Even though today was the last day of March, today's 82 degrees made for one of the best weather days St. Louis can ever expect: clear skies, beautiful sunlight, just slightly toasty in the afternoon, and just a slight chill in the night.
It was so nice today that my work team decided to hold its weekly meeting outside on an office patio, and then our bimonthly happy hour (just for our team) was outdoors as well, at a rooftop bistro.
And that might have been the end of today's outdoor activities except for a phone query from my daughter Amy: would I like to see the high school baseball team play tonight (in its only night game)? Her boyfriend is on the team and he had watched her during softball season. The game wasn't far from the office, and I've made a habit of watching more high school sports this year, partially because Amy has been in marching and pep bands, but also because I know a lot of these student athletes as Amy's contemporaries and have seen them literally grow up into young men and women.
So I headed south on the highway and eventually found the field: "Heine Meine Field." No kidding. I got there before Amy, who was getting a ride from her boyfriend's family. The teams were warming up but I could tell something was wrong: there were no umps.
Long story short, the umps arrived late, delayed by their previous game; Amy arrived, the game got underway and it was a tight contest. Our team took the early lead 2-0, fell behind 4-2, then tied it but fell behind again at 6-4 and tied it again at 6-6 in the sixth and penultimate inning. It had been a long day and I thought about leaving early but as long as the score was close I was going to stay. In the top of the 7th inning, our guys bust out with a huge rally taking the lead 12-6 and then holding their opponents to only one run for a final score of 12-7.
The numbers don't tell the whole story but the fact that I can rattle off the lead changes tells me two things: (1) I am obsessive about recalling the ebb and flow of any game; and (2) it's the small things that can make a difference, in baseball and in life.
I won't wax poetic about baseball -- so many have already done that so well, like Bart Giamatti and George Will. I will, however, liken the return of baseball season to Lent being the theological transformation of winter and dying to spring and living. This is the 'right time,' the time of energy and renewal, the time of hope. And even though there can be only one World Series champion, every fall/winter the other teams take their winter break and think/hope "wait til next year."
But tonight, the little things that mattered were between people, like reading between the lines of a book, play or dialogue. High school sports are more fun because as a spectator I am so much closer to the action (than at a pro game), plus I know the kids and the coaches/teachers. The skill level may pale in comparison to the pros, but the competition level is just as intense. Perhaps even more intense because these kids play for school and town pride, with (friendly) rivalries that are part of their identities. In the pros it seems like the competition is just there, a necessary by-product of filling the seats during the regular season and playoffs.
I wasn't looking for anything 'profound' during the game, but I noticed profundity nonetheless in the body language of the players and coaches, because I wasn't close enough to hear their chatter. The coaches reinforced good habits and corrected bad ones, in between at-bats and plays. There were so many instances of eye contact and demonstrating proper grip, stance and attitude, or even more impressively knowing glances serving as a shorthand of previous coaching lessons. I even saw the umpires doing it when explaining to our pitcher after he balked in a run; they were explaining what to do and what not to do with runners on base.
I heard it in the cheers from the parents and non-coach teachers in the crowd; the beauty of the inter-connectedness for all in attendance, in healthy competition against a neighboring team. So many relationships, so much mutual support.
I later learned more about tonight's rivalry; the opposing team won the league title last year. And then I discovered our team started five sophomores, plus there's some great talent on the JV team just waiting to get the opportunities on the Varsity Squad. Many are already talking about our chances in the playoff tournament which isn't too far away. The season is just starting and we're all abuzz because we have a clean slate and success is within the realm of possibility for all teams -- especially ours. It's a time of great hope.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Lent Day 36: Christ and the Recovering Adolescent
On Palm Sunday I was a bit out of sorts during the service, a bit disoriented because of everyone (not just worship leaders) processing (or is that proceeding?) into the Sanctuary/church.
Prior to that I was teaching youth group, something that I feel like I've been doing forever, not because it's something that I got to do, but because it's something that I get to do.
Within two weeks of my baptism at age 23, I was co-teaching the youth group at my church. The oldest students in that group were just six years younger than me, and all of them had a decade more experience in church life than me. It's not the sort of thing anyone plans, from the youth board's perspective or the newly baptized. It just happened, the sort of serendipity that the New Me has gotten used to, in a good way.
I don't really remember much about those early years of youth group, other than I was a ball of energy. I was excited and anxious about being 'responsible' for a group of young adults who were really not that much younger than me. The other thing I recall doing was mimicking what my favorite teachers did best: ask questions... open-ended questions. And because I was new to the church, I got to ask the teens what they thought and believed about almost anything, and in particular, why we say and do the things we do during worship service. I always got interesting answers, and often the tables were turned. I didn't always have the answers, but I always shared my thought process and then invited guest speakers to help provide answers to our persistent questions.
After about three years of that hectic pace I was feeling burnout. I discovered later that the average tenure for a youth worker is 18 months before burnout sets in. One Sunday I yelled across the church parking lot to Ed Schroeder about the Crossings classes I had heard about; soon after I enrolled in a class. It changed my life, helping me to more fully appreciate the meaning of my Baptism, to live in a way where the energy wasn't draining from me, but my energy was being replenished and renewed -- a qualitatively different kind of energy as well, coming from the Cross and the Resurrection. In short, there was a New Me.
