Have you noticed how often people are injecting the word "literally" into their conversations?
It's happening all the time, or at least it seems to me. Perhaps it's like the word "like," but for different reasons.
Years ago, when teenagers dominated our home, we had a "like" tax at our house. When one of the kids would tell their story (interjecting the simile-marker), I would hold up my hand, raising a finger with every "like" word (heh, heh, get it?). Usually that provoked rolled eyes and exasperated gasps, but it worked. My teenage children policed their diction and then would add, "This is just the way my friends talk. I can't help it." Of course, we adults would laugh with derision at the nonsensical word filler, knowing our conversation skills were far superior.
That was until the new "like" word began to pop up in adult conversation. Listen carefully. Adults love to throw in the word "literally" like a valley girl (did it again). Indeed, "literally" seems like the anti-valley girl filler, literally (somebody stop me). When teenagers in southern California had a hard time gathering their thoughts, they threw in a simile now and then, perhaps to avoid the dim-witted "uhhhhh" (I'm probably giving too much credit to valley girls to explain the phenomenon that lasted for decades). Adults, on the other hand, with all of our mental faculties, have taken a different tact. Rather than rely upon similes to fill in the gaps, we throw in a word to be heard.
In the space of a half hour, I heard it three times this morning. Watching the news about the devastation in Moore, Oklahoma caused by a tornado, one of the reporters said, "The tornado literally mowed down everything in its path like a lawn-mower." One of my family members used the word, literally. Then, on my way to work, I no sooner turned on the radio when I heard a reporter on NPR say (referring to a new "quantum mechanics" computer), "It's literally a black box."
I think I'm literally getting tired of hearing the word. So, why do we do it?
I have a hunch that it has something to do with the volume of words we try to take in everyday, the cacophony of voices that clamor for our attention. Everybody has something to say. Everyone has an opinion about everything, literally. But, we all have a sneaky suspicion that no one's listening. Think of how many words are spoken per day. Thousands? Millions? Zillions? Really, are there enough ears in the world to hear it all? Besides, in a world where metaphors and similes dominate the landscape of everyday speech, throwing in another "like" won't help. So, what do we do to be heard? Shouting seems to be the recourse of political pundits and angry citizens. Sound bytes are fading in their appeal (television is wearing them out). Seems our latest strategy is to pique the interest of our listeners by appealing to what we say "literally."
So, here's an approach that I hope will become fashionable (I can dream, can't I?). Perhaps we should use silence to get others to listen. Rather than add to the madness, where everyone is talking at once, maybe the best approach to being heard is to say nothing. Rather than assume that just because it passes through the gray matter between our ears people must hear it, maybe we should keep our mouths shut for a change. Then, when we speak, people might listen to what we have to say.
Wouldn't that be a welcome change, especially after the latest disaster that brings out every opinion--crazy or not--from every corner of the world, literally?
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Tuesday, May 07, 2013
The Jesus we'll never know
Among several enigmatic moments in the gospels, there are two stories that I don't understand, two times when Jesus doesn't make sense to me at all.
1. After sending out the twelve to recover the "lost sheep of Israel" in Matthew's gospel, Jesus offers a blistering critique of the town and villages he (and the twelve?) had visited because they didn't repent after seeing his miracles. Then he offers a prayer, thanking God for the situation by adding, "Nobody gets me and nobody gets you; I'm the only one who knows you and you're the only one who knows me" (obviously my paraphrase).
2. At the peak of his career, Jesus asks the twelve about the scuttlebutt, "What are people saying about me?" They dutifully report what they've heard, "Some say you're Jeremiah, some say John the Baptizer come back from the dead, others say you're the reincarnation of somebody famous, like one of the prophets." To which Jesus makes no reply other than to ask, "What about you? Who do you think I am?" (again my paraphrase). And in Matthew's version, when Peter blurts out the right answer ("you're the One"), Jesus falls all over Peter as if he's just won the final question in Jeopardy.
