RONdezvous

Fine Arts Fun

2011-03-31T13:49:00.015-04:00

Pip volunteered to do a 10-minute slot at the Fine Arts fair at his school this week. We worked up a couple pieces, with Mia joining in on percussion. I thought he did a great job.

He is reading a lead sheet for the first song, I Take You For Granted, a composition of mine from some years ago. (I hear it now and think it sounds like a cross between an American Jazz standard and a Sesame Street song some muppet would sing).

The second song, St. Thomas, he just knows in his head, and the second time through he's just improvising over the changes. I think it's great because his solo has some real musical shape. That's not something you can teach. The boy's just got it.

Moose Kitsch

2010-07-18T19:14:00.007-04:00

Since we moved into the new house a few months ago, I have indulged a few lady-of-the-house impulses, such as planting window boxes, buying new dishes, and painting the four-season porch a new color. ("Terrapin green," if you must know. I had to look up what "terrapin" means. Apparently it's a type of turtle.)

This little nesting frenzy has taken me into some frightening thickets of unfamiliar objects and terms. For instance, I had to learn the difference between a chandelier, a pendant, and a sconce. I know how to measure seat height and overall width and depth. I've noted that, should one wish to do so, one could purchase a new kitchen faucet that looks exactly like the one in my grandmother's 1930s kitchen. I've even gotten brazen enough to enter the Pottery Barn store at the mall and to look through their catalog--just for ideas, of course. By the way, once you get past the initial lifestyle lust, home decor catalogs suggest that designers must be imagining very strange lives for the people who are supposed to inhabit their designs. Check out this site if you're not sure what I mean.

Despite being entirely overwhelmed by home-improvement-and-decor world, I am beginning to develop strong opinions about what I like and don't like. I have discovered, for example, a latent tendency in myself toward--I hesitate to confess this--moose kitsch.

I noticed this emerging condition when I could not resist these placemats on mega sale.

Aren't they cute? Come on! They have buttons! When I brought them home, the whole family made fun of me and started calling them "the Sarah Palin placemats." But they have NOTHING to do with Sarah Palin, I tell you! I refuse to be associated with Sarah Palin, and she does NOT get a copyright on everything moose-related. Or grizzly-related for that matter. These placemats commemorate the beauty of northern Michigan. And I enjoy them ironically. Yeah. Ironically.

Well, these days we're thinking about replacing the light above the dining room table, and out of revenge for the scorn I have endured over the placemats, I have threatened Ron with some intriguing possibilities from the good people at the Vaxcel Lighting company. They have a full line of fabulous, no kidding, woodsy-cabin designs.

For instance, here is the "Yellowstone" chandelier:

You've got to admit: that's cool. Not rustic enough for you? Well how about this one, the "Lodge"?

Nothing says "please enjoy the slab of venison on your plate" like a substructure of polymer deer antlers capped with 15 faux-frontier-stitched mini-shades.

For now, I have promised Ron that, in the future, I will limit my Michigan cabin kitsch weakness to small items in the little bathroom. Maybe a beaver soap dispenser or a birch-branch towel rack. Please do not refer to me as a "Mama grizzly." I just like pine trees, OK?

Alexi Lalas for President

2010-06-24T13:05:00.011-04:00

Forgive me for another swooning post about the World Cup. No, I'm not even going to gush about the US win over Algeria yesterday. Although I could. And I'm not ruling out a little love later on.

But meanwhile, I'm here to confess: I have a fan-crush on Alexi Lalas. This is not because he's "hott" or something juvenile like that. After all, he's five years younger than me, married, and has two kids. Not that I've been checking Wikipedia for his personal information or anything.

No, I just think he's very very good at what he does. Game after game after game--and they are adding up now, aren't they? how many games have we watched?? [rubbing bleary eyes with fists]--as I was saying, game after game, Lalas comes on camera with incisive, witty, compelling analysis.

He's frank and funny:
When commenting on the horrible theatrics an Ivory Coast player pulled to get Kaka a second yellow card, Lalas remarked scornfully: "He should know that when you get elbowed in the ribs and then you put your hands to your face, everyone can see that it's a dive, and it wasn't even a good dive!"

He's entirely fair-minded, but cheerfully biased when occasion demands:
When asked to "put a period" on the French after they had flushed themselves down the group-play toilet, Lalas replied: "Period?! Au revoir! Bye bye!"

He can see several sides to an issue:
When South Africa failed to qualify, he mused: "As for my human side, I would have liked to see South Africa go through, but in my soccer heart, I know this is the right thing. And I can't WAIT to see Mexico play Argentina."

