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November 30, 2004

Worlds Collide

From AFE.

Memories

Worlds collide all the time;
Not with cosmic clouds of dust
Or fire in the sky;
But silently
Within my mind.

Life has often been compared with a journey and it is an appropriate analogy. During its course we may physically move from one place to another, but emotionally it is often more like moving from one world to another. The familiar landscape dotted with the faces of friends is far removed and we are met with the challenge, which we only have half the heart for, to find new friends and support systems. Other times we may cry in joy at the sheer freedom of moving on.

What is surprising is our ability to adapt to change. In the beginning there may be that sense of losing something very precious or the intense relief of leaving something in the past, but quite quickly and almost imperceptibly the novelty is gone and life achieves normality once again.

We are never quite free of our experiences in all these worlds, however, for it is their influence that has shaped us. And the smallest triggering, an old friend met, an old song heard or even a long forgotten smell, may elicit a smothering rush of memories, immersing us into the past. This is the collision of worlds. And then in an instant we are back, blinking in the light of the present day, whispering praise for the Hand that has lead us all the way and will be our ever present help to come.

Posted by jackdas at 5:51 PM

November 29, 2004

If within 2 minutes of arriving at work you bend down and rip your pants...

...as I so unceremoniously did this morning. And if you you not only have to slink off to take care of the problem but also feel obliged to explain to your boss and co-workers just why it is you are leaving so soon. Then I think you are entitled to come back with some snazzy threads. Actually, it was 8:10 so the thrift store wasn't open, so I felt completely justified in taking my custom high-end and hitting the Target clearance rack, to which I am not entirely a stranger. At any rate, there in that netherworld between Walmart and department stores, there at the store that brings shi shi designers to the masses, I hit the clearance rack and sort of got chic. Not really, OK, just barely.

Instead of some work-suitable khakis I decided upon a pair of hip (at least they were two years ago) jeans in a style which I used to think were rather manky looking.* You know the type, the type with the slick-faded looking legs that seem like you have been temporarily homeless for several weeks and haven't had a chance to shower or change your clothes. At any rate, in that bizarre alchemy that is fashion and vanity and sheer craziness, they do now seem kind of cool, and so I acquired my first pair. And, to boot, I also decided I might as well go all the way and buy one of the nice Mossimo shirts on clearance, which is truly nice, not being manky by any standards. Even Joseph Abboud would be proud of it.

Gasp. Did I buy an outfit? No, as I am wont to explain, somewhat unconvincingly to even to myself at times, it must be noted, its just a shirt and pair of pants that happen to go together which will be worn with other shirts and pants respectively. Guys don't buy outfits. Or shouldn't. Dave would be proud. And so it was off to Quik Trip to hit the the restroom/changing room (and get a cup of tea) and then head back to work, sheepish, yes, but in such sartorial splendor.

All of this talk of manky fashions brings to mind a poem I wrote few years ago on the topic of tattoos and body piercing. As noted in a previous post, it is more strident than I would be now, but I think it does have a point and raises some interesting discussion topics. Also, as a point of full disclosure and as an innoculation against charges of hypocrisy, it should be noted that I do have an earring (the why and what for of which I may explain in a subsequent post) and, on occassion, have considered a tattoo, which likely won't happen though.

I am still very interested in the issue of why people adorn, decorate, desecrate? themselves, whether it be tattoos or mullets, BMW's or piercings. I am particularly interested in the psychology and the spritual aspects of such questions. Finally, blanked out though it is, this poem does contain a swear word.

Slavery Chic

It's odd that all these signs of freedom
Should smack so of slavery from the past,
Of less than willing bondage to another.
The awl-pierced ear made one a slave for life
In ancient Israel.
These rings that link each nostril to the other
Protrude a shiny loop that almost begs for a hook
To pull the wearer along,
Like an unwilling bull of old.
And thick, studded collars once only choked strong dogs
Into submission.
And tatoos and brandings also marked a slave.

How odd, today, that almost every sign to say,
"I'm free,"
Should echo slavery.
But, slavery? Today?
Who holds the chains?

That is where the horror comes.

Before when one was ruled,
However deep the chains might cut,
At least the heart could stay free,
And hope for full feedom at least be a whispered dream.
But now the chains bind unseen
And loop back only to the Omnipotent Self
That marks its prey in time-honored ways
With signs that now do double time
To say, like prickly visual curse words,
"F___ you and what you think;
I am the jailor and the jailed."

*I picked up the word manky from reading a sequel to Adrian Plass' funny and insightful book the Sacred Diary of Adrian Plass Aged 37 3/4, which I would very highly recommend to you. Manky: Adj. Scruffy, dirty, distasteful, disgusting.