One moment, Jesus is convinced nobody understands him. Later, he wants to know what people think. At first, Jesus doesn't care about his reputation. The next he seems to act like a nervous teenager, obsessing over what others are saying about him. Or, another way of looking at it, in the beginning Jesus didn't care what people thought. But, toward the end, he seems oblivious to the implications of how wrong people can be--even when it comes to their opinions about him. In other words, I don't understand Jesus' response to these two episodes regarding public opinion. Rather, I would've expected something like this:
1. What Jesus should have said was, "You don't know me now. But one day you'll understand."
2. What Jesus should have said was, "How ridiculous is that? Now, you all know by now that I'm not Jeremiah, or the Baptizer, or even one of the great prophets reincarnated, right?"
Which got me to thinking: is it possible that Matthew 11:27 is still true today, that none of us really get him? Is it probable that our ideas about him are just as ludicrous as the scuttlebutt reported by the twelve at Caesarea-Philippi?
On the one hand, I want to say, "no," because we have the Spirit to guide us in all truth. On the other hand, I'm wondering if our view of Jesus, our perceptions of "who he really is," are in fact skewed, slightly off, a bit over-worked, a little myopic, perhaps even provincial. In other words, we may not know him as well as we think. Maybe there's a part of him we'll never know, never figure out, never understand. And, perhaps Jesus, knowing our misperceptions, would say the same thing today, "Nobody really gets me."
That sentiment certainly cuts against the grain of our inclination to speak infallibly about him, as if no one understands Jesus like we do--especially when someone tells us their ideas about Jesus that sound so wrong. Indeed, we tend to think we've got him right and many others don't get him at all. And, I wonder what Jesus would say about that. Would he encourage us to pray, "Father, no one understands Jesus and therefore no one understands you." Or, would he remain silent when we tell him how wrong people can be?
1. After sending out the twelve to recover the "lost sheep of Israel" in Matthew's gospel, Jesus offers a blistering critique of the town and villages he (and the twelve?) had visited because they didn't repent after seeing his miracles. Then he offers a prayer, thanking God for the situation by adding, "Nobody gets me and nobody gets you; I'm the only one who knows you and you're the only one who knows me" (obviously my paraphrase).
2. At the peak of his career, Jesus asks the twelve about the scuttlebutt, "What are people saying about me?" They dutifully report what they've heard, "Some say you're Jeremiah, some say John the Baptizer come back from the dead, others say you're the reincarnation of somebody famous, like one of the prophets." To which Jesus makes no reply other than to ask, "What about you? Who do you think I am?" (again my paraphrase). And in Matthew's version, when Peter blurts out the right answer ("you're the One"), Jesus falls all over Peter as if he's just won the final question in Jeopardy.
One moment, Jesus is convinced nobody understands him. Later, he wants to know what people think. At first, Jesus doesn't care about his reputation. The next he seems to act like a nervous teenager, obsessing over what others are saying about him. Or, another way of looking at it, in the beginning Jesus didn't care what people thought. But, toward the end, he seems oblivious to the implications of how wrong people can be--even when it comes to their opinions about him. In other words, I don't understand Jesus' response to these two episodes regarding public opinion. Rather, I would've expected something like this:
1. What Jesus should have said was, "You don't know me now. But one day you'll understand."
2. What Jesus should have said was, "How ridiculous is that? Now, you all know by now that I'm not Jeremiah, or the Baptizer, or even one of the great prophets reincarnated, right?"
Which got me to thinking: is it possible that Matthew 11:27 is still true today, that none of us really get him? Is it probable that our ideas about him are just as ludicrous as the scuttlebutt reported by the twelve at Caesarea-Philippi?
