Redemptive History and 9/11

"Remembering is the art of the mature."

I wrote Bob's words in the margin beside Psalm 103's heading and felt the kinetic energy of his statement slam into my consciousness. It was a simple enough statement, but as its substance dissolved into the bloodstream of my imagination I could not picture anything else but the room Choir and Orchestra shared at Parker High School. I could see Mr. Bowman's nervous rush to the TV by the door leading out to the commons, the disciplined frenzy of his fingers as they reset the TV's input, his hushed voice that elicited more alarm than a hundred decibel bellow- something about a plane and the World Trade Center. A nameless dread clamored behind my sternum, seeped into my lungs and throat, tasted like vinegar filling my mouth. He stared at the screen as the image took form, panic and picture becoming more palpable with every second of silence. He spoke again, mercifully ending the suffocating sensation of understanding that something monumentally important was taking place and yet knowing almost nothing about it. It was shrouded in enigma and a fearful unknowing seized the circle of students congregating around the television, clamoring for facts. Facts would act as sandbags in holding back the flood of frightened speculation but for the time being, confusion was king. Mr. Bowman heard that the plane's collision with the tower may have been an accident, but it was far from conclusive. Theories and foreboding flurried through everyone's minds. We were released to our second hour classes, but the entire school's attention was fixed on the news for the next sixty minutes, enthralled and dismayed as footage of burning and bedlam buried our suddenly out of date, Midwest-shaped presuppositions.

Bob directly connected the vividness of the memories many of us have of September 11 with our need to remember with intensity and passion the death and resurrection of the Lord Jesus. No one remembers September 10, 2001, but with preternatural precision we can recall almost every detail of the following day because of its significance for American history. Qal wahomer time: how much more then should we seek to bring to remembrance the most significant event, indeed, the turning point of human history? It isn't nostalgia we're after in such an exercise- it's the stirring up of our affections for that which redefined our reality and the subsequent renewing of our wills to keep up the good fight of faith.

I am under no illusion that September 11, 2001 is the first epoch defining event in American history. The fall of the Berlin Wall, the Challenger disaster, John F. Kennedy's assassination, and Pearl Harbor immediately spring to mind as case studies in days no one will ever forget. It's strange for me to think of kids who have no experiential knowledge of September 11 whatsoever- it's already as far removed from them as Pearl Harbor is from me, in a sense. But should we seek to give them understanding as close as possible to our own? I say yes, most definitely, because their effort to identify corporately with the American experience of 9/11 is analogous to our own burden to remember the cross work of Jesus Christ and to identify with the long line of the redeemed covenant community reaching back to the Patriarchs. It's interesting- we're to "remember" things we've never seen before as though we were right there when they taking place!

In his article "Story in the Old Testament," R.W.L. Moberly touches on a few related points:

...there is the fact that some truths can best, or perhaps only, be conveyed in story form because of the importance of symbol and image in human understanding. To assume, as is often done, that the content of any story can be translated without loss into discursive analysis ('What this story means is that...') is to make an unacceptable separation of form and content. This is not to say that the medium is the message. It is to say that sometimes the message cannot be entirely separated from the medium. 

This does not mean that one cannot comment intelligently upon the meaning of a story. It does mean that the interpreter's comments should never become a substitute for the story, and their purpose should be to send one back to the story with fresh insight so that it is the story itself, better understood, that one if left with as the vehicle of truth and meaning.

...a story can provide a pattern or framework for understanding life and experience. For many, life and existence on the purely historical plane may appear random or chaotic, without purpose, meaning or dignity. A story can so arrange things that pattern and meaning can be seen. The biblical story purports to be a true story. This means that as the reader recognizes in it the patterns of how God works, he can then find pattern and meaning for his own life and experience of God.

For example, life for the Jews in exile and the diaspora when they were deprived of all those things that had previously been central to their faith and identity - land, temple, king - must easily have appeared hopeless and meaningless. Stories such as those of Daniel and Esther do more than just show how life under God can be a reality in such situations. The way the stories show, both explicitly and implicitly, that God is in control and that what people do does matter makes the stories a powerful medium for creating trust in the wisdom of God and in the meaning and significance of life even in difficult circumstances.1

To remember is to fan into flame the meaningfulness of history, both on the societal and the personal levels- so often the two are intertwined into one entity, a single point in time in which corporate and individual realities are irrevocably altered and imbued with significance. There is a gravity to these events that draw us into their orbit. The pathos of a shared event has a potential energy waiting to be harnessed through recollection- when we bring it to remembrance we unleash its innate fullness and invite change to flow from it into our present. This is a particular strength of cultures which preserve the richness of their history in narratives and tell and retell those narratives to reinvigorate the failing hopes of its people in difficult (or simply mundane!) times. The Church likewise must rehearse the accounts of God's saving acts throughout history and learn to be awestruck by the world shaking might of the Triune God who has vowed to save His people and has acted to deliver on that promise! The individual stages and the overall trajectory of God's rescue operation should be meditated upon and relied upon as faithful deposits of the work He will yet do. Everyone lives right now- how many people can channel the past into the present so as to shape the future? To remember God's workings in redemptive history is to summon down rain in a period of drought! This is seen in Habakkuk 3:17-19, where Habakkuk is so moved by recounting God's mighty deeds in the past he can joyfully submit to the hardships he knows are imminent:

Though the fig tree should not blossom,
   nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
   and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
   and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD;
   I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
GOD, the Lord, is my strength;
   he makes my feet like the deer’s;
   he makes me tread on my high places.

That is the power of remembering.

I was moved in a way I had not anticipated while watching a 9/11 documentary with Kristin last night, and it was due to seeing the multifaceted nature of man in such sharp relief- "the glory and scum of the universe," as Pascal noted. Sometimes it's easier for me to recognize the truth of the latter but I am not often impressed with the reality of the former. We must acknowledge that our universe is a realm populated by rebellious vassels resisting rightful lordship and suppressing the truth in unrighteousness- we are depraved in every faculty of our being. There is a hideous, self-inflicted gouge in the visage of our race; our dignity is not utterly lost, but marred, and only a pale reflection of the nobility we possessed for one magisterial moment. And yet there is still dignity! There is still that glimmer of the imago Dei, tattered and yet intact! As Hamlet rhapsodizes:

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals...2

And yet,

For in fact what is man in nature? A Nothing in comparison with the Infinite, an All in comparison with the Nothing, a mean between nothing and everything. Since he is infinitely removed from comprehending the extremes, the end of things and their beginning are hopelessly hidden from him in an impenetrable secret, he is equally incapable of seeing the Nothing from which he was made, and the Infinite in which he is swallowed up.3

God, who would be just to dismantle the entirety of the universe and deliver the penalty fit for rebels is grieved by the death of His finite and fallen image bearers too- His heart is moved for the plight of those whose lives were extinguished that day ten years ago. God looks at the stranglehold sin holds upon the universe and His compassion burns in unison with His white hot hatred for injustice. Psalm 145 reminds us of the mercy and kindness God lovingly extends towards His creation- His compassion abounds throughout the world as He witnesses its inhabitants' plight. He discerns with infinite insight the cosmos writhing in pain due to its subjection to the dominion of sin. He looks and sees every living creature subject to sin's tyranny. There is unspeakable tragedy in the reckless hate with which sin seeks to destroy human lives, a tragedy that God Himself identifies with, most vividly in the humanity of the Lord Jesus. God is sovereignly committed to the eradication of the cosmic dissonance that tarnishes His good creation and His image bearers and He has spared no expense in that glorious campaign of liberation. That God should take pity upon suffering rebels and in turn call for them to to do the same for one another is a truth which should be immeasurably precious to our souls, spurring us on to remember, to rejoice, and to play our parts in the Church's restorative mission.


1 R.W.L. Moberly, "Story in the Old Testament," Themelios 11.3 (April 1986):77-82, http://www.biblicalstudies.org.uk/article_story_moberly.html
2 William Shakespeare, Hamlet II.ii.256-259, The Oxford Shakespeare (London: Oxford University Press)
3 Blaise Pascal, Pensees II.72

Black Hawk Upside Down

At long last, Kristin and I are bona fide Rockford residents, happily dwelling in our little corner of the demilitarized zone we now call home. With the help of a few good men we relocated all of our earthly possessions in an operation that would make Desert Storm blush. In my naivete I didn't anticipate the sheer scale of the moving adventure, so I'm extremely grateful for helping hands who were patient with my lack of... well, everything, really! Henry and Charis were indispensable in hauling off the first trailer load in the wee hours of the morning. Try as I might, I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the sickening feeling of sweaty hands grabbing my ankles and awakening me from slumber with the words, "It's time." Recognizing in my half awake stupor that it was Henry and not a wraith was not tremendously reassuring in that frightful moment, but the adrenaline served us well as we proceeded to load all of our furniture through the ridiculously proportioned hallways of our former apartment.

John, Jim, Andrew, Jeremy and Henry assumed the responsibility for unloading the first trailer load into the new house after a Life Group leaders meeting (hence the crack of dawn timing for the loading task Henry and I had undertaken) whilst Shannon, Chase and I took another trailer back up to Wisconsin where Kristin was slaving away cleaning up our old abode. My first sight of our remaining belongings she had gathered into the living room made me realize that we had about seven tons of swag more than I had ever thought we possessed. Torching all of it crossed my mind, but implicit liabilities associated with that course of action compelled me to abandon it as a viable option (there was no way we were going to get our security deposit back if I burned the building down, alas).

