An imposed structure upon the absense of such

C.S. Lewis wrote somewhere, maybe in Mere Christianity (how's that for good citing) on the topic of loving your enemies. One of the points he made on how we often fail in this was in our eagerness to paint our enemies as bad as they can be painted. It works itself out to be a kind of rejoicing in how bad they are. For example, were someone to tell me one of my enemies (in a very broad sense, of course, including the people I politely interact with but can't stand) who I dislike for the way they acted in one situation were also guilty of sleeping around, I may have no trouble believing it. Of course they are, I always knew I didn't like them, right? It usually seems ridiculous in the extremes, but I'm afraid I carry out the plan subtly every day. It happens to be one of my favorite forms of self justification.
An americano (that's a shot of espresso in a cup of water) is in fact much nicer than a cup of coffee at Cups (the Jackson coffee shop chain). I discovered that today because I was thinking of my former campus minister--who only ever ordered americanos--while I was deciding what to order. It was an unfortunate thing to learn, as it presents the first reasonable temptation to my getting something more expensive than the 98cent cup of coffee every time I go to study.
My classes fell into place this semester so that I basically only have class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It gives a decisive cadence to my weeks that I like. I also very much like the word cadence because when I use it I think of writers like Eugene Peterson or Wendell Berry.
A few weeks ago I saw a rainbow and a sunset simultaneously. It was wonderful, as you can imagine. The very next night it happened again. I suppose I have used up all my allotments for that sort of experience now, and should let others in the world see rainbows and sunsets together.
Its been quite some time since I last wrote a limerick and I have no excuses. If I could I would use the excuse that I don't have internet at my house, but then I would counter my own arguement and say that people wrote limericks long before houses had internet.
I'm approaching the verge of getting to know a cello piece written by Bach. Not being a good musician I don't often get to actually meet real music. I spend more time playing around with notes and meters. I forget that the real music itself is something new altogether. I wonder what other things in life are like that.
This is the seventh of my bullet points and that is not a bad number to end on. It will be a point in your honor. I hope your day brings about a good cup of coffee--if that would be agreeable to you--and I hope you get your fair share of seeing rainbows and sunsets. Thank you for reading.

On fiction, especially children's stories

I never really grew out of stories, and children's literature to this day remains the genra closest to my heart. With the agreement of others older, wiser, and even more familiar with the gospel than myself I discovered it wasn't necessarily a part of growing up to leave behind stories. So with a strong admiration of the Lewis's Queen Lucy I decided not to get so caught up in the here and now as to forget the Narnia in the back of the wardrobe even though I personally failed in all my literal attempts to find that place in the here and now, even on the rainiest of days. I'm glad for that because in some ways I like the kind of stories we write for children more now than I ever did as a child.
At some point in time (or more likely over time from my early teens until now) I worked out more abstract ideas of what stories are and should be in order to have a basis for deciding what makes up a good story. I was heavily influenced by Lewis and Tolkien particularly among others including others who were also influenced by the same. When questions concerning what is or isn't appropriate for a fictional world (which, as I was a young teen at the release of the first Harry Potter, were being discussed in full color about the time I wondered them myself) I discovered the way in which fiction has the opportunity to be a vehical for truth that nothing else can offer. By making a world in which physical or exact truths were infinitely different than the world we live in day to day something deeper could be seen--not so as much in exact words as in themes and impressions--as more true. The truth that Cinderella couldn't actually have a fairy godmother was less important than the truth that there was something at work beyond herself and her circumstances that changed her from an unloved orphan to the wife of the prince. The truth that hobbits never once lived along side men and elves and saved the world from evil is less important than the truth that the very insignificant in our terms can be used by a greater power to do what the very strong had not been placed to do. The truth that the physical laws of here and now do not allow for people to do magic with wands or fly on broomsticks is not as important as the truth that there is, despite all odds, a greater power that causes weakness, imperfection, community, love, and selfless sacrifice to overpower evil even when it seems to have all the known power of earth. Stories reprioritize our thoughts toward understanding that the immediate world is not the ultimate truth. After the mindset of Hebrews 11 we are, in fact, rather alien to the here and now and are looking for a better country. Stories show us how to long for the country that is our real home.

A book review

Recently I read a book called Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale by Frederick Buechner. I liked it very much and this is a review of it.

