To a More Serious & Wild BitterSweetLife

About three years ago, this blog came into the world at an inauspicious computer terminal in a public library. Like many newborns, the blog began its life in a meandering, Thoreau-like fashion, posting nature photographs and musing about caterpillars. In its adolescent year, the blog flirted briefly and flippantly with pop culture (it meant nothing!) before deliberately incorporating some of the elements so ingrained in BitterSweetLife's current ethos: coffee, hoops, and a somewhat creative, experimental way of talking about unchanging, non-negotiable theology.

And so we arrive at birthday number three, and find a blog somewhat tested by time, a blog somewhat seasoned, a blog somewhat changed from what early subscribers knew, but only more sure of what it thinks is true.

Bittersweetness has been a constant thread over the last three years. Sometimes it was reveled in more consciously, thus appearing with greater hit-you-over-the-head obviousness. (If you're relatively new to the blog, you might want to check these classics: Bittersweet What? The Bittersweet Life Unpackaged The Terms of Bittersweetness) But it was always there.

At defining moments like this, it's typical to look back over your shoulder and reflect, and this is especially true when you're dealing in blog years, which count for about a dozen human ones. So then: blogging consistently for three years has not been easy. Some weeks I've had to discipline myself just to write something. Other times I've had to resist the temptation to stay up until 3 a.m. writing the Great American Blog Post. Then there's the times I've had to buy off Lindsay with chocolate and flowers just so she would let me blog that week. But this kind of thing is secondary.

Mostly, I want to write about Jesus and his Father and the Holy Spirit, and how they have changed the world and are still changing it. This is something I often struggle to do, and as a pastime, it's become more serious and more wild over the last three years.

More serious: because we're all struggling, fighting to the death, to live out our relationship to Jesus with endurance and poise. If we know him, this means believing in him even when it seems that he has pitted the entire shape of our past and future lives against us for purposes of sanctification. If we don't know him, this means trying to consistently live as if death is simply the end of a long, complicated chemical reaction and "love" and "tragedy" are small side effects that happen at various points in the sequence. Either way, it's serious.

More wild: because the more I think about God and repeatedly beg him to give me a look at his glory, even if it's in a rear view mirror, the more I realize that looking at God would be like trying to see the Atlantic through a pinhole. Jesus, the Father, the Spirit--they're a mountain range that dwarfs the universe. This world is a pebble on the way to the trailhead. Yes, God be praised, he's given us the Bible, so we know enough about his character and his ways to fall on our faces and worship. But even so, anything we can say about him will have a cursory, half-cocked feel to it. Our words will catch mere bits and pieces of his perfection. So I think that at the best of times, it takes a courageous wildness to attempt to say things about God, and I'm trying to cultivate that.

Where does this leave the blog? More free and more deliberate, I hope. Sometimes, in a tribute to God's fierce and uncivilized glory, I would like to rip off paragraph-long posts and slap them up without any feelings of guilt. And sometimes, in recognition of the crushing weightiness of God's perfection, I would like to craft painstaking pieces that glisten with intent, they have been so carefully polished. God needs slapdash sentences and premeditated prose, both. I'm trying to learn, because I want to point people to him. And so, all this with his help. Here's the year number four.

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Takes Time to Wear Off

I know all 12 of you readers have been nervously tracking the recent posts on this blog, noticing that there haven't actually been any, and wondering if I finally tanked like 99.4% of the world's aspiring bloggers. Now I'm here to tell you that you can breathe deep, eat that bar of dark Godiva chocolate you've been saving for a celebration, and rest assured that BitterSweetLife hasn't gone the way of the Kansas City Kings.

When the semester finally ground to a choking, gagging halt about ten days ago, I realized I needed to immediately activate a dramatic burnout-recovery plan. To get things started on the right foot, I attended my sister's wedding, a joyous occasion filled with out-of-town family and friends. (Actually, I would have attended the wedding even if there hadn't been therapeutic bonus side effects. But I did appreciate the timing.)

When the weekend was over, I quickly resumed my annual summer job as the nation's most theologically astute lawn care services provider. With the help of my theology-loving iPod, I began to immerse myself in lectures, messages and music that I wanted to listen to--and which were, in fact, immensely encouraging and of immediate use despite their not being academically accredited.

I also stopped drinking coffee for several days, started reading Tolstoy's 800-page novel, Anna Karenina in the evenings, and let prospective blog posts float slowly to the surface of my mind at an unregulated speed, without dangling any hooks or suctioning the pool for "new material." The result?

