step of faith

Apparently my friends and I don’t have enough excitement in our lives, because this past Saturday we paid good money to strap our procreative areas into safety harnesses and zipline across metal cords 85 feet above the ground.

Each of the nine lines was longer! faster! higher! than the previous ones; reaching the last three required climbing up steps pounded in the side of a tree or inching across a rope bridge. Once we arrived, our very nice guide Peter would unhook one safety harness (that prevented falling from the tree) and hook another (that prevented death after you jump off).

Despite my fear of heights I was enjoying the experience…..until #8. After successfully navigating the ladder and pulling myself up three steep steps, I stood, appropriately hooked/unhooked, contemplating the drop in front of my small wooden perch and the forested gorge I was about to sail through.

Another moment.


One more second.


“Are you…….” This from Peter.

“I’m going.”


I walked to the platform’s edge. Deep breath. Sign of the cross and a kiss of my thumb for extra luck.


A step forward……………………………


Air. Quiet. (No, I didn’t scream.) Leaves rustling, the cable zipping on its track, flying through the trees, picking up speed, delivering me to the steep bank of logs on the other side.

After all that fear, the ride was over too soon and I landed safely and smiling. It took just one step to launch me forward—but what a difficult step.


Later, unhooked for good, I thought about another group who faced a more challenging decision. In Joshua 3, the Israelites need to cross the Jordan River to claim the promised land, and God tells the priests carrying the ark to lead the people into the water.

Joshua, in what must have felt like one of the hardest sells in history, told the priests that as soon as they set foot in the Jordan, all the water flowing downstream would stop.

“Now the Jordan is at flood stage all during harvest,” the story continues in verse 15. “Yet as soon as the priests who carried the ark reached the Jordan and their feet touched the water’s edge, the water from upstream stopped flowing. It piled up in a heap a great distance away, at a town called Adam in the vicinity of Zarethan, while the water flowing down to the Salt Sea was completely cut off. So the people crossed over opposite Jericho. The priests who carried the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the middle of the Jordan, while all Israel passed by until the whole nation had completed the crossing on dry ground.”

My step off the zipline ledge was no great risk; I had faith in my safety harness and had seen others successfully complete the course. My guide stood next to me, physically present to provide help. And on the very slim chance I injured myself, a competent doctor (or at least the semi-competent one covered by my paltry insurance) would be able to ice a bruise or mend a sprained ankle.

But these brave priests faced much higher stakes. They had no harness or safety rope if the water’s undertow tugged them down. They had no example to follow. And if they messed up, if Joshua was wrong or they failed to follow the directions accurately or God changed his mind, the entire nation could die.

God invites us to be co-creators of the world and its history. He will meet us, help us, maybe even bring moments of quiet and joy along the way, but he often asks us to take the first step without any guarantees. More than I would like, traveling with God still means trusting a Guide I don’t see and don’t understand, who may not respond when I’d like or in the way I expect.


On Saturday I learned several things: I hold my breath when I get scared. I look less than ravishing in a helmet. And first steps are the most difficult—but maybe the most important.

Where do you need to take a step of faith in your life? What’s holding you back?

new to you friday–twilight zone

Movie #3 in the series opens next week, and today’s issue of Entertainment Weekly calls it “the best Twilight movie so far.” Which wouldn’t be a stretch, considering the caliber of acting in the first two. (Yes, I saw them. I’m proud to say I did not give Sex and the City 2 my $10, however.)

But the millions of women (and the dozens of reluctant boyfriends) who will converge on theaters this summer aren’t going because this is Oscar bait. As I wrote in the original post, Twilight is not about high-quality writing. It’s not even about vampires. It’s about romance, and our cultural confusion about gender roles, and our desires as women.

I don’t plan to see “Eclipse,” but I like the questions it’s raising: in a society where strong women want to be treated as equals, can we also want relationships with strong men? How does that work? How much of our roles are cultural and how much are hardwired by the Creator? And how did pasty-white Robert Pattinson and his bad teeth win the role of dream hunk Edward Cullen?

——————————————————————————————

In a February USA Weekend interview, author Stephen King compared “Harry Potter” novelist J.K. Rowling and recent phenomenon Stephenie Meyer. “The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn,” he summed up. “She’s not very good.”