Posted by jackdas at 2:20 PM | Comments (2)

November 28, 2004

Stench of Life

Just now flatmate Dave and I are sitting in Kayaks, a coffee shop designed to appear as a Colorado ski chalet. We have have just finished our drinks (his a fru-fru latte for which he gets no end of ribbing for being such a manly man all the rest of the time) and we are now reading. Everything is perfect and pristine, including most of the people. There is nice folk music being soothingly piped down and the only aroma is the relatively pleasant aroma of coffee (although for some I imagine that would be not so pleasant). Earlier today the same Dave and I were eating Chinese in front of Bob's Seafood and the aromas were decidedly different. I noted to Dave how the place reminded me of Pakistan, not so much because there are many fishy smelling places in the parts of Pakistan in which I lived, but because odors pleasant and foul were so much more a part of every day life. Dave, quite correctly, pointed out that there is no virtue in being unsanitary. And yet, I think that we can lose connection with life, or perhaps more accurately with nature, by our highly sanitized spaces, perhaps even our highly sanitized bodies. OK, that might be an unpleasant thought, but it is helpful to note that even these standards are simply cultural. In addition to controlling the olefactory evidence of decay and life processes, our culture also is adept at hermetically sealing off death, as is evidenced both in our mortuaries and our meat departments. Both of which are much too large topics to be addressed in this ever lengthening study break. Suffice it to say, sometimes there is nothing like the stench of death to be reminded of the glory of Life.

Posted by jackdas at 10:12 PM

November 27, 2004

Christmas Acrostic

Here is a selection from AFE in honor of the madness of yesterday, the day after Thanksgiving.

Textual note: Selections from Ache From Eternity: A Journey in Verse, which was written some ten years ago, sometimes speak with more directness and surety than I would likely write with now. Indeed, some might border on stridence. One day I will post a conclusion I wrote five years after writing AFE that details this shift. Even so, the effect these selections have on me is often quite interesting. Often times I am encouraged by my own words to have more faith and trust. This selection I like quite well and am eager to put into practice this holiday season. And, I really like this acrostic.

Christmas Acrostic

Advent of the god of greed.
Matter sought to sate the spirit
Assuages not the crying need.
Silent, still, crushed hearts are bleeding,
So wholeness can't be bought by men...
_______________________________

Advent of the Prince of Peace

Matter sought by God the Spirit;
A robe of flesh to meet man's need
Silent, still, His form would bleed
So wholeness could be had again.

Christmas is as much the principal holy day in the religion of materialism as it is in Christianity it seems. Like no other time during the year material goods are venerated as the source of happiness. It is true that this hollow philosophy is cloaked under the noble activity of gift giving, but the cloak is thin indeed as surely gift giving can be simpler and still equally meaningful. The reaction called for is not the whip in hand purging of the temple, however, because such buying and selling is centered in the separate temples of materialism. Our reaction as Christian should be one of pity: pity for the lives that wallow in the emptiness of post-Christmas depression; pity for those who have been fed the lie that things can bring happiness, only to find the promise empty.

To be sure, we as Christians can stoop to the syncretism of being caught up in the frenzy too, but when we do we are selling our birthright to far greater riches. True Christian celebration of Christmas is a partaking in the mass of Christ's birth not in amassing material pleasures. Mass is a term borrowed from the Catholic church and one that Protestants may shy away from, but it simply means a celebration of the Eucharist or communion. At the heart of its meaning is the heart of all Christianity, the partaking in Christ, for it is only in partaking in Christ that we can be truly filled. What is called for then is not a humbug- like celebration of Christmas where Christians withdraw entirely from the more worldly celebrations of Christmas, for they too can be expressions of joy, but through it all we should focus on and bring others to the true cause of rejoicing, the gift of Christ to a needy world.

Posted by jackdas at 9:25 PM | Comments (1)

November 26, 2004

Photo Bonus-January 2nd, 2004

Posted by jackdas at 7:25 PM

November 25, 2004

Thanks: 26 X 4

Adrian, Andrew, Apartment, Advent
Brothers, Books, Bicycles, Bruno
Car, Creation, Cider, Clothing
Dad, Dawn, David, Dases
Emilie, Employment, Eucharist, Easter
Forgiveness, Family, Friends, Future
Gracie, Goodness, God the Father, Grace

Hope, Holy Spirit, Hymns, Honesty
Incarnation, Insurance, Immanence, Ice rinks
Jesus, Jack, Jack, Jackson
Kelley, Kraus, Kids, Kindness
Love, Love, Love, Love
Mom, Madeleine, Matthew, Merriment
Norma, Nathan, New City, Narnia
Oatmeal, Oranges, Ocean, Obedience of Christ
Past, Present, Pakistan, Paul

