To Whom This May Concern...

Its late, saturday night, or rather sunday morning, and i'm feeling a bit nostalgic. I've Skyped several old friends, only one of which actually answered the phone.

I really do miss my time in the US, but i am going to have a difficult time letting go here as well. There is a very strong possibility that we will be returning to the US after this school year, but i feel that our work here is by no means complete. I would love to stay another year to be with the students, learn the language, etc.

We actually just got a new apt too. Huge blessing.

I realize that I haven't been on here too much, but you will have to forgive me. I hate blogging.

Anyway, we could really use your prayers. We really want to continue ministering here, but at the same time we feel like financial responsibilities back in the US are hindering us from doing so. College loans.... what a pain.


Again, we miss and love you all. Please send us an e-mail at your earliest convenience.




Blessings,

Marcelo

wow. really long since i've posted...and it's gonna be even longer.

school is kinda crazy right now. Just trying to balance the beam.

Maybe when I can find time to even complete the things I want to do (when I'm not insane-tire), I will again use this wretched form of word-posting.


Chau

Hhhhhhhhhh

I have been walking around half awake for about a month now.

But I am writing.

I guess it all evens out in the end.

My friend Greg Cooke just started a new blog. People should read it. Here is the link. I am writing like a cave man.


http://unfetteredgrace.blogspot.com/

Nightime Falls

I have been reminded far too many times that I need to update this. So here goes.


The last few months have been both wonderful and tumultuous in their own regard. I was able to come back to the states and see most of you all in that duration, traveling up and down the east coast throughout a 5 week period. It was crazy, but my life is kinda just that way, so it was more than wonderful.

Since being back in Argentina, I have moved into a new apartment (I think michelle put up some pictures on facebook. I'll be putting some more up shortly.), had my teaching schedule and course load completely upturned, been robbed by three men who were packing heat (and waving their pieces in front of my face), and have experienced a complete change in leadership at school and at my church.

Needless to say, life in Buenos Aires is far from being Dull.

But in all of this changing and struggling and joy and tears, I have been reminded by my friends to see these periods of strife to be opportunities for growth and joy--not times where I can find elbow room to Bitch and Moan, saying, "I can't believe this is happening," or "I am so annoyed," or worse yet, "I don't deserve this."

I know this is a fairly basic truth from James chapter 1, but I never find moments where I am reminded of it to be boring or trite.

As a natural cynic, it is difficult for me to see sun still shining through the clouds or the rainbow after the storm. If anything, I usually feel slightly disappointed when the fog dissipates.

All the same, my hope is that all of you are doing well, the 7 or some odd who read this--or maybe even fewer amount that still have managed to hold on to a shard of hope that I may eventually write on this again. I cannot promise that I will do so in the near future, but I hope so. I really do.


Peace and Blessings.

Everything but Sleep...

Buenos Aires. The name always had a magical connotation to it like the lost Atlantis or some enchanted underworld inhabited by a kind a beautiful people with a lust for steak and wine.
Having just completed our second month here, it is becoming less difficult to grasp that we have finally arrived and are living our lives here. This initial period has filled us with mixed feelings in regards to comfort and security, but our goals and aspiration remain mostly unchanged.
My heart and attitude prior to leaving Argentina contained much contempt for American soil and the trends I thought to be American social norms. While I have escaped these certain undesirable activities, I will frequently turn on my mp3 player with an exact album in mind.
While back in the US, the album I would choose is usually from an artist that I have listened to almost without ceasing over the short period of time enveloping my experiences with verified good music--they are acts that I have long ago stamped with y initials to the point where I doubt if I have friends who can listen to them, him or those without my face and name coming to mind.
Now that I am here, I find my cravings to be curious--searching through my list for albums that I have only listened to in passing and did so in conjunction with a friend's recommendation.
Once the play button is pushed and the sounds vibrate in my ear, Goosebumps rise over my body and my face turns flush. It seems that my being outside of the U.S.--if even only for a few months--has enacted the development of a vicious thirst for things of beauty that is far from being slaked.
-----------------
I pressed "play" on my mp3 player to listen to Death Cab for Cutie's "Plans" album, but I had to shut it off. It reminded me too much of the crisp autumn air--electric and so full of life that you could almost feel the texture of the breeze between your fingers. Thoughts filled my mind with memories of riding in Joe's car driving up to Devil's Marble Yard for the first time. It is one of those moments that really stand out to me as being different and altogether beautiful.
The three f us--Jeremiah being the third--spent an afternoon together grappling with the large white stones. We breathed the air and drank the water, taking the purity as was necessary for us to do while we lived under a regime that proclaimed righteousness but exacted hypocrisy...
So I turned on Derek Webb and enjoyed that for the first few moments until my heart was saddened once more. I remembered those nights when we would engage the coffee pot for the third or forth time since curfew, talking about what it means to be created in the image of God and what it looks like to be the Salt and the Light.
I have resorted to picking music in my mp3 player that reminds me of no one. Music that never reminds me of laughing in the Drowsy poet or a group of us all leaning towards the center of that round, wooden table in the back corner of the Bull Branch until the time between then and the alarms set on our cell phones makes it seem foolish to do anything but to home and read until classes begin the next morning. In my current state, I have been cast outside my normal system of behavior, relation and self-worth causing me to cleave to the relationships that mean the most and the activities that once sowed will promise a lush harvest.
----
As it now stands, I have been sent into disarray in a three-faceted way as I experience in present that which should not come to pass until at least another 3 months.
My feet demand extra socks when my back should request more sun block.
Which is better, to be stuck in a rut or to be thrown into situations every four years where I know not which is what?
It seems that I should feel at home--living in an environment where people are just like me at every turn. I have grown so accustomed to being the sore thumb that existing in any other way feels untrue and an untruth is as good as a lie--a lie that exerts its oppression as I stagger around the city which pumps through my veins.
I have come to no place at all. I left at a quarter till identity and arrived half past--which has reset my clock and all but wasted any progress towards a constructive self-sustaining organelle.
Curse and bless you, for your atmosphere is positive and simultaneously negative, but never neutral.

Hello, Dear Wind

Just wanted to give everyone a quick update. Michelle and I are doing fine. We just got our deposit back from the apartment that we had been living in and will be staying with some friends for a week until our new place opens up. Yes, that is correct, I said a new place--and we didnt need a guarantia! The pastor of the church we have been attending talked to a woman in the congregation who lives in a house by herself. She has agreed to rent us out the upstairs of her apartment starting August 20th, which is a huge blessing being that we will not have to spend above and beyond what we have in order to pay for things such as a refrigerator, plates, towels, pillows, etc.

I have been offered to teach a journalism class at BAICA and may be teaching some ESL classes (english as a second language) for the Argentine teachers. This would be great. I will also be taking over the school newspaper. At the moment I am still interning at Wicked!? Buenos Aires and am enjoying the priceless experience I am gaining (as well as the expensive computer programs!). We really would like to hear from everyone so please don't hesitate to write either of us an email (marcelo48@gmail.com or heyyouitsme@gmail.com). We also have cell phones now with argentine numbers. Mine is (54)(11)5903.5259 and Michelle's is (54)(11)5903.4960.