Luckily, Shannon's the Man (or one of them) and seemingly created cubic feet of space in his truck ex nihilo and we managed to get every last remnant of junk (er, precious cargo). Kristin's dad made a visit with a dolly to aid in the loading process and ended up packing more than a few items in his car and making a whirlwind voyage south in our convoy. After unloading that most random of assortments, we hit the road yet again to be in time for the inspection, followed by Joel's sister's graduation party in Milton, after which we committed the rest of the night to sterilizing the apartment.

Returning to Rockford around 10:30 I was utterly spent and eagerly longed for some hay to hit; unfortunately, the hay had to be assembled first. With everything finally out of the way, I endeavored to do nothing but saw enough logs to put the Pacific Northwest to shame. The creaking sound in the kitchen persuaded me otherwise. I froze and attuned my sensory input to the widest bandwidth possible to discern whether or not an intruder was inside our house. Kristin was dead asleep. As the man of the house by default, I assumed sentry duty the rest of the night, patrolling territory stretching from the living room to the kitchen and back to our bedroom, focusing the full power of my keen Native American listening skills. It's pretty sensitive... perhaps too much so. But you'll thank me when I intuitively feel an insidious band of ninjas lurking outside your dining room. Or wherever. Ninjas can get into the craziest places.

Well, there were no insidious ninja bands forcing their entry that night. Or, there were, and they were successfully intimidated by my vigilance. I like to think it was the latter, but when the morning sun fired its deadly darts at an hour when no one anywhere should be awake, I was pretty destroyed. On the whole, however, I'd say it was worth the level up I'd received overnight- Level 3 Guardian, people! And only at the cost of a couple pretty severe nodding off episodes the following day!

So here we are, established in the midst of our church family and its environs. Life is good, and God is even better. Get ready, Rockford!

Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption

Before our move down here this past weekend, Kristin and I would often find ourselves with such a crushing quantity of awesome things to do in Rockford that we would have little choice but to crash at someone's house for a night or two to facilitate said awesomeness. Time was when I romanticized the trip south and the return journey to Janesville but I soon became acquainted with the reality of how profoundly not fun that voyage truly is! Over the last several months of internship I came to embrace the idea of bare minimum Wisconsin to Illinois transit (and vice versa). So naturally we were overjoyed a couple of weeks ago when Intern Andrew offered us three days of luxurious shelter at Victor's house (which he was watching at the time- don't get the wrong idea) in order to aid us in the prosecution of five righteous hang-out sessions spread across Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. With the assurance of a weekend headquarters in place, we loaded up the Olsonmobile* with our crucial accoutrements and burnt rubber for the Land of Lincoln.

Intern Andrew had introduced me to Victor's stylish pad a couple of days prior to our stay and my initial reaction was something along the lines of, "Holy sumptuous living quarters, Batman!" or something ridonkulous of that sort. Victor's house is the bomb, basically,** so I was hotly anticipating setting up shop and kicking it Louis XVI-style betwixt the aforementioned gatherings.*** I recall from that first visit though that Andrew offhandedly mentioned something about a baby skunk falling into a window well a couple of days before, but the brevity of the report and the lack of pathos he affected in his remark led me to conclude that surely the baby skunk had escaped from the window well and returned home to his (her?) clan by then.

That was Tuesday.

Wednesday progressed without any discernible moments of either grandeur or devastation, just your typical steady state horizon of fantasticity- pretty standard fare for Morning Star interns. Thursday night, however, witnessed a gut-churning reversal to the rhapsodic flights which my heart had been soaring to thinking of the killer weekend fast approaching. I walked home from Farm and Starfleet that night with a sprightly skip to my step, gleefully soaking in a Moises Silva lecture on Galatians on my iPod, clicking my heels like a leprechaun with every stroke of exegetical brilliance he skillfully elicited from the text.**** I arrived home and victoriously slammed three glasses of water, quenching the fire of the hot July night in my throat. And then, the familiar whistle of my R2-D2 alert: a text message. A text message from Intern Andrew, no less.

But his message was not of glad tidings nor was it good news.

Remember that baby skunk with the streak of bad luck? He wasn't back... he never left! Baby Skunk had been imprisoned in that window well for a week now, without food or water! The effulgence of my demeanor instantly dimmed. A deafening diesel roar of empathy echoed throughout the chambers of my heart whilst it simultaneously shattered for poor Baby Skunk. What measures had been taken to extricate Baby Skunk? We weren't just sitting by while Baby Skunk languished in a holding cell of dejection, were we? Andrew informed me that he had lowered a two by four into the window well but Baby Skunk just didn't have the requisite coordination to shimmy on up the board and back to freedom. I knew instantaneously that a means of rescue had to be devised to save Baby Skunk from an ignominious end within that window well! I would not suffer Baby Skunk even one more day in the blazing gloom of that window well- I had chosen him (her?) and would not rest until he (she?) was free at last. And so Intern Andrew and I covenanted together to accomplish and apply Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption.

The following morning witnessed Kristin aiding a group of volunteers in cleaning the Hansons' abode in preparation of their imminent departure southward while I deposited the D-Day worthy collection of survival materials that had been deemed necessary for a weekend stay at our plush Northern Illinois cache. Intern Andrew looked aghast upon the cargo shipment I was delivering for our the duration of our post but did the right thing and helped me haul the freight down to our quarters in the basement. It was there that I at long last got my first look at Elect Baby Skunk. I was eyeing the drumset Victor had set up around the corner from the room Kristin and I would be staying in when appropos of nothing I looked over my shoulder and saw a window well... and Baby Skunk, slumped in the corner.

I looked into his (her?) eyes and saw Baby Skunk's abandonment to despair emanating from his (her?) countenance like stench from a stagnant bog. As our gazes locked with one another's I could vividly see the resignation and the anguish of utter forsakenness reflected through Elect Baby Skunk's visage. In that moment I knew that I would spare no measure to save Elect Baby Skunk.

Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption was engaged.

To my extreme annoyance, Intern Andrew was still not particularly moved by Baby Skunk's plight, but he agreed to aid me in my mission so as to maximize the comic potential inherent within such an endeavor. We turned Victor's house upside down searching for recovery apparatus for Elect Baby Skunk but nothing seemed quite fit for the task.
"What about the net for this ping pong table?" Intern Andrew queried.
"I think that falls into the 'last resort' category," I retorted, returning to my digging frenzy in Victor's basement. You count on the most random things to show up in people's basements when you're not actually searching for them, but the moment a crucial item proves necessary it's nowhere to be found. Kristin, Intern Andrew and I refocused our ambitions elsewhere and ravaged his garage for anything that could be lowered into a window well to retrieve my elect skunk baby.
"Doesn't he go fishing ever? Russians like to fish, right?" I implored in a whining tone.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Intern Andrew returned, mockingly.
"Hello? A fishing net. Is that too much to ask?" I sighed, weary to get to the business of saving baby skunks.

Next I suggested I go downstairs, open up the window, grab Elect Baby Skunk from my just-barely-helpful vantage point and gently toss him (her?) up to Intern Andrew who could release him (her?) into the great outdoors. I could hear the bile rising in his throat at the solution I had offered. "One," he intoned dramatically, "I am not catching a skunk. Ever. Under any circumstances." He deflected my condescending eye rolling and sneer and continued on. "Two, under no circumstances are we letting skunk smell get into that basement. No way! This is not an option!" It got really quiet for a while after that.

Clearly, forces were at work even within Intern Andrew to derail Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption.

Victor's home witnessed cataclysmic upheaval as we sought out the means to implement Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption. I even started calling people in search of such assorted and sundry items as butterfly nets, rakes, and pool skimmers half-crazed with my objective of liberating Elect Baby Skunk from his (her?) prison of heat death. Intern Andrew proposed waiting until evening when Valentin could procure a fishing net for the operation. Choking back tears of rage I bellowed with all of the conviction my failing heart could muster: "No Andrew! This is our time! Up there- up there it's their time! Down here? Down here it's our time! Down here it's our time!"

Wait. Actually, that didn't happen. The Goonies abruptly intruded into my consciousness and corrupted my memory momentarily.

Anywho, we scavenged the premises like starving vultures, all the while the memory of Elect Baby Skunk's look of longing etched itself into my mind's eye. His (her?) pitiful demeanor as he (she?) wallowed in the window well burned like brimstone in my affections, becoming my own equivalent of the Macedonian in Acts 16:9. "Come over and save me!" I could hear Elect Baby Skunk squeaking plaintively. His (her?) whimpers reverberated through my inner being until finally my emotional levee broke.