Quietness, Questions, Quotes, Quests
Rest, Recipes, Roof, Restoration
Snow, Sweaters, Singing, Sight
Tea, Tolkien, Thrift Stores, Truth
Unconditional, Unity, Usefulness, Undoing
Vincent, Virgil, Vision, Voting
Woods, Winsomeness, Wisdom, Woodshed
X chromosome times 2, Xmas, Xperience, Xpectancy
Youth, "Yellow," Yawns, Yesterday

Zzzzzzzzzzz's, Zoos, Zaniness, Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz's

Posted by jackdas at 10:26 PM

November 24, 2004

Snoooow!!!!!!!

With apologies to Andres Cantor, but a snow so early just makes me want to shout:

SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!!!!

And go to Langosta Roja for lunch for some yummy clam chowder...

Cosy

Did I mention it was
SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWING........

"Ah, but Neil isn't snow supposed to be appreciated for its serenity."

Oh, right you are. Well, here you go...

Ah, the serenity.

But, did I mention that today we had

SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In all serious, though, in addition to the delight of it all, it did make our college campus rather lovely. Below is an image from our library and an imagining of how Cair Paravel might look after the snow.

Cair Paravel in Winter

Posted by jackdas at 4:39 PM | Comments (1)

November 23, 2004

Winter Nights

The other day talking about winters in Pakistan, my brother Adrian remembered how deeply he yearned to experience snow, long before he had ever seen it, almost as much as C. S. Lewis longed for "Pure Northerness." Mom would read us stories about Christmas and we would sing carols in our devotions. One book had stories about "The Cobbler's Three Sons" and a story that involved Pegasus somehow. Another story that was told, and which now my brother now tells with wonderful embellishment and evocation, was of a prodigal coming home from Christmas on a train. The sign that he was welcome to come home was to be a ribbon on a tree near the railway line before his stop. If the tree were empty he would not get off the train...The tree was full of ribbons.

A cynical heart would note that that all sounds pretty sappy. A doctrinnaire head would question what all that has to do with Christmas. And, I have possessed each of these at different times. And both would be right to a degree. Christmas is a mish mash of cultural practices little linked to Christ, wrapped up in syrupy emotions, prostituted by materialism. And, yet, even if all that is true, it does not negate the possibility that there is goodness in even the most secular cheer, in the warmth, however temporary, people generate for one another. And so, while I try to hold the secular celebration of Christmas lightly and focus on the Advent, I still do enjoy the season, and more particularly the joys that are specific to my family.

In Pakistan, the joys of Christmas, indeed of winter nights themselves, had added complexions. Early in the winter we would go with Dad to the open air market, where there were piles of oranges, as tall as a boy, which were made simply upon the ground. We would bring home several hundred in our trunk. Ooh, and what a different type of organes and tangerines they were. Our citrus here is only beginning to compare, and yet I think I can still eat about 3 or 4 oranges at a sitting. There were the drinks of hot lemonade made from the bitter sour citrus fruit that grew in our back yard. And there were peanuts, gotten from a vendor with a burning pot to warm them that, if we were lucky (its taken years of practice for me as a fundamentalist Presybterian to be able to use that word), my mother would buy for us as we rode home in the back of a horse drawn tonga. The plains of the Punjab in Pakistan are not cold, but they do get a chill in the winter. I have no concept of enjoying a Christmas season without cold.

Finally, here is a selection from AFE with some preceding explanatory notes.
______________________________

Sadar mall-Local shopping district. Think bazaar, not Mallrats.
rizai-Thick Pakistani quilt.

Winter Nights
-for my cousins in Rawalpindi, Pakistan

There's Christmas plays on crisp, cold nights
In halls aglow with candle light.
Or paying well-loved friends a call.
Perhaps a trip to Sadar mall.
Then home we go through darkened streets.
For, after all, home is most sweet.
And then comes the expected plea,
"Dear sister, will you make some tea?"
We'll get the cake and Christmas treats
And light the fire to warm our feet,
And pull our chairs and gather in
And then the real fun begins.
We'll sit and talk and laugh and joke
And some of us will blow our smoke.
And when we're running short of drink,
"Dear brother, its your turn I think."
And then we'll talk and joke some more
Till weary eyes get red and sore.
Then cross the chilly courtyard stones
To thick rizais to warm our bones.
And in the darkness left behind,
The peanut hulls and orange rinds
Fill dirty cups and bring to mind,
"Praise God above for joyful times."