On the one hand, I want to say, "no," because we have the Spirit to guide us in all truth. On the other hand, I'm wondering if our view of Jesus, our perceptions of "who he really is," are in fact skewed, slightly off, a bit over-worked, a little myopic, perhaps even provincial. In other words, we may not know him as well as we think. Maybe there's a part of him we'll never know, never figure out, never understand. And, perhaps Jesus, knowing our misperceptions, would say the same thing today, "Nobody really gets me."
That sentiment certainly cuts against the grain of our inclination to speak infallibly about him, as if no one understands Jesus like we do--especially when someone tells us their ideas about Jesus that sound so wrong. Indeed, we tend to think we've got him right and many others don't get him at all. And, I wonder what Jesus would say about that. Would he encourage us to pray, "Father, no one understands Jesus and therefore no one understands you." Or, would he remain silent when we tell him how wrong people can be?
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Pretending and Pretense
I was following a truck yesterday that had a decal on the rear window, similar to what I've seen before: the #3 with a halo hovering above the number. I'm not a fan of NASCAR, but just about anyone can piece together the meaning of the symbol: Dale Earnhardt Sr. is in heaven.
Several questions came to mind, the first being: why would anyone want to put a sticker like that on their truck? Is the driver making a theological claim? Probably not. Is he a devoted fan of Mr. Earnhardt? Probably so. But, the man is dead. Why continue to conjure up the memory of the racecar driver? Is it because he can no longer watch his favorite driver on Sundays? Since Mr. Earnhardt died tragically due to a rather harmless looking crash during a race (everyone says they've seen much worse), is the truck driver having a hard time finding closure? Is he still grieving over the death of a celebrity he probably didn't know and perhaps never met? Even so, why assume Mr. Earnhardt is in heaven (if that's what the halo suggests)? Wasn't the notorious NASCAR driver known to be "hell on wheels"? Wouldn't it be truer to Earnhardt's memory to have the number of his racecar attended by a pitchfork and flames? Some might say, "How horrible. Why would you even suggest such a thing. The man's dead after all."
Then it dawned on me. The driver of this particular truck with the #3 and halo decal on the window is making a theological claim. For some reason, he believes Dale Earnhardt Sr. is in heaven because he was a great NASCAR driver.
But, there are two problems with the decal.
First, the truck driver is pretending like he knew the dead man. (Why do we do that? Why do we act like we know intimately the people we see on television or in the movies? We call them by their first name. We talk about them as if they were just as important to us as any other friend or family member--even though we've never met them. Think about it. Just because we see their faces on an electronic screen--perhaps every day--we pretend as if we know them. As if they would recognize us in public. As if they care about what we think, or how we live, or what we drive, or what we'd put on the back windows of our trucks. At best this is a peculiarly common behavior. At worst this is delusional. Who do we think we're fooling?)
Second, the decal is pretentious on so many levels. Was Mr. Earnhardt an angel? Even though he's a dead man, does he currently live in a place called "heaven"? (And many would dare to ask, is there even such a place?) If heaven does exist, how does one get there? Who decides? How will any of us know before we die if it exists much less who makes it there? Something so serious--we're talking about death here--seems trivial when compared to the banality of a number and a halo.
At that very moment, with all of these questions buzzing through my head, I wondered what music the truck driver was playing. Staring at the decal, the truck, the driver, I imagined Greg Allman's song blasting through the speakers, "I'm no angel."
I love that song, even though I'm not a fan of Dale Earnhardt Sr.
Several questions came to mind, the first being: why would anyone want to put a sticker like that on their truck? Is the driver making a theological claim? Probably not. Is he a devoted fan of Mr. Earnhardt? Probably so. But, the man is dead. Why continue to conjure up the memory of the racecar driver? Is it because he can no longer watch his favorite driver on Sundays? Since Mr. Earnhardt died tragically due to a rather harmless looking crash during a race (everyone says they've seen much worse), is the truck driver having a hard time finding closure? Is he still grieving over the death of a celebrity he probably didn't know and perhaps never met? Even so, why assume Mr. Earnhardt is in heaven (if that's what the halo suggests)? Wasn't the notorious NASCAR driver known to be "hell on wheels"? Wouldn't it be truer to Earnhardt's memory to have the number of his racecar attended by a pitchfork and flames? Some might say, "How horrible. Why would you even suggest such a thing. The man's dead after all."
