Sing your song

" We were all born to sing - let not the contrary be said. But it is not a question of being born for the purpose. The fact is that whoever was really born in spirit, and not only in the flesh, sings, and sings because he was born in the spirit; if he does not sing, it is because he was born only in the flesh."
Miguel de Unamuno

How are you going to sing your song, in flesh and in spirit, today?

A Dad

How glad I am to be a dad.
Glad to sit and read to little Silvi, her blue eyes searching for the voice reading The Power of One to her in the darkness.

How sad I am to be a dad.
Sad to hear my daughter cry, while I - helpless - can only rock her and whisper that the sun will soon return.

How glad I am to be a dad. How sad I am to be a dad. Mostly, glad.

Contradiction

I've been reading Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno between diaper changes and making up very cheesy songs for my daughter. He frustrated many of his readers because he usually refused to reach final conclusions. He defied labels. He saw himself as someone full of contradiction, as one who said one thing with his heart and the contrary with his head. For him, this internal conflict was the very stuff of life.

I'm still trying to figure out what God meant when he said to come to him, that he would give us rest. I believe that it is possible to live in the tension of contradiction and be at rest at the same time, but because of our nature, we swing from one extreme to the other. This conflict, says de Unamuno, unifies our lives and gives it its practical purpose.

The wrong questions

I live in an age of wrong questions. Everywhere I turn, it seems those in charge are asking the wrong questions. Abraham Joshua Herschel says that philosophy may be defined as the art of asking the right questions. So what are the right questions when it comes to talking about community, about what it means to be the Church?

I'm more than a little hesitant about addressing topics like community and the Church. They're being talked about everywhere. The reason I feel like I want give my two cents is this: None of the answers that are in abundant supply in countless books, sermons, blogs, and websites answer the questions I am asking.

Can I trust you? Will you trust me?

There's a reason not many are addressing these questions. It's much easier to discuss theology, form and function, worship techniques. And those who do address the questions I am asking often provide ethereal, fluffy answers that don't touch me in my day-to-day life. I've got a little too much Charles Sanders Peirce in me to embrace Thomas Merton. I've got too much Merton in me to embrace Francis Schaeffer. I've got too much Schaeffer in me to embrace Jacques Derrida. And I've got too much Derrida in me to embrace, well, anything.

I hate my questions. So, touchy-feely. So, narcissistic. I want to be satisfied with sitting around talking about things like perichoresis and interpenetration and postfoundationalism. But I'm not. At least not right now. As the Church struggles to redefine itself, I, a branch on the vine, ask: Can I trust you? You, sitting next to me on the pew, on the thrift store couch, across from me in the coffee shop: Can I trust you? Do you trust me?

Trust is the springboard of love. And love is the greatest witness to our age. But if all this touchy-feely stuff is boring you, we could just talk about a great article that I read on theology and science without dualism.

More wrong questions

I've been sitting here, editing a TV commercial for the Minnesota Better Business Bureau, thinking about my post on trust. The MN Better Business Bureau exists because there is no trust. We need an organization to tell us who is trustworthy and who is not.

Am I trustworthy? Would you find my name in the MN Better Business Bureau guide? Hmmm...Back to editing.

Introducing...

And then there were three

The world looks different at 2 am. Silvi is a night owl, and fights the world from about twelve until two in the morning. She beats her little fists against my chest and has more vocal range than Constantine on American Idol. I introduced her to the animated film The Incredibles last night, although she seemed to be more entertained with the collar of my shirt. Sorry Pixar. My $14.99 shirt swept your $100 million film last night in the 0-to-1-week age range.

I feel like I'm supposed to begin writing about the three areas that I want to engage in this journal, but right now I just want to tell you how awesome my daughter Silvi is. Awesome!

Silvi

I now understand why new parents are so anxious to send pictures of their new child; there are no words to capture the experience. My daughter, Silvi, joined Annie and I in the wee hours of Monday morning. She was born through laughter and tears and pain. And pain. So small, so fragile. I'll never forget how startled Silvi looked as she left the body of my beautiful, lovely wife. Annie lost a lot of blood. Silvi fell asleep in my arms as we sat next to beautiful Annie, mother, and the doctors worked for two hours to make her whole again. EdTV, with Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson, the only program on besides Infomercials, helped the time pass, and reinforced the need for Hollywood to take another long look at itself. You never know when a new mother will need a story to help her through the wee hours of a Monday morning.

I've apologized to Silvi. She looks alot like me. Sorry dear girl. Life is hard enough. Annie and Silvi and I stayed in the hospital through yesterday, and Annie slowly began to feel whole again. Silvi helped. So did family. How amazing it is to watch someone's face transform at the sight of new life. My daughter has created community.