In case you are a man without a wife, sister, mother or teenage daughter, Meyer is the author of Twilight and its three follow-up young adult novels about a teenage girl named Bella and her vampire boyfriend Edward. Meyer’s books have been translated into 20 languages, sold 22 million copies just in 2008, and took spots 1-4 on last year’s best-seller list. That’s right, the Twilight series monopolized all four top spots last year.


The only good thing about this is it pushed The Shack to #6. Because King is right—the books aren’t very good. They include run-on sentences even the most junior editor should have caught, repetitive descriptions (we know Edward is hot because his eyes blaze, scorch, or smolder most of the time), and a whole lot of melodrama.

But just as people don’t visit Hard Rock Cafe for high-quality food, people aren’t reading Twilight for high-quality prose—they’re reading for the love story. Meyer has created every woman’s ideal man: mind-bogglingly handsome, funny, intelligent, articulate. He dotes on Bella’s every word and every mood swing. He’s got piles of money, a shiny Volvo, and nothing but time. (He is immortal.) Most of all, he’s Bella’s protector in a way no real man could be, able to run at lightning speed, read thoughts, and stop out of control cars with one hand.


When Charlotte asserted “Women just really want to be rescued” on an episode of Sex and the City, the other women at the table looked at her like she spit in their coffee. This desire to be cared for and protected is one of the few off-limits topics among modern women, because it’s something we’re not supposed to want. We can open that door, schlep that luggage, and fund that retirement account ourselves, thank you. But one or more of these books has been on the NYT bestseller list for years. We may not admit this desire, but we’re spending an awful lot of money to read about its fulfillment for someone else.

Perhaps it’s because God created us this way, and no amount of equal pay (which I firmly support) or power pantsuits (which I don’t) can negate it. The healthy expression of this inner wiring doesn’t include vampires and shouldn’t include victimization; it’s less “rescue” and more regard for our differences as women. For our part, it also includes recognition of men’s equally-unique role as provider and protector.

And, I think, the end of apologies for wanting that. We stopped waiting for the knight on a white horse a long time ago, but the so-pale-he’s-white Edward still entrances us. The books may not be good, but they point us, however melodramatically, to something that is.

things I don’t understand, part 9

The appeal of Justin Bieber. I’m getting old.

Tongue piercing. Ditto.

Churches that refuse to let a woman “teach” but sing every hymn Fanny Crosby ever wrote.

Women who make big decisions about their hair or clothes based on their husbands’ preferences.

Buying expensive sunglasses (you don’t sit on them, scratch them, leave them on shelves at Target?)

Watching The Bachelorette.

Young earth creationism.

Those guys standing on corners twirling signs advertising strip mall stores. Have you EVER made the decision to eat somewhere because they paid a high schooler to hold a sign on the corner?

Why Walmart still employs greeters. I can’t imagine there is any ROI in this.

The iPod, yes. The iPhone, absolutely. The iPad—not so much.

Believing there is one person God picked out for you to marry. (Or one job he’s “called” you to. Besides the theology of God as micromanager—itself deeply flawed—do you really think he called you to be a well-known speaker and someone else to clean rooms at a Marriott in Muncie, Indiana?)

More confusion here.

new to you friday–read letters

My dad continues to make me proud—have you read his blog posts from Kenya??—and he continues to write me notes ending with, “You know we love you.” Love you back, dad.

———————————————————

During a recent Barnes & Noble excursion I impulsively bought a copy of
Posterity: Letters of Great Americans to Their Children. It’s turned out to be a great read.

A dozen sections, arranged chronologically and by subject, include everything from Thomas Jefferson’s marriage advice for his newlywed daughter Martha to Samuel Clemens’ (aka Mark Twain’s) letter as Santa Claus to his three-year-old daughter Susie.

The letters are endlessly quotable. In one, author F. Scott Fitzgerald compiled a list of things his twelve-year-old daughter should and should not be concerned about. (“Worry about courage. Don’t worry about the past. Don’t worry about growing up.”)

“Consideration of others at all times, be they right or wrong, is an acknowledgment of your own limitations,” writes fighter pilot Eddie Rickenbacker before sending his son off to the Air Force.

