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making beauty

making beauty

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(Originally published Saturday, December 31, 2005)

I have been doing a bit of ranting lately … about the horrors of the death penalty, about the scandal of an administration that is reluctant to expressly disavow torture, about the shortsighted greed that would rather despoil an untouched wilderness than spend the time and money to develop alternative energy sources or to find ways to use our present energy resources more efficiently.

But I want to end the year on a positive note! Because in spite of all its ills and all our failings, the world in which we live is filled with much that is beautiful, most of it brought into being by the God who brought the universe into being, but some of it brought into being by us, creatures made to be like God. We are very much like God when we are making beauty. In just these last few days I have had the privilege of enjoying great beauty …

… the beauty of a sanctuary lighted by a hundred handheld candles and filled with the sound of a hundred voices singing of the dawn of redeeming grace.

… the beauty of the aroma of poached pears, a dish new to me prepared by our eldest son.

… the beauty of language, powerful and intimate, words describing feelings, words describing grief, words crafted by Joan Didion to document and make sense of a year of grieving the sudden death of her husband, beautiful because even words of grief reveal the wonder and mystery and majesty of human love.

… the beauty of giving gifts and receiving gifts when the one giving and the one receiving both know, and know each other know, that it isn’t about the gift!

We are at our best when we are making beauty. When we praise beauty and preserve beauty and especially when we make beauty, we show ourselves to be true children of the God who delights in beauty …

the year of magical thinking

the year of magical thinking

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(Originally published Monday, January 2, 2006)

The opening paragraph from chapter 17 of The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion:

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be “healing.” A certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to “get through it,” rise to the occasion, exhibit the “strength” that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.

In the The Year of Magical Thinking Joan Didion offers a most personal and particular account of the year following the sudden death of her husband. But because she is so honest, because she does not hold back any detail of her thoughts and feelings, her story provides a touchstone by which we may better understand our own grief and the grief of those we love. I recommend this book!

why i won’t see the chronicles of narnia

why i won’t see the chronicles of narnia

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I will not be seeing the new movie, The Chronicles of Narnia. I love the books too much …

Film is a wonderfully creative medium, capable of conveying meaning and conjuring beauty in ways unmatched by any other art form. I do love a good movie! But film by its nature limits imagination, while literature by its nature (if it is good writing!) stimulates imagination. The powerful images that have inhabited my mind and soul from childhood, Aslan and Lucy and Caspian and Shasta and Puddleglum and Reepicheep — I will not permit these beloved and edifying images to be reshaped by someone else’s imagination!

I have been told that the movie is faithful to Lewis’ book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. That may well be true. But I am certain that too much will be made of “action scenes,” which play a very small role in the book, and not enough of the subtleties of character, of character being forged in the face of doubt and temptation and fear. It would be difficult indeed for any movie to capture the keen and simple beauty of Narnia, a place that is as much spiritual landscape, as it is an imagined world.

And I know they will not get the lion right. Aslan is not a tame lion. He is terrible and tender, aweful and awesome. He is a lion, but not a lion, something larger, something Other. Only imagination can perceive him as he is, just as only faith can perceive Jesus as he is.

Go see the movie if you will. But do read the book. Read the books! May Narnia be a place where you encounter and learn to love better the One who in our world is called by a different name …

the good people of iowa

the good people of iowa

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I’ll admit it. I’m a sentimentalist. I’ve been known to get teary-eyed at the end of a good movie … or sometimes even in the middle!

On the other hand, I’m no fan of reality television in any form, and I’m no fan of contrived and very public demonstrations of charity. (As Jesus put it: When you give something to a needy person, do not make a big show of it, as the hypocrites do in the houses of worship and on the streets. They do it so that people will praise them …)

So when I sat down the other night with my wife to watch Three Wishes with Amy Grant, I did so with some pretty low expectations and a healthy dose of skepticism. But I liked the show … and there were a few tears.

The format of the show is this: Amy and her crew descend on a town, set up a tent, and invite the townspeople to come and share their wishes. The hour-long show documents the efforts of Amy and company to grant three of these wishes. In this particular show, they rebuilt a dairy barn for a young couple who had lost their barn to a fire; they arranged to have the college loan debt of a young Iowa State graduate cancelled; and they staged a graduation ceremony for a young woman who had been severely disabled in an automobile accident just days before her original high school graduation.

I liked it … not because I was so impressed with the great generosity of Amy and her friends, and not so much because I shared the joy of these three people, these three families, who had the good fortune to get what they wanted. What stayed with me, what impressed me, was the good people of Lemars, Iowa, the town featured in this week’s episode. I was impressed by the deep loyalty and commitment to family, the courage of a young woman who had no family, the sincere affection and readiness to help of folks — young and old alike — for a neighbor in need. I was reminded of what has kept me here in Iowa for eleven years — the people.