Lo Siento

Yes, I know it has been a long time since I last posted, but unfortunately this one will have to be brief. For those of you who don't know, Michelle did get the job as the 5th grade teacher at BAICA. I may be subbing and/or teaching a journalism class, we shall soon see. Keep praying that I find work in a timely fashion.

We are currently in the process of getting a more permanent living situation, but we have come into the problem of needing someone to put up some sort of collateral. Apparently, doing so is some sort of Argentine tradition that we didn't know about. Also pray that if we get said apartment, that we are some how provided either with the actual materials or the money to afford such things as a refridgerator, couch, bed, beddings, kitchen supplies, etc., as unfurnished apartments here not only don't come with beds and tables and chairs, but also are without refriderators. Some even have gaping holes in the cielings where wires hang exposed in anticipation of its inhabitants purchasing lighting fixtures.

On another, brief note, Michelle and I are doing very well and are thuroughly enjoying ourselves. We have seen a good deal of the city and have eaten a copious amount of enpanadas and dulce de leche.

Thank you again for all of your love and support.

Aprendemos

Yesterday was a challenging, yet rewarding day. We spent the better part of the morning attempting to locate the street my aunt and uncle live on. We were supposed to meet them at twelve, but we arrived around 1:30 or so. once we arrived, we discovered that we misunderstood what my uncle had said about the day before. He was out looking for us. We found out what he ment about meeting us at 12 was that he was to pick us up at our apartment. So, we all had a good laugh. It was an interesting experience getting to meet my cousins after hearing about them my entire life. Michelle was swept away by the warmth my relatives emitted and assimilated herself into their conversations very well. We spent the evening, eating dinner (3 Courses) and dessert (2!), and watching the futbol game. Unfortunately for those present, Argentina took a fall to Brazil 3-0. Oh well. My youngest cousin Guido (20) speaks english fairly well and was able to converse with us in english quite easily. Our spanish--errr, i mean, castellano--was given the test again. We are getting more and more comfortable with the language and confident with what we do not know.

This morning, we took the train out to San Fernando (a bit north of the city) to meet with the director of a christian school called BAICA (buenos aires international christian school). We, once again, found ourselves needing to work together in getting around town, as we had never taken the regular trains in BA before. We went the wrong way once, but all was well. The director of the school has been in Argentina for 13 years and was very kind to us. There is only one position left open for the upcoming semester (5th grade), and they are considering michelle for the position. Please pray for God's provision for us. This job would be a great blessing, and Michelle would not only a good fit for the position, but would do an exemplary job. Again, thank you for your love and support.

Hola para Buenos Aires

Hello everyone, we arrived safely to BA yesterday morning at 10 a.m. (9 a.m. EST). We met my uncle Armando (my dad's older brother) and my aunt Lita. They invited us to eat with them at this very nice pizzeria. Michelle and my aunt got along like old friends, laughing and smiling together. After the meal, my uncle ordered pancakes with dulce de leche. Upon tasting real Argentine dulce deleche, I began laughing and my cheeks turned red. It had been to long a time since I had eaten real dulce de leche. Don't be fooled, my American friends, when you buy "dulce de leche" ice cream or any such product in the States, it is caramel, not dulce de leche. I always told Michelle this, and now after getting to try it herself, she finally understands.
It was an interesting experience trying to communicate with my relatives. It really was a team effort. Michelle has much better vocabulary than I have, and I understand the dialect a bit better, since my dad speaks castellano. I apologize if my writing is a bit confusing at the moment, because I am half thinking in the very small castellano vocabulary I have. Oh and that's another thing. Argentines don't admit that they speak Spanish, they speak castellano--a dialect of Spanish.

We went to sleep last night at about 6 pm, due to our lack of sleep on the plane and woke up this morning at about 9.

We are at a cafe at the moment and we send you all our love. Michelle and I both cannot feel attached to this reality we are now experiencing, and in the back of our minds believe that we are actually asleep and having corresponding dreams. Thank you again for all of your support and we look forward to talking to you. As soon as we remember to write it down, we will publish our phone number here. It is free for us to receive calls from the US, but that is probably not the case for you all.

Virginia Tech: The Inescapable Reality

Walking on the Virginia Tech campus on April 17, I became sapient to the horrible silence that hung in the air. People looked at one another with knowing eyes and head nods in memory of the events that had taken place less than 30 hours earlier.

The wind whipped through fast enough to catch the maroon and orange tears before they splattered against the pavement — tears that came from a grief-stricken young woman who pleaded with a state trooper to grant her entrance into Cassell Coliseum. The Coliseum was already overflowing with mourners more than an hour before the convocation began.

Black Suburban after black van after flag-carrying black suburban passed by the lot that myself and the rest of my press team — Photography Editor Alex Towers, News Editor Joanne Tang and Opinion Editor Hilary Dyer — stood upon. Inside these appropriately-colored vehicles, among others, were members of the Secret Service, President George Bush and his wife, Laura. The President and his wife, as he later stated in the convocation service, arrived on campus “with hearts full of sorrow.”

The sorrow expressed by the President was met with the somber despair of the young men and women who knew the deceased as friends, roommates, siblings and classmates. We waited until the Secret Service gave the O.K. to the police for the crowd to cross the street separating Cassell from Lane Stadium.

Once we were given permission, the streets came to life as mourners lined up and walked towards the campus with quiet strides and a moderate pace while members of the press sprinted alongside the road. We walked against the flow towards Cassell in hopes that we could enter the building with our press passes that were still sticky from the fresh layer of purple glue applied to the Wingate Inn door keys that stabilized our pictures.

No entry. We tried getting in for about a half hour but got tired after we were sent back and forth between the same doors. The stadium seemed our best bet.

By the time we arrived at Lane, Governor Tim Kaine was being introduced. Walking up the bleachers directly in front of the broadcasting screen — normally used to show plays from the football games — I could see a silent sea of maroon and orange, rocking back and forth while embracing each other, sniffling or sitting stone stiff with glossy-eyed stares directed towards the governor, who praised the members of the Virginia Tech community for their strength and togetherness.

Bush walked on stage in an unassuming suit and tie ensemble to address the grieving masses with a speech that was as well received as if it were delivered to a crowd comprised entirely of his supporters. After talking to the students with a rhetoric that made him appear to be speaking to a group of his peers and/or the children of his close friends, audience members stood and clapped in appreciation for their Chief of State.

Before media personnel and convocation attendees began strolling around campus, the group I came with decided to walk around campus and visit the various sites that housed the tragic events from the previous day. We watched as mourners signed the memorial and listened to students talked in hushed voices about a roommate who was in the hospital and how friends were granted visitation rights to see their suffering classmates.

7:15 p.m. While people gathered around a flagpole between Burris Hall and the Drill Field where the candlelight vigil was to be held, members of the press gabbed on cell phones. Others asserted words like “Mic!” while stubbly cameramen videotaped and well-garbed broadcasters leaned in over the circle of bowed heads and clasped hands that sang the chorus of “Amazing Grace.”
Alex and Joanne split from Hilary and me to take shots from within the higher floors of Burris Hall of the gathering mourners and (eventually) a field of candles lit in opposition to the darkening sky. As we waited for their return, few words were exchanged. Nothing either of us could have said would have made any sense. I brought a book but was unable to read. The only thing I could bring myself to do was to sit between the white paper bags that contained a handful of sand and a candle with an aching heart and eyes too sad for tears, staring at the candle pushed though the bottom of a waxed Pepsi cup in my hands.