[Pardon the quotes-from-memory here; perfect accuracy not guaranteed.]

Most of all, he's always right. His comments are acute, interesting, helpful, and bold. He's an advocate for the game at its best, and he's not afraid to tell it like it is. *contented sigh*

In fact, all of us over here chez Rienstra have been impressed with ESPN's coverage of the World Cup overall. The super-fab, Africa-groovy graphics; the totally professional camera work; the refreshing lack of overwrought human-interest drama pieces (*cough cough* Olympics *cough cough*); and the excellent analysis--nicely done, people. Thanks for having the good sense to hire a couple British-accented play-by-play callers, understated and elegant. And thanks for the well chosen, rotating, international group of "studio analysts": Jurgen Klinsmann (German) serves beautifully as the wise, fatherly voice. Ruud Gullit (Dutch) called the US-England draw and gets extra credit for introducing everyone to "If you ain't Dutch, you ain't much." Roberto Martinez (Spanish) is good, Shaun Bartlett (South African) is good. Even the two regular-guy anchors, Bob Ley and Mike Tirico, do all right. They stay out of the way and get right down to the actual game. All these guys--and yes, they're all guys, but I'll fuss about that some other time--handle themselves well and deliver good content about soccer. Thank you, gentlemen, for not stating the obvious, blathering on self-indulgently, or acting as if every dramatic moment constitutes the apocalypse and/or the climax of human history. Most of all, thanks for not being boring.

But back to Alexi Lalas. After that incredible win over Algeria--in which our boys nearly killed us with anxiety and tortured us with about 25 variations on almost, then finally put that glorious goal away in the 91st minute--after it was all over, you could hear the emotion in Lalas's voiceover as he summed up the game. He praised Altidore and DeMerit lest they become unsung heroes in the wake of Donovan's well-deserved glory train. And then, when the producers shifted camera from post-game hooplah to a shot of Lalas and what's-his-name in the press box, you could see: Lalas's gingery locks a little mussed, his eyes a little red-rimmed. Awwwww....

Other reasons to love Lalas:

He's from Michigan! Yup, played high school soccer and hockey in Birmingham.
His mom is a writer and poet.
He went to Rutgers and played soccer and hockey there (during my own grad school years there, no less--if only I'd known!).
He was a defender, which tends to dissolve any diva tendencies a player might have, even though Lalas did score some crucial goals in his days.
He is a pleasant-enough looking fellow, but no pretty boy. In fact, as this photo of him as an MLS player demonstrates, at one stage in his life at least, he might accurately have been described as "a total goober."

Sorry I can't identify exactly when this photo was taken; I got it from some blog. Photos of Lalas during his wild ginger days turn up on the internet on a few "weird soccer hair" listings. Just last fall, in fact, The Sun ran a photo of Lalas from who-knows-when as no. 1 in their "Top Ten Football Beards" feature.

But having survived a goober period is all in his favor, in my view.

So, Alexi, here's to the beautiful linguistic art of sports commentary, done very well. And never mind the part about running for President. True, I'd love to hear you lay into Congress. But no. Please stay right where you are.

HD: An Appreciation

2010-06-15T08:29:00.002-04:00

More than once in the past few days, Ron and I have turned to each other and swooned: "I love HD!" This is the first World Cup we have watched in high def, and I have to admit, soccer is even better when you can see every blade of grass and every thread in the net.

ESPN's camera people seem to be reveling in the possibilities of HD, too. I mean, the headers and tackles and goals are wonderful in the moment, but then, but THEN: the replays! Oh, here they come! First, a couple slo-mo replays from different angles: left, right, low angle, maybe even overhead. Then, we find the camera that caught extreme impact. Remember when England striker Emile Heskey plowed into Tim Howard? Yeah, well, thanks to HD and slo-mo replay, we witnessed every delicious bit: blades of grass and clumps of dirt scattering as Heskey's cleats tore through the sod, Howard's right arm, then his shoulder whumping against the ground, his left arm buckling against his body, the light glinting off studs as Heskey's boot crunched into Howard's hand and then his--oh ouch!--we could see the flesh on Howard's chest reverberate with the impact. I swear I could hear ribs cracking. Oops, I mean bruising. Yeah, bruising! He's fine! Really! He's fine to play on Friday! We don't need X-rays! We can just have the U.S. team doctor poke gingerly at his chest! There, see? He's totally fit!