"I'm going in," I said.
"You mean the window well?" Kristin asked. "That thing's pretty small..."
"I have to do it! When there is a lack of those qualified to go, the willing must be the ones to go in their stead," I responded. Looks of puzzlement were exchanged between Kristin and Intern Andrew and probably even myself ultimately because that was a pretty trite thing to say. But it felt right at the time.*****

It was on. The three of us now dedicated ourselves to distinct duties in saving Elect Baby Skunk; I would empty myself and descend into the window well, Kristin would procure something for me to shield myself from Elect Baby Skunk's odors of death, and Intern Andrew would stand a few yards away watching and providing moral support. Kristin rushed to retrieve an expendable towel from our supplies and threw it to me with the skill and flourish of a harpooner. Intern Andrew removed both the two by four Gangplank of Attempted Escape and the weird plastic shield that covered about three quarters of the way in****** to ease my entrance into the lower regions. He then scuttled away so as to ensure he was nowhere near Baby Skunk who no doubt would begin freaking out any moment at the sight of this huge thing entering his (her?) lair.

I shimmied over the lip of the well and gently hit rock bottom. In trying to steer clear of cobwebs I had aimed for the center of Elect Baby Skunk's holding cell which brought me virtually on top of him (her?) and almost immediately a look of panic greeted me from Elect Baby Skunk. "Hey there Baby Skunk," I cooed in an attempt to soothe the savage beast. He (she?) flipped end for end to bring his (her?) stink armament to bear against me. Sensing the imminent deployment of Elect Baby Skunk's weaponry I unsheathed my ugly brown towel like a bull fighter and established a field to absorb any fire Elect Baby Skunk might unleash. A large stone overhang forced me to hunch down and toss my Brown Towel of Protection upon Elect Baby Skunk. I struggled to get a grip around him (her?) but his (her?) convulsions of self defense were at least effective enough to prevent me from establishing a firm enough hold. "I'm trying to help you!" I shouted. "Why won't you let me help you?"

I finally got a clue and grabbed Elect Baby Skunk's tail. Game over! I gripped his (her?) body within the awkward mass of Ugly Brown Towel and lifted him (her?) up above my head triumphantly. I deposited the whole kit 'n kaboodle onto the grass, allowing Elect Baby Skunk to make his (her?) exit with dignity. He (she?) thrashed around in the Ugly Brown Towel for a couple seconds before emerging, guns drawn, surveying the territory around him (her?). "See?" I asked Elect Baby Skunk, "we just wanted to get you out of there."

Elect Baby Skunk decided to forego your standard Western customs of showing gratitude and instead made a beeline for the stone overhang directly next to the window well. He (she?) disappeared amidst the foliage between the deck and the overhang. "You've gotta be kidding me!" I shouted, the abject absurdity of the situation finally sinking into me. I took the two by four and inserted it below the overhang so as to form a barricade while Intern Andrew set up the plastic shield once again, this time placing it straight across the middle of the window well. When this defense had been erected, I placed the two by four alongside the shield, confident that Elect Baby Skunk wouldn't be able to fall back in that gloomy abyss again.

It was a harrowing day, made all the more ridiculous by the fact that Baby Skunk didn't seem particularly psyched to see any of us. But that night I went to bed knowing that my elect one had made it out okay, that he (she?) was out there, doing the stuff skunks do, probably having a blast, revelling in the ontological ecstasy of skunkdom. And I in my own awkward and inefficient way helped to make that a reality. Elect Baby Skunk was back with his (her?) clan once more. That was good enough for me.

I thought that the news of the successful prosecution of Operation: Elect Baby Skunk Redemption would elicit more applause at the Young Marrieds' Shindig that night, but cheers and accolades were muted. Jeremy and Henry burst into maniacal laughter and said, "I would've just killed it."

Deviants.



*Cooler name pending.
**Some might go so far as to say "the bomb diggity."
***Which might have been a bad idea because we all know what became of him...
****I know, I know: nerd.
*****Like that hasn't gotten people in trouble before.
******Yet obviously didn't cover enough...

Polonius- PWNed

I recently took a sabbatical from blogging for a trio of reasons: first, to mount a full-scale reading assault on Kevin Vanhoozer's Is There a Meaning in This Text? which represented a substantial allotment of cognitive dedication to say the least. Second, to ponder deeply the implications of media ecology upon any blog writing generally and mine particularly. Third, to establish significant breathing room between posts to allow thoughts to coalesce and mature. This point is really a subset of the second and a necessary consequence of taking that second point seriously and considering its ramifications.

Prior to the late 20th Century, the time between thinking a thought and publishing that thought (in any format- specifics are not of import at this point) was broader and allowed for dialogue between an author and his editor (acting as critic) as well as a thoughtful wrestling between the author and his or her text  before the text's submission to the reading world at large. This allows an author to reflect upon implications of her text, the illocutionary and perlocutionary force of passages within her text, the issue of whether she has shown responsible attentiveness to her sources, and a multitude of other such considerations which are often neglected in the world of instant publication and posting. My aim is to live with some of the ideas I'll be writing about for a season and grapple with all of the aforementioned issues by extending the time spent formulating the ideas I'll be dedicating to writing.

In light of this, my plan (if it can be dignified with that title) is to post less frequently but at greater length. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but let's face it: it's difficult to capture any idea and do it justice with less than 10,000 words. This doesn't mean I will never again post any snide machine gun strafings again (perish the thought!) but they will be few and far between, methinks. As with so many other things, we'll see how that pans out in real life, but after a thorough reflection I'm committed in head and heart to this methodology and excited to grow through the discipline it will require. Cheers!

The Fourth Will Be With You- Always or, "It's a Trap!"

If you were to stop and reflect upon Star Wars for any length of time (as I find myself so often doing), you'll realize that one the series' outstanding qualities is the peculiar fantasticity of its ensemble cast. Consider, for example, how greatly Return of the Jedi would suffer without Admiral Ackbar. You know- the fishy looking guy in the white suit with the huge black eyes coordinating the Rebel attack on the second Death Star. He's far from a primary character, but to expel him from the film would exponentially diminish the overall excellence of the saga's sixth installment. Admiral Ackbar owns that battle, and his mannerisms and dialogue are as key as Nien Nunb's (the Sallustan riding shotgun in the Millennium Falcon with Lando Calrissian).
Consider R2-D2 and C-3PO: hardly the stars of any of the films, but crucial nevertheless. No droids bailing for Tatooine in search of Obi Wan Kenobi = no Luke pwning the Death Star, ergo no Star Wars.

Chewbacca? None of his lines are even subtitled, but you know he's a massive force (no pun intended) in Episodes IV through VI. You know anyone else who can singlehandedly clear a room loaded with stormtroopers? True, you don't understand a word he's saying, but typically his tone conveys enough for you to get the picture.

And don't get me started on Wedge Antilles (possibly the finest fighter pilot in the galaxy after Anakin Skywalker!), Salacious Crumb (potentially the most annoying pet/creature/distraction thing to make Tatooine its home), IG-88 (robotic bounty hunter?), Boba Fett (only the coolest Mandalorian this side of the Ord Mantell!), Admiral Ozzel (who's as clumsy as he is stupid), Hobbie (Luke's not-so-lucky wingman on Hoth), R5-D4 (the malfunctioning droid who blows a fuse immediately after purchase by Uncle Lars), Admiral Needa (the one guy in the Imperial Navy who actually benefits from the fact that Darth Vader can force choke a dude from a Star Destroyer away), Jek Porkins (the unfortunately named first X-Wing pilot to bite the dust in A New Hope) and Roofoo! Who could forget Roofoo?

Roofoo: He doesn't like you.
Luke: I'm sorry.
Roofoo: I don't like you either. You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence on twelve systems.
Luke: I'll be careful then.
Roofoo: You'll be dead!

That show of bravado leads directly to his buddy's arm getting chopped off by Sir Alec Guinness. Good work, bro.

The Star Wars Saga offers us a modern epic couched in the timeless archetypes of humanity's legendarium brought to life with vivid characterization and epoch-defining special effects. But even these notable and worthy achievements would prove more modest without an ensemble cast capable of thrusting the viewer wholeheartedly into the wider world of the films. Their idiosyncrasies lend credence to the suspension of disbelief which the story invites the viewer to participate and revel in. Without these unsung heroes, Star Wars truly would rank only as silver rather than gold. Cheers, gents!

Flapping Jaws Should Be Outlawed

Blast. That doesn't quite rhyme, dunnit?

We suffer no lack of public intellectuals in our current era. To our collective dismay, a vast seething mass of them are more of the former than they are the latter. Media outlets aren't interested in reasoned opinions- only opinions, and the more puerile, the better. Sophisticated arguments are mosaics of intricately crafted logic, ornamented with sumptuous jewels of wisdom. The mosaic's sheen is honed through patience, discipline, and insight gathered through seasons of experiment, disappointment, and periodic success. Treasure these, endeavor to learn their methodology, and appropriate their understanding and let the winds scatter the chaff of foolish prattle.

My boy Carl Trueman is thinking along a parallel trajectory in his latest Reformation 21 piece http://www.reformation21.org/articles/the-price-of-everything.php. Ponder, truly ponder the last line: "After all, most of what goes on today in the name of earth-shattering paradigm shifts has no value, whatever the price tag." I love idealistic cynics! Don't hate the player- hate the game.

Reactionary Post #376, or "Fool of a Took! Throw Yourself in Next Time and Rid Us of Your Stupidity!"

