“I believe that many who find that 'nothing happens' when they sit down, or kneel down, to a book of devotion, would find that the heart sings unbidden while they are working their way through a tough bit of theology with a pipe in their teeth and a pencil in their hand.”
C.S. Lewis - Introduction to "On the Incarnation" by St. Athanasius
11.30.08
Posted in Literature at 12:40 pm by Adam B.
I always enjoy reading books that I remember watching as cartoons or movies when I was a kid. It is fun to consider the differences between them and why those differences exist. The motion picture is a vastly different medium than print and, even with CG, there are somethings that just work better in writing (and vice-versa).
One element that is difficult to reproduce in film is the internal dialogue of the characters. Camera angles and facial expressions can go a long way to revealing a character’s internal state, but the detail pales in comparison to a three page internal conversation as a character wrestles with what is happening around them. This happens often in the Alice books as she wonders whether her change in size and haphazard memory might mean that she has suddenly become someone else. Children’s books seldom deal with personal identity crises, but this is a major theme in Wonderland albeit jettisoned by the film adaptations.
Both books were dreams and, overall, this didn’t work for me. Character’s would appear and disappear, scenes and scenery would inexplicably alter and, especially in Wonderland, there was almost no progression of story to speak of. Yes, she does chase the white rabbit, but when she finally catches up with him nothing really happens. Carroll constantly fills your mind with questions that drive the plot forward, but in the end he never answers them. And these are not life’s imponderable questions either. They are the types of questions an author could answer if he chose. Sometimes it felt like he delighted in tormenting the reader.
All that’s not to say that the books were not enjoyable. Carroll had a knack for word games and poking fun at the arbitrariness of language and etiquette. His portrayal of Alice, the young girl who thinks she knows what it means to be an adult, feels authentic and is never strained or cutesy. He weaves famous verse and nursery rhyme throughout the books (some of which he wrote himself, only to become classics later) adding to its classic appeal. It was clear that Carroll was both a lover of language and a critic of it, whether poetical, logical, or plain, and this love-hate relationship added fun and life to his works.
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11.26.08
Posted in Literature at 3:14 pm by Adam B.
The Idiot is the second book I have read by Dostoyevsky. This book is dialogue driven, at times confusing (in a good way), and insightful. To say that it does not rely heavily on action (swords fights, conquest… movement) would be an understatement. Part two (of four) in particular takes place almost entirely in one room around a man recovering from an illness. People come in and talk, they leave talking and then more people come in and discuss what had been talked about. Knowing how difficult dialouge can be, it was rather impressive. Then again, how much talking can one really take?
The book is set in Russia among mid-to-upper-class folk, their families and acquaintances. The culture felt very much like what you might find in Dickens or Austen. When I said the book was hard to follow it was usually due to the aristocratic subtleties of the characters that the author would not explain in the moment, instead leaving the reader (and the main character) to wonder what was going on. I often wondered whether or not I had missed an important detail, only to have the entire matter explained to me later. Usually it is clear when authors are leading you along like this, but Dostoyevsky did a good job keeping mysteries alive and in the front of your mind without if feeling like some authorial trick. Quite impressive.
The most disappointing part about this book was the ending. Having read Crime and Punishment I expected something grandiose and compelling, instead I was greeted with tragedy; and not the good tragedy either where two stupid love sick teens kill themselves. No, in this story bad things happen to characters you actually like. And they don’t get resolved. I could happily accept this if I could grasp some overarching meaning, but I will have to do some reading about the book before I can come to that. Crime and Punishment had a very clear purpose that was painted beautifully in the end. The Idiot was more troubling.
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11.19.08
Posted in Reflections at 4:28 pm by Adam B.
Imagine a world with no reprieve. A world without love, without the light of the church, a world with no hope. From birth children are raised on hatred and all they know is a life of abuse and malice. Those who survive this family torment bare deep and incurable scars on body and soul. As adults they enter the world of enterprise only to find greed, dishonesty and thievery at every turn. Maturity knows nothing of the increase of virtue but only an enlarged capacity to discover more vile and creative forms of deception and injury. The hunger for genuine love is never satisfied while instead they feed upon the poisonous love of self-interest and manipulation.
And nowhere can they find reprieve.