Times were when things were a lot simpler here in America. The pioneers led hard and difficult lives and did have their share of worries to be sure, but there was little of the stress that accompanies so much of busy modern life They worked hard and their pleasures were simple.

Great leaps in technology and the sheer number of choices we have in leisure activities, surely would make our lives more meaningful one would think. But exactly the opposite seems to bear true. While we have never been busier trying to enjoy ourselves, perhaps never has the pursuit for recreation been more wearying and less fulfilling.

Despite always wanting new and more exciting activities in my youth, now my best memories are of simple pleasures: walking on a moonlit road in the Himalayan foothills in a boisterous group of Jr. High kids, off to the local village for tea or sitting with my cousins late into the night, again drinking that ubiquitous Eastern beverage and just talking. Back in America in college nothing quite compared to the fellowship at Hardees following Bible study or the cramped comfort of a road trip en route to summer camp.

In the final analysis that old maxim bears true, "That life is what you make it." As Christians, though, even simplicity cannot be the ultimate end as it in itself is not the key to true peace. Christ alone is the answer. However, our choices do make that journey home to him either one of harried busy-ness or joyful, restful simplicity.

Posted by jackdas at 10:40 AM

November 22, 2004

Song

Song lyrics are tricky. I thought that if one wrote poetry, writing song lyrics would be easy. Not so. You have to pay more attention to meter, even though music and singing allow for a great deal of meterical fudging. Plus, it would help if I could actually play music. I have not come up with a band that would naturally perfom this song. Perhaps The Dead Cicadas could in an alt-country moment. Here, for better or worse, is advice on changing the world.

Change the World

Some just learn the hard way
Bringing trouble to their souls
It don't matter how good you are
It ain't gonna change the world

Some just learn the hard way
Pushing thorns into their souls
It don't matter how hard you try
It ain't gonna change the world

Some just learn the hard way
Bringing silence to their souls
It don't matter how sad you are
It ain't gonna change your world

So what's the point
Why keep going on
Unless it's scars you want
As you're beaten down

I just had to learn the hard way
To get solace for my soul
There's nobody down here Strong enough
To be Meek enough to change the world

I just had to learn the hard way
To bring healing to my soul
There's nobody down here Wise enough
To be Fool enough to change the world

I just had to learn the hard way
To bring some life back to my soul
There's nobody down here that's Love enough
To bleed enough to change my world

So there's the point
Why I keep going on
It's my scars he took
As He was beaten down

We all gotta learn the hard way
To get some comfort for our souls
It don't matter how hard you try
It ain't gonna change the world

Posted by jackdas at 2:13 PM

November 18, 2004

Dog Bonus

Belying its shortness, this poem encapusulates a lot of my thoughts and questions about the nature of the Garden of Eden and pre-fall animal predation and vegetarianisn and the nature of death and sacrifice. Flatmate Lloyd and I began to hash this out today as he lay home sick as dog and I enjoyed my morning off. Are you wondering what I might be smoking? Well, more later...perhaps even a Master's thesis which has been so, so long in coming...

bruno

i have a little dog
unaffected by the Fall,
or so it seems.

he's all loving licks
and waggling
and playful romps
and glee.

and then I watch him,
growling,
eating meat.

Posted by jackdas at 10:41 PM

Two Sonnets

These poems are responsible for the name of this blog. They were published in the second edition of Ghetto Monk by the author of the excellent Junkmail for Blankets. For some reason that cannot be ascertained and is unimportant, my name was listed as Neil Dassler. My good friend Kraus began to call me that and then coined the "Dassler Effect," after some deft and quick runs and scores on my part in a pick-up game of pole-goal soccer.

All of which has nothing to do with the contents of these poems, which are my response to the challenging Hindu parable about the blind man and the elephant. They are also a take on epistomology and revelation in general.

A blind man groped and grasped through darkened air
And caught in tender hands a hairy cord,
Then searched through sightless memories for a pair,
And cried, "The thing's a rope, upon my word!"
Three comrades also shared that darkened road,
And paused to hear the outcry of the first,
Then turned with eager, seeing hands to code
For themselves the object and its worth.
The story is well known. The other three
Conclude the thing's a wall, a tree, a snake,
When a pachyderm's to blame. Respectively,
His tail, side, leg, and trunk feed each mistake.
And so the Eastern clerics make their claim:
The Thing is found despite misgiven names.