Famous photographer Ansel Adams might just as easily have been an award-winning writer; “I am wondering, in the afternoon of my own life, just what your day will be,” he writes to his son.


In her prologue, the book’s editor mentions letters are dying art forms—the book includes few recent letters because email and telephone calls have replaced them. But I’m old enough to remember life before the internet and cell phones, and my own father wrote me a letter every week I was away at college. (Well, until my senior year, when we both got email.)

I still have a file folder crammed with those short notes and long epistles, plus many of the cards and letters he’s written since. They run the gamut from routine recountings of the previous week to serious messages from a dad watching his daughter grow into adulthood. And many, of course, included Standard Publishing stickers.

During college:
“Did you REALLY email us at 5:53 a.m.? Did you get up that early…or STAY up that late? Take care of yourself!”

“It’s exciting to anticipate how your life will turn out. Of course, I realize the bigger issue may seem to be passing pre-calculus this semester. So we’ll pray about that first.” (I passed with a C.)

When my roommates were noticed more than me: “Don’t feel bad about being ‘in the shadow.’ There’s probably more light there than you realize.”

As I struggled with my first year away from home: “All your mother and I want is for you to have and be and do what’s best for you. A large part of that is finding God’s will, which I’m convinced is often not just one answer. We anticipate that you will always be a source of light, wherever you choose to shine.”

Years later, in response to an email headed “Fun for your Wednesday,” asking for reasons why I shouldn’t date a cuter-than-snot atheist: “I was expecting a funny pass-along email or one of those silly cartoons, any of which I would have called ‘fun.’ This correspondence I would put in another category, something close to ‘life and death.’”

On a birthday card: “What a wonderful thing to call you…our friend! It is wonderful compensation for realizing how old we are, now that you are an adult.”

And always, at the end of almost every letter, “You know we love you.”


I’m a bit biased, but I think some of Dad’s letters rival the best of anything from Thomas Jefferson or Ansel Adams. I’m lucky to have them, and lucky to have him.

Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

what’s saving you?

In her memoir Leaving Church, Barbara Brown Taylor writes,

Many years ago now, when I was invited to speak at a church gathering, my host said, “Tell us what is saving your life now.” It was such a good question that I have made a practice of asking others to answer it even as I continue to answer it myself. Salvation is so much more than many of its proponents would have us believe. In the Bible, human beings experience God’s salvation when peace ends war, when food follows famine, when health supplants sickness and freedom trumps oppression. Salvation is a word for the divine spaciousness that comes to human beings in all the tight places where their lives are at risk, regardless of how they got there or whether they know God’s name. Sometimes it comes as an extended human hand and sometimes as a bolt from the blue, but either way it opens a door in what looked for all the world like a wall. This is the way of life, and God alone knows how it works.

She goes on to describe her answer to this question: teaching, living in relationship with creation on her farm, observing the Sabbath, encountering God in other people, and “committing myself to the task of becoming fully human” are saving her life as she writes the book.


Now before you compose testy comments, I understand that only Jesus truly saves us. But as Taylor notes, he often uses other people, circumstances, and tangible blessings to bring “divine spaciousness.” If we accept salvation as a journey instead of simply a once-and-done destination, it follows that God can use anything he wants to open doors along the way.

Even a casual reader of my blog over the last year would recognize some of my own “tight places.” I continue to struggle with calling and purpose, with prayer, with church as usual, and with God.

I welcome these struggles because, as author and psychologist Henry Cloud says, “Non-growing people are very comfortable.” I’d rather be growing than avoiding uncomfortable tight spots—but, like Taylor, I appreciate lower-case-s salvation along the way.


So right now……

–Good books are saving me. In addition to Leaving Church, I’ve been reading or re-reading Prayer by Philip Yancey, The Writing Life by Annie Dillard, The Divine Commodity by Skye Jethani, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller and Angry Conversations with God by Susan Isaacs. Good fiction is helpful, as well, for its lessons and its escapes. Recently I’ve liked The Help by Kathryn Stockett, The Postmistress by Sarah Blake and Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry. Two months ago that list would have looked entirely different and two months from now it will again—and so will the way I think about life.