I continued youth work for another decade until Noah came along. I could do the youth ministry while Amy was young and an only child, but with two young kids it was too much. I started again after Amy was confirmed -- the affirmation of her baptism -- and joined youth group.
I was a bit tentative the second time around because I felt that much of the 'success' in my first tour of duty was because I was unrelated to any of the youth. With some distance, the teens could be a bit more free in the discussions. But I found it didn't really matter. There's some adjustment because of the father-daughter relationship, but it's surprisingly pleasant to be able to talk about faith matters and other things in an adult way with my own daughter, especially in a group setting. It's definitely something I didn't expect and I savor every moment.
On Palm Sunday Amy wasn't at youth group because she was recovering from a weekend competition. I sort of groaned about getting up early and going because I had to do it. But the teens were marvelous, always full of energy even if much of it was grousing about waking up early on a weekend day (but hey, I felt the same way). As was the theme of the day I did everything out of pattern and sat in a different seat. I looked up and noticed a picture I rarely get to see: Poseidon from a beach, with the waves depicted as white stallions.
I mentioned how the painting reminded me of Percy Jackson and New Olympians: The Lightning Thief (because Percy is the son of -- spoiler alert -- Poseidon), and how I somewhat enjoyed the movie but after reading the book, hated the movie in solidarity with Noah's opinion. I then instinctively asked -- because it was clear we weren't going to stay on topic that day -- apart from the book to movie adaptation problem, why is it that it's easier to write books or make movies about gods other than the God we profess and confess each Sunday?
I actually wasn't prepared for the onslaught of opinions, but it was beautiful. I don't need to go into the details of the discussion, but it's safe to say we'll be revisiting this same theme later in the year. This is a wonderful phase of life these teens are going through: a time of questioning of the world, of themselves, of God, and reflecting on what these things mean to them and how to incorporate it into their daily lives.
It reminded me of when I led a Crossings weekend workshop and one of the participants, in introducing herself with name, congregation and job, described herself as a "'recovering adolescent' -- make that 'youth minister.'" I don't remember her name, but I laughed my head off at that comment and have stolen it and used it shamelessly ever since. I get to be with the youth of my church, be a recovering adolescent-in-Christ and I love every minute of it.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Prior to that I was teaching youth group, something that I feel like I've been doing forever, not because it's something that I got to do, but because it's something that I get to do.
Within two weeks of my baptism at age 23, I was co-teaching the youth group at my church. The oldest students in that group were just six years younger than me, and all of them had a decade more experience in church life than me. It's not the sort of thing anyone plans, from the youth board's perspective or the newly baptized. It just happened, the sort of serendipity that the New Me has gotten used to, in a good way.
I don't really remember much about those early years of youth group, other than I was a ball of energy. I was excited and anxious about being 'responsible' for a group of young adults who were really not that much younger than me. The other thing I recall doing was mimicking what my favorite teachers did best: ask questions... open-ended questions. And because I was new to the church, I got to ask the teens what they thought and believed about almost anything, and in particular, why we say and do the things we do during worship service. I always got interesting answers, and often the tables were turned. I didn't always have the answers, but I always shared my thought process and then invited guest speakers to help provide answers to our persistent questions.
After about three years of that hectic pace I was feeling burnout. I discovered later that the average tenure for a youth worker is 18 months before burnout sets in. One Sunday I yelled across the church parking lot to Ed Schroeder about the Crossings classes I had heard about; soon after I enrolled in a class. It changed my life, helping me to more fully appreciate the meaning of my Baptism, to live in a way where the energy wasn't draining from me, but my energy was being replenished and renewed -- a qualitatively different kind of energy as well, coming from the Cross and the Resurrection. In short, there was a New Me.
I continued youth work for another decade until Noah came along. I could do the youth ministry while Amy was young and an only child, but with two young kids it was too much. I started again after Amy was confirmed -- the affirmation of her baptism -- and joined youth group.
I was a bit tentative the second time around because I felt that much of the 'success' in my first tour of duty was because I was unrelated to any of the youth. With some distance, the teens could be a bit more free in the discussions. But I found it didn't really matter. There's some adjustment because of the father-daughter relationship, but it's surprisingly pleasant to be able to talk about faith matters and other things in an adult way with my own daughter, especially in a group setting. It's definitely something I didn't expect and I savor every moment.
On Palm Sunday Amy wasn't at youth group because she was recovering from a weekend competition. I sort of groaned about getting up early and going because I had to do it. But the teens were marvelous, always full of energy even if much of it was grousing about waking up early on a weekend day (but hey, I felt the same way). As was the theme of the day I did everything out of pattern and sat in a different seat. I looked up and noticed a picture I rarely get to see: Poseidon from a beach, with the waves depicted as white stallions.
I mentioned how the painting reminded me of Percy Jackson and New Olympians: The Lightning Thief (because Percy is the son of -- spoiler alert -- Poseidon), and how I somewhat enjoyed the movie but after reading the book, hated the movie in solidarity with Noah's opinion. I then instinctively asked -- because it was clear we weren't going to stay on topic that day -- apart from the book to movie adaptation problem, why is it that it's easier to write books or make movies about gods other than the God we profess and confess each Sunday?