TWO SONNETS

While people grope and grasp through darkened air,
They know that life is not unending night.
Sun-warmed winds that caress and lift their hair
Declare the world is not dark; they lack sight.
So far the Eastern clerics' tale's the same,
And I will nod, man stumbles through the world,
But insist the Thing when met has but one Name.
It's with the elephant I have my quarrel.
All tales are built on what they presuppose.
Is what is met a thing, a passive force,
That lumbers on life's road, self undisclosed?
So claims the ancient parable of course.
Perhaps it is a who, Who reveals and speaks,
Forgives and loves and heals, and blind men seeks.

Posted by jackdas at 10:27 PM | Comments (2)

November 16, 2004

A Legacy and a Ragamuffin Band-CaedmonÕs Call, Lakeville, Minnesota-A Steam of Consciousness Road Trip/Concert/L'Abri Review

Well, this is only a concert review of sorts since I have not been a faithful listener of CaedmonÕs Call. As I noted in a previous post, I recently bought a copy of their latest CD as a result of following a link in somewhat off-handed comment on another blog. I was intrigued and became a big fan of at least this CC album. Enough of a fan to use my last two vacation days to make a 9 hour trek to Minneapolis to see them.

And, it was worth every hour of driving. Even though for me, as often as not, a lengthy car trip with a stock of CDÕs and the leisure to stop for gas and tea (its amazing how many gas stations actually have hot tea, for which, I suppose, I have the herbal medicine/antioxidant folks to thank) and snacks and even moderately interesting scenery (I like the Midwest) all make for an enjoyable trip. Note to NPR listeners, there are a fair site more NPR stations when traveling in the upper Midwest than when heading South. May be itÕs a Blue State/Red State thing. In another instance of Living in the Space Between, I have somewhat Blue State aesthetic/environmental/economic inclinations, but for social issues itÕs the Red States all the way, though the war and the poor and the environment remain vexing issues on this side of the spectrum.

Well, after fashion tips from Joseph Abboud and many CDÕs and empty tea cups (the tall Styrofoam type), I finally made it into the cavernous arena/mini city that is Hosanna Church. Then I had somewhat of the reverse experience of the traditional concert-goer, in that each song from the new album was a delight and I struggled to catch lyrics and appreciate songs from the bandÕs previous albums, while my neighbors clapped and whistled eagerly.

This internal dynamic was pretty interesting, but there was also an external dynamic that I found even more interesting, and which is really the reason for this review. This dynamic occurred in both the music that was being played, in its style and themes, and in the words of lead singer Cliff Young. Most songs from the new album attempt to get listeners to consider moving beyond realms of personal absorbtion and, yes, even highly insular personal piety to look at the word at large, to glory in its cultural diversity, to take up the challenges laid down by its pressing needs, material and spiritual.

The music, itself, with the folksy singing of Cliff Young, the electric guitar simulated sitar sounds of Andy Osenga, the virtuosity of the Indian tabla player, Immanuel, the bounding rhythms of the Brazilian/American percussion section, the bizarrely tonal sounds of the harmonium played by Josh Moore, and the breathy, yet soaring, vocals of Danielle Young all made for excitement and energy, particularly on the new numbers, which often were accompanied by haunting/joyful images from India.

I cannot faithfully judge, because truly I am unaware of their lyrical content for the most part, but the older numbers seemed spare by comparison, their themes (aside from some lovely worship songs) more simply personal. If I am wrong in this analysis, Cliff YoungÕs comments made it clear that for the band this album was somewhat of a transformation, a paradigm shift. He made the claim that this album, and the experience and work that surrounded it, may indeed be the reason, the calling, for which the band got together so many years ago. He encouraged the audience to move beyond realms of personal piety and safety, which sometimes absorb so much of our time and resources and attention, and to consider the world at large. It was a message that I had heard before in Christian music, specifically in regard to Compassion International, but this call seemed more holistic, perhaps calling for even changes in lifestyle. It reminded me most strongly of Rich Mullins.

Rich, I believe blazed a similar trail many years earlier, moving from a ministry in his early years principally to the CCM crowd to a ministry that touched the world at large, that called Christians to radical living both through the content of his lyrics and his actions, all in a package of excellent folk music and artistic lyrics (I still havenÕt figured out exactly what is happening in Joseph and 2 Women. As CaedmonÕs Call sang RichÕs Hope to Carry On, these were some of the thoughts that were humming through my mind. My heart and mind were humming with both challenge and praise. And so, I heartily recommend both CaedmonÕs CallÕs new CD Share the Well and the opportunity to see them, should they come your way.