The people of Iowa, like people anywhere, are by no means perfect. They have, as people everywhere do, their own particular, even glaring, flaws. But, on the whole, Iowa people do care deeply about family. They come through for each other in crunch time. And they aren’t shy about expressing affection.

Why? Because they have remained close to the land? Because of the necessary interdependence of an agricultural economy? Because of deeply ingrained ethnic and cultural traditions? Maybe for all these reasons. But I would like to think that at the root of the character of many a good Iowan is a genuine and most practical faith in God. It’s there and it shows …

i never really liked frank sinatra

i never really liked frank sinatra

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I was a generation too late to be much exposed to the music of Frank Sinatra, but I have heard enough and seen enough to know that I don’t like it. Sinatra’s style and demeanor evoke an image that is antithetical to values I hold especially dear. He is about the big city; I love open spaces. He is about life in the fast lane; I crave a life filled with energy and passion and excitement — a fast life, but a life traveling down an entirely different road! He has the swagger; I admire a man — or a woman — who combines bold conviction with a gentle manner. He is about doing it “my way;” and I …

Well … okay … I’m about doing it “my way” too! Who isn’t? Who isn’t? Some of us do it by bullying; some of us do it by withdrawing; some of us do it by plotting; some of us do it by careful attention to detail; some of us do it by putting a price on our affections … but all of us try to fashion a world that works the way we want it to work. My vision of the “way things should” may be virtuous or it may be scandalous, but in any case, what is important to me is that it be my vision.

Jesus said, If you want to come with me, you must forget yourself …

What does it mean that in losing ourselves that we find ourselves? What does it mean that in taking up a cross, we find life? It is truly way out there, on the frontier of human experience, but maybe you have caught a glimpse, maybe you have had a taste … of what it is, even for a moment, to say … “your way.” Of how saying that and meaning it does not diminish you one little bit, but suddenly enlarges you in strange and wondrous ways.

And more than that, makes you realize it’s not about “you” at all, but about being an “us” … not about finding yourself, but about finding ourselves. About losing yourself, and finding ourself … in love.

Your way …

I never really liked Frank Sinatra. But he was a “you,” too.

“million dollar baby”

“million dollar baby”

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My daughter’s boyfriend had us all watch “Million Dollar Baby” the other night. It was a good movie — well-made, engrossing, creative, understated. It conveyed powerful emotions with spare action and spare dialogue. I enjoyed watching the movie — and I am no fan of boxing — but I didn’t like the ending.

WARNING: STOP READING NOW IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE AND DON’T WANT ME TO SPOIL IT FOR YOU!

What does give a life value?
When is suffering no longer redemptive or no longer redeemable?
When is a life no longer worth living?

I grant that I know nothing of what it is like to be in a body like Maggie’s … a body useless and wasting away. And I know nothing of being in Frankie’s position … seeing the one I dearly love in that powerless and humiliating state. But suicide for the one, assisting suicide for the other, seem too easy and even selfish. The movie creates a great deal of sympathy for that choice, paints it as a redemptive choice — letting Maggie “go out” while she has it all, instead of letting her linger and lose everything.

But what is the “everything” she risks losing? Her success, the achievement of her life’s dream? But it seems to me that the most valuable thing she gains in the course of the film is Frankie’s love. She gains a father. He gains a daughter. He grieves because she asks him to let her go. But is it not this love itself that gives her life value? That love continues, loving her always and still as she is … forever. Loving her because she is.

And that is what God’s love is like, too. Loving us as we are, just because we are. At her best, Maggie showed the strength and beauty of her spirit, her loyalty, her faith … turning down a contract with a rival manager to stay with Frank, turning away her heartless and greed-crazed family members, not letting herself be consumed with self-pity.

Would it not be fitting if Maggie’s final act of strength and beauty and loyalty and faith were to entrust herself to God — as long as she has breath, to allow Frankie to love her and be loved by her — to live in joy even in the presence of suffering for both of them, to live with courage and will and hope in the face of her greatest challenger?

As I watched the movie, I too was filled with grief at her loss, at our loss of her grace and fire and passionate physicality. But I wanted her to live, to win this last fight, not concede, to reveal to us the real depth and strength of her character. And I wanted Frankie to say “No” and stand by it, to tell her that her life was still valuable, that he loved her and that love made her life valuable, that she has not lost and will not lose anything that matters!