(Pictures, and more pictures, to follow.)

A hallowed day

In a few hours, on this beautiful Sunday, the beginning of a not-so-ordinary week, we are leaving for the hospital to welcome Silvi into the world. Annie and I are at her parent's home right now, and soon all the family, my parents included, will be here to celebrate and wait until we make the mad dash to the hospital.

It is a hallowed day indeed.

Community

My wife and I often spend Sunday mornings at a local bakery down the street called the French Meadow. It's a time to catch up, to just be with the other for awhile. The French Meadow is in a neighborhood known as Uptown, an area of Minneapolis that attracts young, urban singles and families, as well as many artists. Sunday mornings are packed, and the latte's are superb.

In a way, this bakery is my "church". My wife and I break bread together, our laughter must be some kind of worship and we often reflect on the preceding week with God. And if, as I believe, we as the Church are called to be some kind of witness to the age, surely the sight of a husband and wife loving each other well must count for something.

Tick, tock

Eyes on the clock, waiting, waiting, waiting...

A life observed

My daughter, Silvi, will be born any minute now. At the risk of being a stereotypical new father, I feel this huge, almost overwhelming, desire to change everything about myself, and the world, to ensure that Silvi is safe and loved. As someone who tries to control the chaos of life, I realize just how much there is that can come between that safety and love. Life is dangerous, and love even more so.

I have chosen to call this journal Narrow Ridge because I believe that I must walk along the narrow ridge in this world. I must live between hope and despair, between certainty and doubt, between laughter and tears, between community and solitude. Truth be told, I am not very good at walking the narrow ridge. It is all too easy for me to slide into a life of despair and doubt and sadness. And solitude.

As my daughter joins our family, I realize that I will live a life observed. Lately, I've been feeling as if I'm about to meet my inlaws for the first time and they will be staying with me for a week. I got rid of all our old coffee mugs because none of them matched. We now have six new matching coffee mugs. I sold half of my books. I took three carloads of clothes and lamps and old furniture to the thrift store. The closets have been straightened, the dishes done, laundry washed, floor swept, carpets vacuumed, and we're buying a new coffee table this week. And I bought a soccer ball to lose the spare tire(s).

None of those things, of course, address the real issue. I want my daughter to look up to me, to respect me, to love me. And there's just so many things about me that are, well, unfinished.

This journal is an attempt to share just a little of a life well-lived along the narrow ridge.

Lazy Saturday

Annie's out with her sisters and mom, drinking bad latte's at Caribou Coffee. I'm lounging around, re-reading parts of Peterson's Subversive Spirituality, listening to Midnight Oil, enjoying the sun filling our living room. Doctors ran tests on Silvi; she'll make her appearance when she's ready. Yesterday was her due date. Kind of glad she won't have to endure an April Fool's day birthday. Especially in grade school.

Back to my lazy Saturday morning.

Community?

Some friends I haven't seen in a long time stopped over last night to see Silvi. One of them is in the process of leaving his church of eight years or so. I say in the process because he still enjoys listening to the sermons, but he has no fellowship with the huge congregation.

He attended a conference in Colorado put on by Aussies Michael Frost and Alan Hirsch, where they spoke of their book, The Shaping of Things to Come. I'd never heard of the book, but I guess it's stirring the waters. My friend and I talked about it, about incarnational living, about this whole community thing. I enjoyed the conversation, but I woke up feeling very frustrated.

I just want to get there. Wherever there is. I've been actively deconstructing Church for nearly five years, and it is so old. Once, when I lived in Seattle, I spent a few hours sitting overlooking the Puget Sound with a prof. from Mars Hill Grad School. We talked about breaking out of the deconstruction circle. He believes that it is possible to break free, at least enough to find some rest. He said that what's often lacking is someone to come along side of us and say, "Psst. Look over here. Here's a small door you can walk through. And I'll go with you.

I feel like I've been walking through a lot of doors. Which one is the small door?And who will go with me?

But I digress into self-pity again. I just need to serve more, read my Bible more, pray more, be Missional. No, no. I just need to do less, allow God's voice to penetrate the silence, become less and less. Wait, I've done all those things. What's on tv?

Set up, tear down, set up

It doesn't matter how many shoots I go on, it is always accompanied by the same amount of chaos and panic. Alarm sends the first shot of adrenaline at 6 am, then it's racing through rush hour traffic to a place I've never been before. I'll take a side road. Construction! I'm the one with the cameras. I arrive at the huge corporate complex wide-eyed, trying to find the crew - a needle in a haystack. There they are. Now, where's our contact person?