Then it dawned on me. The driver of this particular truck with the #3 and halo decal on the window is making a theological claim. For some reason, he believes Dale Earnhardt Sr. is in heaven because he was a great NASCAR driver.
But, there are two problems with the decal.
First, the truck driver is pretending like he knew the dead man. (Why do we do that? Why do we act like we know intimately the people we see on television or in the movies? We call them by their first name. We talk about them as if they were just as important to us as any other friend or family member--even though we've never met them. Think about it. Just because we see their faces on an electronic screen--perhaps every day--we pretend as if we know them. As if they would recognize us in public. As if they care about what we think, or how we live, or what we drive, or what we'd put on the back windows of our trucks. At best this is a peculiarly common behavior. At worst this is delusional. Who do we think we're fooling?)
Second, the decal is pretentious on so many levels. Was Mr. Earnhardt an angel? Even though he's a dead man, does he currently live in a place called "heaven"? (And many would dare to ask, is there even such a place?) If heaven does exist, how does one get there? Who decides? How will any of us know before we die if it exists much less who makes it there? Something so serious--we're talking about death here--seems trivial when compared to the banality of a number and a halo.
At that very moment, with all of these questions buzzing through my head, I wondered what music the truck driver was playing. Staring at the decal, the truck, the driver, I imagined Greg Allman's song blasting through the speakers, "I'm no angel."
I love that song, even though I'm not a fan of Dale Earnhardt Sr.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
The Jesus we don't want
Here are a few of the opening lines of a chapter (The Apocalyptic Jesus) from the book we (David Capes, Randy Richards, and I) are working on, "Rediscovering Jesus."
If Jesus were a cartoon character, what would he look like? That question may seem a little odd since most of what has been written about Jesus (whether canonical or extracanonical) is set before the reader as “the real Jesus.” This is what he said. This is where he lived. This is what he did. Therefore this is what he means. These writers try to make Jesus come alive, giving a human face to his ancient voice so that readers would know him, admire him, follow him, perhaps even worship him. We all seem to be looking for a recognizable Jesus, one that matches our mental images of him with the power of his personality. He will always say the right words, always do the right things. He must be charming, endearing, witty, smart, passionate, gentle, warm, and downright embraceable. In other words, we want a likeable Jesus, a familiar Jesus, a “take-him-home-for-dinner-to-meet-mom” Jesus. Everyone should be able to relate to the real, flesh-and-blood Jesus because, after all, he is one of us.
That’s why the seer’s view of Jesus in the Apocalypse is so shocking, so disturbing, so disorienting. In this “revelation of Jesus Christ,” Jesus doesn’t appear to be human at all. Instead, John sees a heavenly man with eyes of fire and a sword-like tongue—a terrifying figure who is not pleased with the Church. He sees a comic-book lamb with seven eyes and seven horns—a silent creature who stoically unleashes devastation on earth. This is not the Jesus we have come to know and love. Rather, John’s vision of Jesus seems like a nightmare, and many of us would rather look away and pretend as if that Jesus never existed.
If Jesus were a cartoon character, what would he look like? That question may seem a little odd since most of what has been written about Jesus (whether canonical or extracanonical) is set before the reader as “the real Jesus.” This is what he said. This is where he lived. This is what he did. Therefore this is what he means. These writers try to make Jesus come alive, giving a human face to his ancient voice so that readers would know him, admire him, follow him, perhaps even worship him. We all seem to be looking for a recognizable Jesus, one that matches our mental images of him with the power of his personality. He will always say the right words, always do the right things. He must be charming, endearing, witty, smart, passionate, gentle, warm, and downright embraceable. In other words, we want a likeable Jesus, a familiar Jesus, a “take-him-home-for-dinner-to-meet-mom” Jesus. Everyone should be able to relate to the real, flesh-and-blood Jesus because, after all, he is one of us.
