Why?

http://bit.ly/9o8F9Q. Anyone feeling the need to cook, sew, walk, bike, teach, plant or build? My friend Claudio Oliver has a great post as to why that might be, worth a read.

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This might get loud.

I recently realized how important it is to learn a language in context, in a living breathing world.

My friend Arno and I learned some new adjectives in our Japanese lessons. The word for "noisy" is urusai (うるさい). I was having the hardest time with that word, it just wasn't sticking for me, I kept forgetting it. Arno, however, had no trouble remembering it. I was learning the word in a separate-from-real-life context sitting at a dining room table at Arno's house, and primarily as words on a page. He had learned the word in the real world, in context, and as spoken sound.

Arno's wife is Japanese and he remembers being beside a van that was exceptionally loud. His wife said, "Urusai!" No one had to tell him what "urusai" meant even though it was a word he hadn't heard before. By virtue of context it was obvious "urusai" meant unpleasantly loud, noisy. So, when it the word came up in our lessons he had no trouble remembering it.

All of the embodied details of that scene―the yellow van, the red lighting bolt painted on the side, the rust around the wheels, the sunshine, the busy street, the stop light, the faint smell of gasoline and asphalt, the hands over the ears, the furrowed brow, the squinting eyes, the air moved by sound waves hitting ear drums (I'm making it all up, but you get my drift)―all of it brings urusai to life. The living breathing world is the primary habitat for words, printed pages just make them portable.

I wonder to what extent the Bible has become words on a page, and to what extent the words are looked at only in separate-from-real-life contexts. I wonder how much more the words would live and breathe if they were learned (lived?) in their primary habitat, the real world, in context, face to face, rather than in the safe and sterile confines of a once-a-week church building, and as rational rhetorical propositions lying flat on a page.

The pernicious thing about learning Japanese adjectives sitting around a dining room table is that I could start imagining "urusai" means what ever I think it means. In that separate-from-real-life context I could twist it around and add all kinds of inflections. As a rational proposition lying flat on a page the word "urusai" is malleable and pliable to whatever distortions I might apply to it. I could start to think "urusai" primarily means "annoying van." I could lose the sense of noisiness and loudness and become convinced "urusai" meant annoying van. As long as I didn't use the word in the real world, as long as it isn't a living breathing word, no one would be the wiser. No one would correct me, least of all myself. If I kept it up long enough I could start to believe the way I used "urusai" in my artificial context was the "right" way to use "urusai." I could become so convinced of the rightness of my version of "urusai" that I could go to Tokyo and see a van parked in handicapped parking spot, and I could say "urusai," thinking it was an annoying van because it was parked in a handicap spot. My Japanese speaking friends would say, "I don't think that word means what you think it means." If I had been thinking in my own separate-from-real-life way for long enough I might actually think they're wrong and I'm right.

 

I thought of all of this when I heard a preacher the other day. (I saw it online, so it could be virtually anyone in case you're getting nervous.) I was going to go into particulars, but I think that just ends up sounding whiny and disingenuous. Besides, it isn't about a collection of facts to prove a point.

Here's the thing, I often feel like a jittery little forest animal that senses danger, like a forest fire or an earth quake. I think getting jittery over potential danger is one of the roles of the poetic voice within the church. [and in our world at large, but that's another discussion.] It isn't necessarily a condemning voice and it certainly isn't a voice of delineated facts. It's a voice that offers, provisionally and in humility, what it sees and senses for the sake of all the other forest animals. It's a voice that says, "I'm starting to notice something, I'm not even sure what it is or if I can explain it but I can't dismiss it, is it something we should be paying attention to?" 

Is this something we should be paying attention to: I couldn't help but think this preacher had been safely employed in his separate-from--real-life context for a very long time. His worth and identity are wrapped up in his determining and cleverly communicating, in this safe separate-from-the-real-world context, his particular version of flat words on a page which, after time, could lead to mild delusion. I found myself saying, "I don't think that word means what he thinks it means."

I couldn't help but wonder, is well communicated smug pop psychology on a Sunday morning the best we can hope for? Is "love" primarily talking about love and giving examples of what love might look like in the real world? When is "love" primarily just being love in the real world?  If we can gather to talk about it, should we be gathering to be it?

Is "joy" primarily singing songs in our own buildings once a week where it's controllable and safe? When is "joy" just being joyful in the real world where we might be vulnerable? If we do think joy is primarily being joyful in the real world, do our physical and organizational structures, the way we do things, bear evidence of that? [I tend to think our structures say talking about things is the most important thing, which can tacitly uphold the idea that things that can be effectively talked about are the most important things.]

When is "peace" simply peace in the real world and not an interesting but naive notion we talk about? Is gathering together to talk about peace the best we can hope for? Or should we be gathering together to make peace? What would that look like? Maybe we should be making peace and then gathering together to talk about our making peace. But that would require everyone talking, and about actual things that actualy happened; not one person talking about what should happen while assuming it likely won't.

These are things this jittery little forest creature wonders about.

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Untitled

Really, really enjoying Diana Butler Bass's book "A People's HIstory of Christianity."

Have a look at TWOTP films with Diana Butler Bass. This one pairs nicely with the quote below.

The story of Christianity most familiar to us is the "Big-C" version; Christ, Constantine, Christendom, Calvin and Christian America, which, she adds, is a militant Christianity.

"...it is a theological disposition that interprets Christianity as an us-against-them morality tale of a suffering church that is vindicated by God through its global victory over other worldviews, religions, or political systems."

This version of Christianity produces a sort of spiritual amnesia. There is so much more to the story of Christianity that isn't part of the "Big-C" version. The title of her book is a reference to "A People's History of the United States" by Howard Zinn. By "a people's history" he meant a history which intentionally followed lesser known figures, smaller untold stories that needed telling. Bass adopts this same trajectory, telling a "people's history" of Christianity, lesser know stories (at least lesser known to those most familiar with "Big-C" Christianity) that need telling in an attempt to cure spiritual amnesia.

Here's a good quote within a quote:

"...the desert fathers and mothers believed that prayer was a disposition of wholeness, so that 'prayer and our life must be all of a piece.' They approached prayer, as early church scholar Roberta Bondi notes, as a practical twofold process: first, of 'thinking and reflecting,' or 'pondering' what it means to love others; and second, as the "development and practice of loving ways of being."

For a big chunk of my life I felt a combination of guilt and shame at not being very good at sitting-in-a-quiet-place-eyes-closed-praying. Had I known about the desert fathers and mothers, I might have realized the pondering that comes so naturally to me was indeed one half of the twofold process of praying. Like most artists, I think the pondering part comes naturally. Developing and practicing loving ways of being, now that might not come quite as naturally, but at least I have a hope of working towards it when I don't write myself off as a daydreaming ne'er-do-well.

 

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