I did say that I blew my last two vacation days. My very last one was ÒblownÓ very nicely in the return journey home, a reverse of the journey up: more CDÕs, some NPR (there was an alarming report on Arctic global warming and a weirdcool report on shortwave number stations), and many more cups of tea. There was the bonus of VeteranÕs day in the middle, though, (ah, government work) which was spent equally nicely at LÕAbri of Rochester, for which I am compelled to give a plug, as it is one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people. LÕAbri was founded by Francis and Edith Schaeffer and is a place where both Christians and inquirers can go to wrestle with questions. Each day consists of half a day of work, half a day of personal study, two times for tea, lunchtime discussions, and perhaps a lecture or a film or a campfire in the evening. I cannot more highly recommend it than I do now. It is a cross between Rivendell and the Areopagus and the Manor in C.S. LewisÕ book That Hideous Strength, complete with a spiritual director, of sorts, whom I like to call the Pendragon .

Lunchtime on Thursday involved a discussion on the nature of Biblical fasting, the characteristics of the Straight Edge movement, and the CCM question. In that discussion, and for several years now, I have argued that I wish the line between secular music and CCM would be pretty much just go away, except for in the instance of sacred or church music. And, to a degree which would have seemed impossible in the ÒAmy Grant has crossed overÓ eighties, that line has, indeed, blurred. Why not just have artists period. And those who were Christians would just write from a Christian worldview on whatever topic that crossed their fancy. This, of course, leads to a great deal of messiness (Is Creed a Christian band? Evanescence?) with artists sometimes presenting mixed messages (Why does David Bazan so casually use the F-word in concerts? Can a Christian be pro-choice, or at best apathetically pro-life?). But then again people are messy and mixed up and in every possible place in their spiritual journeys. And, even given all that, I think that is a better situation then the oppressive fundamentalism that the CCM community can sometimes foster. Just ask Sam Phillips. This construction also leaves a great deal of room for bands like CaedmonÕs Call whose lyrics will likely remain discussions of how Christianity impacts daily life. As noted before, there would be a music that could be called specifically Christian (although labels should not be too rigid), the music that ushers us into the worship of God. And that is a whole other kettle of fish...

Posted by jackdas at 9:46 PM

November 9, 2004

Essay Post II

Comic Essay
English 490,
Advanced Composition
Summer 94
Dr. Richardson

Ah, the seriousness of youth. Youth, serious? What could be a greater oxymoron, you may be thinking. But its true, nonetheless. If you want proof, just go straight to the best authorities on the subject: kids..... (For full story click "Permanent Link" below)

Now you can't just go and ask them if they think life is serious or not; they take life much too seriously to engage in such boring, time consuming analysis. That would be like asking a Frenchman if good wine and women were important to him, and why. No, what you will need to do is observe them in their natural habitat. Better still, shake out the mothballs from the wrinkles of your gray matter and observe your own inner child. Now I'm not talking about that psycho- babble stuff you hear about these days. Just sit down sometime and have a little chat with yourself over coffee and try and remember how you interacted with your youthful world. I bet you took it pretty seriously. I know my youth was deadly serious stuff, deadly serious indeed.

No places were more serious than the grounds of play. Those didn't consist just of the playground; playing was too important to just confine it to one spot. Every location and any occasion were fair grounds for play. School was a rude interruption to this happy state of affairs, but at least it had the redeeming quality of providing more friends to play with.
My career in play was hindered and augmented in this way when I went off to boarding school in fourth grade. The boarding school was in the green, pine covered foothills of the Himalayas in northern Pakistan and there was plenty of fodder to feed the active imaginations of a passle of kids unfettered by the deadening lure of TV, shopping malls, and mega toy stores.
We played with imagination, creativity, and in intense bursts of passion that would extinguish as rapidly as they would flare up. One week we would be criss-crossing a bit of hillside with intricate roadways as if the progress of an entire nation depended on our work. The next week it would be paper airplanes and the ground would be littered with white, as we created, tested, and flew our craft in high- stakes contests. The stakes were the words of admiration received for having a top flyer. The following week might have been a return to matchbox cars, but this time racing them down the speedway, a straight, six inch wide, inclined drain really, but it was just as good as Indianapolis to us kids. And the winners of these races were really canonized; their cars worshipped from afar.

The key was to keep moving in a cycle from one type of play to another. You see, kids know life is too important to get into a rut.

If the grounds of play highlighted a serious approach tofun, that was nothing compared to how they illustrated how seriously kids take justice. Judge Wapner has got nothing on kids. They can smell unfairness a mile off. And not only that but they will tell you it stinks.
In our elementary school we had a code of fairnesspartly inherent, partly defined, that we would have been hard pressed to articulate, but which we could appeal to as keenly and sharply as a trial lawyer when even its most minor precept was violated. The accusatory cry would go up, "Stop that, you're wrecking our fun!" And then if that warning shot failed the trump card would be played, "Stop that, or I'm telling Aunty Eunice on you." There was no greater charge than to be arraigned for the crime of interfering with the childhood charter of the pursuit of play by being charged with wrecking someone's fun. It was all very serious stuff indeed.