I actually wasn't prepared for the onslaught of opinions, but it was beautiful. I don't need to go into the details of the discussion, but it's safe to say we'll be revisiting this same theme later in the year. This is a wonderful phase of life these teens are going through: a time of questioning of the world, of themselves, of God, and reflecting on what these things mean to them and how to incorporate it into their daily lives.
It reminded me of when I led a Crossings weekend workshop and one of the participants, in introducing herself with name, congregation and job, described herself as a "'recovering adolescent' -- make that 'youth minister.'" I don't remember her name, but I laughed my head off at that comment and have stolen it and used it shamelessly ever since. I get to be with the youth of my church, be a recovering adolescent-in-Christ and I love every minute of it.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Monday, March 29, 2010
Lent Day 35: Palm Monday and The Outsider
For several reasons, yesterday's Palm Sunday service reminded me greatly of the five years I attended mass/worship before I was baptized.
The kids were wiped out from our weekend trip (to participate in/see the Color Guard/Drum Line championships), and Denise spent the morning retrieving our dog from his first time ever being kenneled, which exhausted everyone. I went to church to lead the youth group discussion, and then settled in for late service without anyone else from my family.
The Sunday of The Passion (Palm Sunday) begins with a procession of the pastors, choir and members from one end of the building to the sanctuary (church building proper). We recall the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem, with cheers from people waving palm leaves. (I still can't figure out what today's equivalent would be: a ticker tape parade?) Usually the procession is from the back of the church and includes only those who lead the service (preside, assist, sing); the members are usually in the pews. But with everyone in the processional, it's a free-for-all regarding seats. By the time I had gotten seated I felt out of sorts. As much as I knew the people around me, I was out of my usual pattern.
The service itself is also unusual, but in a good way. The music is much more ornate, and there are many more readings. In fact, the entire Passion -- from Jesus' triumphant march into Jerusalem through his dying on the Cross -- is read aloud, with different folks reading the parts of Jesus, the disciples, Pilate, the thieves on the crosses alongside Jesus, and so on. And with so much being read aloud, there is no sermon.
Perhaps it was my being out of pattern or my fatigue (I had driven 600 miles in two days) or perhaps it's my Lenten discipline of minimizing audio noise -- everything about the service struck me deeper than in recent years. I listened, not just heard, all the words very carefully. I sang all the hymns much more intensely. And for all 'choreography' in the service -- the Cross that lead the procession, the Words of Institution spoken in preparing the bread and wine for Communion, all the movement that takes place in a service -- I locked in, almost like watching the action for the first time.
I've been asked why it took me five years to decide to get baptized, and I've never had a really good answer. It just didn't seem like I was ready until it was time, and yet I went almost weekly to some form of Christian worship. For the first two years I attended Catholic Mass, and indeed was almost baptized there. I studied the different parts of the worship liturgy, marveling at how everyone knew what to say or do at certain times during Mass. In taking one of the adult Christian education classes I had been preparing to baptized on Easter Vigil, the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
For the following three years I attended a Lutheran church, the very one I still attend today. I attended worship, intellectually observing the differences between a Protestant service and a Catholic Mass. I took the Lutheran adult Christian education class and for whatever reason felt more comfortable there. I don't why I felt that way, but I think I felt more comfortable or emboldened to ask questions. And I asked many questions about why pastors and worshipers say and do the things they say and do during the service. I asked the questions that an outsider would ask, one who felt confident enough to ask without being laughed at.
As much as I marveled at the rituals, I needed to understand why everyone performed them. Without knowing the underlying reasons, the gestures would be mere superstitions. I asked many questions and still remember most if not all of the answers. I tend to internally reinforce those lessons during worship service -- to always remember why I do the things I do, like during the Exchange of Peace, or how I respond while receiving Communion.
I don't know why I'm so obsessed about remembering "the why" underlying the rituals; perhaps it's the ultra-rational side of me that never wants to be accused of being superstitious. But there's part of me that always feels The Outsider, the person looking in where others are already accepted, forgiven and loved. Like part of me doesn't deserve to be there and share in the gifts of the church. Perhaps that's why I waited five long years to finally become baptized.
Maybe it took me that long to figure out that no one actually deserves these things, and that's why people go to church: to get something (good/Good) that they don't deserve. And that in the big picture we're all Outsiders, who are made Insiders by the very story that we'll hear throughout this Holy Week.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
The kids were wiped out from our weekend trip (to participate in/see the Color Guard/Drum Line championships), and Denise spent the morning retrieving our dog from his first time ever being kenneled, which exhausted everyone. I went to church to lead the youth group discussion, and then settled in for late service without anyone else from my family.
The Sunday of The Passion (Palm Sunday) begins with a procession of the pastors, choir and members from one end of the building to the sanctuary (church building proper). We recall the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem, with cheers from people waving palm leaves. (I still can't figure out what today's equivalent would be: a ticker tape parade?) Usually the procession is from the back of the church and includes only those who lead the service (preside, assist, sing); the members are usually in the pews. But with everyone in the processional, it's a free-for-all regarding seats. By the time I had gotten seated I felt out of sorts. As much as I knew the people around me, I was out of my usual pattern.
