Geisteskrankenheit

Sunday

2011-07-19T22:07:00.001-05:00

I've developed a certain habit. During sermon time, I now listen best by scribbling notes in my journal. Most sermons make use of two facing pages. The right hand side contains the actual outline, which seems to comprise the majority of sermon notes in our world. The left hand page, on the other hand, contains my impressions. Often, it's filled with phonological hypotheses and rudimentary syntax trees. Just as often, it's filled with scathing remarks that well out of my less sanctified cisterns of vitriol.

Sermons are not terrible. It just happens that most of them are, shall we say, feeble. A person of my particular educational background is accustomed to Biblical exposition that is sometimes erudite and sometimes piercing. Most of it is critical of the status quo, of which nearly every Sunday sermon is a bastion. Just recently, while listening to a sermon peppered with its fair share of misogyny and condescension (anything for a laugh, eh?), I furiously scritched the following onto the left hand page.

Why the Sermon cannot be the central part of the church's life:

Sermons are crafted (or at least assembled) to communicate to the lowest common denominator. I am not part of that group, and neither are hundreds of others in this room. Paul was irritated that he could not preach spiritual meat to churches that should have been ready for it. We have new people come in here all the time, and I agree that we must communicate with them in a way that is meaningful to them (i.e. spiritual milk).

However, this is not helpful for the hundreds of more mature people in the congregation. These people must develop meaningful friendships with each other, and much of this meaning must be found in seeking deeper, more meaningful knowledge of God. It's okay that this kind of learning does not happen from the pulpit's teaching. However, it's not okay to avoid it because it's hard to come by.

Obviously verboten is the assumption that it's ok to be destructively critical of the immature nature of Sunday's sermon. Also ganz verboten is the assumption that no one else can be found on one's own level of maturity. No one? Really? I'm not that special.

It should go without saying that I wrote this as a sort of therapy to myself, to calm myself out of my elitist rage. As such, I fully expect one or two of my readers to react strongly against some of my words. I'm actually asking for that, because the last thing I need is for my ire to spoil on my private pages, its rotten stench accomplishing nothing but the festering of the harmful elitism in my soul.

Dear reader, I need you. Our Lord created us for community with one another. He exists in triune relationship, and we are created to enjoy relationship. I need you as much as you need me, because only with each other can our education and experience be used as it was intended: for the building up of the body. That is worship.

I pray that you will join me in rejecting the temptation to believe that Sunday church is a sufficient weekly dose of fellowship. The sermons aren't that good. They will never be that good. But, I can guarantee you that they get a lot better in applied discussion.

It's late for me, and I'm nodding off. This is the worst time of day I could possibly post this, but here it goes. If it goes badly, I'll ask for your forgiveness. Still, I think it's about time for a post written with a bit less perfectionistic inhibition.

Wrestling with Grace

2011-03-23T00:36:00.000-05:00

Dear reader, this one's for you. Unlike one of my newer friends, I'm doing this precisely because I love you. In fact, it's past midnight, and I can't go to sleep until I write this out. It may be jumbled, it may be scattered, but it is honest.

You often wonder about what you're doing with your life. You wonder whether you're making the best decision. You wonder whether God has something better in store for you. Despite all the honorable reasons for accepting this tantalizing offer (which, as a matter of fact, is precisely what you've been waiting for), you hesitate for fear of your corrupt motives.

And, you're in very good company.

I am a recovering perfectionist. This should come as no surprise to you, as we've been well-acquainted for some time. Even if you only know me through this blog, you can see that I spend just a bit too much time bothering over lexical and syntactic precision. I am a "recovering" perfectionist because I understand that absolute precision, unadulterated perspicacity beyond ambiguity, is impossible with these words. In fact, I also understand that the impossibility of such perfect precision extends to all of life in this fallen, temporary world.

I am learning to disdain the abuse of "What if..." questions. They serve their purpose in the exploration of theoretical knowledge, but abused, they can paralyze any decision and bind all freedom.

Dear reader, dear Christian, I write to remind you of your salvation. God's grace has saved you from your sins. You bought your own ticket to perdition, and God rescued you from that decision. His grace can save you again. His grace is more powerful than your ability to mess up His plans. Do you believe this? Or do you believe that you can miss out on God's best for you?

Who told you that you can mess up God's plans? I will answer: a sinful person, finite in understanding. A person to whom God extends His grace day by day. A person who owes to his neighbors the grace he has been given. A person who may deserve admonition, who may owe apology, and who may require forgiveness.

God's grace is more powerful than your ability to mess up His plans. Do you believe this? If you do not, then logic forbids you from believing in your salvation.

Logic is not more powerful than our hunches, but it certainly helps to guide them. I plead with you, let logic guide you to more joyous belief in the grace of God. Wrestle with it. Drown in it. Worship through it.

God's grace is more powerful than your ability to mess up His plans. I believe this with all my heart.

God, thank You for saving us from ourselves! Thank You for using us in ministry, though we be broken vessels. Thank You for filling in our gaps, and thank You for vowing to make us whole. For this we wait, because in You we trust. Amen.

More Movies!

2011-01-15T15:11:00.000-06:00

If the reader will dig a while, he will find an early post about The Dark Knight, more or less. I waited to see it until nearly a year and a half after the movie was released. One can imagine how many times I heard the incredulous exclamation "YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT YET????!!!"

I must enjoy that sort of attention, because I only just last night saw Inception for the first time. My last roommate, not one for spending money, saw it thrice in theaters. Somehow, I insisted that I was either too busy or too poor each time. I admit that I enjoy going against the grain of popularity "just because." Maybe that's pride, but it is kind of fun.

Anyway, rather than write at length about my deep (obviously brilliant) insights into Inception, I present to you an essay I once wrote for a friend about Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. When I was in Germany, one of my friends found that he appreciated my taste in and critical eye for movies. When we returned to our homes, he gave me an assignment via Facebook. Though I haven't kept his requirements, they were something like "500 words of critical analysis on such topics as cinematography, score, story and character development." Anyway, as I think of writing about Inception, this brief essay is what comes to mind.

After I inserted the disc, the first bit of video I saw was a compilation of brief clips from various Focus movies with a voice-over that went on about Focus’ endeavor to create superior films. I have seen a few of these so-called “superior films,” and I haven’t cared for them at all. In fact, I usually feel a bit of disdain towards such artsy works for their self-absorbed arrogance that seems to say that their intentional technical faux pas (such as foregoing tripod usage) make them superior to mainstream movies. Perhaps my own worldview has changed recently, and perhaps the movies have actually gotten better. Either way, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind enchanted me.

Though clearly a fantasy film of sorts, Sunshine was remarkably believable. Having been in one dating relationship that went awry, I can identify with the desire for memory erasure. Of course, isn’t that desire the very thing that makes super-hero movies successful? Who wouldn’t love to be able to fly, change his appearance, see through walls, or produce indestructible claws from his fists? This desire for greater power is nearly ubiquitous, but that’s not to say it’s healthy.

