Remember these words, “I’m very disappointed in you”? When a parent let that sentence roll from their mouths it made you beg for corporal punishment. “No, wait, I’m going to run outside and cut my own willow switch. I’ll mow the lawn using only a scissors. Anything. Just please, don’t be disappointed in me.” But the words were spoken and disappointment loomed for a day or a weekend, sometimes longer.
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What we believe about life after death shapes what we do with the life we’re allotted before death. N.T. Wright, one of the world’s most recognized biblical scholars, takes his readers on a journey of hope. Not only does Wright deftly contend for the historical resurrection of Jesus, but he demonstrates that Jesus’ message and the hope of the early church was also resurrection.
Bishop Wright asserts that it is God’s intention to restore his good creation,
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I must admit, I am a U2 junkie. Joshua Tree was the first rock-n-roll album I owned, and to this day it continues to be the best album I own. Having been hooked on U2 since childhood, I anticipate each new album as if I am getting a new puppy.
No Line on the Horizon has everything you’ve come to expect from U2. Every track has enough signature U2 sound and feel to ground long-time fans, but the album as a whole is a sonic tapestry.
Fans have come to expect poignant lyrics from Bono, the part time activist for grace and peace and debt forgiveness. Check. We’ve come to expect Edge’s simple triads that continue to sound new and brilliant. Check. As for the rhythm section: we know that Adam Clayton will provide an interesting heartbeat and the steady drums of Larry Mullins Jr. will fade into the background and then WHAM! wake you up as if from a dream about falling off a cliff. Check and Check.
The wonder of No Line on the Horizon is in the production. Moving from track to track reminds me of reading a collection of Flannery O’Connor stories in the hands of Brian Eno, Steve Lillywhite, a little help from Will.i.am, but most notably Daniel Lanois. In addition to production, Lanois collaborated with the band on both lyrics and music. If you are unfamiliar with the work of Daniel Lanois, let me bring you up to speed. If the Pope listened to rock-n-roll, he would issue an edict demanding that the world listen to his work before arriving at mass. He is a deep spiritual fount of music. Lanois’ fingerprints are all over this record.
As with How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb‘s first single – Vertigo, the most avoidable song on No Line happens to be it’s first single. Get On Your Boots is, well, a bit awkward, while being radio-friendly. If you don’t enjoy thinking about lyrics please download that new Brittney Spear’s single, something about seeking Amy. However if you are a person who depends upon music to bring moments of transcendence, buy this album now.
The refrain in the final track, Cedars of Lebanon, implores, “Return the call from home.” While I doubt the band’s goal was to stimulate blog responses on the websites of self-indulgent reviewers like myself, please take a second to let me know what you think of the album. Return the call from ReamofPaper…
She moved to town in the middle of the school year. I don’t know why. You always invent stories to fill in the blanks. Her mom had probably just left her dad, forcing her to move in with her grandparents. Maybe her dad had just gotten a job in the iron mines. One of the two I suppose, but I never asked. It was October or early November, about the worst time you could go to a new school. All of the other new kids had enough time to make friends and become regular kids. If you go to a new school in the middle of the year, you’ll never, ever really have any friends. She left the school with as many friends as she had when she entered it.
Mr. Carlson introduced her in my fourth hour science class. You know how this is done. Everyone has to say their name and one thing interesting about themselves. “My name is Pete and I have a three-wheeler.” It was the best I could do on short notice. Owning a three-wheeler is not interesting, but in eight grade it was all I had. She said her name was Sharon. I suspect most fourteen year-old Sharons wish their names were frillier and more exciting, something with a curly-que on the end or an “i” you could dot with a potential heart.
“I am a dancer. I’ve been studying dance for ten years.” She spoke properly, something the rest of us only did in English class, sixth period. I pegged her for a liar right there. I don’t know much about dancing or dancers, but I know that they are supposed to be prettier than Sharon Schwartz, and they’re not supposed to have fat bellies. And everyone knows that liars speak proper English especially when they’re lying. I wanted to stand on my chair and ask her about 4-H. “You might raise lop-eared bunnies, but don’t expect me to believe you’re a dancer!” was the line I managed to swallow.
Sharon always tried to talk to me in the halls. I guess she didn’t realize that I was quite advanced in the junior high social scene. “Hi, Pete.” I ignored her when I was with my friends. I gave her head nods and then looked away. I am not rude; I’m Minnesotan. She was not deterred, so I despised her all the more.
“Did you get your science homework done, Pete?” she asked as she examined my pimpled face.