The service itself is also unusual, but in a good way. The music is much more ornate, and there are many more readings. In fact, the entire Passion -- from Jesus' triumphant march into Jerusalem through his dying on the Cross -- is read aloud, with different folks reading the parts of Jesus, the disciples, Pilate, the thieves on the crosses alongside Jesus, and so on. And with so much being read aloud, there is no sermon.
Perhaps it was my being out of pattern or my fatigue (I had driven 600 miles in two days) or perhaps it's my Lenten discipline of minimizing audio noise -- everything about the service struck me deeper than in recent years. I listened, not just heard, all the words very carefully. I sang all the hymns much more intensely. And for all 'choreography' in the service -- the Cross that lead the procession, the Words of Institution spoken in preparing the bread and wine for Communion, all the movement that takes place in a service -- I locked in, almost like watching the action for the first time.
I've been asked why it took me five years to decide to get baptized, and I've never had a really good answer. It just didn't seem like I was ready until it was time, and yet I went almost weekly to some form of Christian worship. For the first two years I attended Catholic Mass, and indeed was almost baptized there. I studied the different parts of the worship liturgy, marveling at how everyone knew what to say or do at certain times during Mass. In taking one of the adult Christian education classes I had been preparing to baptized on Easter Vigil, the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
For the following three years I attended a Lutheran church, the very one I still attend today. I attended worship, intellectually observing the differences between a Protestant service and a Catholic Mass. I took the Lutheran adult Christian education class and for whatever reason felt more comfortable there. I don't why I felt that way, but I think I felt more comfortable or emboldened to ask questions. And I asked many questions about why pastors and worshipers say and do the things they say and do during the service. I asked the questions that an outsider would ask, one who felt confident enough to ask without being laughed at.
As much as I marveled at the rituals, I needed to understand why everyone performed them. Without knowing the underlying reasons, the gestures would be mere superstitions. I asked many questions and still remember most if not all of the answers. I tend to internally reinforce those lessons during worship service -- to always remember why I do the things I do, like during the Exchange of Peace, or how I respond while receiving Communion.
I don't know why I'm so obsessed about remembering "the why" underlying the rituals; perhaps it's the ultra-rational side of me that never wants to be accused of being superstitious. But there's part of me that always feels The Outsider, the person looking in where others are already accepted, forgiven and loved. Like part of me doesn't deserve to be there and share in the gifts of the church. Perhaps that's why I waited five long years to finally become baptized.
Maybe it took me that long to figure out that no one actually deserves these things, and that's why people go to church: to get something (good/Good) that they don't deserve. And that in the big picture we're all Outsiders, who are made Insiders by the very story that we'll hear throughout this Holy Week.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Lent Day 34: Charlie Brown, Christmas and Crossings
Yesterday I wrote about how much "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is a significant part of my spiritual journey.
Because I'm heading back home to St. Louis today after having watched Amy compete in the Winter Color Guard and Drum Line Championships in Springfield, MO, I don't have much time to write. I'm dovetailing on yesterday's entry with something I wrote for the Crossings Community - an essay that talks about a slice of my life -- working in the financial services industry during the October 2008 market meltdown, crossed with the Luke version of the Christmas story, and brought together by Linus reciting Luke in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" special. The essay is called "Lucre, Linus and Luke -- Crossing the Current Financial Crises."
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Because I'm heading back home to St. Louis today after having watched Amy compete in the Winter Color Guard and Drum Line Championships in Springfield, MO, I don't have much time to write. I'm dovetailing on yesterday's entry with something I wrote for the Crossings Community - an essay that talks about a slice of my life -- working in the financial services industry during the October 2008 market meltdown, crossed with the Luke version of the Christmas story, and brought together by Linus reciting Luke in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" special. The essay is called "Lucre, Linus and Luke -- Crossing the Current Financial Crises."
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Friday, March 26, 2010
Lent Day 33: A Charlie Brown Christmas
A Christmas reference might be more relevant during Advent than Lent, but since this Lenten blog has shared not only Lenten reflections but also glimpses of my spiritual journey, the classic Charlie Brown Christmas special needs to make an appearance.
For many kids who grew up on television, Charlie Brown specials were an annual event. They were available only by watching on broadcast television, long before cable TV and VHS became mainstream, let alone DVDs and DVRs. "Must-see TV" to me back then meant watching movies like "The Wizard of Oz" or Christmas specials like "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." If you missed the one time it was shown that holiday season, you had to wait an entire year to have another opportunity.
Among all the Christmas specials, "Charlie Brown" stood out for me. In some ways that wasn't surprising because of all the newspaper comic strips, "Peanuts" was always special. I always used to read the comic strips in the order of personal favorites, from least to most favored (I still do actually). "Peanuts" always got to be the best, saved for last.
