This Elusive Craft

On Saturday night, several friends and I gathered at my pals', Josh and Grayson, house to watch a rented movie. Never able to make a decision on the spot (at least with such trivial things as movie rental selection), I brought to the gathering three movies to choose from. Well, The Merchant of Venice and The Woodsman would have to wait for another evening, because the group chose to watch the little known independent film A Love Song for Bobby Long. This quaint, southern story stars John Travolta (in one of his more interesting roles, though, yes, there is a dancing scene, which I've started to suspect is in Mr. Barbarino's contract) the mostly unknown Gabriel Macht, and the heart-all-a-twitter lovely Scarlett Johansson. Without dwelling on the story too long, since it is not the point of this post, the narrative revolves around a high-school dropout who journeys home to New Orleans after the death of her mother, only to find her mother's house has been left to her as well as a once vibrant and charismatic, now down-on-his-luck English Literature professor and his guilt-ridden protege who have already taken up a squalid residence within. It must be mentioned that I was very surprised by how much I enjoyed this film. I normally gauge enjoyment based on either how much I am brought to laughter, if the film sparks deep conversation, or how inspired I feel emerging from the film's world. The latter experience came on Saturday night. I've been wanting to write - something, anything - ever since.

Two days before watching A Love Song for Bobby Long, four fellow Truett students and myself met in the student lounge room in which I now sit, and began to discuss how a Truett Writer's Group would be structured this summer. The five of us, along with a few others unable to make the first meeting, agreed toward the end of the Spring semester to meet weekly during the summer as a kind of low-maintenance, seat-of-our-pants support group for each other as fellow writers. There are, of course, varied literary tastes in both preferred reading and style of writing, but with our second meeting coming up tomorrow during lunch, I find myself excited to sit in the presence of these friends and chase however many rabbits of conversation about writing present themselves. There is Grayson, a sucker for memoirs and similar styles of writing when he is not "dropping it like it's hot" to his favorite rap/hip-hop albums; Josh, an exceedingly intelligent student with a love for fantasy and writing that holds a touch of magical realism or is spread in an anti-epic fashion (tomorrow we will critique three chapters of a 98-chapter draft of one of the novels he has written - bravely he submitted his work to us first); Jeff, a reader of just about everything, though his most beloved are 20th-century British novels and collections of moral essays, will be a welcomed addition to our group during his last few months in Waco before moving to Southbend to begin Ph.D. work at Notre Dame; and Carrie, a lover of literary fiction and a hopeful short story writer yet with a specialty for children's Bible curriculum-writing, who, I must admit, has a little Scarlett Johansson-thing going on.

I look forward to this group mainly because I need an uncomfortable kick in the posterior as it relates to my own aspirations in writing. At home my desk is cluttered with stuff for filing, stuff for arranging, stuff for hanging, and stuff for the trash bin, since moving my bedroom furniture around to accommodate a smaller scope of living when Chad, my new roommate, moved in. This desk is a fantastic writing desk, with a large, genuine wood surface I sanded and refinished myself, deep, long drawers, and a just rustic enough feel that it seems to summon better words and tighter sentences from me than other writing surfaces. Yet I've written so little on it, and because I have a slight anal retentiveness when it comes to working at home, I know I will not be able to write a single word until that desk is clear, dusted, and there is an aroma candle burning nearby. Perhaps this group will rough me up or something if I start showing up week after week having not done any significant work.

In A Love Song for Bobby Long, there was presented such a cherished love for writing, and the characters all communicated how important deep, soul-searching prose and poetry was to the condition - what's more, the worth - of one's soul. Oh, what is this strange craft of writing? How elusive are the right words; how much more reluctant to behold is a continual desire to sit and work? Perhaps this writing group will help me. Maybe Grayson, Josh, Jeff, and Carrie will be for me like the third criteria of a movie-watching experience - they will, through their conversation and their own struggle with the craft, inspire me to keep taking up the pen.

So often I see my writing life serving as a mirror for my journey with God. When I feel lazy, lost for words or the desire to sit down and work the words, I often feel lost from God. When I do not write, I do not pray. When I neglect my work, I neglect the one who gave me these desires in the first place.