I know of only one story that deals with this issue in a theologically correct way. Of course, J.R.R. Tolkien was a devout Roman Catholic, so it follows that his world of The Lord of the Rings would bear some resemblance to the world as God designed it. Without going into the details of Tolkien’s mythology, one of the greater beings in the world created an assortment of Rings of Power, specialized for the races to whom they were given. Of course, like any good tyrant, he reserved the most powerful one for himself, using it to control the others. When the ring was separated from him, it was clear that anyone who took it would become detestably powerful as its original master was, though unnaturally so. The creatures’ lust for power blinded them to the truth that once they attained the ring, it would only betray them to their doom.

Perhaps this is a stretch, but it bears keeping in mind that we ought not to desire certain powers with which God did not see fit to entrust us. The normal humans in X-Men did well to fear the mutants; no human should be trusted with the power to walk through walls or to read others’ thoughts, nor with the power to erase memories. The story is fascinating, entertaining, and thought-provoking, but it ought to be kept to that.

But, since I’m on the topic of entertainment value, I’ll continue. The visual effects were stunning and mind-bending, taunting me to analyze my own dreams. As I succumbed to this taunt, I realized that I’ve experienced visual, spatial, and general sensory distortion in most of my dreams, and even a bit of time misperception. Each of these was well-dramatized in Sunshine, for which I give its creators the highest praise. Even the musical score complimented the convoluted and dark emotions of fear, love, and confusion.

Though I can’t recommend this movie to all of my friends or for every occasion, I’ll gladly purchase it and devote two hours to it with anyone willing to do some critical philosophizing.

Break?

2010-12-20T00:42:00.001-06:00

So, big secret: I hate Christmas break.

Before you label me a family-hating, school-obsessed scrooge, hear me out. My guess is that my compatriots who go away to school will sympathize, more or less.

When one spends the majority of one's year living in a college dormitory at least an hour away from home, one easily develops a second home. I am in my fourth year at Moody, and I've embedded myself in a very tight community of godly people who I am proud to call my friends. Some of them are so close that I eagerly call them family. In this world, I have a job. I am a full-time student. I love the tasks and people that occupy every moment of time, and I feel very much at home. Even stress and discomfort are workable, because it’s home.

Then I come home. Well, at least that's what I've always called it. What friends I had at home have moved on. They are either difficult to contact or hundreds of miles away. I haven't kept in constant contact with my family, so they don't quite know what to do with me when I show up. I'm not exactly the same person I was last time they saw me, having had many experiences of which they are uninformed. They know me insofar as they knew me last time I was home, which was not as well as they knew me the time before that, and so on. This is no shame to anyone involved, it's just a natural effect of going away to school.

The end of the semester always introduces a particularly difficult visit home, because it involves saying goodbye to those who have graduated or otherwise left. This time, my roommate graduated. I had a different roommate each of my first four semesters. The fourth of these I stayed with for four semesters, which was an incredible time of witnessing God's grace. He gave us inexplicable patience with each other as He worked on each of us. I cannot begin to tell you how much I grew in fellowship with this man, especially in the last six months. But, thanks to graduation, I said goodbye to my roommate this week. So far, it's been every bit as difficult as I expected.

My fiancée understands how difficult it is to geographically lose a friend, and hers have moved to the far corners of the earth. I'm very thankful for her compassionate hospitality towards me. Even if she doesn't know my experience perfectly, she understands key elements of it. That kind of compassion is particularly easy to receive.

I must be abundantly clear that I do not resent my home. I love my family to bits. They drive me mad, but if you refer to my very first post, you will see that I believe this to be an integral part of love. I don't begin to understand it, but I know it works because I live it every day. Anyway, I mean to say that the joy of family and of spending much-needed time with my fiancée is joy indeed, but it does not dissolve the grief of leaving my other home. It does nothing to assuage the disappointment of saying goodbye to my dearest friends.

I have heard horrible stories of thoughtless consolations given to those who have suffered the death of loved ones. "At least you have . . ." is my favorite. How, I ask you, is the presence of a spouse, a child, or even multiple children supposed to lessen the pain of loss? Now, such pain is well beyond my experience, but if my anticipation of marriage doesn't make me feel better about losing my favorite roommate, how can the joy of one child make up for the grief of losing another?

I tread lightly here, because I know that some of my readers in particular have suffered loss to which I cannot speak. You know who you are, and I trust that you know the reverence in which I write. I seek only to understand God’s grace more fully that I might better appreciate and articulate it when He drowns me in it.

Life is often understood by way of analogy. People enjoy relationships because they are an essential part of the image of God in man. God Himself exists in plurality (Father, Son, Spirit) unified by love (Trinity). Theologians often reference the German Dreieinigkeit because it is more directly communicative of three-oneness than English. I am no career theologian, but I am a thinking Christian and an unabashed lover of German, so there you have it. As God’s distinct persons are unified in love, we are able to unite to one another in His love.

So yes, relationships are fulfilling in a way. Why, then, are relationships so unsatisfying? I feel great in glorious fellowship, but why does the good feeling become empty when I’m only remembering the fellowship? How about this: God created us as essentially eternal, but we live presently in a temporal world. Thus, every joyful experience brings only limited joy complemented by limitless longing. I have limited joy at school, and I have limited joy at home, but each home leaves me with limitless longing for my eternal home.

I can’t remember where he first wrote it, but C. S. Lewis is famous for his description of this world as being full of shadows of eternal realities. That ontology made its way quite blatantly into The Chronicles of Narnia, at least once. If I’m not entirely mistaken, this is a Platonic way of thinking that finds solid ground in Scripture. A sinful reaction would be a docetism that despises the temporal world for its limitations. Much better is the approach in which I can thank God for what He’s already done in this world. True, I want very much to be rid of this nonsense and enjoy eternal love as God intended. But, eternity is not where God has placed me now. He has seen fit and good to place me within the constraints of time, in which He has also given me every grace necessary in which to live for His glory.

Recapitulating (in the spirit of a cohesive writer... ha), I hate Christmas break because it’s hard. It reminds me of the pain of ends. . . of temporality itself. I didn’t “finish” my relationship with my roommate (in quotes because the idea of finishing a relationship is meaningless), so I’m irritated that I can’t continue in it as it was. I’ve never “finished” anything at any home, so it’s always going to be difficult to leave as though I have and to come back as though I can pick up where I left off. These are terms that have meaning with Lego sets, not people.

So how does one finish a post on the meaninglessness of completion? Well, I plan to stop very soon, even if I haven’t finished a thing. I also want to say that I’ve been recently convicted of the need to pray more thanksgiving than petition. How often do we pray for God to do things He’s already accomplished, especially when we’re praying for ourselves? I pray for peace and rest, but God’s already given me all the necessary elements. Better to thank Him for those elements, to recognize the gifts already given, and to enjoy them. I thank God for today, for in it, He provided a fresh serving of joy with my family, with my fiancée, and with Him. I have had grief and frustration, but God has shown them to be glimpses of hope for eternity. As always, grace abounds.