And then there was that tragedy-in-the-box in the Netherlands-Denmark game, when poor Simon Poulsen tried to clear a cross from Netherlands' van Persie and the ball rolled off his head onto Agger's back and--oh man! Own goal! It was so awful, Poulsen just laughed. I mean, talk about the fates against you. But THEN, we got to see the replays. There was one camera shot--it took the producers a couple minutes to find it--in which we watched the ball move into the frame, then boing dramatically onto Poulsen's skull, releasing this explosion of sweat in every direction. Trace the trajectory of each sweat bead outward... outward... there--see each one evaporate? I forgot all about the goal and started thinking about the miracle of the water cycle.

So thanks to the ESPN camera people and producers for capturing the facial grimaces, the crunched ankles, the ball squashing on impact and re-expanding, every glorious visual detail, and broadcasting it right into my living room so that I can lie here on my couch and marvel.

And I hope they realize that if Howard tries to wear a steel chest plate on Friday, we are definitely going to catch the telltale outline under his shirt.

Jane Eyre: Check!

2010-06-02T08:43:00.007-04:00

Moby Dick: twice.
Ulysses: twice, sort of.
Vanity Fair: twice, though I don't remember any of it.
Brothers Karamazov: of course.
Madame Bovary: yup.
Anna Karenina: check.
Middlemarch: I'm afraid so.
David Copperfield: why, indeed.

One would expect--wouldn't one?--that a person with an English degree would be quite accomplished in the gigantic classic novel department. And I suppose I can consider myself somewhat well read, although at this point a note of ritual modesty is in order. A lady of accomplishment always demurs when her interlocutors attempt to flatter.

Nevertheless, until this past week I had never read Charlotte Bronte's famous novel Jane Eyre. I was compelled on two unfortunate occasions in high school and college to read Emily Bronte's horrible Wuthering Heights, and perhaps that put me off. I did not wish to subject myself further to characters running about on stormy heaths and moors, suffering from inexplicable romantic entanglements.

I'm happy to report that Jane Eyre is an entirely different work, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The many loyal Jane Eyre fans out there now have my permission to pronounce a smug "I told you so." Be my guest.

A good 450-page Victorian novel is a nice way to start the summer. I had my nose in the book most of the past weekend, and Ron kept requesting periodic updates: "How's Jane doing?" he would ask. "Well!" I would reply...

She's languishing at a terrible boarding school!
She's working as a governess!
Oh! It looks like she could possibly marry above her station!
But wait! The gentleman has a terrible secret!
She must preserve her honor!
Ah! She has long-lost relatives!
With money!
And someone died! And left her a bunch!
She must endure a grueling carriage ride in order to seek her kindred spirit!
Now she's running out of exclamation points!

I don't want to give away the ending, just in case I was not, in fact, the last English-speaking person on earth to read the book. Suffice to say, Bronte hit all the Victorian novel cliches. But never mind: I loved every minute of it. Jane is a cool chick who came up with an impassioned speech as a kid about character over class, then recycled the same speech later when occasion demanded. She also kept her head when some idiot tried to talk her into marrying him by claiming it was the will of God and hinting darkly that she might go to hell if she didn't. And she can speak French and draw. All in all, not bad.

I would like to claim that I am now off to study German or put on my bonnet and take a walk about the estate grounds. But in fact, I should probably do e-mail. And I think I'll add a movie version of Jane Eyre to my Netflix queue.

Miracles and the Heavenly Org Chart

2010-05-23T21:49:00.002-04:00

And now, time for some lousy theology.

On Pentecost, of all things.

I've been noticing tiny miracles lately, things like finding a parking space when you really need one, or coming across just the quotation you were looking for, or hearing a kind word from someone who doesn't know that you're feeling bummed and discouraged.

How does this work? I mean, I believe in Providence with a capital P, and I'm happy to put some things down to random coincidence. But what about that broad expanse between Grand Divine Plan and all the insignificant whatevers? Jesus remarked that the hairs on our heads are numbered, but who exactly is doing the accounting?

My answer: angels. Staff. Underlings. Minions.

Who knows? Really, I have no idea. But it amuses me to imagine that God's intimate knowledge and care, as attested in biblical passages such as Psalm 139, are duly supported with several layers of errand-running staffers. We used to love the fabulous children's book, What a Truly Cool World, which features a character called "Shaniqua, the Angel in Charge of Everybody's Business." That's what I'm talking about. Shaniqua surely must have a staff.

So based on some events of the last few weeks, I herein make some guesses about what sorts of job categories branch out under Shaniqua in the heavenly org chart:

Kindred Spirit Encounters
It's been a month now since the Festival of Faith and Writing, and I might still have a bit of a hangover from the high. This was my first time at the Festival as a member of the organizing committee, and I felt like someone giving a fabulously successful party. You invite the guests, you set out the platters and cups, and then... you cannot be sure what will happen.