Oh, how I need to clear that desk!

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.
- Cyril Connolly

Into the Silent Canyon - Part Three

In this, the last of my reflections on my excursion into the wilderness monastic community, I want to share the third and final pressing thing I observed while finding myself immersed in this Benedictine way of life. Though the consideration of such a subject has sparked a indeterminable weighty number of articles and books (books thicker than my waist many times, and I don't claim to have the thinnest of figures), I find my thoughts upon this subject during and since my time at the monastery have been rather simple - even short, which is not normal for such a long-winded person. To that end, this post will probably be the shortest of the three (but not by much), which will probably come as a relief to the few who actually read this blog.
This subject is the fullness of God.
I alluded to such a foundational element of the faith in my last post - that, and the lack of many Christians (within the American Church today) recognition of it. It became evident to me, in a kind of quietly revelatory manner, during my time in the canyon, that those "in" my particular style of faith (Baptist and more Free-church, evangelical culture denominations) are very Christ-centered in our faith and in our expression of our faith. This is not wrong. In fact, I truly believe it is of the greatest importance of both the individual Christian and the Church. For Christ is the Savior of every person on earth, past and present and future, as well as the head of the Church. This is not simply a Pauline doctrine. As I view it, it is basic Christology.
However (oh yes, there is a "however," for if not, there would be no real point to this post), I believe those "in" my tradition have, in their Christ-centered way of doing things, displaced two other important elements. That is, they have lost the necessary, equal importance of God the Father, and the Holy Spirit. Not very often will you hear, in my church tradition, a prayer addressed to the Spirit, nor will you hear much talk of God the Father without coupling him like a motorcycle sidecar to Jesus Christ. While I never rejected the importance of the central truth and devotion to Christ while I was worshipping with the monks in New Mexico, I came to cherish their complete recognition of the Trinity - the equality and shared deserving of our worship. Scripture speaks much in family metaphor, and though it does not explicitly speak of the Trinity (for it is a construction coming out of early Church history), the doctrine of the Trinity is grounded in the presence of the three persons of God revealed in the Bible. We are accepted as children of God, made brothers with Christ, and guided in an almost parental manner by the Spirit ("he will guide you into all truth ..." - John 16:13). Indeed, the Trinity seems to share familial ties, metaphorically speaking, though such is their binding and their oneness with one another that Yahweh God goes far beyond simple family metaphor. St. John of the Cross envisioned the persons of the Trinity in a kind of constant dance with each other - this was how they were bound - and indeed many times it seems God dances with his children ... sings over them ... fellowships with them in a hundred thousand different ways.
And yet rarely if ever in my church tradition do I hear equal importance, equal reverence, and equal submission being expressed of the Trinity. Our Christ-centeredness is not Christ-centeredness at all if we throw out the Father and/or the Spirit and focus our attention solely on Christ. He will stand stark, measurable, and without the blinding reality of his fullness. It is interesting to note the way in which salivating evangelicals defended Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ because of its "flawless" depiction of Christ's suffering. I will admit, I was greatly moved by the film - it is one of only a very small number of films I have viewed in my lifetime that have brought me to tears. However, upon emerging from the stunned silence of the theater, I could not help but think, "I understand completely why some Jewish people are upset by this film." For one, most of the Jews (true to Scripture or not) were indeed made to look evil for evil's sake - not much more developed than a James Bond villain. And secondly, coupled with the excrutiating amount of hype surrounding the film, everything became centered on Christ, and the basic feeling among many evangelicals was, Christ is God, bar none; any Jewish resentment is simply and sadly the grumblings of people who worship a pagan god. Oh, how wrong a sentiment that is! Jews worship the same God that we as Christians do, but there are many Christians who would shudder at this reality. This is because we have, over the decades and centuries, completely separated Christ and our "Christian God" from his very history, that which is immersed in and made knowable only through Jewish culture and writings.
The point is this: Christ is more than simply the patron saint of Christianity. He is not the end-all focus; he is central to our faith, but this is not the same thing. The Trinity is what surrounds us, watches over us, "speaks" to us, directs us, etc. Not simply Christ. We must seek to let our worship conform to the fullness of God - Yahweh God expressed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost - and not simply one part of him. The Apostles' Creed itself begins in this way. Christ is my Savior. He is my Lord. And he is both the human and divine expression of God for salvation and redemption. But he is the Son of my heavenly Father, and the aim of the Spirit which guides me in lifestyle and love.
As I mentioned in my previous post, at the close of almost every psalm chanted, as well as each hour of prayer, the guests and monks would always sing the doxology known as the "Glory Be." It is, "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be. World without end. Amen." We would bow for these words, chanting them before the throne of God (Hebrews 4:16), our full and glorious God.
The Trinity - the fullness of God - is a difficult subject, and I do not assume to have even the slightest percentage of understanding on it. But there is one thing I do know, and it is a beautiful thing when I step aside and let it (and not me) drive my life into what it must desperately be. The Trinity is the people of this earth's best way of understanding a God who is infinitely beyond understanding, beyond our ability to nail him down and figure him out (despite what a thousand different Christian-market fiction and non-fiction books would have you believe). And somewhere within this mystery, we find him to be our Father, our Brother, our Guide, our Friend, our Lover, our Head, our Help, our Hope ...
Thank God for metaphor, huh?