“Course,” then I resumed my silence while she continued to stare at me. This is something else liars do; they stare at you. Liars know that other liars don’t make eye contact. So the good ones stare into your eyes to make you believe that they’re telling the truth. They stare at you with their gray eyes that sit underneath their straight brown, lifeless bangs. And they just go on lying.
She talked to me so persistently I really couldn’t continue to ignore her. So I said, “You’re probably the only dancer on the iron range. You in classes or something?”
“I used to study in Minneapolis,” I hated that she always talked about dancing as “studying,” but the idea of her “studying dance” did seem more believable to me, with her huge butt and all. “There aren’t any dance schools in town, yet,” she told me as if I were a person of empathy. I nodded again. “I’m going to dance at the eighth grade talent show before Christmas break.”
“Bet you don’t.”
I don’t know why I said that. It was the beginning of my escalating stupidity. I tried to backpedal but instead I called her a liar. I’ve said so-and-so is a liar behind so-and-so’s back, but I’ve never called someone a liar to their face. Only Sharon Schwartz, and just the one time. I didn’t realize it when I called her a liar, but I had just committed to a whole month of conversation about Sharon’s dance; a whole month of attempting to ignore the details she spewed out as she latched onto me on the way to class. Classes we didn’t even share. I issued the bet, and in so doing, I automatically lost.
“I got new toe shoes. I found a new piece of music. It goes like this: dum de de dedumdum. Have you ever heard any Russian composers?” You see, I lost! Blah, blah! “Shut up, Sharon Schwartz, you liar,” I thought, but could never bring myself to speak in such a manner.
So the day before Christmas break arrives, and sure enough, her name is on the list: Sharon Schwartz – dance. I’m thinking about how much BS this whole thing is, and kind of wishing I had some talent to perform. I decide to pacify myself thinking about how much everyone else sucks at their talent anyways. A pianist was supposed to accompany Jason, a tuba player, but the pianist bailed. Jason plays anyways. And he sucks. There’s a low E whole note. Rest. Rest. Two quarter notes. A whole rest punctuated by Jason tapping his foot. This might go on forever, I thought.
Then she came out and stood in the center of the stage, an upside-down pink, kettle stove. The music began and the kettle stove glided across the stage. She twirled on her toes. She leaped into the air, much higher than I expected she could. She landed about how I imagined. For two straight minutes she flittered between beauty and ugly. She spun softly upon a wooded trail but managed to stomp on all the bugs. It was an unusual ongoing metamorphosis: kettle stove into flamingo, into buffalo, into dove; all in pastel pink. Then it was finished, and she curtsied. The eighth grade was silent while Sharon bowed for about thirty-seven minutes until we remembered we were supposed to clap. So we did. No one understood what happened. Sharon Schwartz was a dancer; a heavy, alternately graceful and terrible, but smiling, bowing dancer.
I said, “Nice job,” to her as we passed in the hallway, though I still wasn’t sure if it was or not. She started to try to talk to me, but I turned to talk to my friends. I pretended not to hear, “Did you really like it, Pete?” but I nodded in affirmation as I kept walking. Then a bell rang and it was Christmas break.
When school resumed in January Sharon missed the first day. Then the second and so on. She didn’t return to school. I don’t know why. I think her parents split up, or her dad got a job at a factory in Pittsburgh. I don’t know. All I know is this: for one afternoon there was a dancer on the iron range. She wasn’t very good, but she was about what we deserved. I clapped for her. I’ve always wished I had clapped louder.
(the above story is fiction. the only elements that are true are listed as follows: i once witnessed a tuba solo. i am a minnesotan who did once own a three-wheeler.)
I just received a PayPal gift from a friend who said…
“Hey buddy, I tried to buy you a cup of coffee, well I wanted to make it more than one cup of coffee. Rather maybe a beer? ha ha. I read your articles about Newsweek (read Newsweek post 1 and Newsweek post 2) and it gets me thinking. Am I too involved in politics? Does it really matter? I hope you enjoy your 6.75 cups of coffee.”
First of all, THANKS for the many cups of coffee! Second of all, with regard to politics: are we too active? I don’t think there is a right or wrong answer here. There are number of political issues that Christians can rightly engage in on either side of the American political fence. I think the right question for people who follow Jesus is “Are we too hopeful in politics, in one direction or the other?” Of course I rib my conservative friends the most simply because I have more of them, but my liberal friends are equi-guilty!