Here We Go Again

2010-12-09T17:26:00.006-06:00

Back in the same coffee shop, and I've been confronted with a similar experience.

This time, the dear friend I brought along purchased a small piece of dark chocolate. Small in the interest of quality without exorbitance of price, and also in the interest of preventing overindulgence. 80% cacao was not intended to be consumed gluttonously.

My friend offered me a taste, and I broke off a square inch of the artful brick. Familiar with the experience of intense cacao, I put the whole thing in my mouth. One does not chew this as milk chocolate. The latter is a treat of immediacy. One bites into milk chocolate to chew, taste, and enjoy the creamy sweetness. And oh, I do enjoy that!

But dark, bitter chocolate is a different animal. It's a more careful treat. It's meant for precision, intensity and patience more than immediate gratification. One must wait for it. One must allow time for the chocolate to melt, even to be partially digested, before swallowing. This process brings out the flavor, the sweetness. In patience, the bitterness is made into beauty.

It took a while for me to learn this. I used to bite into dark chocolate, chew, and swallow right away. Such an approach yields almost no flavor, and thus no pleasure. Today, I exercised the patience to let the square slowly dissolve in my mouth, swallowing bit by bit. Delight abounds.

Even as I write this, I find myself cringing at words like "digest" and "swallow" and "saliva" (not that I used it before this, but it inevitably comes up in the mind). This only makes me think more. How true is is that we must experience ickiness, revulsion, even pain, to find a greater revelation of beauty? Scripture gives examples of refining souls by fire (Zechariah 13:9), a terrible process through which creatures are made more like their creator, more beautiful.

I seek in every entry to write something that more fully explains why I chose such a ridiculous title for my blog. For those wondering why I keep writing about beauty in food, know that I frequently experience worldly goods that prod me to think of heavenly realities. More often than not, these goods come in the form of food and drink. Thank you, gracious God, for the pedagogical wonders of food and drink!

Entr-Acte: On Coffee & Worship

2010-11-12T16:33:00.003-06:00

My previous post speaks of worship in epistemology. I plan to continue that discussion directly, but not presently. For presently, I sit in a coffee shop I've never before visited, and I've had a most glorious experience of worship by way of this feminine epistemology. Such language tends toward the flighty and erudite, so I here present a concrete exempli gratia. (would you like that irony shaken or stirred?)

Since I came to this place in search of unusually good coffee, I was much intrigued by the menu item entitled "Clever Coffee." The barista described it to me as a coffee-lover's coffee, intended for those who mean to delight in every last flavor note, be it nutty, fruity, chocolatey, or otherwise. Sold.

Since my favorite accompaniment of coffee is a baked good, I also opted for one of the most scrumptious cookies I'd ever laid eyes on. Think "monster cookie" (oatmeal, chocolate chips, raisins, peanut butter) with extra milk and white chocolate on top, and of course large enough to be worth $2.25.

I sat down for a deep-heart conversation with a dear friend, and the cookie was soon delivered. I waited a moment or two, out of respect for the awaited coffee, but my resistance was to no end. As I took my first bite, my eyes closed slowly (by reflex), and I let out a sigh of defeat. That's right, defeat. The fresh succulence and understated decadence of the cookie flowed through my senses. I had to take this slowly.

Then, only a minute later, came the coffee. The barista brought it to me with a song, the lyrics of which promised that the drip would blow my mind. Everyone in the room expected something wonderful.

I sipped the caffeinated elixir slowly. Being careful to let it cover my palate, I languished in wonder. Sip. Sip.

"This is totally an act of worship." I assured my friend, against his incredulous expression, "I'm not using a bit of hyperbole."

In my masculine mind, I would analyze the brew down to its constituent parts. Hot. Fruity. Minimal acidity. Far more flavorful than any coffee I'd had in months. But, in my feminine mind, I simply delighted in it for what it was. Here, in this cup and on this plate, I had elements that touched at the extremities of pleasure in taste, smell, texture, and beyond. As I consumed them, I found myself thanking God for providing finite expressions of His beauty in all of creation. Even in these manmade trinkets, I could find elements of the glory of God.

Put another way, these sensory delights are unsatisfactory. Sure, I can delight in them for a moment, but they must end, and they do not fill my deepest longings. What they do is point towards the eternal fulfillment of my eternal desires. Like never before, I find myself living the truth of I Corinthians 10:31 - "So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God."

The people who made the coffee can be found here.

The people who sold the coffee can be found here.

Broken Knowledge

2010-11-10T14:58:00.004-06:00

For years, I have suffered from something I will call anorexia nervosa anima, a compulsive starving of the soul. As I explain the symptoms, perhaps you’ll recognize something familiar.

I enjoy my homework. On occasion, my assignments require me to spend a few hours in the library. The quiet, the order, the peace of knowing I’m reaching my goal . . . I truly enjoy prolonged study sessions. Once finished, I feel the great satisfaction of knowing I’ve produced something worth my time and the time of the professor who will grade it. I feel satisfied, having fed my soul with beautiful academia.

I enjoy writing. It’s not hard to deduce that from reading this blog, I’m sure. It should be obvious that I take great pleasure in the crafting of words to communicate ideas not only accurately, but also beautifully. I’m coming to understand more deeply the art of poetic knowledge (a dissertation for another day!), and this has a lot to do with the way I write my prose.

Of no surprise to anyone who knows me, I enjoy studying languages. Whether French, German, Portuguese, Greek, Russian, or something I’ve never encountered before, I love to study how people communicate. Particular languages are tailored to communicate particular types of thoughts (which goes into a whole field of philosophy on the question of whether our thoughts shape our words or vice versa), und es freut mich, diesen wegen zu sehen (and it joys me, these ways to be seeing).

It practically goes without saying that I enjoy time spent in God’s Word. To study the Scriptures and catch glimpses of the Inscrutable Mind of God, thereby communing with Him and coming to love Him better . . . I can think of no greater joy. Is this not the very delight of Heaven: to be in glorious community with the Triune God?

And yet, I starve myself of these joys day after day.

My purpose here is a sort of public introspection. I have always thought myself too lazy to discipline myself in these fields of study day after day, but I’m starting to wonder if laziness is truly at the beginning. I perform this introspection in the public blogosphere in the hope that others will read and be struck, finding in their own souls the same sickness I find in mine. After all, is that not the title of my blog?

Every one of the joys I listed above is a form of exercise in epistemology (the study of knowledge and how a person comes to know anything). One of my classes this semester speaks beautifully to the psychological implications of having a skewed (or even broken) epistemology. This professor seems to see all of life through the grid of epistemology, and after two classes with her, I’m starting to get the hang of using that grid. I will write much more on this in the coming months, but suffice it to say now that each of the above joys is a way of coming to know God better, i.e. epistemology + worship.