Scope the shoot site, then unload a van full of lights, cables, moniters, sandbags, tripods, audio gear, reflectors, cameras and refreshments. A three-camera shoot. Miles of cables. Sweating in the cold air. Director pacing nervously, looking at his watch, arguing with the director of photography. I'm adjusting the color temperature on the cameras, trying to get them to all match. The actors are sitting around, saying their lines out loud, adding to the chaos. Thirty minutes over. The director yells, "Five minutes." Sound man messes up my camera. Cameras won't sync up timecode. We'll use a clapper. Lay down 30 seconds of bars and tone. Talent in place; change the lighting one last time.

Hit record.

Record 30 seconds of dialogue. Take one, five, eight.

Tear down all the gear; moving to another location down the hall. Same thing all over again. Five more times today.

Action!

B.C. (Before Child)

This is the last week of my life that I will be known as Tom: husband, son, brother. This time next week, I will be Tom: husband, son, brother - Father. It hit me yesterday morning when I woke to see the newly assembled crib sitting in the corner, the sheets folded, waiting for my daughter's arrival.

Today is just another monday; what will next monday look like as - Father? What will I see that I don't see today?

I am ready to be: Father. I can't wait to be: Dad.

Easter without guilt

Annie and I have been talking off and on about how we want to celebrate Easter this year. We don't go to church, so that's not really an option. Easter, it seems to me, is about two things: celebration and rememberance. The celebration is taken care of; lots of food and games and movies and laughter with parents and siblings.

Rememberance is a little harder for me. At least being purposeful about it. It's just so much pressure: Sunday I have to contemplate what the resurrection means to me. I'm supposed to be serious and really feel the enormity of what Christ did for me on the cross. When I did go to church, which wasn't often, I never felt like I was doing Easter "right." I wasn't appreciative enough, or thankful enough, or contrite enough. Everyone around me always seemed just a little more thankful for what our Lord did for us over 2000 years ago.

I'm thankful. At lunch, on this first true week of spring, I was driving down the freeway (ignoring that rattle in the engine) with the sunroof open, listening to the Indigo Girls sing about being "free in you." I starting thinking about God and His Son and what this weekend means, and I was very thankful. Does that count? Or does it only count between 11:00 and 12:30 on Sunday morning?

(no comments on my listening to the Indigo Girls, please)

Between

It's between winter and spring; between pregnancy and birth. Between career and calling. Between apartment and house; between paychecks; between trips to the auto repair shop. Everything, it seems at the moment, is just...between.

Almost ready

Our apartment is almost ready for the pending addition to the family. It's felt so good getting rid of all the junk we've accumulated over the years. Funny how little we actually use. Now, to put the crib together. Have you seen these things? How can there be so many parts for such a small bed?

My wife

I spent the day with my wife. We cleaned out the closets, taking years of junk to the thrift store. We went to Ikea to buy a crib for Silvi, standing in the long lines Ikea is famous for. We went through our storage, and packed more boxes for Goodwill. And we had so much fun.

I love hanging out with my wife. Even doing the menial and difficult tasks isn't that bad when we're doing it together. Driving home on this cold winter night, the new snow making all things new, I fell in love with her all over again. I can't wait for tomorrow.

Deadlines and editing

Deadlines and editing. Editing and deadlines. These are a few of my favorite things.

Interruptions

I want to learn to be more predisposed to be interrupted, like Jesus was. (Is "learning to be predisposed" a contradiction in terms?) Jesus, sent by God on this enormous mission of restoring creation, was constantly stopping to talk to whoever had a question for him. Or to share a meal, to ease someone's suffering.

My life is full of interruptions and the truth is, sometimes it drives me crazy. I've got a task to do, people. How do I learn that these interruptions are, in fact, an integral part of the journey?

Butterflies

Two weeks until Silvi arrives and I can't shake the butterflies. Excitement and terror in the same breath.

Clients

I spent the last eight hours with clients, shooting a video in our studio. We talked, joked, laughed, argued and shared a meal together.

Martin Buber wrote in depth about the loneliness of modern man before men whom he associates with but does not meet. What is an appropriate level of "meeting?" The producer-client relationship is most often a false relationship: I, as the video producer, must guard my comments, must watch how I give direction to insure the client will not only continue to work with us today, but on future projects as well. And they realize the power they possess. We ensure that the client is never thirsty, that his jokes are laughed at, that his comments are listened to no matter how outrageous they may be. It is two false selves circling each other in an awkward dance.

Is it possible to have true "meeting" between two false selves? If it is not, is it appropriate to accept the world as it is and treasure the small moments of genuine meeting?

My daughter's name

I hope my daughter will like the name I picked for her. When she's ten, will she be embarrassed to have her teacher call her name in front of the class? Will she choose to be know by her middle name like I did for a few weeks when I was twelve? Will her name influence the kind of person she becomes, the job she takes, the family she one day creates? What is the power of a name?