–Therapy is saving me. Hopefully we are long past the days when seeing a counselor carries a stigma. I’ve worked with mine on and off over the last several years and she’s immensely helpful in pointing out unhealthy patterns and suggesting new approaches. I don’t know anyone so well-adjusted and neurosis-free that they couldn’t benefit from therapy at some point. If you think you’re that person, you really need it.

–Music is saving me, as it always does. Right now it’s Andrew Peterson (as it always is) and, ahem, the songs from Glee. What? They’re fun and joyful and generally not too silly.

–Driving is saving me, preferably driving with music. I get my best ideas and insights in the car. But I will say there are a great number of very slow drivers in Nashville, many of them proudly displaying Dave Ramsey bumper stickers. Someone should conduct a sociological research project on this phenomenon. Are financially conservative people also cautious drivers? Are they just trying to save gas? Is there a Financial Peace project meant solely to drive me crazy? Someone needs to investigate.

–Gardening is saving me. Nothing else I’m doing right now gives me as much satisfaction as digging, weeding, and planting, or seeing the tidy flowerbeds and growing vegetables that result. During one bad week recently I shoveled up a second part of my yard and created a shade garden, because I’d run out of plantable space before I ran out of the need to plant.


Christ saves us, but uses the world he created to help us grow. What is saving your life now?

new to you friday–must see

Okay, yes, the point of “New to you Friday” is to invite new readers into the discussion of blog posts from two years ago, not two weeks. But I thought of something else I wanted to say about this, and it’s my blog. So neener neener.

Last night I gathered with a group of creative people from my church–a playwright, an author, a children’s therapist, a poet, a professor, an actress and more. We ate heaping plates of sweet corn salad and my famous orzo with roasted vegetables (I declare my recipes “famous” if I’ve made them more than once) and discussed faith and art and the intersection between the two.

At one point, David, the organizer of the evening, asked each of us to share why the conversation mattered to us personally; why (besides the orzo) we showed up.

I found myself telling them about Marina Abramovic and her performance at MOMA and the reactions of the people who participated with her. Her exhibit was titled “The Artist is Present” and, as noted in the original post, that was the power of the piece—she was fully present, seeing and acknowledging each person who sat across from her. Although she didn’t speak or interact, she was there, inviting the other person to also be present and honest in that moment.

And I realized that’s why I think the arts matter to people of faith—because they point us to the Giver of all creativity, who, frankly, sometimes acts like Abramovic. Usually I want Him to talk and respond and fix my problems—to do. Usually He simply wants to sit quietly with me—to be. In those times, music and literature and visual arts remind us that while he may be silent, The Artist is always present.

————————————————————————————

I spent this past holiday weekend in New York City with my brother Geoff and sister-in-law Lisa, having more fun and eating more food than I could include here. (Oh, okay, twist my arm: picnics in Central Park and along Long Island City’s waterfront, walks through impeccably manicured gardens at dusk, tours of subway cars from the 50s, the Brooklyn Flea Market, and possibly the best cafe au lait ever).

But what I will remember long after my shin splints fade away and I work off the goat cheese omelets is Sunday afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art. Marina Abramovic’s special exhibition “The Artist is Present” was in its final weekend run, and we spent much of the afternoon viewing it (and much of the evening discussing it).

Abramovic is a performance artist who has scrubbed meat and blood off cow bones to protest the slaughter of war, taken mind-altering pills to explore unconsciousness during a performance, and fasted from food for 12 days while living on a shelf open to the public in a New York gallery.

But “The Artist is Present” included no such spectacle—instead, the 80-day performance simply featured Abramovic sitting silently, gazing into the eyes of a person sitting across from her. From the moment the museum opened each day until the last crowds left each evening, Abramovic sat without speaking and gave each person, in turn, her complete and focused attention.

And thousands of New Yorkers lined up each morning for the privilege of being in the chair across from her. Some smiled or giggled self-consciously. Some returned the unbroken eye contact. Several wept. Until the last two days of the performance, each individual could sit as long or as little as he wanted. Some stayed just a few minutes, others remained in the chair for hours.


In an interview before the exhibit, Abramovic said,

It’s really the idea of creating a moment of presence…… I want to create a stillness in the middle of the tornado, with just a tiny little table and two little chairs. And the chair opposite me is always empty, and any member of the audience is welcome to come and engage in the gaze with me. There will not be talking, there will not be anything, just the motionless gaze.