As the time neared 8 p.m., Hilary gave Alex a call to inform them of our relocation to the field. We walked through media personnel who waved to each other and talked on hip-holstered cell phones above the volume of the despairing murmur. Once on the field, we lit our candles next to a group of students — one of whom talked about a guy who lived across the hall from him during his freshman year who was shot multiple times the day before and had enough composure about him to fashion a tourniquet out of some electrical wire he found in the classroom to prevent blood from escaping the bullet-torn artery in his leg.

A voice crackled though the speakers and thanked everyone for coming. With candles upraised, the sense of pride and camaraderie was overwhelming. I could not help wondering what it would be like to go to a school where everyone wants to be there and where people probably do not look forward to having to part ways with the stone-adorned campus.

“Amazing Grace” was again sung across the Drillfield as well as “America the Beautiful” while students hugged each other and sobbed. But instead of dwelling on the horror that existed in the wake of that egregious day, mourners celebrated the strength of their community.

“LET’S GO!!!”
“HOKIES!!!
“LET’S GO!!!”
“HOKIES!!!
“LET’S GO!!!”
“HOKIES!!!

The embracing army of friends bellowed war cries more familiar to athletic events, but the intensity was unparalleled. The volume was loud not to the point of merely offending your ears — rather, the voices thudded within your chest. Alex later said that they were chanting louder than he had ever heard at one of the school’s football games.

Walking away from the scene, the yowling wind flapped the collar on my leather jacket and cut though my flesh, but I still felt warm. We were given some hot chocolate by a man standing outside of a Salvation Army truck who smiled and said, “God bless you,” to everyone that he caught eyes with.

I felt disoriented. Few things in my life have I experienced so vividly or have felt more real. I was physically tired and, emotionally, I had nothing left. I climbed back into Alex’s Xterra as the leaves applauded and maroon and orange tears were collected in the air all across America.

Function is Beauty

Laying my head on a bed of stars completes my existence. It was especially wonderful after completing hikes that were beyond the comfort of my body.

I overestimated my physical condition to an unhealthy degree. As recent as two years ago, I remember getting lost in the woods and end up having to hike for over eight hours and barely feeling the burn.

A few months ago, my friend Denny who decided to fly down to Lynchburg for his spring break ran the idea past me about a multiple-day backpacking excursion. I was there. A couple of weeks prior to said hiking, he wrote me a message that was in accord to how I was feeling. “I just hope my mental readiness makes up for my physical wantonness.”

It did for him, but not for me.

This discovery was all too apparent as crippling fatigue encompassed my body after the first few miles and on every uphill climb henceforth. I now have to admit it, as a person who formerly ran over 10 hours a week — I am out of shape.

While my self-esteem wasn’t too happy with this new shape, the color returned to my cheeks once we arrived at our campsite on top of Apple Orchard Falls. So, Denny and I built a shelter out of the surrounding leaves and trees.

Being back in classes and fighting against the stream that is my work-school-work-and-try-to-find-time-with-my-wife-and-friends schedule only serves to remind me how tense this all makes me, how I become like a compressed sponge that cannot hold any water.

I am not able to hold anything more than what is required of me after being trapped in this regimen comprised mostly of doing things that I’d rather be distanced from.

I have not been forced into an all-work-no-play schedule, but when the majority of what I do for a decent stretch of time consists of things that are expected of me and commanded from me, doing productive but leisurely things of my own inspiration seems pointless — I need to unwind.

While a day or evening off with friends is a good remedy, it only serves as a suppressant. When I can spend a few days away from my self-imposed cubicle and wasteful activities, the benefits are tenfold. I noticed this when Denny, myself and my wife were united with other friends on the second day of hiking at the campsite on top of Devil’s Marbleyard.

Even though the time we all spend together is always great, we all seemed to be slightly on edge. Conflicting ideas between this and that, the way food should be cooked and in what order sent people in seemingly contradictory stances.

My wife questioning me about things that really weren’t a big deal at all also engaged me in an annoyed demeanor that was undue and unnecessary.

After a few hours, however, our entire group began moving as one. Prior discrepancies were laid aside and/or forgotten as we cooperated to make fire, food and even a pantry to organize our supplies.

We all walked down to the edge of the mountaintop to take simultaneous shots of the captivating sunset that proceeded to dip below the multi-layered ridgeline.

No one was uptight. Distressful thoughts and worries were dispelled into the starry sky above the hued mountains. We sweated, talked and laughed them out.

The trip to the bottom of the mountain on the following morning was correspondingly jovial. Our amble down was refreshing in comparison to the painful hiking I had done the couple of days before.

We all made efforts to stay together as much as we could and even took an unneeded break at a brook that spewed out some of the most refreshing water I have consumed in a long time. Seriously, I dumped out the Kroger spring water I had in my Nalgene bottle to slake my thirst with the natural beverage.

Needless to say, I had a hard time adjusting to eating at a restaurant that afternoon. We walked there and back, though.

So as I sit at my desk and stare ahead at the short span of time left between now and the end of my Liberty career, I’m trying to plan more moments that will once again place me in reality.

One such evening (here comes the plug) is April 26. At 7 p.m., to be more exact, at Grace Church on Timberlake. Derek Webb, who instigated independent thoughts when he played “New Law” and “Lover Part 2” in convocation last February and questioned Christian subculture norms on stage at last year’s Junior/Senior Banquet will again be performing in the area.

Promoting his new album “The Ringing Bell,” Derek will step on stage with a full band — a rare occasion for the artist who normally plays solo or with his über-talented wife Sandra McCraken.
So, if you have seen him before, then you need no prodding in the right direction. If you haven’t, however, please do yourself a favor—take a short drive, walk, bike or skateboard ride down to the Drowsy Poet at Candler’s Station to purchase a ticket for $12.

