when first place doesn’t cut it

(Tell me it’s a joke.)

dwelling in possibility

Had a great conversation with one of my roommates this evening.  We were discussing the need to embrace limitations and our own finitude, in order to walk in the way of wisdom.  My roommate made the observation that, Emily Dickinson (that poetic genius who “dwelt in possibility“) spent most of her fifty-six years living and breathing in one (same) home.

My roommate went on to tell of an exhortation she heard several years ago during a high school commencement speech: Live Poetically.  Poems, she reminded, best showcase their themes through the distillation of thoughts, ideas, feelings …

What might it mean for us to embrace limitations (in commitments, in relationships … in our daily activities), in order to live poetically?

I’m committing anew to the question …

m-i-a no mo’

Yes, it’s been awhile.

No, I wasn’t kidnapped.  No, I didn’t elope.  No, I haven’t fled the country to escape political rhetoric.  (Even if — I confess — I’ve been indulging in a bit of levity while wrestling with “the issues” and assessing this political campaign.)

Short-story long?

I moved (sort of) the last weekend of July, only to pack up again and travel for 10 days during the first part of August upon which, returning to KC (buried alive under a pile of work & correspondence) I proceeded to host out-of-town family for a long weekend of fun up until we joined together for travel to Des Moines (where I reunited with long-lost cousins), then returned back to KC (buried alive under a pile of work & correspondence) in order to launch (kind of) the start of (yet another) ministry year which meant working long hours and returning late in the evening to my (quasi) new home until a week ago when I hired two (very mediocre) men and a truck to (try to) help me move-in and damage personal belongings & valuables such that I was free to spend the next few days holed up in my (newly established) home organizing all my stuff in order to justify an entire “girls day out” with my (very pregnant) sis so we could have some fun together before (lo and behold) my beautiful (perfectly healthy, seemingly perfect) new nephew — Samuel David — arrived (nearly three weeks early!) onto the scene of this wide world such that all I could do was to dote and feel my heart swell until I remembered and (then) was forced to begin (again) the more menial (and, yes, necessary) task of arranging things in my home and life so as to create some semblance of order (in no particular order).  Order like knives in the kitchen.  Toilet paper in the bathroom.  Wireless on the router.  At which point, having all such matters utterly & totally resolved (yesterday evening), I decided it might be okay to start blogging again.

For those who may have found my long short-story less than compelling (or for those who just couldn’t stomach the whole thing): I conclude (in terrible literary-style) with (once again) the most important point …

Samuel David Majernik.  6 lbs.  1 oz.  Just after noon on September 2, 2008.

I’m back to “heart swelling” …

today’s cheery quip; my heart was warmed (in some strange way)

The reformer is always right about what is wrong.  He is generally wrong about what is right.

—Chesterton (with thanks to Rustin)

we might call this lived-hyperbole

Robyn Okrant is living Oprah.  (Wow.)

one way to save on gas …

gym sin

Such transgression sorta make my gold-card gym membership a little less impressive.  (Who knew?)

just one of wright’s many great intros in recent days:

SECOND NAZARENE
  There is also the miracle of the daughter of Jairus.
FIRST NAZARENE
  Yea, that is sure. No man can gainsay it.
HERODIAS
  Those men are mad. They have looked too long on the moon. Command them to be silent.
HEROD
  What is this miracle of the daughter of Jairus?
FIRST NAZARENE
  The daughter of Jairus was dead. This Man raised her from the dead.
HEROD
  How! He raises people from the dead?
FIRST NAZARENE
  Yea, sire; He raiseth the dead.
HEROD
  I do not wish Him to do that. I forbid Him to do that. I suffer no man to raise the dead. This Man must be found and told that I forbid Him to raise the dead. Where is this Man at present?
SECOND NAZARENE
  He is in every place, my lord, but it is hard to find Him.

–Oscar Wilde, Solome, as sited in NT Wright’s Surprised by Hope

i may be a geek, but …

I find the idea of a shadow system in our (American?) economy deeply fascinating and disturbing.  Did you realize that very rich people are making “bets” on how our markets are going to perform, keeping these bets anonymous & totally deregulated, and making a heckof-a-lotta dough when they get it right.  (One implication here is that wealthy people are not “betting on” [or investing in] legitimate economic initiatives within the market.  Rather, they’re merely “betting” around them.  If they win – as I said – they make some quick cash.  If they lose – maybe it’s only if they lose big – average Americans like you and I foot the bill.)

Sounds crazy, huh?  (Tell me there’s something I don’t understand.)

If words like “complex derivatives, commodity futures, and otc derivatives” make your head hurt (but you’re still sort of curious to know what’s going on), you might give this interview with Michael Greenberger a try.  Seems like we oughta get some of this stuff figured out (before we all wind up living together) …

with a savior, not a script

I was part of a great discussion tonite with a small group from Beggar’s Table.  Part of our conversation circled around N.T. Wright’s suggestion that the church has been invited to improv in the final act of our Creator’s production.  We discussed improv … and how the “improver” often feels.  (Uncomfortable, excited, nervous, naked, liberated … all made a showing.)  For my part, I couldn’t shake one story that came to mind about a friend who was asked once to “kill some time” (i.e., improv) while stalling for a camp speaker to show.  Ten minutes turned to twenty, twenty to thirty-five.  All the while … my friend leading countless refrains & choruses, keeping a couple hundred kids unaware of the hiccup.  That is, until the camp speaker finally did show and the evening’s MC requested one final improv-moment.  Would my friend now take a moment to lead the gathered assembly in a thank you song on his [my friend’s] behalf?  After what must have been a double-take and no shortage of sense that this had to be the goofiest moment of his musical career, my blessed (horrified?) friend, Gorman led the entire camp in chorus: Thank you Gorman.  Thank you Gorman.  Thank you Gorman.  Thank you Gorman.  Thank you Gorman.  Thank you Gorman.  Thank you Gorman.  Thank you Gorman.

It must be – to this day – one of the most truly absurd improv moments ever to find expression.

But so many others are chasing at its heels.  It seems to me that NT Wright got this one right.  The church is learning (or trying to learn) to improv.  Not surprising, then, to me – in fact, maybe a little endearing – that the undertaking is (both in concept and execution) just a bit absurd.