The demons of last semester are gradually being exorcised. In all probability, things around the blog will probably pick up over the next few weeks. If I get to play basketball in the next several days, you can move that time frame up accordingly.

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While I was mowing lawns today, I thought about running in Heaven. We will sprint on stable, unaching, unbreakable feet, no overpronation or supination, just simple, flawless running. Our perfect feet will pound the turf, straight up and down, the wind in our hair.

I tried to imagine what races will be like in Heaven. (Whether 10ks or 1000ks, there will be no marathons--the word will have no meaning in a world where muscles do not ache and oxygen does not burn the lungs.) All the running events will be races. The only pictures I could think of were of the mythic Greek Olympians, mortals and the occasional sons of gods competing in fierce and epic feats that you could only believe by calling them legends--but we will all be sons of God in Heaven.

I wonder who will win the races? I'm not a 6'5" Kenyan, but I've always been pretty fast, and I wonder what I could do with a millennium or so of training.

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For some time I've been inclined to think that a Christian should be able to look at the world with a smiling eye, but that the smile should not be the annoying, "chipper" type that seems to address pain and suffering with the wisdom of a two year old.

The Christian's smile should indicate, not that he is shallow and naive, but that in the deepest sense, he is in the know. In theory, this sounds good--and it's been my theory for some time, since a sense of adventure and a penchant for wonder are better, after all, then stylish jadedness, jadedness being not much fun after the first week--but sometimes the theory seems to be a theory searching for a basis.

So where does the Christian smile originate?

I think it comes from a realistic view of the ultimate shape of life. For the Christian, the greater part of reality has been explained. We still see "through a glass, darkly," and we don't know everything we would like to, but the huge, gaping questions in our hearts have mostly been answered. And building on what God has revealed to us, we can also say with confidence that Joy, not Pain, will triumph in the end.

There's no question that life is bittersweet, but invincible Joy will overcome all odds. Carried by the immortal, glorious, unkillable Christ, Joy will win out when earth expires--and the Christian knows this now.

That is why he smiles.

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We've fingered so many truths,
hoping they would lodge
in our heart's fine motor memory,
that we could be writing saintly libraries now
instead of wondering how not to hate
or rage or lust or rampage.

I wonder what it takes
for truth to sink down
through the skin of the cerebrum,
sink down to soul depths
and stay, not merely present,
but active.

And I suspect the answer:
Not more lectures and careful notes
but a life more haunted, willingly,
by the Holy Ghost.

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The semester is now officially over, my finals having ground to a halt like a bad '80s covers band taking an intermission. Around this time of year, after dismantling my exams, I always feel like I mistook my calling and should have pursued a career in the FBI or armed forces. This time, however, I walked away from the finals firefight thinking, with conviction, Whatever.

Is this the result of battle fatigue finally catching up with me? Or does it reflect more on the nature of the battles being fought? The latter, I'm sorry to say. This Spring's classes, with one exception, were not the kind that inspired heroic effort. Instead, they were the kind that caused general crankiness and a huge coffee dependency.

But they're over now.

My sister is getting married this weekend, so I now turn my thoughts to much, much, much happier things. Next week I'll start my summer job, which involves a lot of sweat and sunburns, but also provides a cool reservoir of time for contemplation, wherein I can splash, relax, and write stories in my head.

As the outdoors and the mental freedom kick in, there should be an accompanying increase in the vitality of this blog, I hope, which has languished some over the last couple months. We'll see. I'm in decompression mode now, and what with my sister's wedding, probably won't be around the computer for the next few days.

Have a good weekend.

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Bright Eyes' latest album, Cassadaga, has been out for a couple of weeks now, which means you can buy it now without looking like a feverish groupie. I love Conor Oberst's lyrics (if you swear that there's no truth, who cares/why do you say it like you're right?) and innovative folk rock, if not the angry politics that appear now and then. I'm hoping to pick up a copy to celebrate the demise of my final exams later this week.



1. On a slightly related note, I finally got around to listening to the iTunes free single of the week from about a month ago, "The Guide," by Borne, and promptly deleted it. In the course of the song, the new girlfriend wins the appellations: "angel, guiding light, Jesus, savior, all that is love." When idolatry becomes that blatant (not to mention soap-opera-esque) it ceases to be interesting. My idol-factory has advanced beyond that level. Give me a little more nuance, a little more sophistication, and then I'll identify.