The internet, as Carl Trueman noted fairly recently, is bandit country. It's a wild and lawless place where anyone can get away with virtually anything and all without getting their hands dirty. The internet is the haven of cowards who can summon wagonloads of bluster and bravado on a message board or in the comments section of any given page, but in all likelihood are spineless provocateurs who could not look you in the eye in a verbal exchange here in the real world. Only when the impenetrable armor of online anonymity is donned are these craven sons of Belial prepared to hurl cheap cracks and idiotic insults at their opponents. They are able to do this because the internet is a medium which demands no integrity nor even ability to exploit. The internet is a fitting home to the likes of nobodies such as the 15th Century sailor who hears the report of Columbus' discovery and retorts, "Anyone can find North America- just sail west." Or the hack who hears a Chuck Berry guitar solo in 1958 and boasts, "Anyone can do that- it's just an E pentatonic scale and some overdrive." (insert huff of braggadocio here)

If "anyone" can accomplish those things, then why didn't you do it? Why is it that you haven't accomplished anything significant? Why are you bemoaning the world's lack of appreciation for your copious talents and your paradigm-toppling, revolutionary proposals? Because you have none. And that's why your worthless opinings find a home on the internet. That's why you slink in the shadows of forums for fear of the scrutiny of critics you can put a face to and hear speaking as they respond to your garbage.

The internet is the enemy of disciplined, reasoned thought and discourse. The internet sets no bar, has no criteria to be satisfied to allow a person to utilize its facilities. No sign at the entrance saying, "You must be this tall to ride." No quality control maintaining rigorous standards for contributions being offered. You just sign on- therein is the sole condition for usage. The internet is as unencumbered as so much of our speech is and that's why pirates thrive in its murky depths; the internet's complete and utter lack of entry level requisites ensures the reign of qwerty terrorists as barbarian overlords of the anarchic wasteland they find ripe for the picking.

And ill-informed arguments posted in an instantaneous fit of blind passion as a response to other ill-informed arguments hardly help the cause- it really only digs the hole deeper and plunges us a little further down into the dark. Any defensive retort is usually 66% hurt feelings, 30% wounded pride, and 4% reasoned out argument*. Don't give buffoons the benefit of a soapbox by responding. Buffoonery is eradicated by severing the root- the humiliation both of contempt and of being ignored. Buffoonery does not recognize the legitimacy of strategic withdrawal- it only responds all the fiercer to those that respond in kind. Beat their swords into plowshares and unravel the very arena of their combat by refusing to give buffoons the time of day. They are not worthy of even a second's time. Shake the digital dust from your web-surfing sandals and invoke your anathema by refusing to recognize their right to communicate. Dialogue is not being sought here- only wounds. When their insignificant provocations fail to elicit the responses they desired, these weeds will wither and die in the obscurity and shame of their laptop-lit bedroom fortresses.

If tomorrow six billion people woke up (not at the same time, obviously- I am aware that time zones exist) and reconsidered the importance and impact of the internet upon their lives and said, "Eh... I can live without it," I would click my heels in a giddy fit of joy. Not only because implicit within this arrangement is the fact that Facebook would go down in flames (as it should) but because most of the world's population would be ridding themselves of a carcinogenic parasite that poses itself as an angel of light. There's literally nothing worth having on the internet you cannot obtain through another, better medium. Convenience does not equal worthiness- quite the opposite is so, I would argue strongly. So what if six million books are available online in .pdf form? The attention span the internet facilitates and nurtures guarantees that I won't finish one of them before I abandon my reading and endeavor to look at something that is a waste of time. The internet does not foster the virtue of deferred gratification. Impulse is the normative principle here in the sinkholes of the world wide web.

What a cheery post!

Now, after wading through the grime of all these negative assertions, here's the manifesto expressed positively:
Do real things with real people.
Read real books.
Talk face to face.
Write letters that take a few days to get somewhere.
Call people. And take the time to frame and formulate what you're going to say before you say it.
Grow in patience.
Embrace the truth that anything worth having is worth waiting for.

None of these things are being typed by one who has arrived. Truth be told, I am one of the most impatient people I know. And obviously there's the fact that I'm posting something on the internet about the lousiness of the internet. The irony is not lost on me, I assure you**. And I text message like a Viking berserker marauds coastal settlements! I appeal to you brethren because all of these things ought not so to be, in my own case most of all because I am the one making the appeal. Would that we put no stock in the flurries of binary soaring around us every second, tempting us with instant fulfillment of our appetites and strapping us with vanity's dead weight! Would instead that we grow in wisdom and humility with the means that guarantee accountability and restraint, the means that connect us vitally with those who have preceded us, the means that bridge our own experience in our time to the rich history that encompasses the majority of human experience, the universal story so similar to our own in all but the least pertinent of details. May we all awaken from the stupor of technological progress and its resulting discontent and by the grace of the triune God recapture the joy of living and worshiping within the unfolding drama of redemption by taking hold of reality and the significant once more!


*These numbers aren't hyperbole! This is a serious diatribe here- of course I would only cite concrete, objective data...
**But riddle me this: why would I fly to Zurich if I wanted to address the people of Mombasa?

Official Facebook Bummer #3,762

Why do businesses bother having Facebook accounts? Is it to bank in on the privilege of having fake digital friends? Is it a shameless grab at "relevance?" Or is something much more insidious afoot?

It's vexing to drive past an auto repair shop and see on its sign, "Friend us on Facebook." "Friend" Jiffy Lube?? What in the world-? Why would anyone waste precious nanoseconds of time checking their news feed for updates from Jiffy Lube, or any other retail outlet with a Facebook account? What status is enjoyed by knowing that Home Depot is in your friends list? What possible benefit is there to having Barnes and Noble as another icon when you peruse your online social empire?

I think it's deeply revealing that "friend" has become a verb. Clicking "Yes" on a prefabricated request form somehow instantaneously confers that status upon another. Shouldn't there perhaps be a "Hand shake" request, then maybe a four week trial run of perfunctory introductions and small talk to at least somewhat simulate the beginning stage of real life relationships? After these two conditions are met, you could make mixes for each other and if they're halfway tolerable to each party, that would cement the burgeoning friendship.

Part of me assumes that "friending" Big Lots will prove to be as glib and inauthentic as most Facebook dealings are and will represent little more than another silhouette to paint on the side of your plane or another notch to put in your belt. Two similar sounding words ring in unison- "voluminous" and "vacuous." Voluminous because probably the sole reason someone would pursue Jiffy Lube's "friendship" is to pile on yet another integer in a friends count, vacuous because the substance of that "friendship" simply must give some kind of insight into the person's understanding of what being someone's friend actually means.

I presume it's only a matter of time before the UN gets a Facebook, and in all likelihood the WWF and the CIA fill follow suit soon afterwards. At that time impersonal electronic masquerades will fully and finally clench online networking within its icy grip and extinguish every vestige of humanity from the world wide web. The internet will become a necropolis, a massive monument preserving the dead, a shrine to marvel at the splendor that was once a living entity, frozen forever in its final form and venerated.



Yes, the internet is a tool- but so is a hammer. We don't ever see anyone friending a hammer (and if we do, we lock them up because they're clearly cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs). Pet Rocks made more sense, because you actually possess the rock! (I'm not recommending you go buy a rock, but if you chuckle at the absurdity of that idea, ponder again the thrust of what I've been saying.) Jimmy Stewart's invisible 6' 3 1/2" tall rabbit buddy in "Harvey" is more logical! Go to Jiffy Lube, certainly, if the price is right and the service is above average, but for heaven's sake, don't "friend" them, unless you already make a habit of sending them letters and dropping by and seeing how everyone is doing.

And if you do do that... you're nuttier than a Pay Day bar and probably just straight up weird.

To close the "Harvey" loop I opened a few moments ago, I recall now a key line from the film that I should probably ponder a little more often: "Years ago, my mother used to say to me, she'd say: 'In this world, Elwood,' she always used to call me Elwood. 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh, so smart or oh, so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. And you can quote me."

Thank you, Jimmy Stewart. Give my regards to Clarence!

The Best Non-April Fool's April 1st

Two years ago this very day, I asked David Heesen for his daughter's hand in marriage at Eagle Inn here in Janesville. I met up with him almost immediately after work, slightly grungy from service at the Fleet, still reeking of tires in my awkward red Blain's polo, and sat across from him in an isolated booth where we could speak frankly.

I was thrilled and slightly terrified at more or less the same time. Our conversation had a certain surreal edge and felt like a waking dream in a way. My choice of French Onion soup as an appetizer strengthened his high regard for me, he said. He also opined that laughing at his jokes and having a broad vocabulary racked up numerous points as well. The talk turned more serious and I made plain to him that every ounce of my heart belonged to Kristin and to Kristin alone. We prayed together and he told me he would be proud to have me as a son-in-law.

Knowing him, there was still that slight twinge of panic in the (most) irrational part of my mind, What if this is a terrible April Fool's joke he's pulling? I probably would've spontaneously combusted if I heard him say that- thankfully he meant every word of it!

I almost can't believe that was two years ago. It feels so much more recent yet also seems to belong to a different timeline altogether. Much has changed since then as God has etched away at the dross of our being and continues sculpting us into the image of His Son, but my love for Kristin has not diminished in any way. It too will only grow more refined and more vibrant. My love for her and for God were really only in their infancy then but praise God, were enlarged beyond my feeble capacities at the time! May they never cease and may they eclipse someday even the immensity they have today.