I still haven’t come to the question of why I starve myself of this worship day after day. Perhaps you will empathize when I say that there are other, perhaps easier, forms of worship about which I make no hesitations. Fellowshipping with friends, for example, is worship for which I will sacrifice just about anything. I don’t use the word “fellowship” lightly; I mean time spent in the presence of the Lord with a close friend. This can be a time of accountability, of theological discussion, of walking through times of confusion or pain, or of prayer. The point is that, in this time of fellowship, my friends and I will strengthen each other in the Lord. We walk away from that time more in love with our Savior and more eager to serve Him.

So what about the worship that takes more effort than fellowship, or going to church, or singing songs of praise? That effort is precisely what sets apart those joys listed at the beginning (homework, languages, devotions). Does that mean I’m lazy? Does that mean that anyone unwilling to engage his mind in solitary pursuit of the knowledge of God is lazy? I don’t think so. Not quite.

I have further ideas on this point, but I’d rather leave what I’ve written thus far to stew on teh internetz for a little while. Before you run off calling me a lazy heretic, though, let me just say I am not satisfied here. I firmly believe that I need to grow in my capacity of will when it comes to actively pursuing the forms of worship outlined above. Won’t you pray with me? I hardly think I’m alone on this.

Datemi pace, oh duri miei pensieri...

2010-09-30T23:04:00.003-05:00

Every once in a while, I find myself overwhelmed. Ya feel me?

In a recent prayer journaling session, I wrote what turned out to be a slightly poetic exhortation for Rest, and realized that it wasn't nearly as private as I intended.

Rest. Rest, my frenetic soul. You are growing tired by taking on far too much trouble. The Lord knows what concerns you, and He holds those concerns in the palm of His hand.

Rest, my anxious body. Release your tension unto the Lord, for He holds it already. You clench the world between your shoulders as though it may fall. It is God alone Who knows the weight of the spheres. He alone bears them forever. Release unto Him that which you imagine to hold.

Rest, my breaking heart. You are worried about the hurts of others when you yourself have wounds yet to heal. Love the Lord, your Rock and your Shepherd, for He swathes you in grace unimagined.

Rest, my hurried mind. You think to scrutinize the inscrutable, while you ignore the attainable. Apprehend that beauty around you, and understand that which your Teacher has placed before you.

Thank you, oh my God, for peace beyond peace.

Support Letter Fail

2010-08-05T19:02:00.002-05:00

In one of my many attempts at writing a post-internship thank-you letter to my supporters, I ended up with something that's probably way too heavy for that purpose, but I realize it's nearly perfect for this place. Do enjoy.

--------------------------------------

I suppose this is the part where most letters would begin with a common greeting in the language of the area I worked in during my internship. That’s a little difficult this time because, while a Portuguese “bon dia/boa tarde/boa noite” would represent the majority of the people I worked with, a greeting in Makua, Emihavani, or even Manyawa might be more apropos. This being a difficult decision, I opted to open with a treatise on greetings.

They say that you should always be prepared to have your expectations torn to shreds when thinking about and engaging in missions. I can’t begin to count the number of times and places I read that in my preparations. Because of that, I have to say my expectations were fully met. I expected my ignorance to be shown. It was. I expected my pride to be spotlighted. It was. I expected to get some confirmation on just how much I love linguistics. I did. I expected to gain insight into what I should study in grad school and where. I did.

I was surprised with how little Portuguese I learned. I was surprised at how much I grew in my relationship with my girlfriend in six weeks. I was surprised at how natural it felt to be in Mozambique, and by how little I experienced in the way of culture shock.

I got to see a lot of Mozambican culture. I saw how friendly, hospitable, genuine, cold, and abrupt Mozambicans can be. I saw some of their wisdom, and a lot of their ignorance (yeah, David!). I saw their care of self and land, and I saw their lack of perfectionism in everything else. In short, I glimpsed the glory and the gore of life in Mozambique.

Not surprisingly, I fell in love with it. I want that missionary life that is so full of love and devotion and frustration and isolation and satisfaction and intercultural worship. I spoke with missionaries both joyful and disenchanted, and I found them to be people. They are not spiritual superheroes; they are men and women who are trying to do what they love. It just so happens that their greatest loves have nothing to do with electricity or safety or comfort.

I want that life. By God's grace, I'm working towards it.

Maturity and Purity

2010-08-02T13:56:00.001-05:00

Reading through I Samuel recently, I did what I could to see what the text said about David's character. As he fled from Saul, David received two opportunities to exact revenge on this man who'd been seeking his life. I Samuel 24 recounts one such instance, when David's men encouraged him to kill Saul because the Lord had delivered him into his hand! Yet, David stayed his hand (as he did in chapter 26). His heart struck him, and so he refused to harm the Lord's anointed.

When I read this, I was astonished by David's maturity. Not only did he avoid revenge, but he also stepped out of his hiding place in the cave and explained himself to Saul. He pled for peace with the king, seeking a renewed relationship with all his heart (and with the greatest eloquence!).

I was Skype-chatting recently with my much-respected friend Will, and I told him of my observation. He was surprised that I saw maturity as David's shining characteristic, because he reads the same story and sees an example of purity. Furthermore, he found it almost laughable for a Christian to pursue maturity as a goal in and of itself. Purity of heart, says Will, is what the Lord wants us to seek.

I agree, but not wholly. Yes, my preoccupation with maturity (a result of conversations with a different friend) clouded my reading of I Samuel such that I emphasized a secondary point as primary. Yes, David's purity of heart is praised throughout Scripture. Even after his life-altering sins with Bathsheba and Uriah, he was open to the Lord's purification. Still, purity without maturity is childish and unlikely to earn the following of four hundred men. Since I do not believe maturity can be had by accident, I believe it is a quality to be pursued.

So what do I mean by "maturity?" Will pointed out that the Romance languages (French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese, mostly) tend to use the same words for "mature" and "ripe." Even German uses "reif" for both English words. If a man matures the same as a banana, maturity can only be had with time and is thus not worth pursuit.

But, my heart is fluent in a Germanic language that has too many words for its own good, and so I seek to pinpoint the lexical senses of English words that are superficially synonymous. (This also has something to do with my right-brained philosophical bent, but that's another topic.)

A famous prayer goes thus:

God, grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

Campy, perhaps, but it still speaks to the reservation and wisdom implicit in maturity. Imagine a scene in which you, dear reader, are confessing your darkest sins to a trusted friend. A terribly immature person won't be much help, and might even be so naïve as to be shocked by your sin. A mature confessor, on the other hand, will listen to you with the greatest care (serenity), evaluate your confession in a pool of experience (wisdom), and respond with what you need to hear (courage). You and I wouldn't likely trust this person if he/she lacked purity, but maturity hardly seems unimportant.