The eyes are the windows of the soul. You can see so much. And it will create an energy, a luminosity around it. The more time goes past with this piece, the more the piece will go where it should go – into that timeless state. It’s about the here and now. It’s not about future or past. It’s just about the present moment. I want to construct many present moments during the 600 hours, and be available and vulnerable for anybody in the audience. This will create a trust so that the other person looking at me can also be available and vulnerable, and we can create a contact which is very direct and very human.

This vulnerable human connection made the piece irresistible. Despite the huge closing-weekend crowds and the presence of two of my favorite Van Goghs on level 4, I returned to MOMA’s atrium three times during our three-hour visit. I watched Abramovic, I speculated on the stories of the people sitting across from her, and I considered the lessons this piece can teach us.

Because like all good art, this raises questions about the times in which we live and the timeless components of the human condition. Abramovic has said one reason she wanted to perform the work was to create a “center” of peace in the midst of our country’s largest and arguably busiest city.


But, of course, the hurried pace of life extends beyond New York, and so does another insight of this piece—people are ravenous for human connection.

Sure, some people sat across from Abramovic to say they had been part of one of the famous artist’s most ambitious works, but that’s not why dozens wiped away tears, or stayed for five hours, or returned several times. It’s not why the show has received worldwide attention or why MOMA’s live video feed of the experience received more than 800,000 hits.

By sitting in the chair you also received another person’s undivided attention. You became the focus of another person for as long as you needed it. You participated in something not only public but deeply intimate.

When is the last time someone gave you their attention–no cell phone glances, no mid-conversation texting, no checking the time, no looking over your shoulder for someone more interesting? When is the last time you gave that gift to someone else? The real lesson of “The Artist is Present” is how un-present so many of us are, to our own emotions and to the moment and to the people around us. Abramovic’s art reminds us that in a city propelled by image, in a nation focused on appearances, many people simply need to be seen.

finding myself stuck

Somehow I have reached the age of 34 without knowing who I am.

Remember that scene in the movie “Runaway Bride” when Julia Roberts’ character Maggie realizes she doesn’t even know how she likes her eggs? I can relate.

For instance, I spent Memorial Day weekend in New York City with my brother and sister-in-law. I adore New York: the subways, the museums, the food, the parks, the newsstands with beautiful flowers, the ability to buy 14 kinds of olives at 2 a.m. I found myself wondering if perhaps I should have moved there, instead of Nashville, a few years ago.

Then I returned home and spent two lovely days planting my first-ever garden full of heirloom tomatoes, peppers, berries and herbs. I hosted some family and friends for the weekend and enjoyed having a house large enough to play hostess and the fun of introducing them to the Tokens Show, contemplating which carb-laden southern eatery to visit and admiring magnolias and dogwoods at the botanical garden. Maybe Nashville was the right choice after all?

Someone of a more optimistic bent might say I’m simply adaptable, able to be happy in a variety of circumstances. That’s probably true, but it doesn’t answer the identity crisis questions I should have grappled with 15 years ago.


Or take the conversation I had with my brother, who very kindly said, “Your freelancing life looks good on you,” and affirmed my self-discipline in working from home and my ability to accept the uncertainty of a varying monthly income. And I thought, yes……what is that about? I dislike ambiguity in anything. Worry is my life. How am I so worry-free about cash flow?

Or there was the friend who remarked, after I shared some of these thoughts, that I seem like an outgoing, career-oriented person with very clear goals. In reality I am a shy person who would love to work less and whose primary goals are paying the bills on time and staying thin by eating less cheese. I’ve been completely authentic in my friendship with this person; how am I projecting a persona so different from the real me? How much is the real me?


More years ago than seems possible, I graduated college on a Saturday and entered the work force on Monday. I jumped right into a job, a place of my own, a car payment and a 50-hour week. Unlike many of my contemporaries, I took no time between high school and college, or college and life, to travel and experiment and discover………and now I’m feeling it.

Is it too late to backpack through Europe? Can I be an honorary Millennial even if I have a mortgage?


If you think this is the navel-gazing of a spoiled 21st century American, you’re right. Previous generations—those great ones—had wars to fight and countries to build and pennies to pinch. “Finding themselves” meant deciding which company to work at for forty years.