2. On another slightly related note (finals make me less, not more, lucid), I was wondering--having just read the psalmist's take on vintage idols--what more evolved forms of idolatry will do to you. Now that I think about it, the fate of the idol worshiper is going to remain the same, even if the idol is living, breathing, feminine. Which is to say, even if your idol is human, you'll end up like the old-school, classic idols of the past--that is, with unseeing eyes, non-hearing ears, non-feeling hands. While it worked out in a spectacular way for the psalmist's parallelism, this threat is ominous for run-of-the-mill idolaters. Borne, are you listening?

OK, that's all for now.

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He Wants to Raise You From the Dead

When I was a teenager, I frequently asked God, “How could you let this happen to me?” Since then, I’ve learned a few things, like how to vary my diction. “God, what’s going on here?” “How come nothing’s working out right now?” “Why does my life suck so much?”

To which God replies, “Because I’ll do whatever it takes to make you grow.”

(Ah-ha moment: Hey! Maybe that’s why I have all these problems!)

I keep thinking that if we could just get this one truth, life would resolve itself into a beautiful mosaic and we would stop asking stupid questions like If God’s so smart, then why did he give me this ugly car?

(Hey! I know the answer! It’s because the world crumbled in the Garden and now God has to hurt us in order to heal us.)

Precisely, my self-referential friend. God has been placed in the unenviable position of carrying out open heart/reconstructive/brain/cosmetic-surgery on the entire world, and the world doesn’t know what’s going on. Also, the surgery is going on without anesthetic. No wonder we sometimes think God hates us and is trying to kill us.

In reality, he’s just trying to raise us from the dead.

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Part three of the Douglas Wilson vs. Christopher Hitchens debate is now up at CT. This Christianity vs. Atheism exchange is as enlightening as anything you could buy on the subject, not to mention very entertaining, as Wilson persists in capping off his arguments with metaphors and one-liners.

I am quite prepared to cheerfully grant (and not for the sake of the argument) that you are my intellectual superior. But our discussion is not about who has more horsepower under his intellectual hood—the point of discussion is whether your superior car is on the right road. A fast car can be a real detriment on a dark night when the bridge is out. And you insist on continuing to wear the sunglasses of atheism.

Go get it. And if you're coming to this debate late, here are the first two parts: 1 2

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They Lose Money

From a live eBay listing:

Product is brand new and unopened. Husband bought while wife was out of town and she bought it while she was gone to surprise him.

You can't make this stuff up. And you don't have to. Lindsay and I get each other the same gifts at least a couple times a year, it seems like.

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And that's assuming that Brandon Rush, as well as Julian Wright, is gone, says Bill Self.

Things tend to be OK when you have three all-star guards coming back, two of whom will play in The League.

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My younger brother Peter recently read The Screwtape Letters and then wrote a reverse-Screwtape-letter, that is, a letter from an angelic being to one of his agents. It is possible that Peter created this letter because he was inspired with irrepressible wonder at the thought of supernatural communiques being sent and received all around us, no less on the divine side than on the diabolical. It is also possible that this was the result of a school assignment. Whatever the case, the resulting combination of theology + imagination + Lewis + Peter is exactly the kind of thing I can't help linking. Here are a few lines from Screwtape Reversed:

If the mortals can be taught this truth that is so often hidden from them by Satan’s emissaries, that they have not done anything to deserve anything from Him, nor can they do anything that would instigate Him to give them anything, many battles we fight today for them would be easier. Unfortunately Satan constantly causes them to forget this reality and convinces them that they have done something to make Him love them. His love is unexplainable; it does not come from anything that anyone can do. He loves them when they fall, when they obey, when they are in His will, and when they are out of it.

You'll enjoy the whole thing.

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Aidan and I drove away to look for Mother's Day presents. We drove so fast that we only had time for one Waterdeep song on the way to the store.

At the store, we found a ball and some graham crackers. Then we found some Kenyan coffee and a nice Zinfandel.

Suddenly, we realized that we weren't really shopping for Lindsay, we were just projecting our own consumerist desires onto this opportunity called "Mother's Day." It was a sobering realization. We were so embarrassed that, with penitential bravado, we walked down the cosmetics aisle. Nothing really caught our eye, though, since the women on the packaging looked like Delilah dressed for prom night.

Finally, we settled on a live flower plant. No cut flowers for Lindsay, she deserves better! Aidan pointed out that a "Mum" is a lot like a "Mom," and that settled it. Furthermore, I pointed out that a "Miniature Mum" was pretty appropriate as well. Aidan chuckled.

After finding a couple accessories to compliment Mom's Mums, we stood in line to make our purchases. A middle-aged clerk tried to flirt with Aidan, but he quietly averted his gaze, pretending to smell the flowers. Nice dodge. Then my debit card cleared, and we were out of there, mission complete!