Pomegranate Tea and a Jeep Wrangler

Now that Spring Break has rushed by faster than you can say, “I’m glad to be out of classes,” I am sure that you are admiring your tan with fond recollections of sand in your hair and the potent smell of sunscreen.
Or, maybe you are like me—pasty as ever and still pinching at the disdainfully-obtained flesh you inherited over the holidays. From an outside perspective, my Spring Break expeditions leave much to be desired.
Lets see, freshman year I went back home to New York only for it to snow while my wife (then my girlfriend of three months) enjoyed the foaming waves of St. Pete’s Beach in Florida.
Sophomore year we got a little crazy and decided to spend the break together in the popular destination that is Tuscaloosa, Ala. That isn’t to say that we did not have a good time hanging out with my wife’s sister. In fact, I still have the “Cunningham Family Reunion” shirt I bought at a thrift store there.
Last year was probably my least impressive mid-semester siesta. I spent 40 hours that week training at Olive Garden and taking the many tests that goes along with it. You’re jealous, I’m sure. It’s O.K., I understand.
While my break last week would appear to be equally dissatisfying, it was probably one of my favorite usages of seven days I have had in a while — barring my honeymoon, of course.
During my regular school schedule, I barely have enough time to finish all the things that are required of me, so doing things that I want to do usually gets delegated to another day. Spring Break, however, granted me the time to think about the knowledge I want to know and the experiences I need not experience — two aspects of my life that altogether distinct but heavily connected.
I enjoyed the ability to spend time with friends outdoors. The sun warmed my skin, but my bare feet tensed at the touch of the still thawing soil. This juxtaposition is similar to the way I feel about my current state of affairs. While almost all of my being is yearning to sip yerba maté in Argentina, I remain grounded in Lynchburg for the next few months until the airplane begins to fire its engines.
It has been a long time since I last enjoyed driving the same road every day and going the same places, knowing full well what will occur when I get where I’m going. I’m tired of the morning malaise that stifles me when abhorrent slivers of light infringe upon my sleep, but not nearly as much as when I don’t rise until after 11 a.m.
I do thoroughly enjoy nights here, though, like Tuesday, when a few friends and I piled in the back of a topless Jeep with not an inch of room to spare — cradling one guitar on my lap while resting my arm around the one in the back as one would with a teenage girlfriend.
We barreled down the road together, away from the apartment where we usually spend our Tuesday nights, sitting around talking and not saying anything while the air is pregnant with unspoken thoughts, worries and dreams. We barreled down the road together — “balled the jack,” as Kerouac would say — away from time ill spent, towards creativity and a place that sells pomegranate tea.
Riding in the back seat next to my younger but bigger brother with two friends in the front, the wind began insisting that the buttons on my sweater sound the beat that was pulsating in our synchronous minds.
I look forward to these times, when I can unravel the ball of yarn that is my mind, pull the strings out one at a time and lay them out side by side to understand why.
And I am now looking forward to the few days that lay before me (it is now Thursday the 22nd), where I will be able to enjoy a few Central Virginian nights up in the Blue Ridge Mountains and escape from the grip of computers, cars and air conditioning — to exist in a realm where the only thing distracting you from God is your own thoughts.
I am writing this after I have spent an entire night up in the “Champion” office, and at the moment, nothing sounds more pleasing as when Woody Guthrie sings, “I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight on a bed of [Virginia] stars. I’d like to lay my weary bones tonight on a bed of [Virginia] stars.”

Pattern is Movement

Growing up, my music listening options were limited to a handful of “Christian music” albums and whatever broadcasted on my hometown’s Christian radio station — the familiar sounds of Dr. James Dobson and Focus on the Family that reverberated through my house for as long as I can recall.
This caused me to reach outside the will of my parents and get music from my friends, the only other source I had. Most of the songs that were readily available to me from my peers are tracks that never cross my mind when plugging in my MP3 player—tapes that were found and ended up befriending hammers.
Once I neared the end of high school and once I started playing guitar, I gained enough leverage to coerce my parents into allowing me to listen to music other than dcTalk and Newsboys. While exploring in my dad’s tools, an activity that usually earned me a scolding or two in my father’s infamous Spanglish, I stumbled upon a Bob Marley cassette.
I became hungry.
I started exploring music delegated to the classic rock, jazz, jam band and psychedelic genres, and convinced my parents to allow me to purchase “secular” albums like “Live at Luther College” by Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds and “Story of the Ghost” by Phish. Listening to this music and conversing with other aspiring guitar players led me to believe my musical tastes as “superior.”
I became a music snob.
When I would talk to kids who listened to the popular sounds like Guster, Dashboard Confessional and NFG, I would often compose a supercilious attitude — raising my eyebrows, wondering how anyone could possibly enjoy these whiners.
This attitude, that stemed from a childhood characterized by being ridiculed and desiring validation from whatever source would give it, needed to be broken.
Since I left home for college, I have opened myself to the possibility of musical enjoyment beyond 25-minute guitar solos and syncopated rhythms. Although these occurrences are rare (I’m joking…kind of) I have discovered music that I cannot be without and never would found have in my musical arrogance.
In my dying aversion to the phrase “indie music,” I was invited by my friend David to join him to Sweet Briar College to listen to David Bazan, formerly of Pedro the Lion. I had received almost weekly instructions to listen to him, so my obedience was long overdue.
Waiting for the show to begin, I saw this curious individual walking around in a janitor’s outfit with suspenders and ill-fitting pants that would have survived Katrina. As I watched him, he stepped on stage — the opening act.
I was then summarily introduced to Pattern is Movement.
Though their performance was widely met with the enthusiasm that could have just as easily been received from a refrigerator, my friends and I were floored.
The same unimpressive, suspendered individual who meandered around the lobby and sound station before the show presented, along with the other members of his three-piece, his interpretation of beauty. Both eerie and enchanting, Pattern is Movement puts out a high-energy performance that is a direct affront to the norms of mainstream music.
As stated by the band’s public relations people, the music is “repetitive but unpredictable” — something that is noticeable in songs like “People and Touch” with the seemingly redundant phrase “Can I buy this back here, back here, back here?” recurring almost to the point of annoyance, until I realized the lyrics were trying to mimic the nagging consumer trying to get the store attendant’s attention.
After not being able to get the thought of their music, I e-mailed members from the band to get a sampling of their music for a possible review. The response I received was from Chris Ward, the band’s drummer, who is an LU alumnus.
He sent me their catalog containing their first studio album, “The (im)possibility of longing,” their second, “Stowaway,” and their most recent “Canonic,” which is a complete reworking of the “Stowaway” album by Scot Solter — a producer and musician who is known for his work with acts like Spoon and John Vanderslice.
Bazan needs no laud, with music and lyrics that are beyond my abilities of endorsing aside from, “You need to hear him.” His reputation reaches farther than the handful of people who have the patience to read my musings.
Whether your initial enjoyment of the band is either deterred by disbelief and confusion or enamored by its captivating complexity, Pattern is Movement is a band worth the listen.

Testify-Rage Against the Machine

As a huge fan of the arts, music is one of my greatest joys. I believe that music has the ability to touch certain parts of your being that will otherwise remain ignored.
I grew up in a home where almost any kind of music aside from CCM was strictly prohibited. Once I began playing guitar, my parents slowly allowed me to purchase and enjoy other music such as Bob Marley, Radiohead, Phish, etc. Eventually, I stumbled upon Rage Against the Machine. However my belated my interest was (I didn't start listening to their music until years after their demise), the music appealed to me both as a guitarist and thinker. Recently, the following song has been playing through my head. I decided to look up the lyrics and they never made as much sense as it does now. Read the following stanzas carefully and meditate on its truth-telling statements about Americans who are overly-eager to consume and believe whatever they are told.

The movie ran through me
The glamour subdue me
The tabloid unite me
I'm empty please fill me

Mister anchor assure me
That Baghdad is burning
Your voice it is so soothing
That cunning mantra of killing

I need you my witness
To dress this up so bloodless
To numb me and purge me now
Yes the car is our wheelchair

My witness your coughing
Oily silence mocks the legless
Now traveling in coffins

But on the corner
The jury's sleepless
We found your weakness
And it's right outside our door

Now testify

With precision you feed me
My witness i'm hungry
Your temple it calms me
So i can carry on

My slaving sweating the skin right off my bones
On a bed of fire i'm choking on the smoke that fills my home

The wrecking ball rushing
My witness your blushing
The pipeline is gushing
While here we lie in tombs

While on the corner
The jury's sleepless
We found your weakness
And it's right outside your door

Now testify

Mass graves for the pump and the price is set

Who controls the past now controls the future
Who controls the present now controls the past
Who controls the past now controls the future
Who controls the present now?