That’s why the seer’s view of Jesus in the Apocalypse is so shocking, so disturbing, so disorienting. In this “revelation of Jesus Christ,” Jesus doesn’t appear to be human at all. Instead, John sees a heavenly man with eyes of fire and a sword-like tongue—a terrifying figure who is not pleased with the Church. He sees a comic-book lamb with seven eyes and seven horns—a silent creature who stoically unleashes devastation on earth. This is not the Jesus we have come to know and love. Rather, John’s vision of Jesus seems like a nightmare, and many of us would rather look away and pretend as if that Jesus never existed.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Dry Bones Dance Podcast
Several years ago, my friend Tom Jones decided to produce a podcast that would encourage listeners to engage the Scriptures through thoughtful questions. The goal was to help us see that sometimes having good, unanswered questions is just as helpful to our faith as well-crafted sermons that pose to solve every riddle of the Christian life.
Tom loves a good conversation, especially about the Bible. He invited me to join him in this venture, focusing our conversation on the gospel of Mark. I'm really proud of Tom's work. I think the podcast captures the spirit of what we wanted: two guys wrestling with the ambiquities and teasing nuances of the loaded story that we call "the gospel according to Mark."
Anyway, we got about halfway through the gospel when Tom had to set the podcast aside for more pressing, important matters (he told me it takes several hours--I think he said at least 6 hours--to edit every half-hour episode). Now, after a five-year hiatus, the podcast is back. We've already recorded several conversations and Tom has posted two newly edited episodes. I've included the link in the lower right-hand corner of this blog in case you want to take a listen. You can subscribe to the podcast via iTunes as well.
Tom loves a good conversation, especially about the Bible. He invited me to join him in this venture, focusing our conversation on the gospel of Mark. I'm really proud of Tom's work. I think the podcast captures the spirit of what we wanted: two guys wrestling with the ambiquities and teasing nuances of the loaded story that we call "the gospel according to Mark."
Anyway, we got about halfway through the gospel when Tom had to set the podcast aside for more pressing, important matters (he told me it takes several hours--I think he said at least 6 hours--to edit every half-hour episode). Now, after a five-year hiatus, the podcast is back. We've already recorded several conversations and Tom has posted two newly edited episodes. I've included the link in the lower right-hand corner of this blog in case you want to take a listen. You can subscribe to the podcast via iTunes as well.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Cruiseship Faith
It's easy to throw stones at people when things are going wrong. If we're not happy, no one's going to be happy. So, it doesn't surprise any of us that passengers enjoying a floating vacation became irate when the boat went dead in the water. No more buffet. No more ports of call. No more entertainment. Not even a working toilet. These are not the things that make for an enjoyable, well-deserved holiday. You pay good money and expect to be treated like royality for a few days at sea. They have good food in a fancy dining room always waiting for you. They turn down your bed and make strange animals out of towels, leaving a mint on your pillow. They spoil you into believing that this is the way life should be. In fact, if you've ever been on a cruise, you know the common refrain of passengers on the day of disembarking is, "Back to life. Back to reality."
In the midst of this "American tragedy" that received headline coverage, I said to my wife, "Their insufferable condition is similar to daily life of the third world. In fact, most people of the majority world would find life on a cruise ship without power a step up, a better life, perhaps even a vacation." And then it hit me. I talk a lot about following Jesus. But, I don't think I could follow him if I lived in the squallor of New Testament times (not to mention the daily life of most Christians of the majority world). This is not a self-imposed guilt trip. This is not an attempt to throw stones at our American way of life. This is gut-level, honest assessment. I couldn't have followed Jesus in his day.