Another successful Mother's Day was literally in the bag.

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"Wisdom is in the presence of a man with understanding,” says the proverb, “but the eyes of a fool are on the ends of the earth.” The author is implying that the Fool could have a similarly intimate friendship with Wisdom if he could break the vicious cycle of his self-involvement.

If he would stop scanning billboards, checking out the women in passing cars, and skipping through radio channels looking for songs by Beyoncé, the Fool might notice that the truth about life was nearby—maybe even as near as the passenger seat. In other words, Wisdom is saying to the Fool, If you waste your days chasing fashions, getting drunk, and cultivating celebrity lusts, I won’t be held accountable for your pathetic end. Just so you know: I’ve been energetically trying to get your attention for the last 20 years.

This is bad news for fools.

And, without making unnecessary insinuations, it could also be bad news for us. Proverbs describes Wisdom like a companion who is always there, but unseen, the invisible friend who is really invisible (and inaudible) only because you ignore her. Isaiah describes something similar when he writes about a Voice who speaks from behind you, acting like a magical guide, saying, “This is the way, walk in it.”

I would like to have a Voice like this, backing me up, better than a combat expert, because only rarely do I face the prospect of a fist fight while I am constantly wondering what to do, which decision to make, at this particular stretch of minutes in my life. The thing is, though, Proverbs and Isaiah seem to be suggesting that Wisdom, this Voice, actually has my back as I speak. Apparently this is the kind of presence you stare at so long that you no longer see or hear it.

It gets worse. I think this was the kind of disability that Jesus was at such pains to heal, all the while hinting that if you couldn’t hear what he was saying when he spoke, couldn’t see the heart of his miracles, you were already a goner. “If you can hear what I’m saying, then hear me,” Jesus said. “If you can see what I’m doing, then, for God’s sake, see it.”

Fact 1: As Jesus walked through Galilee and Samaria and down the streets in Jerusalem, the truth about everything was staring those people in the face.
Fact 2: As indicated by Proverbs and Isaiah and the Gospels, the truth is still staring us in the face.

No arcane knowledge or smart ass intelligence is required to see it. Quite the opposite. As I think about it, the application shapes up this way: Fall on my face and pray to God to forgive my arrogance and fix my eyes and ears, fix my head, so I can see the terrible beauty of the created world and run to get in step with the music, the rattle and hum, of Christ’s advancing kingdom. My emerging definition of a fool: someone who stubbornly won't look at what is in front of him, for example, in Jeremiah 29:11.

We all know more about the shape of this world than we let on. Most of us have a better avenue into the heart of Wisdom than our lives imply. And Christ, the Wisdom of the universe, the Oracle graciously revealed in a startling book, is standing at our shoulders, waiting.

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Walker Percy's Lost in the Cosmos is a book that almost defies description. The L.A. Times Book Review called it "a mock self-help book designed not to help but to provoke; a chapbook to inveigle us into thinking about who we are and how we got into this mess." I can't really improve on that, and I particularly like the fact that the reviewer said "inveigle," which is good for an honorary membership in the Vocabulary Reclamation Project. I would only add that, however deliberately elusive Percy is--you feel as if he's hunting you, circling your personality like a tiger, assessing its vulnerabilities--his insight into the vacuity of the human soul is scalpel-sharp, perhaps frightening.

I say this only to introduce a quote that I found on page 147.

The painter and the sculptor are the Catholics of art, the writer is the Protestant. The former have the sacramentals, the concrete intermediaries between themselves and creation--the paint, the brushes, the fruit, the bowl, the table, the model, the mountain, the handling and muscling of clay. The writer is the Protestant. He works along in a room as bare as a Quaker meeting house with nothing between him and his art but a Scripto pencil, like God's finger touching Adam. It is harder on the nerves.

Immediately following this paragraph is a brief explanatory section titled, WHY WRITERS DRINK. It's enough to make you stop reading and lean back in bed, staring at the ceiling, for at least five minutes.

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The second round of the Douglas Wilson/Christopher Hitchens debate is up at Christianity Today. Wilson lands a blow:

So I am not saying you have to believe in the supernatural in order to live as a responsible citizen. I am saying you have to believe in the supernatural in order to be able to give a rational and coherent account of why you believe yourself obligated to live this way. In order to prove me wrong here, you must do more than employ words like "casuistry" or "evasions"—you simply need to provide that rational account. Given atheism, objective morality follows … how?

Highly recommended.

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