I also think of maturity in terms of arguments. I know people with whom I dare not disagree because, with them, every argument will become a fight. These are likely insecure people who have trouble separating opinions from the people who hold them, so if you attack their opinions, you attack them. Other people I am happy to disagree with on just about every issue because with them, argument is an exercise in exploring the issues, not in defeating the opponents. These are more mature people who understand that their opinions and preferences do not define them as valuable persons. This maturity is not accidental; it is achieved.

God shows me every day how immature I am. I write this not from my vast wealth of experience, but out of my deep longing (my Geisteskrankenheit, my soul-sickness) to enjoy and minister in the greatest maturity that God has for me. I write here not to resolve issues, but to provoke consideration. Interested? Let me make us some coffee.

ten thousand miles away, yet still home

2010-06-30T14:23:00.002-05:00

I've been in Mozambique since June 1, and I'm leaving in nine days.

I love this place. I love using linguistics in the real world. I love the madness of the missionary's life.

I'm up to my ears in things to process, and I'm really looking forward to some late night processing at home when it's just me and the dog burning the midnight oil. Then, dear reader, you shall find some new, pretty words about what our Gracious God has been doing 'round these parts.

Until then, I wish you peace. Dwell on the Lord's goodness today, and refresh your soul in His presence.

Finally

2010-05-21T00:32:00.002-05:00

"YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT YET??!????"

I can't tell you how many times I heard that in response to telling someone that I had seen neither Batman Begins nor The Dark Knight. Most often, I explained to these people that I am not, nor ever have been, a comic book reader. Though I did watch a Batman cartoon series as a kid, alongside old Justice Friends cartoons, superheroes never quite filled my imagination.

I mention all this because I've never before had such strong reactions for not having taken in a superhero story. At long last, after perhaps a year of the movie's publicity, I have seen both of the recent Batman movies in the space of a week. I was struck by their sobriety. If the story were true, it probably would have happened more like this than in any other Batman adaptation. People are complex, as here portrayed, and right and wrong are not often so obvious as would be nice, as here shown. But many people have analyzed these movies already, so nobody wants to read another such convicting analysis.

Perhaps my friends don't realize what they're saying in their great incredulity over my lack of inculturation. I think of my literature professor's pleas for literary fiction. As a critically thinking Christian woman, she has managed to find truth and wisdom in many more media than most people. More pointedly, I find that too many of my Christian peers refuse to read anything that wasn't written by either Marc Driscoll, John Piper, or God. The trouble is that, more often than not, God's the only one in that short list who knows how to write something that requires some digging.

Everyday life has plenty from which the astute person can learn, but it normally requires some digging. People say that you can learn something new every day, but who actually does that? I suggest that the type of person who's learned to study (i.e. learn from) Scripture should have learned principles by which he can "learn something new every day." In observing the people and relationships in the Bible, one can learn about people and relationships today. In observing one's friends and family today, one can learn elements of God's character that He's embedded in His creation. (Yes, that's a bit muddled, but I wrote this while watching Top Gear, so my articulation's a bit off. If you get over it, I will.)

My final argument is that literary fiction, as an accurate representation of real life, has more to learn from than just about anything in the "Christian Living" genre. I ask you, would you rather spend a whole day listening to a series of sermons or watching a series of real life situations? If you were paying attention, from which do you think you'd learn more lessons worth your while?

I don't expect to shake the foundations of anyone's thinking in one haphazardly typed blog post (actually, I started writing this on January 6, so it's not quite that haphazard), but I do hope to provoke a few questions. Interested? Let's go for coffee some time.

You thought these things died ages ago, didn't you?

2010-05-17T16:52:00.003-05:00

My dear friend Nina recently posted this questionnaire that she compiled some years ago, and I'm in the mood to fill it out.

1. Physical description:

I used to think of myself as tall, but I feel rather average among my friends. I am decidedly thin and pale, though steadily filling out with the years. At this rate, all I need is another 130 years and I'll be obese.

2. Personality description:

I consider myself to be far more logical than emotional, which does get me into trouble from time to time. Then again, it only gets me into trouble with emotional people, so my logic tells me that's their problem. The extremity of my devotion to logical perfection has softened with humanity in recent years through the influence of the most formative friendships I could hope for.

3. In one sentence, what is the meaning of life?

The meaning of life is as God determines, for His glory.

4. What qualities do you have that would make you a good totalitarian dictator?

I am intelligent, but the nature of my intelligence tends to deceive people into thinking it's greater than it is. My word-smithing often combines with my logical emotionlessness to deceive people without any considerable effort. People who are not normally gullible tend to believe everything I say. Also, given the right mood (which strikes often), I don't mind offending people.

5. If your life was a novel/movie, what would the title and/or tagline be?

Ein Heldenleben: or, The Ironic Tool

6. Ideally, who would score/perform the soundtrack of your life, and why?

Richard Strauss (see above) would be great for the overture, preferably performed by the Berliner Philharmoniker. Some of the darker bits would be handled by Sigur Rós in their earlier years (very desperate and occasionally hopeful), but the majority of my life may be best set to Sondre Lerche (occasionally accompanied by Regina Spektor). Sondre has a light consistency about him that seems appropriate.

7. What character traits have you inherited from your parents?

My dad gave me great long-suffering and subtlety, and my mom gave me more of a people-orientation. Like Nina, I seem to be the child who is the most even mix of my parents. I think this has helped to make me one of the most satisfied and discontent people I've come across.

8. What is your earliest memory?

I remember having my diaper changed once, and I remember being rocked to sleep. I was 2 years old for both, and I couldn't tell you which was earlier.

9. What do you hope will be your last words?

“Well, that was fun."

10. What new thing did you learn today?

I learned how satisfying it can be to change windshield wipers in the rain, standing in the parking lot of the store where I bought them.

11. a) In ten years time, how much is it going to matter that you wasted an hour filling this out?

I was really hoping this wouldn't last an hour, and I think it's been about 35 minutes. I can live with that now, and I'll smile about it in ten years.

A Fish Story - in two parts

2010-04-06T15:07:00.002-05:00

The following is a true story, edited for the general public.

Two years ago, I returned from my semester in Germany. Since I live so close to Chicago, I decided to make a couple of visits to Moody before the semester’s end. The last of these visits was on the day of Commencement, for which I worked as an usher. After the ceremony, I made my way back to the floor to see if anyone was still there. Only Spencer remained, because he was staying for a couple weeks longer. Once I finished helping him move his things to his temporary room, he realized that he yet had one item that he could not bring with him to the summer camp in Alaska.

“Hey,” he hesitated, “do you think you could take care of my fish for the summer?”

My first thought? The poor Betta wasn’t going to live to August.

“Sure,” I agreed. I took the cubic fish bowl in hand and cursed my willing spirit.

When I got the thing home, I promptly made efforts to research proper Betta care. I wanted to do everything I could to return the fish to its owner – alive.