Imagine a world where there is no justice for the weak, no hope for the mistreated. Power is on the side of the oppressor. The strong wield their power like a scourge against any who cannot stand against them. Violence is the final arbiter, the judge who cannot be denied. Violence is the universal language all must speak to survive. Men of renown speak it with destructive eloquence, all who cannot master it are quickly silenced. The tears of the oppressed are ceaseless and bitter, and they have not comforter.
Imagine with me this world without hope; a world where the wise, if they could be found, have fled to the corners of the earth as if to jump off to escape this calamity. Every movement of the hearts of men are fear, lust and the longing for domination. Every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts are evil continually. There is no escape. There is no reprieve.
Imagine with me a world ripe for destruction. Imagine the world of Noah.
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11.17.08
Posted in Reflections at 4:47 pm by Adam B.
When I first started doing yo-yo shows in high school people would often ask, “Do you get nervous?” I would answer with an honest and definite “No” and I truly believed that was the case. People who have stage fright get antsy at the mere thought of people looking at them. “What if I screw up? What if I forget my lines? What if my breath smells?” When I answered “no” it was because I experienced no such anxiety. I still don’t. And yet…
Kevin and I started doing yo-yo programs in 10th grade. At the time there was no need to be nervous before a program because we were “the studs,” as we liked to call ourselves. In high school I was delightfully surprised by the positive response my peers brought to the yo-yo so I had confidence that our programs would be enjoyed as well. From every indication they were. And yet I consistantly got ill the week of any performance. At the time I didn’t even notice. We only had shows about once a month and whenever it happened I could never place the source of my anxiety, I would just get generally uneasy. I doubt I would have ever seen the correlation if my mother had not pointed it out. As I watched myself over time I saw the truth of her observation. If I had a show coming Wednesday I would have signifigant bowel discomfort Monday and Tuesday.
As I took note of this strange coincidence I tried to locate the source. Was I afraid of messing up? I didn’t think so. After all, I was the best yo-yoer I had ever seen. (I didn’t have this bubble burst for at least two more years). Was I afraid of being in front of people? Considering that I often went out of my way to be in front of people even without yo-in-hand I quickly disregarded the thought. But what could it be?
I recall these feelings now because, well, I still get nervous. After Roland joined the Yomen we streamlined and simplified our program to make it as good as possible with almost no preparation or setup at all. We increased our shows from once a month to a little over once a week. Our shows were no longer a novel experience for me. If there had been any subconscious fear of messing up or forgetting what I was doing this development took that possibility off the table. So why? I have now been doing these programs for almost 15 years. What is there to be anxious about?
I brought this up to my friend and neighbor Tarver during one of our regular “smoke chats”. (If he stays true to form he will never get to this part of the blog, having a rather rigorous personal blog-word-limit, so I can say anything about him I want.) Well this fool decided that it might be because I am a perfectionist. I told him he was wrong because I often deliberately leave small mistakes in things (mistakes no one else will notice) to prove to myself that I am not a perfectionist. His look told me, “you just incriminated yourself.” Upon further reflection I decided that if I had more discipline I would be a true perfectionist. I then decided I needed to be more disciplined. Even still, concerning our topic at hand, the show is already “perfect,” meaning, I am satisfied with its current state and am routinely happy with its results. Is it truly this longing for a better “perfect” that is causing me such grief? My internal jury is still out on this one.
So what is it? In the midst of my aguish I search my heart for a clue, but none is forthcoming. Sometimes, the day of a program, the weight is unbearable. As soon as it is over, as soon as it starts, I am light as a feather. Why? Is this an ungodly worry or a healthy fear before I address people in the name of the Holy One? Are those questions even relevant? Half my life I have had this unanswered question before me. In some ways it is very small thing, but the mystery is profound. It begs the question, how well does any man know himself. Even after a half-life of searching my soul, a mystery remains. How great is the mystery that is man, and how much greater is he who can pierce and divide the thought and intentions of the heart?
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11.10.08
Posted in Literature at 12:19 pm by Adam B.
The school bookstore just went out of business so Chrissy and I picked up a few books on sale. One was a collection of short stories by Tolstoy (think War and Peace). The first story, Family Happiness, was about a young upper-class Russian girl whose parents recently died. According to the introduction, Tolstoy was working on his ability to get inside the heads of his characters so he challenged himself by writing about a young girl on the verge of being married. I have to say, he nailed it! (Not that I believe myself to be an expert on the inner workings of young women’s minds. It read like the best of Jane Austin, and I consider her an expert on the subject.)