Sanctify Them In The Truth; Your Word is Truth

In the emerging Emergent “conversation” (monologue?) the claim is advanced that the drawing back from “dogmatic” and “absolute” understandings of historical doctrines is a step in the right direction towards a “larger view of God.” The assertions and affirmations of historic creeds and confessions are said to be restrictive upon our engaging the nuances of living in a complex world. Doctrinal exactness is a hindrance towards humbly accepting that God is transcendent and beyond our infinitesimal ability to comprehend. In short, doctrine uncomfortably toes the line of arrogance in saying that I know x or know y. Relationship is stressed as the one thing of vital, fundamental importance, and, to be sure, relationship is key to fellowship with the God of Scripture, but the point must be made that relationship is only possible where propositions are known about the person with whom we have a relationship; Kevin DeYoung and Ted Kluck point out that “to know the Lord is to know Him through propositions” (Why We’re Not Emergent, 99). To be in relationship with someone it is imperative to know specific and true things about them. Propositional language is viewed by emergents as the dissection of Scripture into contrived categories that have no bearing upon relationship with the Living God.

Many emergent leaders therefore distance themselves from the concepts of “certainty” and “truth,” ostensibly as a motion of humility. “Certainty, for the emergent church, is the same as pinning down Jesus and summing up God, while uncertainty is a breath of fresh air” (Why We’re Not Emergent, 39). A false dichotomy is put in place: “You must know something omnisciently in order to know something truly” (Why We’re Not Emergent, 41). D. A. Carson shows how this thought process is self-refuting: “If the postmodern theologian knows that such certainty is impossible, he or she must know it certainly. But that means certain knowledge is possible after all” (Christ and Culture Revisited, 107).

The convergence of emergent opinion in light of these developments has led to the abandonment of orthodoxy as a governing body of doctrine established by the Bible. Orthopraxy is insisted to be a better term, as there are only practices that have been established throughout church history; dogmatic assertions of truth regarding God cannot be the Christian spiritual inheritance, many emergents say. There is detected the old push away from devotional analysis of special revelation to embrace instead experience as the guiding force for our lives. The experience of Jesus and the experience of worship will form the interpretative grid for all of our further experiences. This descends into a subjective spiral in which the authority becomes the individual and not an objective starting principle. Renee Descartes famously articulated the new beginning point of Western thought, cogito ergo sum: “I think, therefore I am.” In this formulation was the codifying of our natural, sinful inclination to establish ourselves as the authority governing our lives. In this we see the move away from a God-centered vision of reality and a descent into a self-centered universe where my thoughts and experiences form the ligaments of my worldview. Without an authority to measure my thoughts against, I have not advanced one iota- I have confined myself to the enslavement of my own experience. Without an external and dependable interpretative framework, our experiences dominate our understanding. Conversely, interpretation without external controls cannot yield truth. Unaided human reason cannot arrive at any legitimate, logical conclusion reflecting reality without an external reality or without a guide to funnel and direct the flows of our reason. When seen for what it truly is, this sort of thinking is in fact inconceivably arrogant in treating the human mind as a source of knowledge rather than as a channel for knowledge.

In a way, a person who professes Christianity but abandons the historically inherited, exegetically derived propositions regarding God, man, sin, and the like that we find in the Bible is sort of like me saying that I work at Menard's. Mind you, I work at Blain's Farm and Fleet* in our glorious Hardware department. But imagine if you will that I tell you that I work the opening shift at Super Menard's in the Hardware section, but I'm wearing a red Farm and Fleet workshirt, I'm parked in the Farm and Fleet parking lot, and I'm punching in my time card at Farm and Fleet at 4:00 p.m. right before I collect my check signed by Mr. Blain himself. Sure, I told you I'm a Menard's employee- but the data doesn't support that at all. Likewise, the emergent claim that relaxing a hold upon biblical propositions frees one to grow closer to God doesn't make any sense!

Sacrificing what is specific in Scripture is not equal to an enlarged view of God or to freeing Him from some confined, cramped box. The enlarged view of God stems from humbly accepting the whole counsel of God we find throughout His self-disclosure, the Bible, and humbly acknowledging our inability to capture the entirety of His being within our puny intellects. Affirm what He has revealed of His character, will, and works, and love it! But accept likewise that His ways are not our ways (Isaiah 55:8). Live, think and speak in accordance with all that God has disclosed and accept that the secret things belong to Him (Deuteronomy 29:29). D. A. Carson's words I think form an apt summation of where we go from here:

“So which shall we choose? Experience or truth? The left wing of an airplane, or the right? Love or integrity? Study or service? Evangelism or discipleship? The front wheels of a car, or the rear? Subjective knowledge or objective knowledge? Faith or obedience? Damn all false antitheses to hell, for they generate false gods, they perpetuate idols, they twist and distort our souls, they launch the church into violent pendulum swings whose oscillations succeed only in dividing brothers and sisters in Christ. The truth is that Jesus Christ is Lord of all—of the truth and of our experience. The Bible insists that we take every thought captive to make it obedient to Christ” (Becoming Conversant with the Emerging Church, 234).


*And you should all go there for your hardware needs!

February Showers Bring... March Flowers?

Entering the realm of politics is such a thorny tangle of competing motives. Making the decision process in coming to a particular stance all the more difficult is the distinct lack of biblical commands pertaining wholly and completely to government policy. Because of this, we are presented with a slippery slope when we are tasked with discerning the will of God and pursuing wisdom in the discharge of our civic duties because we, as humans, want black and white pronouncements on all things to relieve us of some of the burden of analytical thought. We would prefer sticking to some sort of schematic over prayerful consideration, meditation, and searching the Scriptures to arrive at a biblically informed conclusion. Blueprints are simple to trace our decisions from onto the graphs of our lives. Searching the revealed moral will of God takes more time, effort, and when you get down to it, humility, because we are admitting that we must rely upon the Lord for our wisdom.

So in light of this, it has to be concluded that there are some stances that are not in themselves unbiblical or wrong. I am loathe to write so topically, as it were, because I would prefer to focus less upon temporal realities and more upon eternal ones, but how often do I actually implement that in my life? It's an ideal worthy of commendation, but its emphasis can short circuit and turn into ignoring important things in the here and now. I'm thinking specifically of the proposal concerning state employees being scrutinized by many in Wisconsin right now. Emotions are running high, and I think that this knee-jerk emotionalism is one of the bigger issues for individuals to overcome in trying to discern how to reach a conclusion that is pleasing to God. I have a predisposition to knee-jerk reactions of one sort, and we have heard reactions from the opposite end of the spectrum, and all of us are wrong in that. Rampant emotionalism is not a vital ingredient in seeking and applying wisdom. More often than not, it's a "Road Closed" sign suddenly appearing on the route you're used to and your GPS isn't on hand.

I have a bad habit of fostering my dissatisfaction and disgust by seeking persons with similar temperaments and bad habits and together nursing our collective indignation and vitriol. I am too easily pleased with hosting my adult version of a pity party, but I'm spared some degree of shame by the knowledge that that is what human beings do. It's not right, but that's our natural inclination. If we were honest, that's one of the primary reasons we listen to talk radio and bait ourselves for outrage and scandal and all manner of bitterness, and we guzzle it down like a Gatorade after finishing the Tour de France- we love to indulge the chips on our shoulders and feel superior to others. The craziest part of this, I think, is that as we grow more frustrated and angry, we feel a proportionate sense of moral accomplishment for some reason. I mention this because of the sheer volume of rhetoric being volleyed to and fro, and I perceive little to no resulting edification in much of it.

When the Bible does not offer a proposition in the form of "Do this," or "Do not do this," one must examine carefully the motives of their actions, words, and thoughts and not stop at, "There's no direct command, so it's fine." Saying that is the failure to recognize that an action in and of itself may be acceptable but that the underlying condition of the heart may be sinful. You need look no further than some people's stances on music. I think everyone knows I like me some rock, but listening to rock music is not the lighthouse beckoning all into the freedom of electric guitars and away from the shoals of legalism. I could waste tons of hard-earned money which should go towards other things of more pressing importance and higher priority, or I could be listening to it as some infantile form of rebellion or take me back to a time in my life I should not be fondly recollecting and should rather be persevering away from. None of those things are good, and they mar the action which by itself wasn't a bad thing necessarily.

Very careful scrutiny must be made therefore to know why we're for or against such and such a proposal or bill or what have you. It may be the case that one person is for and one against and neither is sinning because the issue at hand is not specifically addressed in the Bible and their hearts are not harboring sin as the motivating force for their decision. In other words, I can't condemn someone against the proposal regarding state employees on the basis of their being against the proposal because we don't have a "Thou shalt not reduce the benefits of state employees" command. Where the aforementioned thorniness enters is in why I hold the stance I do. If I'm for it because I believe, "Teachers are entitled to fantastic benefits because... well, they just are!" that's wrong. If I'm against it because I'm thinking, "Now we have our chance to teach those teachers a lesson!" that's wrong. It has to come down to dealing with objective reality we all face, speaking solely in terms of facts gathered from that reality, and then trying to pursue a reasonable course of action that satisfies the preliminary condition. That's hard, but it does lead to far fewer shouting matches (which are just plain obnoxious and typically signal an unconscious white flag being raised).