Towards that end, I purchased a snail to keep the Betta (now named “Fisch”) company. I named the snail “Pat” (what else should I name something with an indiscernible gender?), and the two got along so well that I frequently saw them snuggling. That’s right: snuggling.

Of course, even with the appropriately frequent water changes, Fisch eventually died. I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t eager to tell Spencer. In any event, I was now left with a solitary snail. Wanting to give the orange lump some company, I made a trip to the pet store. After an agonizing half hour, I finally decided on an aquatic frog. It should at least be more interesting than a goldfish.

Interesting it was, if only for about 12 hours. In a moment of short-sightedness, I not only left the frog and snail in an easily escaped glass cube, but I also gave the frog a platform of spinach from which to jump. I just hope one of the dogs had a good snack.

24 hours past the death of Fisch, and I was back where I started with lonely Pat. I realize that Pat probably couldn’t have cared less about the situation if he’d had the capacity for emotion, but I wasn’t satsfied to leave a fish bowl empty save an androgenous gastropod. Another trip to the pet store was in order, and I obsessed over the most interesting and affordable water pets possible. After three visits to two stores and a Starbucks, I came home with a crab, two goldfish, a rock formation, a cuttlefish bone, a 2.5 gallon tank, a cheap filter, far too much gravel, and a caffeine high for the ages.

After a day of trying to teach Mike (the crab) to climb up the rock (“He’ll climb up anything to get the air he needs,” the store attendant told me), I gave up and put him in his own tank with a bit of water and a slope of gravel. Further online research then told me that this was a saltwater crab, despite what the pet stores say. As such, he’d die after 3 months in fresh water.

Back to the pet store.

The next month, after a defunct Betta, an AWOL frog, a drowning crab, and finally an expired snail, I was left with two goldfish. The only survivors of the drama, naturally, were the 13¢ throwaway goldfish.

A Fish Story: Part II

Nine months past, and Roger and Kissee, the valiant goldfish, are thriving. My mom has been gracious enough to care for them at home in my absence so that I wouldn’t have to bother with a fish tank while at school.

Spring of 2009 has been the Semester of Fish here on Culby 3. Many of the guys on the floor went absolutely bonkers over buying fish, and even spread some of the hysteria over to our sisters on 10 North.

Throughout the craze, I stood my ground, refusing to take part by buying fish of my own. Then, one day at work, I got an e-mail from a coworker. She had an old 10 gallon tank that she wanted to get rid of, so she offered it for free. In an impulsive flash, I saw the now very large Roger and Kissee frenetically dashing around their cramped 2.5 gallon quarters, desperate for more room to grow. If they were in a larger tank, I could have a flamboyant Betta enjoying the unusually open space of a 2.5 gallon tank all to himself. Then I imagined both of these tanks sitting in my dorm room.

“I’ll take it!” I responded to the e-mail about 10 seconds after receiving it.

Less than 48 hours later, tank in hand, I joined my coworker on a trip to Old Town Aquarium. It’s a fantastically well-appointed fish store with knowledgable and caring staff, something I’d never seen before. After about an hour of acquiring her fish and deciding on what I wanted to buy, I returned to campus with an orange and blue Betta, soon to be named Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Grant Welch also owned a Betta (called Poisson at my insistence), and he suddenly became desperate to see how it would fare in a fight with a goldfish. He and my roommate got so excited about the prospect of a fight that I reluctantly drove them to PetSmart. Grant and I each purchased a 13¢ goldfish, one for each of our Bettas. Quite logically, his goldfish was named Num Num. Much less logically, mine was dubbed Mr. T. I pited the fool.

After a much less-than-thrilling spar between Num Num and Poisson, we decided to feed Num Num to the pirrhana on 17. That was also less-than-thrilling because that viscious thing hasn’t the greatest appetite. My ensuing pity for Mr. T and my fear of Mr. Darcy’s potential injury led me to keep the two separated, thus backing out of the original plan entirely. Besides, I knew there were two goldfish back home who would be thrilled to make their abode in a 10 gallon tank with a new friend.

As it stood one year ago, I had fully joined in the fish craze. Kissee, Roger, and Mr. T gladly cohabitated above my desk, and Mr. Darcy enjoyed his view atop the bookshelves. All I needed was a hoard of cats, and I’d have been fully certifiable.

I can't stand your intolerance!

2010-03-23T18:10:00.002-05:00

The church has not often been praised for its loving acceptance and tolerance of different ways of thinking, especially the institutionalized Catholic church in Europe. A while back, some movie makers decided to do a bit of commentary on that issue, and Chocolat was the result.

SPOILER ALERT

In the French town this movie portrays, the church is the mayor's most powerful tool in keeping the people in line. The town looks and acts as it should because the mayor carefully tweaks the priest's sermons to address whatever "issues" he sees stirring up trouble from week to week. When a rule-breaking woman comes to town with her daughter to set up a chocolate shop during Lent, the mayor finds a new bit of trouble to stamp out. Unfortunately for him, this confectionary artist is far more adept at dealing with people's real hurts than anyone else in the town. Naturally, she wins the battle and proves the state's intolerant grip on the church to be virulently harmful, provoking an inspiring sermon on tolerance and acceptance from the town priest.

Touching, I'm sure.

I grant that many so-called Christians are so blinded by their religion that they will have nothing to do with any trace of impropriety. One who doesn't conform to their standards of rightness must repent and be cleansed before enjoying any sort of fellowship. Against such graceless legalism Chocolat rightly preaches, and Christians would do well to listen.

The trouble is that a person who is already bitter against the church will likely watch this movie and scream "That's right! Stupid Christians, why don't they get this??" Ergo, this movie is most likely to turn people off to Christianity. I don't mean to imply that the movie would win countless souls for Christ if it had been made differently, but God uses tools like movies all the time.

Bear in mind that Satan also uses tools like movies all the time. If a church-goer watches Chocolat and becomes bitter against the church for its narrow-mindedness, the movie has been used of Satan. If he instead watches the movie and becomes burdened to better equip the church to minister to hurting people (ministering like the chocolate-maker, but with the gospel), the movie has been used of God.

May we Christians be ever-mindful of the ministerial implications of movies.

Connotative Offense

2010-03-09T20:16:00.002-06:00

All right, so I've been away a while. Nobody's paying for this, so what's the harm?

I just finished reading a most delightful post that touches on the idea of snobbery without actually using the word itself. This is of great interest to me because I am an incorrigible snob. Being analytically inclined, I've given extensive thought to this topic. Why do people almost universally use "snob" as an epithet, and should it be understood differently?

You've likely read my earlier post about tea snobbery, in which I discussed this a bit. I have used my tea snobbery to cultivate a taste for tea that allows me to enjoy the beverage more fully than I could before. When I was in the process of learning about tea and trying new varieties, I was an unpardonable snob. Anything packaged in a teabag was unacceptable, as was any water that came straight from the tap. I couldn't bear such primitive rubbish, and I made sure everyone around me knew it. The ability to articulately decry something as trash made me feel superior to anyone who couldn't. I'm told there's a word for that, but it didn't come up in my autobiography about humility.