Jesus in the Monastery Chapel

(At days' end, the light of the setting sun would end up upon him.)

Into the Silent Canyon - Part Two

It has been about two weeks since I have returned from my excursion in the wilderness. But being in a canyon so far removed from the hustle and bustle of society is not something that is easily displaced in the mind. The memories are still very vivid, as I should hope they would be, and will be for quite a long time, at least until, God-willing, I can return to a place like that again.

In my last post, I wrote of silence, about my need for it, about the Church's need to rediscover it, about a need I believe dwells deep inside of all of us to seek it, let it manifest itself from the outside in (when possible) and from the inside out (hopefully achieved with time and practice). It is in the same vein that I write today, but concerning something else of imperative importance in both my life and the Church; it is a topic containing both similar and different implications. It is a second condition I observed in the canyon at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert.

Solemnity. The art or condition of being solemn. Such was everything that took place in that canyon, from four AM Vigils to stacking wood during the work hours, to eating lunch, to taking the time, as students, to study the assigned readings given to us by Dr. Gloer. From sunrise to sunset, there was a peace - a calmness unlike any I have experienced in recent memory - that pervaded every aspect of life at the monastery. There was never a rush, even in the few times I found myself treading quicker-than-usual up the dirt road in an effort to attend an hour of prayer on time. I realized from an early point during my stay in the canyon that this quality was one of the reasons why I initially felt so out-of-place, as if I was not a good fit to this place, even as a mere guest.

At every hour of prayer, the monks would enter, robed in whatever specific garb was considered appropriate to the hour, in no rush to begin, nor with any desire to pass the moments leading up to prayer by shooting the breeze with their fellow monks or the guests. Silence settled upon the chapel like a falling veil. What was utmost in importance during these moments was the condition of the heart, and the manner in which each person prepared himself to come before Almighty God. The monks would pad softly in, kneel obediently to what I called "the Bureau," which was a large chest that contained the elements of the Eucharist, and then bow humbly to the altar as they made their way to their chairs. Likewise, as we, the guests, entered, we bowed respectfully to the altar and took our seats; once seated, I found it worthwhile to focus on clearing my various thoughts and concerns in some way or another, as if allowing my mind and heart to take their own deep, calming breaths, preparing my whole self for worship. Out of such deliberate action, I found a greater recognition of reverence for God before, during, and after the times of prayer, and it seemed I was able to comprehend, at a stronger level, the specific psalms, hymns, and prayers being chanted to God.