Now testify

Context for censorship

I would really like to thank everyone who has taken time to read what I have to say and left comments for me. Thankfully, I received a few messages on Facebook that qued me in on my failure to provide context for readers who are not familiar with everything that goes on Liberty, or maybe have never even heard of the school.
The newspaper I work for is The Liberty Champion, a "student-led" newspaper that serves the Liberty University family. I am the editor for the Life! section (features) and at the beginning of the fall semester, I was told that I could have a column that addressed things of my choice. The title of the column is "Thoughts Outside the Bubble," and it generally appears every-other issue in the Champion.
I wrote my most recent article this past Sunday night. On Monday morning, I arrived at the school to be verbally assaulted by someone involved with the paper who is not a student. This person claimed that I was being "judgmental and preachy," and told me that my column could not be included in my page layout. Biting the bullet, I made a few corrections and changed some sentence structure, and eventually got this person to agree to my article being published. But the fun didn't stop there.
Soon after, my editor in chief received an email from the university's Vice President, who stated that in no way would my article be approved for inclusion.
Upon hearing this, I called her office and I was told that the article is "contrary to a university sponsored event." My response was that it is not necessarily in opposition of the event, but an exhortation to take this "stand for purity" a bit further. Obedience should not begin or end with a T-shirt.
The VP sent me to Liberty's Campus Pastor's Office to get an approval from them. If they thought it was safe, then she might reconsider. Without hesitation, I jumped in my van and drove to the other side of campus, with a freshly-printed version of my column in hand. I handed it to one of the pastors and drove back to my office to wait for a reply.
About an hour later, the phone rang and I was again instructed not to publish my piece. The next morning, the campus pastor and I met and conversed for a half-hour about why the decision was made to not print my work. The reasoning, for the most part, dealt with the belief that what I wrote holds the potential for dividing the student body and the The Liberty Champion isn't the proper forum for "internally-controversial" materials.
Well, if anyone else has more question in regards to what I've been writing, feel free to shoot me more questions. Thanks again for reading.

They'll know us by the T-shirts that we wear...

As children, we are conditioned to live by means of Pavlovian responses. Modern psychology espouses ideas about rewarding “good” behavior with positive reinforcement and “bad” behavior with a slap on the wrist — or worse. What does that do? It causes people to live in fear and pushes them into the closet, stripping them of their humanity.
If to err is human, then why do we ostracize those who do? As bearers of God’s image, we are called to be “the salt of the earth.” We are to behave as salt — not in the way a gardener kills a slug, but in an enriching manner, as salt would with food.
It seems to me that a lot of the time we try to be “the sugar of the earth,” presenting things in cute little spoons to make the medicine go down easier. But the sugar has been replacing the medicine for years. Some churches are “dumbing-down” the gospel message in order to get a larger head count, we turn divine Scripture into multi-colored bumper stickers and call it evangelism, and we market music in such a way that it will give teenagers “Christian” alternatives to their favorite bands.
We need to, however, use positive reinforcement, and do so when people lay out their struggles for everyone to see. Be salt, not sugar. Salt will encourage other believers and give hope to the lost. Sugar will engorge the already saved and/or give them a little rush — the sensation of being “on fire” only lasts so long, and you end up feeling more weary than before.
This is why, when we are presented with the idea of wearing white T-shirts, on Valentine’s Day, which has been given an alias the Day of Purity, I tend to get a little nervous. As stated on www.lc.org/dayofpurity.htm, the reason for wearing white on Feb. 14 is to “stand up for sexual purity,” and I have concerns with purity being epitomized by our clothing.
As far as I know, odious coalitions of people who meet in low-lit office buildings, clad in black T-shirts, whose primary endeavor in life is plotting purity’s demise have yet to be found. There very well may be, however, individuals wearing green, sharing a pot of coffee and discussing what they think it means to love or be loved. These people do not have a vendetta against purity. They may be confused over what it means to show love, but they are not in a position of direct opposition that would warrant an “us vs. them” mentality.
Jesus died for them too. We have those WWJD bracelets that are supposed to give us “Jesus powers.” Should we not behave towards non-Christians in the same way he would? If he had owned a house, He would have invited them over for dinner, or even simply said a few loving words.
Instead of pointing a heavy finger at people who have been seduced by Lucifer’s deceitful promises, we should show them how we care. Doing otherwise divides — it does not save.
In Luke 19:10 (NASB), Jesus says that he came “ to seek and to save what was lost.” Therefore, as His disciples, why are we seeing that which is lost and run in the opposite direction?
Wearing a T-shirt as “a public demonstration of (a) commitment to remain sexually pure” isn’t inherently bad, but there are better ways to go about presenting things. Many times, it is just another brick in the dividing wall. It is not, as the Web site claims, a way to “be a part of the ‘counter-culture.’” If anything, it separates us further into our subculture. Because where a counter-culture would be actively engaging in the culture, a subculture is off to the side doing its own thing.
And in our attempt to “stand up” for purity, it is too easy that it can become a competition — a way to stand taller than one other. We must fight against these prideful tenancies. We already tried it with platform shoes, but now we are on stilts, just waiting for them to be kicked out from underneath us.
By no means am I saying that endeavors in favor of chastity are bad. However, our “public demonstration” to sexual purity should not be noticed solely because we are all wearing the same shirt. Live in such a way that displays your allegiance to King Jesus. Love and have compassion for those who have issues with sexual purity so much so that they ask “Why?”
Actively engage with those around you. It’s not that “I have already obtained these things,” in fact I am among the worse when it comes to failing with my heart, attitude and actions.
But let’s stop finding more ways to disassociate ourselves and ignore the lost and start taking deliberate steps towards mending lives and replenishing souls.
A day of purity? How about a life of obedience?

Liberty University, it's just what we call it....

At the moment, this blog seems about as public as the moleskine journal I keep in my jacket pocket. So, I think I'm safe enough here to let my tounge fly and try to find some meaning out of today.
Today, February 12, 2007, was one of the best and worst days I've had in a while. It was one of the best because I know that justice will prevail and all that is true, beautiful, truthfully beautiful and beautifully true is not held captive in any way. It may be detered a few degrees, from time to time, but it is never detained.
Today was one of the worst days because any fleeting contentedness that I had been feeling towards the upper eschalon of the Liberty University "community" has been whisked away in the air, and my face is still red and smarting from the wind burn. Also, all suspicions have been confirmed.
Today, is my birthday and my funeral. My lasting sense of conformity and unquestioning trust for those in leadership has been buried alongside my desire to be a combover Christian, and the dirt is still caked on the bottom of my shoes. Aside, despite and in direct opposition of that, I have been reborn (born agian again?..just kidding) in mind and direction. I understand what I am supposed to be doing and writing about regardless of what the "authority figures" in my life are. When I write, I am unloading thoughts and ideas from my soul. I write that which I think that I need to express with words.
What I will soon be posting is the article that was the submission for my column this week. Due to the powers that be, (namely the Vice President, Vice President of Student Affairs and a Faculty Advisor) my words were barred from print. I encourage the 3 or 4 people that read this to thoughtfully comment on what they think about what I am trying to say. Chank you.