Enough about tea. The very same process happens in all sorts of people with all sorts of expressions. Consider photography. A person who learns some of the mechanics of photography can very easily come to consider himself an expert, and he'll show little discretion in tearing apart the pictures his friends take for fun. (I've done that.)

Consider music. A person who studies music more or less formally may develop some solid reasons for liking and disliking various styles. He may even talk about his opinions in an interesting way, thereby enriching his interested friends. Snobbery comes in when he preaches about the pitiful failures of humanity in poor music, thereby declaring himself more well-informed (and generally better) than the person who produced the music. (I've done that.)

I could go on with examples from food, language, movies, and any form of art, but I trust that my point has been communicated. It is one thing to be well-informed, and it is quite another to try to show oneself as being superior to someone else. This is an expression of pride, the antithesis of worship.

Yes, yes, I've brought worship into this. Criticize me for overspiritualizing if you must, but this is important. What are we if we're not made to worship God? And what are tea, photography, music, food, languages, etc. if they aren't vehicles through which we are meant to worship God? I thus find it incredibly important to study and make oneself well-informed about... well... just about anything! Before I appreciated tea, it was just another hot beverage. Now that I know something about it, it's an incredibly complex system through which people have harnessed some of God's beauty. Before I knew anything about languages, they were just different ways of talking. Now I see them as unique tools of communicating the glory of God. Coming to appreciate these differences requires something of a level of what I call "snobbery."

The trouble is that most people use that word differently. Common use of "snobbery" denotes a truly evil system whereby a person takes a vehicle for God's glory and uses it for his own glory. If my grammar is better than yours, I can either take the opportunity to show you some of God's beauty as expressed in language, or I can show you how impressive it is that I understand something complex. This is evil. This is sin.

So go on, Christian, be a snob! Just be sure your snobbery is exalting the right Person.

The Shirt

2010-01-09T22:56:00.001-06:00

Okay, time for another journal entry. I wrote this last Spring.

I just spend 18 minutes ironing a shirt. That’s right: a shirt. Yes, yes, I have a certifiably obsessive compulsive personality, but that’s only part of it. This shirt is a devil, and every ironing causes me to rue the day I purchased it.

It was last August, and I was out for a trip to the mall with my mom. When we make these trips, my mom and I often part ways as she suggests I look in a particular store while she goes her own way. It makes sense, but it is dangerous. This time, I chose to darken the doors of Express. Oh, frightful store! It screams of fashion trends with its bright colors and thumping music, and it lures me in with irresistable seduction. Whenever I shop there, I remember the blue and white striped shirt I bought two years ago. It’s an attractive shirt, but it’s nearly impossible to iron. Many times had my mom complained about it to me, and I insisted that she not worry about it because a few wrinkles were hardly visible on such a distractingly striped shirt.

On this day, I fought fervently to remind myself of the pestilent wrinkles and the ill-fitting pants (another matter altogether), but something caught my eye. A patch of bright, minty green shimmered among the stacks of forest green and tepid green. I didn’t even know “tepid” could be a shade, but there it sat.

As the minty delight beckoned me, I found it only polite to have a look. Lo, it was on sale, and behold, they had my size! Not only was it just $12, but the sleeves also came to my wrists! Extra time with the iron seemed a small price to pay for such a minty bargain.

Oh, but not so. For now I find I must spend 18 minutes ironing this dreadful thing just to make it look like I don’t store it in the bottom of my shoes. I’m an American, and time is money. As such, this shirt has already cost me over $100. Is that worth the incomparable green?

I think I’d rather go for a spluge at Brooks Brothers.

Soul-Sickening Movies 2

2009-12-29T18:57:00.003-06:00

Christians ought to be the most discerning people in the world. Every piece of media has a lesson in it, whether positive or negative, and only the most discerning person can exegete it. Never will I claim to be so infallibly discerning, but I must try as far as I can.

Up is the most tragic of Pixar's creations, and thus I find it to be their most important. For whatever reason, I found this the most difficult to evaluate of all these movies, so I must credit my dear friend Joshua for his conceptual input.

All Pixar movies feature loss of one kind or another, but Up presents some very real hurts that most everyone experiences. Couched in incredible fantasy (though I suppose no more incredible than any of their other stories), the story's characters seek with all that they are to find approval. Whether this approval comes from a deceased spouse, a distant father, or an overinflated egocentrism is irrelevant. My point is -and must be- that only the Lord's approval is of any import. Dismiss this as clichéd Christianese if you will, but I challenge the reader to find a more significant auditor of personal worth.

I point to Muntz, who spent his entire life on the pursuit of validating his reputation as an explorer and naturalist. This obsession filled him with a cynicism that took place of his ability to develop relationships with other people. What good is a person without community? Consider also Carl, who spent his entire life seeking to fulfill his promise to his wife. Even after she died, he risked everything he had to honor his promise, even if only to a small picture on the wall. Similar object lessons of fruitless approval abound throughout the movie. Never underestimate animated movies as nugatory nihilarians offhand, for you may thereby miss much of great worth.

Avatar rather intrigued me from the first trailer, so I was eager to see it. I was skeptical from the beginning if for no other reason than its strongly Hindu name. I was surprised to find a social justice piece that was basically a sci-fi retelling of the Native American tragedy. My first impulse was to overreact to the apparent affirmative action propaganda and to defend my innocence in the events that happened centuries before my birth. Then I realized that I had committed to sitting in a movie theater for a while, so I might as well make the best of the situation by seeing what I could learn.

In those two hours, I recognized the universality of prejudice and bias. Since I am partially blinded from my position in life, why shouldn't I pay attention to someone whose blindness is different from mine? In other words, because it is hard for me to see the problems of the Europeans' actions in colonizing the New World, why should I not learn from the natives who may have overreacted to the Europeans' flagrant, genocidic evil?

Avatar predictably portrayed the Omaticaya as "noble savages," but their spiritual leader uttered one of the most beautiful and widely applicable moral assessments that I've heard in recent days: "[It is] hard to fill a cup that is already full." Here lies the root of the problem of prejudice. Nearly everyone, regardless of how humble he may think himself to be, is a cup that is either already full or perceives itself to be such while actually being vacuum-sealed and tightly shut.

Australia has similar themes. It has many topics, but since I watched it on the same day as Avatar, my attention was mainly on the issue of social justice. This story was less skewed (and way less fun to watch) than the other, but it was delightful. I fear that some people may refuse it blindly because of its message against racism. {I wrote the following at nearly 2a.m., and because of this movie's relative unimportance, I'm going to leave it alone. Besides, I wrote this in a bit of a rage, so I think it's kind of funny.} "I'm not a racist, and I'm tired of being told that I am." Well, good news, this movie didn't say that you're a racist, it just said that racist acts were performed on a large scale in a particular setting in a particular time. Even though you weren't there, you can still learn from it.