Junior high was even more serious. That was the netherworld between the unexamined, head-long pursuits of childhood and newly awakening world of self-conscious thought and measured action. Growing up in the isolated heights of a missionary boarding school in far-off Pakistan meant that we had the luxury of remaining children longer than most in the West. We remained fervent in our intense pursuit of the enjoyment of life in playing simple games and finding adventure, only now the physiological changes occurring in us made more sedentary, social interactions attractive too. And hese interactions were undertaken with all the seriousness nd ardor of the previous years.

What in hindsight can only be described as "light switch romances" (on again, off again), then were the axis on which the entire world turned; the gooey love notes they precipitated, the very articles of the Constitution. You cannot tell a junior higher not to take first love so seriously. Who can get past the glazed, puppy love eyes of a kid to argue that there are more important things in life. And when the light switch gets flicked off, who can tell those sad puppy dog eyes that its really no big deal. It is.

My first real heartache actually didn't come until twelfth grade. One month of frozen conversation and holding hands had come to an end, an unwanted end for my part, and I thought the world just couldn't go on. I cried for days. There I was sitting in church the morning after weeping between the hymns as if I had just been divorced by my wife.

Nothing, though, better captures the seriousness with which youth take life than that perennial rite of passage-- graduation. Our school's graduation had the added drama and trauma of having to say good-bye to friends who would be going "home" to one part of the world while you went "home" to the other side, while each left what was truly considered home, under the grim shadow of possibly never seeing dear friends again. And, oh, the weeping. You would have thought you were at a funeral. We knew, and by then could well articulate in the growing, bleak light of adulthood, what we were mourning for--the end of childhood and the comfort of life lived together with friends; of life lived to the hilt.

Graduation is more like a funeral then we know, I think. It is a dying to youthful fancies that life is all play, that it will always be fair, and that human love is something that can be relied on forever. And as we come into fully conscious life we know that these fancies must die in the face of harsh realities. This dying is necessary; the illusions must go. What matters more, though, is what rises from the ashes of that death; a specter of somberness that haunts life as if it were, in the words of Robert Frost, "a diminished thing," or the resurrection of the full-bodied approach of youth, that looks at life as something to be seriously engaged, in spite of the knowledge that disappointments will surely come. It is better to ride the heights and depths of an animated ocean than the deadening flatness of a windless sea. I have to keep talking to myself to remind me of that.

When I was a child
I'd laugh and play entire days
With shiny swords
Or in spaceships flying to the moon
That swept arcs in celestial dogfights against the stars.
And then I'd rise from the cloud of play,
Drop a knobby stick from knightly hands,

Or jump from the lawn chair cockpit of my craft,
And run, grubby, to clean and loving arms.

Posted by jackdas at 10:26 PM

November 8, 2004

Living in the Space Between

If you are a missionary kid, or a third culture kid as they were called last time I checked, you are used to living in the space between, between places and cultures and perhaps even between faiths. I once beleived it was a unique space, unique in its blessings and its pain. I believed that those of us who occupied it were special. And I displayed some of that curious combination of condescending pride and insecurity that is common to so many of us. I have long since learned to put my situation into context, by understanding that everyone is living in the space between in so many different ways. It is a simple, but incredibly helpful, observation.

That is not to say that there aren't some interesting things about my specific story, which spans two cultures and nations in my very blood. And, it is not an easy place. I often tell people that I think that one has to, in some fundamental way, choose between the cultures. It is just emotionally hard to stradle the two. And, as I reflect on that statement itself, I know that it is both true and a cop out. It is a cop out because I am too much of a comfort seeker, seeking to place a period where God may be placing a comma or an ellipsis. Given my own way, I know I would choose comfortable things (many of which are Good with a capital "G") and run from places of indeterminancy and transition. I am only just beginning to learn that I should never expect to leave these places this side of death or the eschaton. I really haven't believed as yet that we are to be strangers, that despite blessings that God may bring my way, that I should not put my stock and my hope in those things, which I am so, so, so prone to do.

Last week I brought my first CCM album in many years by getting Caedmon's Call's new CD "Share the Well" which musically documents their recent trips to Ecuador and Brazil and India. I highly recommend it. Musically, at first, I thought some of the songs don't join their Eastern components with midwestern pop folk quite as organically as could be hoped for, but upon repeated listenings I think they work very well. Lyrically, the CD is a strong call to share both the Gospel and resources that is pretty hard core. My church is getting into this perspective very heavily also, so this is all a convergence of sorts.