Relevance, Irrelevance (Rick Warren) and Revolution

Between working two jobs, trying to graduate and being married, it usually takes a bit of effort to find a few spare moments and stretch them as far as possible. Thankfully, we were granted some extra time for the Christmas break, and I tried to enjoy every bit of it as furtively as possible — a.k.a. I spent about 90 percent of my vacation period sitting in the Drowsy Poet.
During one of those coffee drinking marathons, I read the new issue of RELEVANT MAGAZINE.

Before I go much further, I would like to send my heart out to RELEVANT’s President and CEO Cameron Strang and the rest of his crew in Orlando. If you have yet to read this magazine, look it up online at www.RELEVANTMAGAZINE.com or find the copy detained in our library. I have a deep appreciation for the direction the publication is going in and thoroughly enjoy about everything they print.

Everything they print excluding one piece in particular. In the most recent edition, there is an article written by a certain goal-oriented pastor. Let’s call him Warren Richards, and Richards contributes a bit of his mind to every issue.

In this issue, he champions the idea of a cultural revolution that is on the tips of our tongues but has yet to be articulated. His contention is that the American Church is coming upon a “second reformation,” which he claims will be “a reformation of belief.” He offers five neatly-packaged reasons for his prediction and rattles of information about the condition he believes the modern church to be in.

In the words of Sir Charles Brown: “Good grief.”

I think Richards is more or less taking a stab in the dark and hoping for a thud. While he may be on to something about the onset of a “second Reformation,” proposing that it will be a “reformation of behavior” fails to connect. He is mistaking the byproduct for the actual catalyst.
In the downtown area, where I am currently residing, I can see the waters beginning to ripple in response to something “that (may become slightly) as revolutionary as Luther’s reformation of belief.” If behavior has anything to do with this movement, it is only because of an initial and drastic shift in belief — an overwhelming weariness towards behavior modification, nominal faith and the “do-gooding” of the right hand being done only after it is published and broadcasted to the so-called left.

This reformation WILL eventually be notable by the actions of individuals such as Shane Claiborne, who also wrote an article in the same issue (please read it), but only because they were initially moved by certain beliefs that were believed correctly.
The problem is not that the modern church body is comprised of “hearers instead of doers of God's Word,” it is that throughout the history of American Christianity, the American Dream has served, to a great extent, as a ceiling that restricts our possibilities as follower's of Christ.
I grew up going to church and am presently a senior at this university, and I cannot count the number of times I have heard people of influence challenge the student body to simply go and do or to recklessly love. This is not due to the frequency of the provocation, but rather because of its absence (my present church excluded).

What has been a common point of discussion at these gatherings is encouragement to get the degree, get a spouse and get a solid job that will eventually enable you to go and serve. To abstain from this or that, to be disengaged from society and to separate ourselves from homosexuals and other people created in God’s image whose sins seem more pronounced than our own.

We are charged with settling for the American Dream.

So in that respect, my contention in disagreeing with Warren’s presumption that we are entering into an era of behavioral revolution is that the American Church isn’t a group of believers who lack only in effort — it is a body of people who are taught how to survive but not how to live, how to coexist but not how to love, how to behave but not how to believe and are told that it is important to “carry the gospel to the uttermost parts of the world” but, at the same time, conditioned to see the middle-class lifestyle as far more appealing.
Where do we stand in regards to a “second reformation?” I can agree that one is coming, but it will have very little to do with behavior. Maybe it will be a time in which those who have been foreknown, predestined, called, justified and glorified will strip themselves of their undying allegiance to democracy, nationalism, social standards, fear, indifference, dreams of capital prosperity and a “sweet” ride.
Maybe, it will be a new Age of Faith where we actually take Jesus seriously when he says, “go ye,” “love your enemies,” and “sell what you have and give to the poor.”Maybe we will remember to whom our lives belong and begin to live accordingly and not act accordingly.

Coffee, Ownership and Life

He was right.
Standing there in the wake of mighty applause.
"Enjoy it, enjoy it,"
Without grey and balding words.

He was right.
Struggling with a smirk for their glistening eyes.
"I wish, I wish,"
To erase the fire and lies.

He was right.
Selling steamed love for someone else's jeans.
"Hold on, hold on,"
To dangerous thoughts and unfulfilled dreams.

I am wrong.
Sitting here before my life began.
"Fight it, fight it,"
With stubble and sand.

I am wrong.
Scribbling while he exhales with smoke.
"Want it, want it."
Despite timidity and fleeting hope.

Marraige, genuineness and coffee

The first time during my marriage that I actually felt married was a September evening — less than two months after our betrothal. We had gone to my parents’ house to see my father who was in town on a rare occasion due to his busy work schedule.
He had brewed some coffee and the four of us — he, my mother, my wife Michelle and I — had all expressed interest in its consumption. My father and I ventured to the kitchen where he poured coffee into four identical mugs and prepared each serving to each individual’s preference — more or less.
We walked back to the living room.
He carried his and my mother’s mugs and I trailed behind, trying to match my gait to his, carrying Michelle’s and my coffee mugs. Upon arrival, we each handed our wives’ coffee to them, using the same hand holding the mugs with the exact same finger positioning and saying our respective heres.
It was not until after I realized that trying to behave like my father, trying to match my strides with his, is of no count. When I gave up trying to behave like him, I focused on giving Michelle her coffee which I willingly retrieved for her out of love for her as my wife. Instead of trying to walk like my dad with steps incongruently large for my stature and my only exhibition being how hard I had to try in my manifestation of this false-self, I finally shook off my intentions — whether egotistical, pathetic or a combination of the two — and behaved with love, exhibiting to what degree I really am like my father.
My mother looked at both of us as we arched our backs, extended the same arm and steadied the mug in an identical fashion. Although, his hands are stronger and bigger than mine, proving to be much sturdier.
She looked up with a bewildered look and asked if we were twins, or something like that.
It made me glad. If she had seen me earlier — slowing my pace and lengthening my strides — she would have cocked an eyebrow at how artificial I was behaving.
Similar to a picture they have of me as a toddler, walking around in my father’s Nikes. I am sure walking in those would have looked correspondingly awkward with each step being more deliberate as I raised my foot and curled my toes in compensation for the ill-fitting footwear.
Thinking about this reminded me how in my devotion — or lack of devotion­ — to Christ, I have a propensity for behaving in a certain way that is awkward, forced and unnatural in an attempt to appear to be more like Him.
Do not be artificial about your faith. Raising your hands to the sky ­— or sometimes even singing — in a worship service because you will look more spiritual is wrong. It is terrible misrepresentation of who you are.
Aspiring to
While trying to modify your behavior patterns to look better than you actually are, you only attract attention to your defective, sinful nature. Lying to yourself about your spiritual well-being will only continue to inhibit your progress towards Christ-likeness.
This is not to say that we should ever become comfortable with how much we are glorifying the Lord, which probably is not much. What I mean is that we should understand where we are spiritually and correspondingly reply in humble worship of he who gives us all when we deserve nothing.