I'm breaking tradition on this one. I want to hear what my readers think about these movies (and my assessments), so I'm opening this up for comments. Happy critiquing!

Soul-Sickening Movies 1

2009-12-27T00:23:00.005-06:00

How's that title for an attention-grabber? Yes, well, if you read my first post, you know that Geisteskrankenheit means "soul-sickness", and that I use it in reference to my deep longing for _____. I understand that my ultimate longing is for communion with the Lord (after all, He put it there), but I feel this longing pointedly and immediately for other, more earthly things (which I understand to be analogies of my longing for God). I've watched a number of movies recently, and some of them bear significant mention. Because I'm having trouble writing all of these out, I'm going to give them to you one at a time.

Spider-Man 3 was first, and I mentioned it in the last post. The least impressive of the recent Spider-Man trilogy, in my estimation, this one still bears wisdom. The movie's primary villain is an alien parasite of sorts. When it bonds with a human host, it amplifies whatever aggressive or impulsive feelings the host may have, while diminishing his powers of inhibition. I find that a pretty obvious analogy to the problems of sin and temptation. When viewed from an objective standpoint, sin is unmistakably dangerous and destructive. However, when one gives in to temptation of any kind, the sin immediately blinds the sinner to its evil. The indulgence becomes fun, and the person lives for the rush of the moment. It is the same as any other addiction in that its purpose is to distract a person from the plain (if difficult) reality of life. The analogy has further implications, but the reader may pursue them as the Spirit leads.

Blogging sans Narcissism?

2009-12-19T01:01:00.003-06:00

A bit of explanation is in order. I enjoy Facebook, and perhaps a bit too much. I fear what it may do to my sense of priorities, as I may get just a bit too much enjoyment out of "comments". While it's great to know that people are interested in what I'm doing and saying, I find it frighteningly easy to be active on Facebook just for the response it generates. I like to know that people are interested in me... that they chose to spend a few seconds reading about and responding to me rather than doing something productive. This is dangerously close to narcissism.

Okay, now that some of you have looked up "narcissism" in a dictionary, you think I'm some kind of pervert. I assure you that I use the word in the colloquial, not clinical, sense.

Out of genuine concern that I would be drawn to use this blog as another outlet for people to notice and publicly laud my scribbance (it's not in my dictionary, but I'd bet that you understood it), I have chosen to disable comments for my posts. If I said something that struck you so much that you actually want to tell me about it, send me an e-mail or talk to me in person. That way, it'll be private and much more conducive to conversation.

I'm up this late because I just finished watching Spider-Man 3. I don't remember being quite so struck by it last time, and I intend to write about it a bit. Now you know what's coming next!

I love you all,

Timothy

Journal 9

2009-12-12T22:54:00.003-06:00

From time to time, dear reader, you can expect to see journal entries such as that which follows. These are taken from my bi-weekly journal entries that I wrote for my Research Writing class, and I find that some of them are actually quite funny. Those that aren't funny are full of self-analysis and questioning, which fits perfectly with Geisteskrankenheit. I leave it to you to determine what's what.

I love tea. In fact, I’m indulging in an artfully made cuppa as I write this. I’ve been called a tea freak, a tea snob, tea-obsessed, and a tea addict, but there are points on that list with which I take issue. My relationship with tea is not one of addiction or obsession, but rather of appreciation and indulgence.

I do not need a cup of tea to get out of bed, nor does my well-being depend on having my daily fix. I normally enjoy a few cups each week, but I have had entire months without a single drop. Last Spring, it became a communal habit for me to enjoy at least a cup or two every day, but that was because of my rigidly structured schedule and close interaction with other tea lovers. These days, the onus of tea making falls entirely to me, so I’ve had to approach it differently.

I tend to take things seriously. Any time I make a purchase, I aim to acquire the absolute best quality I can afford. This goes for computers, socks, milk, books, and beverages. I use an Apple MacBook Pro because I consider it to be the best laptop available. I buy my school books as close to new as possible because I don’t bend pages, so I don’t see why I should have to deal with pages that others have bent.

In this vein, I purchase only the highest quality loose leaf teas, and I’ve indulged in a crimson electric kettle and a cast iron tetsubin teapot. These things have combined to bring people to call me a tea snob. All right, so I am a snob. I’m okay with that because it implies that I hold high standards. It is precisely these high standards that bring me to enjoy tea as much as I do. Further, it is this level of enjoyment that brings others to assume my addiction. I can’t quite blame them for this conclusion, especially in light of a recent conversation with my supervisor.

“I have to be in a special kind of mood to enjoy Earl Grey. Like, if there’s nothing else available.” Adam likes to make snide comments like that.

“Earl Grey puts me in a special kind of mood,” I retorted. “Like, the kind of mood where all I want to do is squeeze puppies.” Yes, I clearly said that for comedic effect, but it didn’t exactly stop my coworkers from thinking I’m addicted to tea.

My point is that I enjoy tea–and even coffee, for that matter–as an indulgence. I love the method behind it. I boil the water, let it cool to about 195°F, pour it over the leaves, and let it all steep in my tetsubin for a precise measure of time. The care and precision that goes into the preparation accounts for very nearly half of the satisfaction in each sip. In fact, it is just this intentional mindset that is responsible for my enjoyment of knitting.

I realize that I’ve just made myself sound like a 65-year-old woman, but I’m not interested in dealing with cultural stigmas and stereotypes right now. I am only trying to explain the difference between an addiction and an indulgence. Oh heavens, my friends will just have to learn to love me for the tea-based joy I bring to their mugs.

Introitus

2009-12-10T14:44:00.000-06:00

So we come to it at last. A time was, in the years of Junior High, when I had a blog. Its primary purpose was to complain about life while recounting the major events of each day. I like to think that I've grown up a bit in the last decade, and so has my method of looking at the world. My thoughts may be more appreciative, more cynical, and perhaps more lovely than they once were. I've realized that even my cynicism is an expressive outlet of my love. In the recent weeks and months of classes and readings, I've come to understand that hate and love are bound up in each other. I cannot hate you, or do hateful things towards you, if I do not love you. Without love, I am indifferent.

Geisteskrankenheit is the German word for mental illness. It's literal translation is "soul-sicknes," and as such it alludes to the deep longing I have to come to a better understanding of that which bothers me. Most people call this obsession, and its outworking often looks like obsessive compulsion -- these are behaviors that our society may label as mental illness. Thus, we have a lexical loop, the product of which is an apropos name for my blog.

Please don't misunderstand me to be saying that I intend to be only and ever soberly philosophical herein. Though that is likely to be a frequent theme, I imagine that the reader will most frequently come away from this microcosm in laughter, pondering the madness of the author.

My name is Timothy. Welcome to my Geisteskrankenheit.