knife-edge

It seems as though faith is a knife-edge between atheism and idolatry.

What is the difference between a man who lives the Christian life in a world in which Christ actually lives, and an identical man who lives the Christian life in a world with a merely metaphorical Christ?  It seems possible to “follow” Christ without him living, in the sense that the Buddha can be followed, or as in following in the footsteps of any number of historical figures.  What we mean is that we act in a way similar to such historical figures, and we use their names as symbols, representative of certain precepts and principles.  So it is possible, it seems, for an atheist to follow Christ if by that we mean loving neighbor as self, etc.  In this sense Christ represents ideals like love, justice, mercy, forgiveness, peace, purity.  All language of scripture, perhaps, can be twisted to be metaphorical.  The kingdom of God is a metaphor for a society that  loves neighbor as self, not a place where a real, physical, tangible god establishes his rule.  The church is identical to the body of Christ; there is no Christ distinct from this group of Christians on the earth.  The Holy Spirit is some kind of collective power, a unity of will and heightened potential, not a comforter, not a personal being, not the very soul of God. 

internal dialogues of an aspiring writer

I want to be a writer.  I watch this desire unfold in my imagination, personified in characters who offer me advice or just do their own thing.  Like this one time I was sitting in the front seat of my car in my parents’ driveway, enjoying the warmth unique to Volvos of an earlier era.  A conquering warlord comes on the scene of my mind, wearing animal skins and wielding a large club he’s just hewn out of a nearby tree.  He then morphs ever-so-slightly into a politician on the road to victory – think Howard Dean – complete with throaty bellows of anticipated triumph: “I will be a writer!  And the world will love me!!  RAAAARR!!”  (The forest/audience is silently aghast, wondering if that really just happened.  In an instant all woodland creatures and pollsters scatter, along with all of my potential readers.)

toward a better friday

Good Friday is an odd holiday.  Celebration and festivity seem inappropriate, and attempts at self-induced sadness are a bit contrived.  Often this day passes with little contrast to a typical Friday, save for a one-hour church service, if you’re so inclined.  Usually we just wait for Easter for remembrance.  But something of cosmic and specific significance has happened on this day, albeit some years ago, something worthy of our thoughts and feelings, identification, our very lives.  It is difficult to enter into such an event, but we can try.  So here are two memories, toward a better Friday.

One year ago I had the privilege of performing Bach’s St. John Passion with the Westmont College choir and orchestra.  The Wednesday prior to Good Friday we sang the last portion of this piece in chapel, which is held in our gymnasium.  The final chorus of Bach’s tremendous work is a simple, yet profound prayer to Christ having breathed his last: “rest well, rest well, beloved sweetly sleeping, that I may cease from further weeping.  Rest well, rest well, and let me, too, rest well.”  As the piece concluded in all its somber majesty that Wednesday morning, a deathly stillness settled across the gym.  It was a tense, anticipatory, and relieved silence.  Was it finished?  No one moved; no one spoke.  It was as if the whole earth exhaled together and paused in penitent silence before drawing its next breath.

paradise for parasites

It’s 11:30 on a Thursday morning.  I’m sitting at a worn, round table next to the stairs in the Santa Barbara Public Library.  I just came from outside, where I was having an impromptu conversation with Kenny the hobo from Hell’s Kitchen, New York.  You see, while I am employed as a finish carpenter, I am without work.  That’s what affords me this supposed luxury of free time.  What do I do with my increasingly familiar freedom?  I hang out with my friends who, intentionally or not, have made a career out of this.  Kenny’s been living on the street for a long time, fifteen years plus.  He’s a pretty unique character, to which his black Crocodile Dundee hat and creaking Manhattan accent can alone attest.  But he’s got a pretty unique perspective of this American life as well.  Kenny never asks nothing from nobody.  He doesn’t fly a sign, he doesn’t go to the Rescue Mission or the “Starvation” Army.  He collects recycling, cans and bottles mostly.  And by 11 AM he’s got a 50 pound bag going.