But "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was even more noteworthy. Even though I didn't grow up "in the church," I knew something was qualitatively different about it, because it was (and still is, I think) the only mainstream Christmas special that actually quoted Scripture. I didn't really understand or even come close to appreciating the full meaning of Luke's account of Christ's birth, as recited by Linus, but I knew that it was important. In the midst of bringing the comic strip to animated life, amongst the crazy vignettes of those lovable Peanuts characters caught up in over-commercialized yuletide madness and beautiful jazz music, Linus recites those precious words of Scripture over dead silence. There's no background music, no Foley artist adding sound effects. Just those important words, plain and simple.
Years later I've studied those words, the Lukan Christmas story, over and over again. Hearing Linus recite those words is now as much a part of spiritual journey as watching that Christmas special was part of my childhood.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
For many kids who grew up on television, Charlie Brown specials were an annual event. They were available only by watching on broadcast television, long before cable TV and VHS became mainstream, let alone DVDs and DVRs. "Must-see TV" to me back then meant watching movies like "The Wizard of Oz" or Christmas specials like "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." If you missed the one time it was shown that holiday season, you had to wait an entire year to have another opportunity.
Among all the Christmas specials, "Charlie Brown" stood out for me. In some ways that wasn't surprising because of all the newspaper comic strips, "Peanuts" was always special. I always used to read the comic strips in the order of personal favorites, from least to most favored (I still do actually). "Peanuts" always got to be the best, saved for last.
But "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was even more noteworthy. Even though I didn't grow up "in the church," I knew something was qualitatively different about it, because it was (and still is, I think) the only mainstream Christmas special that actually quoted Scripture. I didn't really understand or even come close to appreciating the full meaning of Luke's account of Christ's birth, as recited by Linus, but I knew that it was important. In the midst of bringing the comic strip to animated life, amongst the crazy vignettes of those lovable Peanuts characters caught up in over-commercialized yuletide madness and beautiful jazz music, Linus recites those precious words of Scripture over dead silence. There's no background music, no Foley artist adding sound effects. Just those important words, plain and simple.
Years later I've studied those words, the Lukan Christmas story, over and over again. Hearing Linus recite those words is now as much a part of spiritual journey as watching that Christmas special was part of my childhood.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Lent Day 32: Death Desensitized
As much as I love pop culture, my wife doesn't. Or more accurately she hates the excessive amount and intensity of violence in movies and on TV shows.
Maybe it's because I love watching and studying movies/TV and appreciate the creators' craft in portraying fantastic scenes, usually with lots of action and possibly injuries and death. I understand and know that the depictions are created; the beauty of this art form is that one can create on film a place that exists nowhere else, and may never have existed at all. I easily distinguish the portrayal from reality.
From her perspective she's worked in emergency rooms and done social work; graphic portrayals of those places in a show like ER or violence on crime shows make her queasy. She easily conflates the portrayal with reality.
I once tried to get her to watch HBO's Rome, but the graphic depiction of cavalier attitudes towards sex and violence, although only 4 minutes per 60 minute episode, marred the remaining 56 minutes of excellent drama. We do watch some shows with graphic violence, like Bones or Castle, where the main draw of the show are the relationships between the characters (mostly unresolved sexual tension), and the grisly stuff is just part of the 'case of the week.'
She also feels that the supersaturation of violence in pop culture correlates highly with violence in the real world. For years I've fought that notion, but as I grow older (and wiser?) I can't argue with it as much... especially in raising two children who are in their teens. It's one thing to watch a show with our son (12 years old) and strongly reinforce that the projected violence is just make-believe, there to entertain. It's another thing to discuss how in real life people would never do such things, and yet people actually do such things.
And then there's the death count. When I started this Lenten blog, it was about a friend's father's death and a discussion about death, dying and how to appreciate life more. With all the writing, I haven't watched as much TV or movies, so perhaps that helped reset my awareness and tolerance for depicted violence and death.
Last night I watched this week's episode of '24.' The show's premise, as groundbreaking as it was when it first burst onto the small screen years ago, is getting very long in the tooth and the series may end with this season. I was a late adapter, starting in the 5th season and watching previous seasons on DVD; I keep watching because I hope they can recapture greatness of seasons past, by adding just enough variation from previous seasons. And yet, for me the legacy of 24 was evident in Entertainment Weekly's 'body count' from a couple of years ago. Each week the magazine would update how many characters had died on the show during the emergencies that required 24 'real-time' hours of crisis management. What does it say about our culture when an entertainment magazine keeps a death toll? (I can't find a trace of 24's body count, but I did find a summer movie body count; equally disturbing.)
To grab and keep our attention, Hollywood creates bigger and deadlier menaces on screen, and death seems so trivial, and well, expected.
And even when death comes to major characters, they don't really stay dead very long, or they come back in some other form. It's not new to television or the movies -- literature and storytelling throughout the eons focus on cheating death -- and based on how much favorite actors garner big ratings or box office receipts, it totally makes sense.
But it really hit me when I took Noah to see Percy Jackson and the New Olympians: The Lightning Thief. Early in the movie, Percy and his mom are running away from a vaguely familiar (to those who studied Greek mythology) monster; how such a monster appears in the 'real world' of the movie up to that point is the first glimpse of the Olympians persisting in our world. (Or is it we who persist in their world?) Percy, who is later revealed as a demigod, vanquishes the monster -- a minotaur, but not before his mom is struck and disappears during the battle. I was actually shaken by that. I leaned over and asked Noah (who has read all the books), "did she die?" He paused, then whispered "well, I don't want to give it away."