Let me present the group gathered together:
Pilate (executer of Jesus) is there, and the successful government man who has already shut himself off from the awfulness of the suffering he regularly sees in the news but still smokes three packs of cigarettes a day to numb the chewing of something inside him that says he really wishes he knew one way or the other whether there was a Truth. The two are not unlike. They could, in fact have been the same person.
Along with them is a pastor who has, in fact, been having an affair and may soon be found out. Homosexuals are there, and pregnant teenagers, and uninterested college students, and you--not you on your best face but you with the clamorings and silences of your life.
If this is the group gathered how will we talk about the gospel? How will the Gospel be a big enough Truth that is does not ignore or leave out what everyone knows but most would rather not say: that God is often seen in his absence and we are helpless and worn out by that? If there is a Gospel this big it must be as unexpected at Wiley Coyote picking himself up after being crushed by an anvil and continuing his chase. It will also have to be as absurd as supposing that Cinderella really did ride in that pumpkin to find a prince who chased her down with a golden slipper then married her. It is exactly to these people through these methods that this book shows the Gospel must be preached:
"If preachers or lecturers are to say anything that really matters to anyone including themselves, they must say it not just to the public part of us that considers interesting thoughts about the Gospel and how to preach it, but to the private, inner part too, to the part of us all where our dreams come from, both our good dreams and our bad dreams, the inner part where thoughts mean less than images, elucidation less than evocation, where our concern is less with how the Gospel is to be preached than with what the Gospel is and what it is to us. The must address themselves to the fullness of who we are and to the emptiness too, the emptiness where grace and peace belong but mostly are not, because terrible as well as wonderful things have happened to all of us."

Not being a writer, I only wish I knew if that came across as communication. To put it in more safely simple terms, this book was beautiful and rich. It captured both my imagination and my thoughts. I hope very much it changed them both, and in turn changed my outlook and responses. I highly recommend you read it. Find it online, that's a good place to buy books. Thus far it has been my favorite summer read and I fully expect it to remain on the top of my list of favorite books from here forward.

What have you been doing this summer?

Blogging has been distinctly avoided from my summer activities lately. I now eye is cautiously, not as though it were another full thing to squeeze into a much too busy day, but as though it were one of those side acquaintances whose name I may remember during that time before or after summer RUF (college bible study) who must politely ask what I'm doing this summer. I set out my well compiled answered of those things that seem appropriate for one to do with a summer: some summer school, some work. As it happens more often than not (when there are no further inquiries into what classes I'm taking or where I'm working to change the subject to elementary education classes or church secretary work) the "list" seems rather meager for the accomplishments of two months and out stumbles the next best items I have to offer: some involvement with my church, some reading. Those may have hit closer to the truth of what was more important to me but as my list of church activities is unimpressive and my list of books read is small they seem less for having been said, for having to come out into words when they're not sure what to do with themselves anymore.

So, um, (I think I remember your name), I guess that's mostly what I've been doing. What are you doing?

I can't get any farther without suspecting that for all my social skills it's rather amusing how hard everyday life can be to put into words. Going to class this morning was an event. So was washing the dishes this evening while listening to music. As far as I can figure out the experience of the later is nearly inexpressible but maybe not less important than the former because of that. In that my summer has been very "everyday", something probably very good for me but not necessarily terribly familiar or comfortable. I go to class but I also make a sandwich to bring with me for lunch. I go to work and compile bulletins and such and I sit typing blog entries while drinking espresso with Irish cream in a small espresso cup a friend gave me for Christmas last year. I found and signed a lease on a small duplex near Belhaven and I sat in Borders and read children's books. I often find myself wishing for one of those few people with whom I can just sit and be without explaination and I'm hesitant right now at reading anyone's blog because I'm afraid they've said something about the ending of Harry Potter 7. This, of course, leaves alot unsaid, but somewhere in or under or through or beyond those sorts of things is what I've been doing this summer.

A new musician at Hogwarts

As a kid I was in a plight:
Magician and musician sound alike.
Now with Andrew P. for
Hogwart's new Dumbledore
I find I still can't get things right.

Henri Nouwen on falling of the balance beam

"You're in a room with a six-inch-wide balance beam in the center. Now the balance beam is only twelve inches off the fully carpeted floor. Most of us act as if we were blindfolded and trying to walk on that balance beam; we're afraid we'll fall off. But we don't realize we're only twelve inches off the floor. The spiritual director is someone who can push you off that balance beam and say, 'See? It's okay. God still loves you.'"
(Henri Nouwen)

Well I'll be. I've been operating under the idea that we needed to stay on those balance beams. I suppose I'll have to go somewhere from here with this.

Returning home come evening (often with the windows down)

Driving east while the sun sets behind,
Behind the sky all ablaze unconfined,
But condensed in the mirror
Gleams a cloud-light pool--nearer,
Slighter figure but its weightiness not declined.