Ephesians talks about following Christ in terms of: “One faith, one hope, one baptism.” The kingdom of heaven, as it touches the earth, has one hope. Fortunately, that hope is not ME! But I do get to be a presenter of that hope, as does anyone who would so choose. That ONE hope is oft diluted when mixed with our second favorite message, whatever that might be. My concern is one that we see too frequently. Christians can preach a gospel message of redemption and restoration with the same tongue we use to cut off the ears of our intended audience with tertiary issues. Something about this ONE hope is supposed to draw us out, make us separate, from other constructed hopes.
But it’s the weekend, might I suggest a break in all the hand-wringing and have a great tasting barbeque. Do you mind if I use my coffee money to buy a couple steaks?
Earlier in the week RoP addressed why cultural American Christianity is fading, citing a recent Newsweek article that reported a substantial 10% decline in adherents. After opining as to a few of the possible “why’s,” the next set of questions that are begging to be answered sound a bit like, “If this is true; now what?”
What does a believer or group of believers do when the larger culture has filled them with embalming fluids? It is difficult to gain an audience to listen to one speak about the falling sky when the orator has been placed in a closed coffin. This might leave some to believe that it really is the End (capital E). It could be, but Christians should remember that every generation since the resurrection of Jesus has assumed the End. That isn’t wrong or bad, but in light of James’ reminder that “you do not know what tomorrow will bring,” announcing the End may be a bit premature. Perhaps believers ought to think of this point in history as a new beginning rather than a predicted end.
Allow me to preach for the shortest minute. Check out Psalm 126. It begins by saying,
“When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. Our mouths were filled with laughter; our tongues with shouts of joy.”
This sounds like a happy time, yes? But restored fortunes always come after the previous fortunes have disappeared or been pronounced dead by a major media outlet like Newsweek. And Newsweek is right. The Psalm we’ve begun reading concludes with the state of Zion before it’s fortunes had been restored.
“Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him.”
There is much uncertainty when a farmer sows seed. Will it rain enough or too much? Will their be hail? Planting is always an act of faith. Who knows what harvest will bring? But then again, unless a seed dies it cannot come to life.
Let’s call this period winter. There is nothing being planted or tended or harvested. Everyone is sitting around waiting for the changing of the seasons and reading Newsweek. The last harvest is over. The cultural esteem once held by American Christianity is being remembered around a hearth fire. It was a bumper crop to be sure, with great strides and towards the end, some not-so-great. Another planting season will begin by turning over the old soil to begin the whole growing process again.
The culture war is over. Newsweek is right: Western and especially American Christianity as we know it, is waning. Certain groups will put her on life support and proclaim her alive and well. They’ll do so loudly, even louder than before; like farmers carrying bales of dead hay around town to prove their farming abilities. I believe this to be the most wrong course of actions imaginable. There are no resurrections for cultural versions of Christianity. God reserved that for Jesus, and at some point in the future, for his followers, according to scripture.
The second worst course of action would be to believe that Christians are to recreate that which has passed away, an even greater moral majority. It is a comedy of foolishness when the morality of people is touted as the savior of a society; or as the scripture says, “when they compare themselves to themselves they are not wise.” Stating that one is a moral superior from God’s supposed vantage point is like determining which slug in your garden is your favorite. Both will be salted apart from your grace.
In this weird time of winter Christians ought to gain wisdom from Psalm 126. The fortunes of cultural Zion have been laid to waste. Tears are appropriate. That’s right, it’s okay to cry. Let it out. Mourning is a reminder that something has passed and, let’s be honest, that hurts. Even when Christians begin planting in a new season the residual tears will run.
As this cycle of planting, tending and harvesting begins Christians must embrace a bit of crop failure in the last season. Let’s allow ourselves some grace and chalk the loss up to say, hail. Sure, mistakes were made, but which one of us is in control of the hearts and opinions of others? This season’s crop will be barley and not wheat. Both grains; similar, but not the same. The results of this season will be slightly different. At least in the upcoming spring of this new season, the believer’s goal will not be to out-produce one’s farming neighbor. The goal will be to just get on with the work involved in the Kingdom of Heaven. They say this kingdom can grow like a mustard seed, uncontainable and kind of ugly; not big enough to build a house from its branches, just ever-expanding.
Yes, as this season begins, winning will be the last thing on the minds of the farmers. A hymn of faithfulness and rememberance will grace their lips. The singers will “be like those who dreamed.” I bet the dreamers will be allowed shouts of joy in the midst of those carrying the aforementioned hay bales.