In this work he explored the meaning and experience of young love and how that transitions over the early years of marriage. I appreciated that his story did not conclude with a marriage, as so many of these types of stories do, but explored the first few years of marital bliss. (I always want to spell marital “martial”… I wonder what that means?) Since all stories need conflict the early years were not all bliss, but he did give the lovely couple three months of happiness before things started to come apart.
His take on love, forgiveness and regret were brilliant. Love is not all mushy mush, but some of that is fun and necessary indeed. As people mature their love cannot help but change, and it is useless trying to recapture what has been lost. Nevertheless, love can roll with life and make every season beautiful in its own way.
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11.05.08
Posted in Marriage at 3:54 pm by Adam B.
Five years after Chrissy and I were wed my sister decided to celebrate our anniversary by getting married. As the event was in my honor (surly you know I am joking by now) she decided to give me a few moments during the wedding to give a speech. Here is the manuscript I wrote to celebrate their union.
* * *
Often when we think about weddings we think of beautiful flowers and glorious colors, we see roses everywhere of pink and red and gold. And it is right for such an occasion to be marked by such overwhelming beauty. If we are lucky and blessed this is a once in a lifetime experience and is perhaps the pinnacle of human celebration and joy in all cultures in all places in the world, overshadowed only possibly by the birth of a child. Yes, such an occasion is rightly marked by such tokens of beauty.
In spite of this, the theme of this occasion is not a rose or a flower, but the spider plant; a common house plant who is not known for its flower. When we think of love we do not think of the spider plant, a rose perhaps, but not a spider plant. On valentines day we are willing to pay triple price for a bouquet of roses, but who would dare to offer a common houseplant to their beloved on such a day? And yet I dare to say that love has more in common with this humble plant than any rose, but not love as we often understand it.
I remember the first time I decided to buy flowers for my beloved. We had been married for three years at this point… don’t judge me… and I went to the only place I had ever been where they sold flowers, Kroger. As I looked I diligently compared the beauty to price ratio and finally settled on the best flowers my man eyes could discern. I set the potted flowers next to me in the car and I brought them home with a sense of pride, for I had bought them for no reason in particular and I knew that all women are impressed with flowers. So I set them in the house and waited for the ladies to see them. The first to come home was my mother. “Oh, you bought flowers. Very nice.” She had that look in her eyes and tone in your voice that said, “it was nice that you tried.” Didn’t she see that those are flowers. Perhaps I misread her. Next came my sister. After she took a look she said, “who bought these?” I identified myself. “Oh, they’re nice.” In her eyes and tone I sensed, “you should have brought me with you, stupid boy.” I didn’t know what went wrong. I decided to take a closer look. On further inspection I noticed that the flowers I had purchased were somewhat wilted. Not terribly, mind you, there was still plenty of nice color, but wilted none the less. To me it was still quite lovely, but to the eye that had been trained to discern the finer points of beauty these flowers were sadly lacking.
I think that is why many of us think of love as being something like a rose. Love, it is thought, is the highest, the most beautiful, of human sentiment. It is like that rare perfect rose that must be sought out among the thousands of lesser beauties. Love is perfect, glorious and hard to find and must be protected once it has been found. Yes, we think to ourselves, in so many ways love is like a perfect rose.
And yet the theme of this wedding is not a rose. It’s a house plant.
Anyone who has cared for a spider plant knows it is anything but delicate. It can survive in most any soil, endure neglect, and is not easily crushed. It is not the most beautiful of plants but is rather common in appearance. And such is love, when it is true. Instead of being rare and delicate true love is tenacious and enduring. If we were truly loving people we would find love not the most rare of gifts, but the most common, expressing itself in both the mundane and the exquisite elements of life. To decorate your house with roses would cost you a fortune a thousand times over, but from a single spider plant can grow enough love to fill many houses.
We set roses up in beautiful vases and place them in the center of the room for all to see. And yet, like the spider plant, the true ways of love are exercised not in front of the entire world, but in the common everyday places of our experience. You might find love abiding, taking in the sun, above the kitchen sink as dishes are done without fanfare or glory. You might find love sitting on the shelf of an office watching the work day go by year after year after year. Yes, you might place a rose as the center piece of the kitchen table for a day or two, but love continues to sit on the on the mantle over the fireplace watching life go by, day by day. This is where we place our houseplants that stick it out with us through the springs and the winters, they are the last things we pack up and the first things we get out when we move to a new home. They may or may not bloom during their lifetime, but they continue to grow and multiply and give joy as the years roll on.