So to reiterate (because this is applicable in countless ways), "Why do I want x?" is an examination of the heart which is essential towards responsible decision making for the believer. Owning a $100,000 car isn't wrong- it's a car. But if you ask, "Why do I want that $100,000 car?" and you find that you want to inject a sense of class into your suburban existence, be the pride of the neighborhood, and elicit a few envious looks from others, then you have pretty terrible reasons for sinking that much money into a hunk of metal and bolts. A hunk of metal doesn't stamp significance onto your file all of a sudden. All it does is get you around to where you have to go. And with a ride that sets you back $100,000 my guess is that you're not actually going to be using it that much versus if you just stuck with a Ford Focus* or something. This has been a lesson for me because I am so prone to both the "Everyone is entitled to my opinion" error and the self-nourished bitterness error. When Scripture speaks, we must listen and live accordingly. When Scripture is silent, we must put to death our sinful inclinations and seek the wisdom it does offer to guide us forward.

In other (happier!) news, Kristin and I became members of Morning Star yesterday and we couldn't be more thrilled! Thank you, MSBC for making us feel so welcome, for accepting us and for living out the gospel everyday!

*I promise that was not a burn on anyone with a Ford Focus!

Are you brain-dead? I'm not going in there with a Jedi!

In our interpretation of Scripture it is vital that we recognize cultural expressions and modes of behavior the authors engaged in and were familiar with, as that understanding gives shape and force to their words which modern English idioms and usages many times do not; "adoption" (huiothesia) and "brothers" (adelphoi) are two which have heightened impact when the implications of their first century definitions are applied. To know intellectually that we are a part of God's household is a fact we may affirm without a profound reshapening of the dimensions of our hearts; our affections may not be stimulated to the proper degree or direction if we do not examine the legal realities brought into being by the Roman system of adoption or understand the freedoms, inheritance, and change of status the term denotes. In like manner, the discussion of head coverings in 1 Corinthians 11 is informed by a study of the cultural background of the practice, and we can rightly conclude in light of this that the practice in and of itself is not systematized for believers but rather that the spirit which occasioned the practice (itself a cultural expression brought into existence by a number of other contributing factors particular to that culture) is to be continued. So ladies, you can put the bonnet back in the closet (unless you just really like your bonnet, in which case I should probably just stop talking about them*).

The holy kiss is another such practice. I'm all for that one staying discontinued, but Henry doesn't seem to share the vibe- he's surfing another wave altogether.

In all fairness, I egged him on, but in no way did I think he would so eagerly accept my challenge and lay one on my cheek. I believe I saw a streak of pride in his flagrant disregard for contemporary social mores (or maybe I only saw the childishness of my outburst, "I dare you, Henry!"), but I know for a fact that my heart seized in sudden, icy terror when I saw him rush my way, puckering up, and then I was en philemati hagio'ed into the dark corridors of oblivion.

I'd offer some sort of explanation for you why this incident took place Sunday afternoon, but I honestly can't remember.** Truth be told, this episode has many parallels with alleged alien abduction cases- I clearly remember seeing a vaguely humanoid figure, feeling paralyzed, and then coming to in a completely different location with only a fuzzy recollection of what had just transpired (in this case, the couch in Jeremy and Anouk's living room with The Phantom Menace going***). The first century church would have had no problem with this, I'm sure (given Paul's urging to "greet one another with a holy kiss"), but it still strikes me as a little bizarre.****

Henry- touche. The Laurel Wreath of Audacity is yours. You earned it.


*I know you're out there.
**I mean, aside from the obvious immaturity on both our parts. Besides that, I just don't know.
***...which only served to make it even more disorienting.
****Consider the source though, eh?

Pwnituri Te Salutant!

Something isn't right if I'm not getting pwned somehow; each month simply isn't complete without a random (and typically awkward) injury for me to sustain in the line of duty. Super Bowl XLV, besides offering a soul-searing rollercoaster ride of alternating euphoria and despondency, provided just that woe immediately following a general issue, joyful "Whoa!" After that second Packer touchdown in the first quarter, I leapt towards Shannon Brown for a testosterone-soaked triad of shouting incoherently, jumping up and down, and bear-hugging as per our (newly christened) custom.

It just can't end there though, can it?

Feeling strangely unfulfilled from the usual hijinks and following the prompting of the Spirit (unfortunately for me it was Team Spirit and not the Holy Spirit), I thought it best to pick up Shannon and his son Evan and shake them as if they were a vending machine stubbornly clinging to the bunched-up corner of a Swiss roll's wrapper I just paid forty cents for. Upon wrapping my arms around Shannon who was already holding Evan (two Browns with one stone!), I dug my feet into the carpet of his living room and issued forth a mighty, barbaric yawp and felt my heart fracture as the Laws of Nature morphed and amplified the Earth's gravitational force to thwart my celebration attempts. My back curved hideously farther and farther until I looked more like the St. Louis Gateway Arch than an intern, seeking in vain to apply maximum force via inertial  kinetics to launch Shannon into the atmosphere.

Shannon remained at his would-be launch platform, firmly rooted to the ground, still cheering and whooping. And I, laid low by vicious fortune (in unholy alliance with the weakest of the four fundamental interactions*), choked down my anguish of heart and proceeded to freak out at the unveiling of the newest Transformers 3 trailer. Pain ain't nothing but French bread when Optimus Prime is on offer, rocking Decepticons like a hurricane and wading through their ranks like a juggernaut. Sixty seconds of shimmering, cinematic grace showered down upon that gathering of football fans and lifted me out of the mire of my vertebral distress.

But after the majestic endorphin rush from Transformers crashed and burned, it was on; it was so on, as a matter of fact, that Donkey Kong rolled his eyes. And so, here I am recuperating at home, nursing my spine back to its former health and seeing to most of my textbook reading from bed, interspersed occasionally with a trip to the freezer to trade out a new icepack.

There may come a day far in the future when I stop getting pumped and performing spontaneous acts of exultation, but I think the day that Michael Bay stops by our apartment and admits that he has no idea what he's doing and needs me to start from scratch and draft scripts for a new trilogy of Transformer films will come first.**


*Electromagnetism, strong nuclear force, weak nuclear force, and gravitation y'all!
**Oh, if only...

Daze of Christmas Post, part the second

Finally- we can restore everyone's peace of mind and wrap up all the breaking news associated with December!

Friday, December 24th marked the gloriously anticipated Heesen/Zellmer/Olson Christmas Present Exchange we all had so long awaited. After coffee and bowls of the delight known as Marshmallow Maties, Kristin and I trekked eastward with Sarah and Ben back to West Allis and finished wrapping some presents at their newly-painted home. Half a vegetable tray later we disembarked for Steve and Laurie’s, where I proceeded to parallel park a little awkwardly due to the ice deposit forming along the curb directly along my lateral axis. It took a minute or two since I didn’t want to collide with the early development Everest taking residence there but as a result of my attempts to steer clear I kept coming out too far into the street. Enter Kristin (actually, she was there the entire time, but you know what I mean), offering her services in a rational manner to take a stab at docking operations. I gave her the con and, grabbing a batch of presents from the back seat, made my way to the sidewalk with Ben and Sarah to wait for Kristin and praise her parking ability. Instead, after one attempt to ease into the Free Parking Space of Doom, we watched (to various degrees amongst us) as she suddenly took off down the street, turned left, and disappeared into the hazy wintriness.

We three laughed uproariously at such a random turn of events, but the laughter subsided as the December chill crept into our coats and cast a frozen pall over our frames. We waited a few moments before reaching the conclusion that Kristin was going somewhere and it wasn’t where we were. We beat a retreat inside, theorizing over where she could be heading- back to their house to pick something up we had forgotten (presents? the other half of the veggie tray? her phone?) but we realized quickly that couldn’t be the case (their house was locked and they had the only key). Other theories were advanced, covering the mundane (maybe she went to get a loaf of bread?) to the fantastic (maybe she’s a sleeper agent, heard her activation word, and was on her way to prosecute a mission?) to the ludicrous (we were actually in an episode of Dallas and this was all just a dream).

We entered the house and happily greeted Steve, Laurie, Josiah, Jenna, Mom, Dad, and Mike, and immediately thereafter tried awkwardly to explain where Kristin was (“Um… you know, I’m not really sure right now…”). I gazed forlornly out the window, awaiting the sight of my beloved’s silhouette emblazoned upon the sun-soaked horizon. Silence engulfed my little corner of the house as I searched for a handle on the moment. After unsuccessfully trying to get a hold of her via phone four times, I heard the door open and at last she returned! All of our bizarre theories were offered and rebutted to the tune of riotous laughter. It turns out she was unsatisfied with the original parking spot and was attempting to carve out some real estate in another location, but the presence of so many one-way streets kept funneling her onwards until she was bottlenecked in unfamiliar territory.

Finally, we were all together! We had a grand old time sitting by the fire, passing around Jenna and listening to Josiah’s pronouncements of what type of vehicle we were.
“What am I, Josiah?”
“You’re a 747.”*
“What about Auntie Anna?”
“Auntie Anna is a hang glider.”
"And Uncle Ben?"
"Uncle Ben is a helicopter!"