Finally, what I began to do when I started this post: two poems about living in the space between based on a journey I took to Pakistan 11 years ago.

nocturne in limbo (30,000 feet)

this strange stillness soothes
the unending muted roar of engines
envelopes and subdues me
like the roaring of a monsoon on a tin roof
remembered in warm sleep

this stillness seeps
through this inch thick oval of glass
from the moon filled atmosphere beyond
that holds separate two seas of black

and i hang in between and ache for each

above
the stars for which no earthly metaphor will do
burn their coldness into me
and something
some longing for eternity
quivers and answers
deep unto deep

below
a cozier vastness beckons me
the desert blackness exhales middle-eastern heat
and in the galaxies of light
that island its entirety
lovers softly sleep
ensconced each in each

return

i stand and breathe
my last few gulps of air duty-free
shuffling up the aisle
of this airlock between atmospheres

soon i will be complete
torn into a duality
that appears unseamed in separate hemispheres
that tears each time they meet
at the touching of my sleeping eastern flesh with east

i walk from the door
and then I am me
in ways that i have not been for years
as thick warm eastern air enfolds me
and fills my lungs
displacing stale indifference
and leaves me coughing sputtering
amidst these warm embraces
invading my protesting western space
amidst these cluttered streets
breaking life into me
more honest and complete

it may take some time to breathe

Posted by jackdas at 10:34 PM

November 4, 2004

Confessions of a Fundamentalist

"We don't drink and we don't chew and we don't go with girls that do." Or is it "We don't smoke and we don't chew" or "we don't dance and we don't chew." I don't really remember which it is, but any of these would work equally well for a group with with certain fundamentalist principals. Movies and long hair, and these days, tatoos and piercings might be added to that list of prohibitions. I am so intimately familiar with this list because in many ways I owned its principals for myself at one point in time. Even now, I have not simply overturned my previous views and wholeheartedly and unthoughtfully embraced all things which it prohibited. Nor is the impetus to make such lists wholly bad. Often it is done out of a desire for holiness. More often than not, though, it leads to legalism, which binds and cuts and smothers the self, and, even worse, another person, robbing them of their dignity and freedom.

The issue of fundamentalism is important to me, and I suspect to many. An excellent starting point to tackle the issue is Stefan Ulstein's book Growing Up Fundamentalist: Journeys in Legalism and Grace. It is, unfortunately, out of print and purchasing a used copy may set you back a bit. But you may try your public library and see if they can order it from another library. Tell them a librarian sent you! I, myself, want to try to discourse with this topic in my own writing. The Full Banana, for all its oddness, is a beginning to such wrestling. The poem which follows is another. Hopefully more will follow in the future.

dance tent, cornerstone 2000

i went alone
while she slept
to the dance tent

it was a hot, steamy building actually
i stood withdrawn
in shadows on the side
and watched and wondered
the life in the lights
and not only with judging scorn
as she might suppose
but wondered what it would take
to free my soul enough to dance
to free it of its associations
with sex and lust
enough to trust
enough to just move at first
and then to Move
with glad abandon
as all Dance was meant to be

there
as i watched the bodies shake and move
as the dj sprayed the crowd with water
like Job sanctifying his reveling children
i was torn

and she slept
knowing,
without ever having to learn,
the sweet secret of that freedom

Posted by jackdas at 8:33 PM

November 1, 2004

Childhood

From AFE.

Childhood
When I was a child,
I'd laugh and play entire days
With shiny swords
Or in spaceships flying to the moon
That swept arcs in celestial dogfights against the stars.
And then I'd rise from the cloud of play;
Drop a knobby stick from knightly hands;
Or jump from the lawn-chair cockpit of my craft,
And run, grubby, to clean and loving arms.

Simplicity and creativity in play are wonderful things. I may not have said that as a child, waiting with eager anticipation for new toys at Christmas or tugging at my mother's elbow in the Kmart toy isle. But what do I remember now about my childhood? Very little about what toys I had. What does come to mind is a sense that my two brothers and I often had a lot of fun with very little: running around as fierce Indian braves with Mom's dinner napkins tucked in our undershorts or playing hide and seek long into warm summer evenings.

In our world today of mind-absorbing video games and mega toy stores, children have never had more to do, but perhaps are offered far less to be, to imagine, to create, to delight in and enjoy. To be sure, toys, thoughtfully given, can be a delight and a token of parental love. I am thankful for those that I received, but perhaps even more thankful for the oh so many that I desired but never got.

Posted by jackdas at 10:15 AM | Comments (1)