's presence all around him. For God was with him, and God is with us; with us in prison camps and suffering, with us in our moments of joy and frustration, even with us in the daily days where mundane reality seems to exclude any sense of the divine. And He will never leave, thank goodness.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Irony on the SAT
I'm taking joy by the fistfulls, grabbing it up with abandon because I have finished the SAT! This is my second time to take it, and regardless of the score, never again! Yes, yes, I'm very proud of myself and Joel (who also took it) for learning all the material and doing our best. Now we just have to wait three weeks to find out what that "best" really is. But, once and for all, after a solid week of daily three hour tests filled with obscure questions about vocabulary and unsolvable algebra, I am finished. Never again shall I have to sludge through the marshy maze of SAT preparation.
On a side note, I must say that when I really think about it, it irks me in the extreme to know that the SAT is the measure of highschool intelligence for everyone. I mean, if you happen to excel at algebra or just take a strange delight in quantitative comparison, then, it is indeed an accurate measure of your intelligence. But what about everyone whose intelligence and passion lies in history, or music, or geography, or literature? (Especially literature!) Everything is so boxed these days, and if your specific knowledge or intelligence doesn't fit into the box, then it doesn't count. I say it lightly, but hey, if you really think about it, it makes you stop to think about it more.
It was rather ironic today as well, because one of the literature passages in the vocabulary section was all about how Americans are so focused on test scores and filling in the correct blanks and getting the advantage in life that they have let all the most meaningful, wondrous things fall by the wayside. Since a capacity for vision, or a hunger for beauty, or a compassionate spirit isn't measurable, the author pretty much implied, it isn't appreciated or emulated. Which I thought was a very interesting essay anyway, but even more so since it was on my SAT.
All that to say, I am now going to take that essayist's advice and focus on all the creative, interesting, fun things I can. It being Christmas, that ought to be pretty easy.
On a side note, I must say that when I really think about it, it irks me in the extreme to know that the SAT is the measure of highschool intelligence for everyone. I mean, if you happen to excel at algebra or just take a strange delight in quantitative comparison, then, it is indeed an accurate measure of your intelligence. But what about everyone whose intelligence and passion lies in history, or music, or geography, or literature? (Especially literature!) Everything is so boxed these days, and if your specific knowledge or intelligence doesn't fit into the box, then it doesn't count. I say it lightly, but hey, if you really think about it, it makes you stop to think about it more.
It was rather ironic today as well, because one of the literature passages in the vocabulary section was all about how Americans are so focused on test scores and filling in the correct blanks and getting the advantage in life that they have let all the most meaningful, wondrous things fall by the wayside. Since a capacity for vision, or a hunger for beauty, or a compassionate spirit isn't measurable, the author pretty much implied, it isn't appreciated or emulated. Which I thought was a very interesting essay anyway, but even more so since it was on my SAT.
All that to say, I am now going to take that essayist's advice and focus on all the creative, interesting, fun things I can. It being Christmas, that ought to be pretty easy.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Something for the Ordinary
I played with the name for this for quite awhile. I just wanted something simple, something to do with the thoughts and happenstance of every day. I looked up the Latin word for thought, cogito, or sententia, but that sounded too complicated for the simplicity I wanted. I looked up Tolkien's elvish words for joyful thoughts, ossanwe alasse, and though I find them quite beautiful, they too seemed to carry too much weight for the sense I wanted.
And then, it being Christmas, I turned around to look at a Christmas book I had sitting on my chair, and was stopped in my tracks by the big red letters of an old favorite. TAKE JOY, it said, in the title of a book by Tasha Tudor. And right then, I knew I'd found the name for my collection of small, daily thoughts.
I love the concept of taking joy, as if joy were a penny staring up at me from the ground, just waiting for me to pick it up and be enriched, even if only by a cent. There are a thousand joys, a countless number of instances in the day when joy is to be had for the taking, thoughts are to be had simply for the thinking, beauty is to be found, merely in the seeing.
So, there you have it.
Take joy indeed.
Merry Christmas!
And then, it being Christmas, I turned around to look at a Christmas book I had sitting on my chair, and was stopped in my tracks by the big red letters of an old favorite. TAKE JOY, it said, in the title of a book by Tasha Tudor. And right then, I knew I'd found the name for my collection of small, daily thoughts.
I love the concept of taking joy, as if joy were a penny staring up at me from the ground, just waiting for me to pick it up and be enriched, even if only by a cent. There are a thousand joys, a countless number of instances in the day when joy is to be had for the taking, thoughts are to be had simply for the thinking, beauty is to be found, merely in the seeing.
So, there you have it.
Take joy indeed.
Merry Christmas!
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