MILD SPOILER ALERT... if you want to see the movie or read the book, stop reading this post...
His mom didn't die, or more accurately she went to Hades, and part of Percy's quest was to go there and bring her back. As in all juvenile fiction, there's a happy ending.
By the way, Noah hated the movie. He had waited anxiously for the first (and probably only) movie based on one of his favorite book series. He couldn't believe how much they changed the book to make the movie. I tried to be realistic and tell him to get used to it; movie adaptions of books will never please everybody. On his recommendation I read the first book and finished it last night. I'm just as mad as he is. The book is quite good, and the movie makes several inexplicable changes that neuter the clever updating of Olympians for our times.
But back to Noah's response: have we become so blase about death? That we automatically expect any fictional character to miraculously return to life, or somehow be able to communicate with us from the great beyond with such ease?
And how does that affect us when we're grieving over the loss of a loved one in real life? Do we compartmentalize that well? Does it ease our grieving or make an already difficult task even harder?
And at this point, I can't help thinking of one working definition of fear (from a Crossings class taken from my mentor Ed Schroeder):
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Maybe it's because I love watching and studying movies/TV and appreciate the creators' craft in portraying fantastic scenes, usually with lots of action and possibly injuries and death. I understand and know that the depictions are created; the beauty of this art form is that one can create on film a place that exists nowhere else, and may never have existed at all. I easily distinguish the portrayal from reality.
From her perspective she's worked in emergency rooms and done social work; graphic portrayals of those places in a show like ER or violence on crime shows make her queasy. She easily conflates the portrayal with reality.
I once tried to get her to watch HBO's Rome, but the graphic depiction of cavalier attitudes towards sex and violence, although only 4 minutes per 60 minute episode, marred the remaining 56 minutes of excellent drama. We do watch some shows with graphic violence, like Bones or Castle, where the main draw of the show are the relationships between the characters (mostly unresolved sexual tension), and the grisly stuff is just part of the 'case of the week.'
She also feels that the supersaturation of violence in pop culture correlates highly with violence in the real world. For years I've fought that notion, but as I grow older (and wiser?) I can't argue with it as much... especially in raising two children who are in their teens. It's one thing to watch a show with our son (12 years old) and strongly reinforce that the projected violence is just make-believe, there to entertain. It's another thing to discuss how in real life people would never do such things, and yet people actually do such things.
And then there's the death count. When I started this Lenten blog, it was about a friend's father's death and a discussion about death, dying and how to appreciate life more. With all the writing, I haven't watched as much TV or movies, so perhaps that helped reset my awareness and tolerance for depicted violence and death.
Last night I watched this week's episode of '24.' The show's premise, as groundbreaking as it was when it first burst onto the small screen years ago, is getting very long in the tooth and the series may end with this season. I was a late adapter, starting in the 5th season and watching previous seasons on DVD; I keep watching because I hope they can recapture greatness of seasons past, by adding just enough variation from previous seasons. And yet, for me the legacy of 24 was evident in Entertainment Weekly's 'body count' from a couple of years ago. Each week the magazine would update how many characters had died on the show during the emergencies that required 24 'real-time' hours of crisis management. What does it say about our culture when an entertainment magazine keeps a death toll? (I can't find a trace of 24's body count, but I did find a summer movie body count; equally disturbing.)
To grab and keep our attention, Hollywood creates bigger and deadlier menaces on screen, and death seems so trivial, and well, expected.
And even when death comes to major characters, they don't really stay dead very long, or they come back in some other form. It's not new to television or the movies -- literature and storytelling throughout the eons focus on cheating death -- and based on how much favorite actors garner big ratings or box office receipts, it totally makes sense.
But it really hit me when I took Noah to see Percy Jackson and the New Olympians: The Lightning Thief. Early in the movie, Percy and his mom are running away from a vaguely familiar (to those who studied Greek mythology) monster; how such a monster appears in the 'real world' of the movie up to that point is the first glimpse of the Olympians persisting in our world. (Or is it we who persist in their world?) Percy, who is later revealed as a demigod, vanquishes the monster -- a minotaur, but not before his mom is struck and disappears during the battle. I was actually shaken by that. I leaned over and asked Noah (who has read all the books), "did she die?" He paused, then whispered "well, I don't want to give it away."
MILD SPOILER ALERT... if you want to see the movie or read the book, stop reading this post...
His mom didn't die, or more accurately she went to Hades, and part of Percy's quest was to go there and bring her back. As in all juvenile fiction, there's a happy ending.
By the way, Noah hated the movie. He had waited anxiously for the first (and probably only) movie based on one of his favorite book series. He couldn't believe how much they changed the book to make the movie. I tried to be realistic and tell him to get used to it; movie adaptions of books will never please everybody. On his recommendation I read the first book and finished it last night. I'm just as mad as he is. The book is quite good, and the movie makes several inexplicable changes that neuter the clever updating of Olympians for our times.