Dawkin's part 2, shakespeare and imaginary college

To those of you who have actually been reading my column thus far, I hope that you were able to join me at R-MWC for the lecture given by Richard Dawkins, a.k.a. “Darwin’s rottweiler.” Being that Dawkins is an Oxford professor, it was not a huge surprise that he was of far-above average intelligence. Being that Dawkins is an Oxford professor, I was shocked that he would use logical fallacies in his arguments.
During the lecture, Dawkins read excerpts from his recent book, “The God Delusion.” For the parts I was awake, what he said was very eloquent, but predictable. And while I disagreed with a lot of what he said, I understood why he came to the conclusions that he did and why he disagreed with the Liberty representatives during the Q&A period.
The question and answer time was long, but aside from a few, there was not much asked that could be considered a decent question, and there was not much said that could be seen as a helpful answer. Frankly, I was embarrassed by most of what people asked. The majority of the questions were not thought-out and had the crowd snickering before Dawkins could even respond. What I believed people neglected to understand is that Dawkins teaches at a school that at its lowest level is attended by some of the greatest minds of today and tomorrow—minds that sit in his classes to be enlightened by him.
The few interesting comments that Dawkins did recieve were either not given a good response or were met with nonsensical, rude remarks that only served to riel-up the majority of the crowd that wore “Dawkins Fan Girl” t-shirts and were all too eager to consume anything and everything he said — including the girl who sat next to me who only stopped knitting to “Woo!” at various times to the anti-God comedy act.
One particular comment that sticks out in my mind was something to the affect of: “If you are attending this lecture and a student of Liberty University, I encourage you to drop-out and enroll in a real university.”
“Real.” Well, I am not to sure as to what he was referring to. I only hope he did not mean “real” in the magical sense, in that our school is naught but an illusion; a figment of our imaginations that somehow have coalesced to appear to each individual as an identical apparition. The other possible meaning is that our school is nothing but a Christian recreational facility where the attending individuals play video games all weekend or spend more time making “blue steel” faces in the mirror with an assortment of glorified Crayons nearby.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
“Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermixed’?”
(William Shakespeare, “Sonnet 101”)
While I may poke fun from time to time, I hardly believe such a description of what happens on our campus can be completely described with the latter definition of “real.”
Probably the most rewarding part of the evening was my meandering walk back to wherever it was that I parked my fan (I usually have a difficult time remembering). The brisk breeze reddened my ears and rustled the tails of my blazer and reminded me of my hometown in New York.
Until now, I never understood my propensity for being enamored with the tepid fall climate. It reminds me of running trails with my cross-country teammates and apple-picking with my family. Although the mood is somewhat melancholy, it is soothing to me; I find comfort in it. It is the late-night-low-light conversations with strong coffee and flickering candles that come to mind and are so wonderfully complimented by these conditions.
And it is in this current season — these dim-lighted days — that my inspiration for the instigation of this column began. Yes, I know, the spring is supposed to be the time for renewal, rebirth and high-hopes, but for me that time always seems to be the end of the road.
The end of the year — the last time I would see good friends for months, the last chance I had to hug my 7th grade girlfriend. I would have already made my lasting impression, said final statements that set me on cruise control for the rest of the year and my grades were already beyond repair. So in that regard, it is fitting that the fall energizes me; I get a new start to an old game, and now that it is my senior year, I want to go out with a bang. I am tired of going to Coffee House and open mic nights and wishing that I would have found some like-minded musicians to play a Phish tune with. Phish tune, fish tune, tuna fish, tune my guitar that has been sitting dusty on its stand since I moved to my current apartment. Come to think of it, where is my tuner?
So hear I am, once again at the beginning, but by now already halfway through it. Here’s to a late start and to it I raise my cup of coffee in hopes that I do not let great opportunities slip through my fingers during my last year of college, like this one almost did.

tracts and faux leather...

In respect to my column in the past issue of this publication, I extend my hand in gratitude and give a warm, firm handshake to those of you who e-mailed me with words of encouragement—I cannot tell you how much this means to me. As someone who pursues writing as an art and a craft, I tend to be extremely self-conscious about what I produce, so to hear positive reactions is a great blessing. But if you are someone who thinks me to be weak in sentence forming, boring and speaking out of ignorance and inexperience, I welcome you to heckle at will.
While I sit here tickling my keyboard, hoping to coax something out of my heart that is worth reading, I think about the event at RMWC on this Monday, (which, of course, by the time you read this is actually this past Monday) and wonder if any Liberty students will attend. If you did not, well, then I will keep you updated on when similar opportunities arise where you can engage with students from the 95 other colleges in Lynchburg. If you did attend the lecture, then kudos to you – I trust that you found the experience unique to what you would have accomplished by going to Macado’s once again for half-priced Hindenburgs and 25 cent butterfly shrimp.
This semester, I am taking an elective course in Contemporary Literature. One of the books assigned is titled “The Moviegoer” by Walker Percy. Not exactly my favorite book or even a book that I completely like, but the main character (Jack) in the book made mention of how his life is characterized by endeavoring to escape from the “everydayness” of everything. Jack mentions that knowing what day of the week it is only because of certain activities that are occurring around you is terrible. For example, he would probably consider it shameful that an on campus Liberty student would only know Tuesday was Tuesday because the time was 9:45 p.m. and he was rushing back to his dorm for hall meeting.
I tinker with this idea and wonder what woeful words he would utter to describe the duration of this past season in my life. Looking back at this summer that I gave away on white plates on brown rubber-coated trays, I remember the way T. S. Elliot’s character J. Alfred Proofrock gauges his days with coffee spoons and how I size the past couple years of mine by way of white cone cups laid side by side like a shark’s grin.
I worked nine shifts a week this summer. Nine, and I only worked five days a week. Sure, I made a decent amount of money, but it would have been far more beneficial for me to spend more time reading or involving myself in the lives of others.
This is not to say that waiting tables entirely characterizes my life since 2004, but the frequency of doing so could have been cut down a great deal. But despite all of that, working as much as I did allowed me to find about a few things.
One, Quixtar people love to eat out, and when they do, they tip big. I am not sure, but maybe they are doing so incredibly well as “independent business owners” that they can throw down a 35 percent tip without stopping to reevaluate their options, trying to remember things I did wrong so they would not leave as much. What it really seems like is that they are trying to impress the people they invited in order to talk about burying them under a pyramid scheme, and after the meal, the server is approached with a handshake and a speech that usually beings with, “You look to smart to be working this job.” Meanwhile, a put-putting Ford Probe sits in the lot — a symbol of such great success that I too could attain if would only submit to the will of this individual wearing the Quixtar uniform: flipped-up and gelled hair and a seemingly-leather jacket, wielding scripture to support their endeavors like a small child who is caught with his hand in the cookie jar telling mommy, “I was getting the cookie for you,” or rather, “I’m pursing a Ferrari so I can show others how you have blessed me, God.”
With that said, it is possible that my foot could not inserted down my trachea further, but the conversations I have held with such people do not lead me to believe so. Often when I am confronted with such people (not just Quixtar-affiliated, but any belonging to similar plots), they unravel epic stories on how Mr. Faithinthebank or Miss. Moneyinmyheart was able to retire at age 23 and buy a castle in Europe with heated stones. (Thanks Derek, I owe you one.)
My usual response would be similar, but not limited to, “Yeah, I’m really not interested in retiring young; I want to do what I do until I physically cannot do it anymore.”
“Well, then you probably won’t,” they have said. “But do you have any friends who are ambitious?”
Lord, help me so that every person I meet does not look like Benjamin Franklin or a business opportunity.
Another frequent encounter while grating cheese on top of everything is the tract. Oh yes, and most likely you have used one at some point in your life — I know I have. The normal strategy of a tract handoff is to present it to the server with a smile and a quick keep-the-change-but-I-have-something-for-you-to-read-when-you-get-the-chance farewell.
While many of these slips of paper vary in color, tactic and size, they mainly say the same thing: “Hey! I’m never going to see you again, and I’m definitely never going to talk to you again so here is some literature that completely strips the gospel of Jesus of all beauty. So while you’re reading this and either scratching your head or cursing me, I’m escaping out the front door, smuggling breadsticks and liberating myself of all responsibility for your discipleship. Hey, “American Pointless Reality Show” is on, and I just HAVE to see what nothingness happens next. Ciao!”
My wife has actually received one of those ever-so-clever million dollar tracts, while the person who left it did not even leave enough money to cover the entire cost of the meal.
This happens far too much for it to be a joke. This Christian version of “ring and run” continues to be one of the least effective ways for reaching the weak, weary, tempted and troubled.
Well, that is most of the interesting stuff that I run into in my sanitized workplace. Anything else would be along the lines of multiple people at one table all asking for iced tea but actually be asking for different things or someone wanting to know if the chicken alfredo has any meat in it.
So please, I beg you, be wise when trying to reach out to others. Do not give them a piece of paper that says, “Someone big thinks you’re special!” which implies, “But I, as this individual’s image-bearer, couldn’t take my face out of my soup for long enough time to personally give you this breath of fresh air.” Also, please shy away from pretending you want to be friends with people and that you want to “get together some time,” when all you really desire is for them to make you some easy money.

