Happy Halloween!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Blue Like Jazz
When one person recommends that I read a certain book, I smile and nod. I might think about putting it on my long “to-be-read” book list. When another person recommends the same book, I smile and nod some more, and then write the name on the long “to-be-read” book list. When a third, fourth, and fifth person touts praises for the book, I break down and buy a copy on Amazon or head to the library. More often than not, I find that the book lives up to the hype. Such is the case with Donald Miller’s book, “Blue Like Jazz: Non-Religious Thoughts On Christian Spirituality.”
Blue Like Jazz is highly engaging; once you begin reading, the book is hard to put down. Miller’s stories are both witty and insightful. He paints a picture of God and Christianity in a light I had never before imagined, drawing from his own life journey as the child of a single mother, a partying teenager struggling with the concept of God, a young Christian on a godless college campus, and a single guy coming to grips with his fear of intimacy. A book that entertains, convicts, and encourages all at once is a rare find. But don’t take my word for it. Here are a few of my favorite fun passages (you’ll have to read the book yourself to find the deeper nuggets of truth):
** “Some of my friends have left their churches and gone Greek Orthodox. I think that sounds cool. Greek Orthodox. Unless you are Greek. Then it sounds like that is where you are supposed to go, as though you are a conformist. If I were Greek, I would never go to a Greek Orthodox church. If I were Greek, I would go to a Baptist church. Everybody there would think I was exotic and cool.”
** “I understand you can learn a great deal about girldom by reading Pride and Prejudice, and I own a copy, but I have never read it. I tried. It was given to me by a girl with a little note inside that read: What is in this book is the heart of a woman. I am sure the heart of a woman is pure and lovely, but the first chapter of said heart is hopelessly boring. Nobody dies at all. I keep the book on my shelf because girls come into my room, sit on my couch, and eye the books on the adjacent shelf. You have a copy of Pride and Prejudice, they exclaim in a gentle sigh and smile. Yes, I say. Yes, I do.”
** “I know from personal experience that you should not keep telling a girl that you like her after she tells you she isn’t into it. You should not keep riding your bike by her house either.”
** "Living in community sounded so, um, odd. Cults do that sort of thing, you know. First you live in community, and then you drink punch and die. It was [Pastor] Rick's idea, though, and he seemed fairly normal in all the other areas of his life. He never mentioned anything about a spaceship traveling behind a comet. He never asked us to store weapons or peanut butter, so I figured the thing about living in community was on the up-and-up...The other thing is that, at the time, I was pushing thirty and still not married. When you are thirty and not married and you move in with a bunch of guys, you look like you have given up, like you are a bunch of losers who live together so you can talk about computers and share video games...Rick kept bothering me about it. I was living way out in the country, about 30 miles from town...He asked if I had the chance to minister to anybody out there in the country. He asked if I was having any influence on the cows. I told him I was having a lot of influence. I wrote books. He laughed. I sat there uncomfortably while he laughed. "Books," he said, "Brilliant! You write books for people." He couldn't stop laughing. He was being very annoying."
Friday, October 12, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
The SPSRT
Once upon a time, there existed a phrase within the English language that stirred inside me a sense of elation and exhilaration. A phrase representing freedom and spontaneity. Six beautiful words I could not say no to: “Let’s go on a road trip.”
Ah. The road trip. A sweet, blissful rambling off the beaten path. A car carrying a cooler, a map, and a tent. No agenda. No plans. Just you, your friends, and the open road. How I used to love to hear those words, “Let’s go on a road trip.” How I prized my naïve belief that the phrase “road trip” suggested the use of an actual road: a highway or byway with a yellow line and speed signs and asphalt, a pathway to real freedom.
Then, one fateful day, my simple dream was shattered. I remember it well: the first time my boss asked, “Would you like to go on a road trip?” My heart beat faster, my eyes lit up with excitement. The physical response to the words “road trip” was natural, like Pavlov’s salivating dog. I could no more control my reaction than a baby can control his bowel movements. A solemn ceremony of fast food, rest stops, and getting lost had been engrained inside me, body and soul, since college.