But I’m willing to work hard, too……have been, in fact, for 12 years. I just want to work with greater focus, toward goals of my own. I want purpose, not laziness. I want to want something.

I dream of having a dream, and the time and space to figure it out. In the meantime, I know one thing: I like my eggs scrambled. With cheese.

new to you friday–hot seat

It never gets old.

———————————————————-

Okay, I am not sure this is an “idea, trend, or thought to strengthen your ministry” unless you are considering a ministry based on interpretive dance while seated. But it will make you smile.

must see

I spent this past holiday weekend in New York City with my brother Geoff and sister-in-law Lisa, having more fun and eating more food than I could include here. (Oh, okay, twist my arm: picnics in Central Park and along Long Island City’s waterfront, walks through impeccably manicured gardens at dusk, tours of subway cars from the 50s, the Brooklyn Flea Market, and possibly the best cafe au lait ever).

But what I will remember long after my shin splints fade away and I work off the goat cheese omelets is Sunday afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art. Marina Abramovic’s special exhibition “The Artist is Present” was in its final weekend run, and we spent much of the afternoon viewing it (and much of the evening discussing it).

Abramovic is a performance artist who has scrubbed meat and blood off cow bones to protest the slaughter of war, taken mind-altering pills to explore unconsciousness during a performance, and fasted from food for 12 days while living on a shelf open to the public in a New York gallery.

But “The Artist is Present” included no such spectacle—instead, the 80-day performance simply featured Abramovic sitting silently, gazing into the eyes of a person sitting across from her. From the moment the museum opened each day until the last crowds left each evening, Abramovic sat without speaking and gave each person, in turn, her complete and focused attention.

And thousands of New Yorkers lined up each morning for the privilege of being in the chair across from her. Some smiled or giggled self-consciously. Some returned the unbroken eye contact. Several wept. Until the last two days of the performance, each individual could sit as long or as little as he wanted. Some stayed just a few minutes, others remained in the chair for hours.


In an interview before the exhibit, Abramovic said,

It’s really the idea of creating a moment of presence…… I want to create a stillness in the middle of the tornado, with just a tiny little table and two little chairs. And the chair opposite me is always empty, and any member of the audience is welcome to come and engage in the gaze with me. There will not be talking, there will not be anything, just the motionless gaze.

The eyes are the windows of the soul. You can see so much. And it will create an energy, a luminosity around it. The more time goes past with this piece, the more the piece will go where it should go – into that timeless state. It’s about the here and now. It’s not about future or past. It’s just about the present moment. I want to construct many present moments during the 600 hours, and be available and vulnerable for anybody in the audience. This will create a trust so that the other person looking at me can also be available and vulnerable, and we can create a contact which is very direct and very human.

This vulnerable human connection made the piece irresistible. Despite the huge closing-weekend crowds and the presence of two of my favorite Van Goghs on level 4, I returned to MOMA’s atrium three times during our three-hour visit. I watched Abramovic, I speculated on the stories of the people sitting across from her, and I considered the lessons this piece can teach us.

Because like all good art, this raises questions about the times in which we live and the timeless components of the human condition. Abramovic has said one reason she wanted to perform the work was to create a “center” of peace in the midst of our country’s largest and arguably busiest city.


But, of course, the hurried pace of life extends beyond New York, and so does another insight of this piece—people are ravenous for human connection.

Sure, some people sat across from Abramovic to say they had been part of one of the famous artist’s most ambitious works, but that’s not why dozens wiped away tears, or stayed for five hours, or returned several times. It’s not why the show has received worldwide attention or why MOMA’s live video feed of the experience received more than 800,000 hits.

By sitting in the chair you also received another person’s undivided attention. You became the focus of another person for as long as you needed it. You participated in something not only public but deeply intimate.

When is the last time someone gave you their attention–no cell phone glances, no mid-conversation texting, no checking the time, no looking over your shoulder for someone more interesting? When is the last time you gave that gift to someone else? The real lesson of “The Artist is Present” is how un-present so many of us are, to our own emotions and to the moment and to the people around us. Abramovic’s art reminds us that in a city propelled by image, in a nation focused on appearances, many people simply need to be seen.