Introductions, love and Darwin's Rottweiler

Allow me first to apologize for my truancy in beginning this column. I am a senior this year, and in addition to taking full time classes, I work part time delivering endless supplied of breadsticks, soup, salad and, for a limited-time offer, pasta at the Olive Garden. I also spend a great deal of time trying to make these last few pages of “The Champion” look fancy. Peruse in awe…not really. So, on top of all that formal stuff, I’m also newly married and for some strange reason my wife thinks we should actually see each other. The nerve.
That was a joke, like the ones your professors make that really are not funny but you laugh at anyway because you subconsciously yearn to keep the status quo.
The title for my column, “Thoughts Outside the Bubble,” is sort of a spin-off from the “thinking outside of the box” truism. Our university is often referred to as the “Liberty Bubble,” and because I am an off-campus, married senior, there are a few things to which I would like to devote a few words a week to.
Living near the downtown area, I was able to frequent the Tutto Bene’—the new caffeine supplier on Main Street. While it does not exactly provide the quiet one may be looking for to do some reading, writing and meditating, I have had some of my best conversations there.
Periodically, I step inside to greet Bernadette Irr, the owner of the shop, even if only for a minute and even if I don’t plan on buying anything.
During a few of the talks that we have had together, she has mentioned how she had been alienated by various people in churches close to her home. She came to the point where she did not feel comfortable attending any longer. Through this experience, which was pretty traumatic to her and her family, God taught her something indispensable.
In reference to this, Bernadette said with a laugh, “I have to say, we sit better in society now. Back then, we were in out little ‘churchy’ circles. Now, I’m out in the world and I fit better in society and I serve God to the best of my ability with whatever I can.”
Allow me to clarify. She was not trying to persuade anyone to leave their local church assembly. What happened was that she was forced to interact with people that were “outside the bubble” and to engage with them at eye-level. She did not look at these people as despicable beings who she would deign to speak with, but rather as individuals as guilty of sinning and as worthy of salvation as she is.
This is an issue that continues to come up in my life. While growing up, I was taught that there are people who are your Christian friends, and then there are other people that you witnessed to and, at most, only held Platonic, surface-level relationships with. This leaves opportunity to quarantine non-believers from “church-going folk.”
During my time at Liberty, God put people in my life that would talk with me about these issues. I would meditate on thoughts by Christian thinkers like Derek Webb, John Piper and Don Miller. I read writings by secular writers like Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac and F. Scott Fitzgerald. And all these things, whether by professionals or bohemians, aged scholars or young adults, Christians or secularists, Arminians or Calvinists, all pointed me to the same thing — we, as Christians, need to invest our lives in other human beings, especially non-believers, and show them love.
In keeping with this paradigm of “this” vs. “that,” we know that at Liberty, we have the “evangelical bulldog” known as Ergun Caner. On Oct. 23, Randolph Macon Women’s College, located on Rivermont Ave., is hosting an event in which “Darwin’s rottweiler” is coming to speak to students. His name is Richard Dawkins and, as it says on www.rmwc.edu, “Dawkins will discuss his new book, “The God Delusion,” and in his direct, logical style challenge religion in all its forms.”
My charge to you, average Liberty student who has taken classes in evangelism, creatonism and the all-important GNED, which packages every other “ism” with nice white wrapping paper and a gold ribbon, this is a chance for you to floss the information you collected on the days you did not skip or sleep through lectures.
This is not an “Onward Christian Soldiers” battle-cry for a non-existent cultural war, but rather an exhortation to step outside the bubble and meet people where they are at — n0t at the Clubhouse, not at the computer lab and certainly not at Movies-10. To connect with your peers (and yes, they are your peers) about things that actually mean something — not “Zoolander” quotes, internet-based athletic leagues, “The OC” and most definitely not “Halo 2.”
A warning: this is not for the weak of heart or the tasteless. During Soulforce’s recent escapade at Liberty’s entrance, I saw a kid (probably a freshman) holding up a sign that was supposed to parody Soulforce’s own that had pictures of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi with “Learn From History” enscribed on it. His said, “Learn From History,” but next to it was written, “Sodom and Gomorrah,” and he was chanting, “Don’t vote gay, it’s not the Liberty Way.” Please, if you are this individual or someone who thinks that such a display is funny or clever — do not come. I am sure episodes of “Family Guy” are still on the server. This kind of banter and tactless message of hate and anger will only be a hindrance to doing what King Jesus teaches us to do — to love them.
Attendance at the lecture, which begins at 7:30 p.m. on Oct. 23 in RMWC’s Smith Hall Theater, is free but priceless.

The beginning...or is it?

Well, i'm back under a new name. I used to infrequently blog a couple years ago, but i haven't been able to access it. My previous posts are all there, including an autobiography I wrote a while back...I should probably read it to make sure I still agree with what I wrote then. A lot has changed since my sophomore year in college. Anyway, I really appreciate reading what you have to say in response to what I write so comment as frequently as you wish.

What I hope to do with this is post my column that I write for the Liberty Champion, spontaneous thoughts, and maybe some poetry (if I can ever locate that muse...). Well, at the moment I'm talking to myself, but I hope to gain a small readership of sorts. Thanks for coming.