Alas, my joy was short-lived. The boss followed his question with a request to take a report to the fourth floor. The fourth floor of this building? Yes. You mean, the building that I’m standing in right now? Yes. So, there’s no actual road involved in this road trip? That’s right.
No drive in the car. No cheesy picture taken at the state line. Nothing more than a tedious task involving a walk just beyond the five foot perimeter of my cubicle. My vision of the road trip had come crashing down around me.
Many months have passed since that first encounter. I became so used to the boss’s blatant disregard of such a sacred phrase that I became numb from the pain. I didn’t so much take issue with him asking me to help him out (even though the mail room is very efficient in same-day delivery. But, I digress). What hurt me was the sullying of the words “road trip” with such a lowly, commonplace connotation.
My healing process has been slow and riddled with setbacks. I could not go to the source of the problem, as the likelihood of me addressing my concerns to the boss was about the same as monkeys flying up from the center of the earth to knit booties with their lizard friends who play the violin. Instead, I enrolled in an intensive program of therapy to recapture the true meaning of the road trip. However, I was forced to quit when the therapist began calling my visits to him “road trips,” effectively destroying all hope of injecting freedom and irresponsibility back into the phrase. Finally, I took action and formed the Society for the Preservation of The Sacred Road Trip (SPSRT). My steps towards recovery have since been slow, but I know complete healing is not beyond my grasp.
As I continue on my path to victory, I ask that you, my family, friends and future co-members of the SPSRT, lend me your support. Do your part: reclaim the lost meaning of the road trip! Don’t become part of the problem by saddling those beautiful words with drudgery and responsibility! Pry that sense of adventure away from the jaws of the mundane!
Take back the road trip!
Ah. The road trip. A sweet, blissful rambling off the beaten path. A car carrying a cooler, a map, and a tent. No agenda. No plans. Just you, your friends, and the open road. How I used to love to hear those words, “Let’s go on a road trip.” How I prized my naïve belief that the phrase “road trip” suggested the use of an actual road: a highway or byway with a yellow line and speed signs and asphalt, a pathway to real freedom.
Then, one fateful day, my simple dream was shattered. I remember it well: the first time my boss asked, “Would you like to go on a road trip?” My heart beat faster, my eyes lit up with excitement. The physical response to the words “road trip” was natural, like Pavlov’s salivating dog. I could no more control my reaction than a baby can control his bowel movements. A solemn ceremony of fast food, rest stops, and getting lost had been engrained inside me, body and soul, since college.
Alas, my joy was short-lived. The boss followed his question with a request to take a report to the fourth floor. The fourth floor of this building? Yes. You mean, the building that I’m standing in right now? Yes. So, there’s no actual road involved in this road trip? That’s right.
No drive in the car. No cheesy picture taken at the state line. Nothing more than a tedious task involving a walk just beyond the five foot perimeter of my cubicle. My vision of the road trip had come crashing down around me.
Many months have passed since that first encounter. I became so used to the boss’s blatant disregard of such a sacred phrase that I became numb from the pain. I didn’t so much take issue with him asking me to help him out (even though the mail room is very efficient in same-day delivery. But, I digress). What hurt me was the sullying of the words “road trip” with such a lowly, commonplace connotation.
My healing process has been slow and riddled with setbacks. I could not go to the source of the problem, as the likelihood of me addressing my concerns to the boss was about the same as monkeys flying up from the center of the earth to knit booties with their lizard friends who play the violin. Instead, I enrolled in an intensive program of therapy to recapture the true meaning of the road trip. However, I was forced to quit when the therapist began calling my visits to him “road trips,” effectively destroying all hope of injecting freedom and irresponsibility back into the phrase. Finally, I took action and formed the Society for the Preservation of The Sacred Road Trip (SPSRT). My steps towards recovery have since been slow, but I know complete healing is not beyond my grasp.
As I continue on my path to victory, I ask that you, my family, friends and future co-members of the SPSRT, lend me your support. Do your part: reclaim the lost meaning of the road trip! Don’t become part of the problem by saddling those beautiful words with drudgery and responsibility! Pry that sense of adventure away from the jaws of the mundane!
Take back the road trip!
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