But back to Noah's response: have we become so blase about death? That we automatically expect any fictional character to miraculously return to life, or somehow be able to communicate with us from the great beyond with such ease?
And how does that affect us when we're grieving over the loss of a loved one in real life? Do we compartmentalize that well? Does it ease our grieving or make an already difficult task even harder?
And at this point, I can't help thinking of one working definition of fear (from a Crossings class taken from my mentor Ed Schroeder):
Love and hate are not opposites; love and fear are opposites. The greatest fear stems from possibly losing what, or who, you love most.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Lent Day 31: "Lost" and "Earned Grace"
Few things get me jazzed up like a hearty discussion about pop culture. Case in point: last night's episode of the TV show Lost. I have a love/hate relationship with the show because it can be fantastically intriguing and other times I wonder if the creators have any idea what they're doing.
Ever since I read that the creators have two goals -- to create an entertaining hour of television every week even for those who've never seen the show, and to have all the episodes interlock in order to reward long-time viewers -- I've been more forgiving of the zigs and zags, and will wait until the series finale to pass judgment.
But last night's episode, with a title like Ab Aeterno ("from the beginning of time") and focusing on one of the best characters, the seemingly immortal Richard who shows no sign of aging no matter how far the other characters flash forward or backward in time, had lived up to all my expectations. Long story short, Richard, in trying to save his wife by negotiating with a greedy doctor for her medicine, accidentally killed him. While imprisoned he learned English by reading a English-language Bible. Soon after the priest, speaking in their native Spanish, explained that no amount of Bible reading would save him because murderers are destined to hell, Richard's life was bought by a ship captain who needed English speakers on their trip to the New World.
The ship crashed on The Island, the focal point of Lost, and we get to see Richard struggle with physical survival and eventually mourn the loss of his wife, the dear Isabella. Because it is The Island, Richard ends up reflecting on what he'd lost in life and what he would do (which was anything) to regain his lost treasure -- Isabella. And because it's Lost, he ends up as a ping pong ball between the two main timeless characters who have warred for ages: Jacob and Ethan.
Jacob and Ethan appear as demigods, or at least as master manipulators. There are still many secrets to learn in the seven remaining episodes. What's clear is that Jacob and Ethan are foes and use the people trapped on the island (throughout the centuries) as pawns. What's not clear is who is the good one, and who's bad. Is this some sort of God and Devil conflict? No one knows. But the themes of loss, remorse, sacrifice and redemption are universal, and it's all presented in an alluring manner.
What struck me most about the episode occurred when I read some commentary this morning from Mo Ryan of the Chicago Tribune. (She, Alan Sepinwall and David Bianculli are my favorite TV critics.) Mo is an avid fan and shares everything she loves and disdains about television -- my kind of critic. Mo likens the island to a Hellmouth, as in Buffy the Vampire Slayer Hellmouth (and that's a whole 'nother geek discussion for another day), and NOT Hell. She also empathizes with Richard's loss:
But that's the way the Old Me used to think... the Old Me prior to my baptism at age 23. But truthfully, even after my baptism I continued to think that way, until a few years later I took a class from my mentor, Ed Schroeder, in one of the Crossings classes. Those classes changed my life because they showed me how the Good News permeates my daily life. Not in some sort of academic way, but rather in a very tangible "how do I get through the day and the night kind of way."
Another time I'll go deeper into that personal history, but for now, I can sum up that those Crossings classes were my Confirmation -- or affirmation of my baptism -- lessons. (As an adult baptized there was no need to take a Confirmation class.) That's when I better understood what the "New Me" means. And the biggest distinction is that no one "earns grace." At least not from the Christian perspective.
This entire season of Lent will eventually lead to the Cross and then to the Resurrection. Most people in the world know of this story irrespective of their own beliefs. Most know that it was a pivotal event in human history, that it involves the execution of Jesus and the disappearance of a body. There's been much controversy over the main elements of the story and perhaps even more controversy in the recording and differences of interpretation of those events.
For me, the New Me, the main thing that matters is believing that Jesus died for me. And rose for me. And that in that belief, all the things that kill me (like the incredible stress at work today) are swapped on the Cross and in the Resurrection.
That's not really new; a lot of other people believe this as well. What was eye-opening to the new me was/is that I don't have to do anything to receive these gifts... except to believe, that is. I don't actually deserve any of this goodness. And I can't earn any of this goodness for myself. It is gift -- grace -- pure and simple.
It sounds simple, but it's not simple in practice. I think of all the people who have been generous to me over the years -- parents, other relatives, friends -- and I've been very blessed and am grateful. Grateful to the point where I always, that is ALWAYS, want to reciprocate. Even if it's not immediate, every act of kindness that I receive I immediately think of what can I do in the future to show my appreciation.
That's not a bad thing. If humans weren't hard-wired to reciprocate kindness and generosity I can't fathom how the species could have survived let alone thrived.
But to receive something, a gift -- grace -- without earning it and without deserving it and without reciprocating, that's challenging.
That's something the New Me responds to... every day, and especially during this Lenten season. And so I keep writing...