Think of all the walking. Miles and miles and miles (wouldn't you be tempted to cry out in saracastic tones, "are we there yet?"). Think of sleeping without a mattress, often out in the "wild," without showers and toilets and extra change of clothes (often, when I take a refreshing hot shower in the morning, I think to myself, "Jesus never experienced this"). Think of living on week-old bread and pickled fish. Think of endless days, sleepless nights. Think of all the dreadful odors--sweaty people, stinky handmade latrines, rotting flesh of lepers and smelly, diseased persons with oozing wounds and horrible dysentery.
Yeah, I know it would be exciting to see all the miracles and what not. But, I'm not sure that would be enough to keep me going. Honestly, after a while--knees and feet aching from all the walking, no place to call home, nothing of what we call "the creaturely comforts"--I would pack it in. Go home. Following Jesus back then would be too tough for me.
In fact, I would also find it rather difficult to follow Jesus on a dead-in-the-water cruiseship. I probably would have been miserable, constantly grumbling to myself about the horrible conditions, never even giving it a second thought that the great majority of the world's population deal with far worse every day. Every day. Every day. Every. Day.
I'm grateful to God that I get to follow Jesus in America because we have warm beds and hot food, handy transportation and working toilets, and the prospect of taking a vacation from the daily pressures of life on a cruise ship.
In the midst of this "American tragedy" that received headline coverage, I said to my wife, "Their insufferable condition is similar to daily life of the third world. In fact, most people of the majority world would find life on a cruise ship without power a step up, a better life, perhaps even a vacation." And then it hit me. I talk a lot about following Jesus. But, I don't think I could follow him if I lived in the squallor of New Testament times (not to mention the daily life of most Christians of the majority world). This is not a self-imposed guilt trip. This is not an attempt to throw stones at our American way of life. This is gut-level, honest assessment. I couldn't have followed Jesus in his day.
Think of all the walking. Miles and miles and miles (wouldn't you be tempted to cry out in saracastic tones, "are we there yet?"). Think of sleeping without a mattress, often out in the "wild," without showers and toilets and extra change of clothes (often, when I take a refreshing hot shower in the morning, I think to myself, "Jesus never experienced this"). Think of living on week-old bread and pickled fish. Think of endless days, sleepless nights. Think of all the dreadful odors--sweaty people, stinky handmade latrines, rotting flesh of lepers and smelly, diseased persons with oozing wounds and horrible dysentery.
Yeah, I know it would be exciting to see all the miracles and what not. But, I'm not sure that would be enough to keep me going. Honestly, after a while--knees and feet aching from all the walking, no place to call home, nothing of what we call "the creaturely comforts"--I would pack it in. Go home. Following Jesus back then would be too tough for me.
In fact, I would also find it rather difficult to follow Jesus on a dead-in-the-water cruiseship. I probably would have been miserable, constantly grumbling to myself about the horrible conditions, never even giving it a second thought that the great majority of the world's population deal with far worse every day. Every day. Every day. Every. Day.
I'm grateful to God that I get to follow Jesus in America because we have warm beds and hot food, handy transportation and working toilets, and the prospect of taking a vacation from the daily pressures of life on a cruise ship.
Tuesday, February 05, 2013
"The Flash" of Inspiration
As a few of you know, my partners in crime (David Capes and Randy Richards) and I are working on a new writing project, "Rediscovering Jesus" (IVP). We're trying to offer a perspectival view of Jesus in two parts, canonical and non-canonical. We're currently writing part one, the canonical Jesus, taking a descriptive approach to each biblical author's take on Jesus. At the moment, I'm reading/thinking about the Apocalyptic Jesus in the Revelation of John, toying with the problem: how do I begin to explain why this Jesus is so different from the other "Jesuses" in the New Testament? Then it hit me: Jesus is a cartoon character in the Apocalypse and the Revelation is the first comic book.
I like the implications. What do you think?
I like the implications. What do you think?
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