Ah- from the mouths of babes…

After dinner we prepared for the glorious exchanging of presents, but first came the Heesen tradition of reading the Nativity account in Luke’s Gospel and singing “Silent Night.” As ever, it was a beautiful moment of recollecting as a family the coming into the world of the Son of God, but eruptions of a different vibe altogether made themselves known whenever Jenna would seize the string of tinsel cupped in my hand and shriek with hilarious glee. I don’t care how pious you are, it’s hard not to laugh during prayer when such a munchkin as her refuses to stop finding that funny!

After everyone’s suppressed laughter was fully released and purged from our systems, we got to the business of shredding open gifts, one present at a time going up in age and then cycling around to begin with A.J. and ascend through the years again. I had Mom as my secret recipient this past year and gave her a popcorn popper and a blind-friendly digital voice recorder. Anna had me, and amidst the Transformers-wrapped boxes (that in and of itself was too cool for words!) she offered my way was… an iPod? At long last my misconceived (and ill-defined) antipathy towards 21st Century music technology would have to come to an end. My former analog-purist self would cringe at how easily it died. The hundreds of cubic feet of torn apart wrapping paper obscured our lines of sight to one another and testified to everyone having scored some serious swag. All in all, it was a great Christmas Eve, and it was hard (as always) to say our goodbyes and swing the ol’ Conestoga wagon back home.

Kristin and I awoke the next morning and enjoyed our Christmas custom of imbibing sparkling grape juice. We savored our first draught of supple yet full-bodied Welch’s in our Christmas tree glasses and then opened our presents from each other. Kristin, completely unbeknownst to me, had ordered all six volumes of Matthew Henry’s Commentary on the Bible and kept it hush-hush until Christmas Day! Needless to say, I was struck simultaneously by schoolboy-ish glee and by the recognition of just how much thought went into her gift to me (it was literally exactly what I wanted!). In my stocking was a Brewers keychain (Phase 2 of my official conversion!), a Star Wars M&M dispenser (with a comedically scared-looking M&M!), and a Transformer with a Transformation difficulty of 0, which I proceeded to not know how to transform… maybe there really is something wrong with me! Kristin’s stocking was almost exclusively candy, which I regretted in light of how much cool stuff she had packed in mine. Next year I will overwhelm with her fantasticity** via her stocking gifts!

We watched A Muppet Christmas Carol and were blindsided by how devastating that film is emotionally! There’s a scene where Scrooge (portrayed brilliantly by Michael Caine) stands behind his former fiancée as she sings of how Scrooge once was and why she must leave him and how he won’t miss her at all before long. He begins to sing the last verse in harmony with her, but begins to weep and cannot continue as the enormity of what is happening seizes and overwhelms him with the despair of losing something so precious and knowing he will never have it again. Man… pwned! Whoever would have imagined that a Muppet movie would pack such a potent emotional punch?

Having drunk deep from the joys of Christmas morning with one another (and weep sufficiently at the Round 1 KO that was Muppet Christmas Carol), we took time to look our best for Christmas at my grandparents’ that after noon, which necessarily meant I had to shave my goatee (finally). As much as I enjoyed it during its brief time on planet Earth, I knew it had to go when I started finding crystallized remnants of soup from the day before or other such assorted and sundry items contained therein. If I may quote James, “Brethren, these things ought not so to be.” We spent the afternoon and part of the evening with my grandfolks, my sister, and both my mother and father; this doesn’t happen often, so it was especially pleasant to have grace and peace abounding at 2129 Mole Avenue that day. Grandma pulled out all the stops for dinner (which, anymore, is to be expected, so I need to find a new phrase to describe the unparalleled heights of eating epicness she concocted that day). Afterward, we communed with one another in the living room, miserable from too much food (except me, for the first time in literally years!), reminiscing on Christmases past.

Having had time for sufficient digestive processes to kick in to restore freedom of movement, we were able to stand up once again and thus exchanged presents. Kristin and I finally took my mom’s personal dislike of presents seriously this year (to her surprise and delight) and she was presented with new earrings Kristin had made especially for her. I was thrilled to open a toolbox complete with several tools from my grandparents and father, which I took to mean two things: first, I am officially recognized as the Man of the House complete with all subsequent rights and titles, and second, that it’s about time I stop asking to borrow theirs week in, week out when I’m trying to work on a project of some sort! It’s all right- I can take a hint!

My superiors at Farm & Starfleet don’t recognize December 26th as a holiday, and so I found myself closing the Hardlines area and helping approximately zero customers (none of whom actually existed). Time well spent! After about an hour of trolling around like a vulture waiting for a helpless creature to kick the bucket, looking for something to do, I received a text message from Kristin that Uncle Bob and Aunt Sandy (who previously were planning on visiting Janesville that week) were going to be in West Allis that night due to complications with their previously planned flight back to Texas. Because of the projected costs of a flight later in the week, they were opting instead to fly back the next morning, which meant that if we wanted to visit with them before they were history (or, as the French would say, histoire), we would have to go that night. This was especially pivotal for me, because I had not met them yet and had only heard stories of what they were like. I knew they were missionaries in Juarez, Mexico, but little beyond that. The verdict was in- we were going.

I finished work around a quarter after six (it always takes a little longer to kick everyone out of the store around the holiday season and convince them that yes, we really are closed- that’s why the lights are off***) and hurried home, changed into a different shirt and before you could say, “You may fire when ready, Gridley,”**** Kristin, Anna Banana and I were burning rubber for West Allis once more (as you can see, this seems happens a lot!). We made it in a time that would make Han Solo jealous***** and were able to spend the right of the night hanging out with them and learning valuable baby wisdom at their feet. Proverbially. When they hit the road that night, I like to think that they approved of me as Kristin’s husband. Or mostly, at least!

The next week was a much more subdued affair with more time spent lollygagging and enjoying the full measure of what winter break is. Kristin and I finally fashioned an office out of what was formerly our odd-and-ends room, loaded to the brim with desk parts and seas of books. Encouraged by Kristin’s patience with my obsessive-compulsive tendencies to turn where my books are into a museum, I made it through the process of clearing everything out of the room, putting together bookshelves, and cleaning it altogether top to bottom. At long last, I wouldn’t have to work on homework in the living room anymore, where the couch was beginning to conform to my backside a little too much! I type now from the office that Kristin, more than anyone, whittled out of a log of pure chaos.

I don’t know if that metaphor really worked…

I also had the chance to hang out with the Buzzmen (a.k.a. Joel) that week; he and Jared came over for a hilarious viewing of Home Alone 2 (rendered more hilarious by our Mystery Science Theater 3000-isms as we were watching it) on Tuesday, making that Joel’s second visit and Jared’s first. The next day, Joel, Justin, his girlfriend and I went sledding in Edgerton of all places (I didn’t know that “the most ultimate sledding shredding spot ever” Joel was talking up so much beforehand was there, I swear!) and we all got pwned. Joel and I did a lot of talking and caught up on a lot from the past couple of years. I am beyond grateful for our time spent that week reaffirming how close we truly are and how that’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

And so we were brought at last to that most hallowed of year end events... Well, the list is pretty short when you really consider it, but what I mean is, of course, New Year's Eve! Kristin and I made the trip up to West Allis (are you beginning to sense a pattern?) to have brunch with the Heesens and the Zellmers at an oh-so-choice pancake joint where I glutted myself on far too many delicious breakfast items. Later that evening we attempted to find some Cold Duck (our New Year's Eve sparkling grape juice of choice) but, to our dismay, Woodman's had none and Sentry was closed. Refusing to give a foothold to despair, we persevered in our mission to buy an unhealthy amount of soda for Phil and Deanna Pickering's party and counted our Cold Duck but loss toward the greater end of ushering in carbonated frolic and frenzy for our friends.****** We drove to the posh, upwardly mobile quarter of the west side where they own their palatial estate and proceeded to rip the old year a new one. There were a few less people at their party than last year which was, truth be told, kind of refreshing; with fewer randoms, there was better opportunity for more fruitful group discussions to take place amidst the hilarity of Travelling Pictionary, Wii Super Mario Bros. and yours truly trying to teach Stephen and Cameron's daughter Naomi how to say "chupacabra." As midnight struck, the Pickerings unveiled their finest vintage of sparkling grape juice (rendering everything right with the world) and we bid welcome to the new year as one.

The next day offered fellowship with Andy Steiner up in Madison which had been put off for far too long. We met up at Qdoba, the Mexican-ish dining stop of emperors, before going to Barnes and Noble for a Christmas book exchange coupled with running commentary on the non-existent quality of most young adult fiction these days. I bought Andy Knowing God by J. I. Packer, and he in turn gifted me with The Bondage of the Will by Martin Luther. What a bro!

Afterward we went to the home he is staying at in Sun Prairie and hung out, eventually watching Despicable Me. Well, most of us watched it, or at least most of it... I both punked out and passed out about an hour and some change into it and refused to awaken despite ample provocation from both Andy and Kristin in the form of pinching, tickling, and screaming. It seems that almost everytime I hang out with Mr. Steiner I end up falling asleep. This is not a negative assessment of the quality of his friendship; rather, I think he releases some form of narcotic agent from his sweat glands which I am more sensitive to than most and to which I yield after prolonged exposure. His departure for a meeting occasioned the need for me to finally get up and so we made our way back home to Janesville and resolved to just chill and recuperate from more fun than most human beings can withstand in doses of that size.