Oh miserable man who thinks he has found love when his heart delights in some new beauty. You think that because your heart sings and and the cares of the world fly away you have found true love. You have fallen to the deception, the false hopes of the rose. Don’t you see that if you could find beauty in those things that are common, if you could find your joy in the spider plant you would carry it with you the rest of your life? Love does not need this exact soil, just the right amount of sun, and a perfect environment to bloom. No it fights its way to grow and endure despite any hardship. It does not bloom and then fade away but grows continually until it life is taken from it. Even though today we may appear with all the beauty and glory of the perfect rose before long all the petals will fall and we will find ourselves spending the rest of our lives with a houseplant. Will our love endure.
When I see a man like Jeremy working hard not just to hear the words of his woman but to understand them (Sometimes that’s hard work, I know), I know that I have beheld love. When I hear my sister speak of her man with full confidence and adoration in his being, I know that I have beheld love. These words I have prepared today are not for them alone but for all who are here. You see, this wedding has a second theme as well. The reception area is decorated in a kind of enchanted forest theme. I find this compelling because fantasy stories have a way revealing the beauty of common things so that we can see them anew. For those who have ever read fantasy books with fairies, elves, dwarfs and hobbits (I know this is not everyone’s cup of tea so allow me to explain) they always take place in a world free from ipods, machinery, computers, or cars. They are often set in the plains or in forests, albeit enchanted forests, and journeys are taken across mountains and water. Although these stories take us to another world, when we return we are suddenly reawakened to the beauty all around us, to the beauty found in common things like a steam, a forest, a plant. Suddenly these old things stir our imagination anew and they point to a higher world. If our eyes are able to see it every houseplant will speak to us the name of God and invite us into his presence. For in some ways heaven is like the fairy tales we hear, complete with all beauty and a happy ending. But as all fairy tales are difficult to believe God decided to make it easier for our hearts when he stepped through the pages of time into our own world as Christ was born in a common way two thousand years ago. In his life here on earth Christ pointed the way to the heavenly city and taught us how to make love more common among us. In his final days on earth he showed us the fullness of his love when he passed through death and came back to life to show us that, if we can believe it, he has a heavenly place for us as well. Yes, until the fantasy steps into our reality it is merely a story to us, just like any other story. But if we who have been touched by this love, and learned at feet of Jesus, if we can learn to love in common ways, in everyday places, we might just be able to inspire the imagination of others enough to begin to believe.
So I close with this blessing:
May your love will be like the spider plant, ever growing, never crushed, found in the everyday places of life. May your love inspire those around you to believe in the possibility, in the likelihood, of a higher love that is beyond our imagination.
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11.02.08
Posted in Literature, Uncategorized at 5:40 pm by Adam B.
It has been a few years since I read Ender’s Game and I thought I would give the series another chance. I didn’t really enjoy Ender’s Game but I was desperate for some new friend-recommended books that I could get my hands on without going to a library. This was the first to come across my desk.
For those who don’t know, Ender’s Shadow is about a character in Ender’s Game named Bean. This book tells the same story as Ender’s Game, just from Bean’s perspective.
I loved it!
The psychological journey of Ender was not so impressive to me, but Bean held me captive from the very start. Every character in this book was not only believable but sincerely cared for by Card. He knew them well and gave them ample opportunity to explore their personalities. Besides Bean, my favorite character was a nun that floated in and out of the story. Instead of using her as an opportunity to show some dark underbelly to the Catholic church Card wrote a beautiful character that was sincere in her faith and love for others while being savvy enough to function in the real world. Rarely have I seen such grace displayed in modern writing when dealing with a Christian character. All too often Christians are either two faced or idiots (or both), not real characters but a caricature of some Christians’ worst and most misunderstood qualities.
Bean’s personal journey from being defensive and self-centered to genuine trust and affection was brilliantly accomplished. I appreciated how he was misunderstood by those he cared for but was powerless to change their opinion of him. He was both great and incomplete in his heroism, for in the end he was never able to connect with people the way Ender always could. If I remember right, I didn’t care for Ender because he had an emotional insight into people that I found frustrating as a reader. Bean, who was also insightful but on a more intellectual plane, was more acceptable to my sensibilities.
It is hard to tell if I enjoyed this book more simply because I identified with the main character more, or because Card had really developed as a writer. I may need to go back and reread Ender’s Game to find out.
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