I don't believe it can be denied that everything we do in worship is, in essence, prayer to God. It is all communication, on both individual and communal levels - at least, it should be considered in this way. Unfortunately, I notice a disease pervading much of the American Church, and that is this habit of structuring worship like a production, or a concert, or a self-help seminar, or any manner of programs not fully and simply devoted to communing with the God of creation, the God of us. When I visit my hometown church, I find many things distracting about it, and I am not just referring to their gaudy, electronic sign out front that makes them look like a bank or a very exquisite gas station. I mean no disrespect to my hometown church, but, while attending the Sunday morning worship service, I am puzzled at the presence of six vocalists flanking the music minister as he leads the choruses and hymns. What in the world are they doing up there? Are they suppose to be assisting the worship leader, or just helping him guide me through the songs? Because I must say, I am not in need of any assistance, let alone six extra singers, nor do I think is the music minister. Instead, they look uncomfortably to me like an overpopulated vocal group minus the choreography (though I've heard of some churches that aren't missing the choreography) and without the "brooding, sexy" group member. The stage (which seems to get bigger and bigger the more a church grows) has replaced the altar, and in so doing the church service has become more and more like a concert from some vocally uncoordinated pop group. We are production-oriented people these days, and I believe the Church is in a bad way because of it. It is hard to gaze out at the massive wave of technology and cultural progressiveness and not view it as a welcomed addition to what many times feels like stale worship. However, I fear that this wave is more of a tsunami (and not in the exciting way Leonard Sweet, the Emergent Church representative describes it) that will cause more destruction than we suspect. It already has.

Please do not misunderstand my feelings about progressive culture and the American Church. I am pleased with much of what we can do these days, with video, audio, ect. I believe there are many ways to accentuate worship - to make it more relevant to the culture. However, I believe many of us, in an attempt to do this, are running so excitedly ahead that we have become like Wile E. Coyote spinning his wheel-like feet out into nothingness - we have found ourselves set up for a fall. Some of us have not noticed yet - some of us have. Some of us have already plummeted, our heads remaining suspended in the air, only recently realizing what went wrong.

I give the concert description as simply an example of the condition of the church today. There are many other elements that have lost their central purpose, their captivating point. What matters is that all speak to a greater problem - that is, the loss of solemnity in worship. We have misplaced the mystery; we have lost the mysticism. This is a problem parallel with many of us in our individual life as Christians. Our worship is decadent and gluttonous. We desire the newest bible study, the latest praise song, the most extravagant musical arrangement or sleekest worship band riff. The largest congregation, the most successful mission trips, the most exciting youth/children's camp, the most technologically advanced building. The most relevant staff. The most impacting preacher.

Some people, in many different ways, both subtle and blatant, have accused me of being a snob of sorts on this topic. Because I'm a seminary student currently emersed in the study of church history, specifically that of worship traditions, I obviously loath the advancements of our modern culture. Such is not the case. I believe there is a worthwhile goodness in each of these desires I have listed; there is nothing wrong with any of them, to an extent. The problem is, many of us in the Church want all these things, but rarely do we add to this list the simple reality of the presence of Christ. In fact, I suspect that if many of us were honest with ourselves - truly, deeply honest - we would not trade these desires for Christ. God alone is rarely, if ever, exciting, and being production-oriented, excitement-driven people, the simple presence of Christ just is not going to fill our need - or so we believe.

The simple presence of Christ, however, is truly all we need. The experience of God in his fullness - the love and guidance of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. It will fill us up in ways that the greatest combination of all these other spiritual desires will leave only stark emptiness. In the last post, I encouraged us to turn off all the noise in our lives long enough to realize the wonder of a God who speaks to us in sheer silence. I believe we must put aside all the rushed glitz and glamour that we have welcomed into our churches in the name and hope of relevance and progressivism. It is extremely important to structure our services toward cultural relevance, but not at the expense of the age-old need of communion with God. To be solemn before the Almighty, to be quiet and reverent, is what he requires of us.

At the end of almost every psalm and prayer we prayed at the monastery, we would chant a doxology: "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be. World without end. Amen." Everytime we said this, we would once again bow to the altar, which signified the sacrifice of Christ. At this moment, heads and torsos bent to the floor, everything and everyone else was blocked out. Our recognition was only of the holy God.

And it was enough. It was more than enough.

Inside the chapel at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert

The altar (representing the sacrifice of Christ) is in the foreground, and the bureau-like cabinet, containing the elements of the Eucharist (representing the presence of Christ), is directly behind it.

Sacrifice and offering you did not desire, but my ears you have opened; burnt offerings and sin offerings you did not require. Then I said, "Here I am, I have come - it is written about me in the scroll. I desire to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart." - Psalm 40:6-8