And there you have it. Here we are, in 2011, and the mission objective hasn't changed; if anything, the means to our end have become clearer as we work out the best ways to accomplish our goal of glorifying our Redeemer with the circumstances which have been granted to us. I'm excited for continued growth and maturation in Christ as well as its corollary: the freedom to glorify God in the enjoyment of Him as the all-satisfying object of worship. What could be better?


*I don't think he understands the basic premise of fat jokes, but sometimes you wonder...

**Another Ianism which should really be recognized officially as a word.

***You would think that that would follow logically, but you would be surprised at what a revelation that is to countless Farm and Fleet patrons.

****From the Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898, the first naval engagement of the Spanish-American War. Admiral George Dewey issued the now-famous phrase in his order to Captain Charles Vernon Gridley to begin the assault against the Spanish Pacific Fleet (which they pretty much pwned that day).

*****Han Solo famously made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. Sounds pretty impressive until you learn that a parsec is actually a measure of distance denoting "parallax of one arc second." It comes from the astronomical measurement of an imaginary right triangle measuring interstellar distances and equals just about 3.26 light years. It has nothing to do with measuring time. George Lucas famously refuses to admit that he got it wrong back in '77 and is still offering retcons to this day explaining how it makes sense. Just admit it, George... you didn't know what a parsec is! It's okay! It would be far more respectable if you just owned up to the fact that you thought it sounded cool as a bit of boastful dialogue back in the day. For real.

******Now that is alliteration.

Hot Off the Presses

                        Windmill Air Guitar in Shower
                             Injures Awkward Student

                Says He Didn't Think He Would Ever Be Victimized by Rock Theatrics

January 25, 2011
A stateline college student named Ian Olson says his recent foray into the shower brought him new insight into the words "Rock and roll."

"I rocked myself," Olson summarized, "and then I most definitely rolled."

The 26 year old is a freshman at Moody Bible Institute, taking classes online from his home in Janesville, Wisconsin. Olson has ambitions of pastoral ministry in the near future and accordingly began the arduous task of searching for the ideal bible college. Olson, you see, has stringent standards; when asked what criteria he considered prime in the selection of a college, one thing seemed to stand out above the rest. "They actually let me listen to righteous tunes there," Olson opined triumphantly, when asked what led him to his choice of college. "Dudes can shred all manner of gnarly noiseterpieces there, bro, for real! It's like Neil Peart being able to just let loose: buhl-le-duhl-luh-de-duh..."

What ensued seemed to be his best impression of a drummer with a gigantic, invisible drum kit performing a long fill with several rack toms and double bass drums represented by the kitchen table and his knees and thighs. Out of breath, and with sweat suddenly dripping from his awkward forelocks, Olson intoned, "You know, like his solo in "Limelight?" Come on! You know that one, right? Aw, man! Are you serious??!!"

Olson started his Tuesday morning by having coffee with his wife Kristin in the living room of the sumptuous apartment they share in the idyllic Never Never Land of southern Wisconsin. Olson was excited to be taking part in a panel discussion at Rock County Christian School that day and wore his heart on his sleeve by singing fragments of 70's hits in a peculiar (borderline obnoxious) falsetto as he drove his wife to work. Olson is a bass and has difficulty at times approximating the pitch of some popular recording artists and says he often has to resort to falsetto to sound anything like his musical heroes. "Straight up, a lot of these dudes just have it, man- you know? Ya boy doesn't. I'll say it. But I do have this wicked falsetto I can unload when the time is right, like a gunslinger. You know? High noon? OK Corral? Draw!" When asked how he knows "the time is right," Olson responded, "Well, pretty much all the time, 'cause even a tenor's a little too high for these rubber band vocal cords, you know what I'm saying?" He then proceeded to give a monologue in a Barry White-esque vocal styling this reporter would much rather forget.

Olson returned home and began compiling notes for the panel discussion. Ebullient at the sheer weight of his gatherings, Olson detected a foul aroma in the atmosphere and realized he should probably get in the shower sooner rather than later. Inserting a Lord of the Rings bookmark into his copy of Why Johnny Can't Preach, Olson selected his wardrobe for the afternoon with careful consideration ("Gotta look tight if you want the kids to really give a rip what you're saying, you know? And, I mean, that's just what I do, you know?") and finding the water set at the Goldilocks factor ("You know- just right, bro!") hopped in.

Olson says he felt a sense of euphoria upon getting his hair wet under the shower head and a "wicked awesome heavy song" began to cycle through his mind as he looked forward to what his day would hold. Olson became so excited, in fact, that normal mores of shower protocol went out the proverbial window and he began instead to mimic some raucous guitar tectonics. Humming loud enough that his neighbor at the end of the hall's dog began to bark, Olson devoted the entirety of his energies to headbanging and pretending to sweep-pick a jaw-dropping Neoclassical electric guitar solo.

Unfortunately, that precluded watching his foot placement.

Fully extending his right arm out above his head, Olson performed a windmill guitar strum by executing a complete 360 degree turn downward and counterclockwise. Proud of himself, he then pretended to lift the invisible guitar above his head to the cheers of his adoring (and invisible and inaudible) audience and stomping his right foot to the pulse of (non-existent) crash cymbals when suddenly he felt his footing give away. "I thought I was gonna roll my ankle, dude, totally. Wouldn't be the first time, either! Like when I went sledding last year- I thought I broke the thing! I punish my body, dude, for real. For real."

Olson slid backward toward the east wall of the shower, and cracking his right elbow against the tile let loose a barbaric, painful yawp. Struggling to regain balance and composure, he slipped once more toward the north wall, slamming his body against the surface of the well and bashing the inside of his right elbow against the wall-mounted basket his wife kept face wash and other assorted, sundry items in. "No joke, man, no joke- that killed. Like, that literally murdered me. I was alive, and then that basket murdered me. Like Jack the Ripper or something," Olson offered by way of analogy.

Olson halted the downward spiral of shower injuries by clutching at the shower head with his left hand and the north wall with his right and waited for the room to stop spinning. Soon afterward he exited the shower without bothering to get all of the shampoo out of his hair, and, happy to be alive, plopped down in the comfy chair in the living room and promptly did a massive drum fill.

Later in the evening, his wife inquired as to why there was a band-aid on his right arm. "I just said, 'Oh, you must have given blood today,'" Kristin Olson says, recollecting that night, "but he sheepishly muttered something under his breath and tried to drop it. After repeating three more times that I didn't catch what he had said, he gave me this convoluted epic of windmills and collapsing that is so dumb that it's either a complete fabrication and hoax or it is in fact exactly what happened. Knowing Ian, I would have to go with the latter."

Asked if his air guitar hijinks have taught him a lesson, Olson answered, "Yeah, right on- I think I need to wear shoes with better treads or something so I don't lose it and spill and look like a tool, you know? Or I don't know, maybe I need velcro feet or something. But I do know I need to get real and get balanced." Olson intends to carry on the spirit of rock in the shower, in the hallways of his home, on the sales floor of Farm and Fleet where he currently works, and eventually on the platform when he accepts his diploma at graduation. After consulting with several experts, Olson says he won't give in to fear but will instead try to recognize the pitfalls of air guitar theatrics in certain applications and environments and work to remain cognizant enough of his surroundings that he can determine if it is a safe enough setting to allow for rock action.

Indeed, good form

     Old Testament Survey, New Testament Survey, College Writing, the Church and Its Doctrines. All are classes I have begun my first semester with Moody, and all melodiously roll off the tongue to the tune of "O Fortuna."
     Not working when you try it? Maybe it's only in my head...
     I found myself skipping down the hallway yesterday, ebullient at the thought of beginning my college career and ecstatic over the reflection of past providences that God has accomplished for me and Kristin. I've also been doing a lot of windmill air guitar and high, falsetto Yeahhhhhhs as I go to the kitchen for a refill of H20 after a bout of classwork (come on, you do things like this, admit it!). My little Star Wars action figures and my Optimus Prime Mr. Potato Head* oversee my efforts from atop my desk as I type away and soak in textbook readings in our recently commissioned office. Having consulted e-mails from my professors and covered the syllabus for each of my courses, I've been diving into lectures and reading assignments and shifting gears once more into the reality of having homework! In my writing course, for instance, I have an essay due on Saturday in which I must keenly evoke the sights, smells, and sounds of my favorite place. That will be a shindig and a half! To be totally forthright though, I am a procrastinator at heart. Left to my own devices, I put off the necessary in favor of that which often is not in that moment essential; a thing, not being necessarily frivolous,** may be good but may not be the highest good I am called to at that time. I recognize my acute need for discipline- it is absolutely imperative and will translate to other spheres of my life as well, so please pray for the plentiful communication of grace that I may persevere in my studies and assignments and never lose track of what's most important.
     Speaking of which, it's time for lunch- time to pwn!

*I know it sounds weird, but... well, I guess it is kinda weird, now that you mention it.
**Though I've done plenty of that too!