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Ever since I read that the creators have two goals -- to create an entertaining hour of television every week even for those who've never seen the show, and to have all the episodes interlock in order to reward long-time viewers -- I've been more forgiving of the zigs and zags, and will wait until the series finale to pass judgment.
But last night's episode, with a title like Ab Aeterno ("from the beginning of time") and focusing on one of the best characters, the seemingly immortal Richard who shows no sign of aging no matter how far the other characters flash forward or backward in time, had lived up to all my expectations. Long story short, Richard, in trying to save his wife by negotiating with a greedy doctor for her medicine, accidentally killed him. While imprisoned he learned English by reading a English-language Bible. Soon after the priest, speaking in their native Spanish, explained that no amount of Bible reading would save him because murderers are destined to hell, Richard's life was bought by a ship captain who needed English speakers on their trip to the New World.
The ship crashed on The Island, the focal point of Lost, and we get to see Richard struggle with physical survival and eventually mourn the loss of his wife, the dear Isabella. Because it is The Island, Richard ends up reflecting on what he'd lost in life and what he would do (which was anything) to regain his lost treasure -- Isabella. And because it's Lost, he ends up as a ping pong ball between the two main timeless characters who have warred for ages: Jacob and Ethan.
Jacob and Ethan appear as demigods, or at least as master manipulators. There are still many secrets to learn in the seven remaining episodes. What's clear is that Jacob and Ethan are foes and use the people trapped on the island (throughout the centuries) as pawns. What's not clear is who is the good one, and who's bad. Is this some sort of God and Devil conflict? No one knows. But the themes of loss, remorse, sacrifice and redemption are universal, and it's all presented in an alluring manner.
What struck me most about the episode occurred when I read some commentary this morning from Mo Ryan of the Chicago Tribune. (She, Alan Sepinwall and David Bianculli are my favorite TV critics.) Mo is an avid fan and shares everything she loves and disdains about television -- my kind of critic. Mo likens the island to a Hellmouth, as in Buffy the Vampire Slayer Hellmouth (and that's a whole 'nother geek discussion for another day), and NOT Hell. She also empathizes with Richard's loss:
Much of "Ab Aeterno" focused on the ideas of sin, forgiveness, grace, penance and absolution. And faith, obviously. Jacob made Richard ageless, but we found out that Richard wanted to stay alive forever so that he would not go to hell. The poor guy.When I got to the line, "If anyone has earned grace, it's him," I stopped in my tracks. In many ways it's not that noteworthy. We pretty much live our lives trying to be good, help others, make up for the bad things we do, or for the good things that we should have completed. After enough penance, we hope that we've compensated enough. We stockpile enough good stuff to make up for the bad stuff.
Whether or not the island is the actual Hell of his faith, hasn't Richard done enough penance? Hasn't he suffered enough? If anyone has earned grace, it's him. If anyone has had his faith tested, it's him -- he who thought his years on Earth were ultimately a waste of time. And what were his sins, really? He killed a man, accidentally, in order to get medicine for his wife. And then he spent several lifetimes working for a man who he thought was, ultimately, doing good things.
But that's the way the Old Me used to think... the Old Me prior to my baptism at age 23. But truthfully, even after my baptism I continued to think that way, until a few years later I took a class from my mentor, Ed Schroeder, in one of the Crossings classes. Those classes changed my life because they showed me how the Good News permeates my daily life. Not in some sort of academic way, but rather in a very tangible "how do I get through the day and the night kind of way."
Another time I'll go deeper into that personal history, but for now, I can sum up that those Crossings classes were my Confirmation -- or affirmation of my baptism -- lessons. (As an adult baptized there was no need to take a Confirmation class.) That's when I better understood what the "New Me" means. And the biggest distinction is that no one "earns grace." At least not from the Christian perspective.
This entire season of Lent will eventually lead to the Cross and then to the Resurrection. Most people in the world know of this story irrespective of their own beliefs. Most know that it was a pivotal event in human history, that it involves the execution of Jesus and the disappearance of a body. There's been much controversy over the main elements of the story and perhaps even more controversy in the recording and differences of interpretation of those events.
For me, the New Me, the main thing that matters is believing that Jesus died for me. And rose for me. And that in that belief, all the things that kill me (like the incredible stress at work today) are swapped on the Cross and in the Resurrection.
That's not really new; a lot of other people believe this as well. What was eye-opening to the new me was/is that I don't have to do anything to receive these gifts... except to believe, that is. I don't actually deserve any of this goodness. And I can't earn any of this goodness for myself. It is gift -- grace -- pure and simple.
It sounds simple, but it's not simple in practice. I think of all the people who have been generous to me over the years -- parents, other relatives, friends -- and I've been very blessed and am grateful. Grateful to the point where I always, that is ALWAYS, want to reciprocate. Even if it's not immediate, every act of kindness that I receive I immediately think of what can I do in the future to show my appreciation.
That's not a bad thing. If humans weren't hard-wired to reciprocate kindness and generosity I can't fathom how the species could have survived let alone thrived.
But to receive something, a gift -- grace -- without earning it and without deserving it and without reciprocating, that's challenging.
That's something the New Me responds to... every day, and especially during this Lenten season. And so I keep writing...
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