I suppose when you get 2000 book-loving people in the same place for a few days, the laws of probability suggest that amiable connections will occur. Even so, it all felt vaguely miraculous. Student volunteers, assigned to shepherd around authors they previously knew nothing about, developed "author crushes" on people like Kate di Camillo or Donna Freitas. People who had never read Richard Rodriguez swooned over his plenary lecture and rushed to buy his books. One of my favorite moments was after Rodriguez's interview, when he was greeting people in the chapel. Here comes Thomas Lynch for his interview in the next session. The two recognized each other, though they had never met before, and rushed to shake hands. "Oh I'm so glad to meet you! I love your work!" they both declared. I got to meet numerous authors whom we had invited on the strength of their work only to discover that they are lovely people, too.

As miracles go, the Festival is carefully engineered--it requires two years of planning and a savvy and hard-working staff. But now that I've seen behind the scenes, as it were, I know that our engineering does not fully explain the wonders that transpire.

(Photo credit: Laura Cebulski)

Last-Second Baskets, Hail-Mary Passes, and other Sports Miracles
Angels in the outfield, yes, yes, I'm sure there are. I'm more interested in the soccer pitch, where I have witnessed barely perceptible but effective forcefields around the goal box, strangely curving corner kicks, and mysterious bursts of footskills at crucial moments. Just a couple weeks ago, after Mia had endured a deeply discouraging week, she scored a winning goal in sudden-death overtime. Stuff like that is not random.

Pleasant Holiday Celebrations
I believe this is one of the less efficient and reliable departments--poor history of customer satisfaction, intermittent colossal breakdowns, etc. However, once in a while, you get, say, an Easter weekend with Edenic weather, good church, decent food, and nicely behaved relatives.

Children in Cheery Moods
This department is evidently sorely understaffed. No doubt my children would say the same for Parents in Cheery Moods. It's a busy and stressful time of year; Shaniqua could look into some seasonal hiring.

Terrific Shopping Finds
The other day I was planning to go to Costco to buy supplies for a little get-together, and instead, at the last second, I turned into Meijer. I happened to wander through the patio furniture department and--hey! I found the perfect little chair-and-table set for my new deck, all at a bargain price. Thanks, shopping angels!

Aha Moments
Yesterday, Calvin graduated another 950 young people into the world. I realized, watching quite a bevy of English majors stride down that aisle, mortarboards bobbing and robes swirling, that we are losing a very strong class this year. And I marveled again at the thousands of fruitful conversations, in person and in writing, that I get to have with lively young people every semester. Several of these good folks were in three of my classes over their four years, which means they probably know more of my quirks than I wish. Then again, I know theirs, too. I hope it makes us all fond of each other and grateful for the intensity of college life. We all need a rest from that intensity now, but at its best, college is a wonderful place where "aha moments" pop up like tulips in April. Now let's hope that the angels of resumes, interviews, and job placement will swoop into position and take over.

Traffic Safety
How would parents sleep at all without this department? With my second teenager about to start driver's training in a few weeks, not to mention my aging parents still tooling around town, I maintain a state of intimate conversation with the traffic safety staffers. Every safe trip to a soccer game or back from a friend's house late at night feels like a minor triumph to me.

I know I have had a tendency in the past few years to see failure and focus on disappointment. These days I'm trying to recognize abundance in the everyday miracles.

Awesome Week

2010-04-20T14:34:00.010-04:00

This past week was AWESOME! Well, for Pip at least it was. At Evergreen, a 'balanced calendar' school, Pip had spring break for two weeks in April. But since the parental units had only one week of break, Philip and four of his friends cooked up an awesome idea: all the boys would spend one day a week at each others' homes. Each family unit would then have responsibility for one days' worth of activities. The boys came up with the moniker for this vacation-substitute: awesome week. The already sky-high awesomeness got ramped up, though, when the parents began to compete to see who would offer the most awesome activities for the boys. No one was declared winner of that competition, but the boys all agreed it ended up being the best spring break week EVAR.

And You Thought The Earth's Tilt Caused Spring

2010-04-03T16:44:00.012-04:00

The ancient world had its explanatory myths for the seasons, but in our house, it's all down to facial hair. Yep, Ron's facial hair. Facial hair and liturgical seasons.

All right, that requires some explanation. Here's what I mean. At the beginning of Advent, Ron lets his beard grow. All through Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, and Lent, I'm married to a hirsute husband.

Then, on Easter Eve, he gets a haircut and shaves his beard. Next thing you know, I have a brand new husband... and spring arrives!

I realize this fuzzy-liturgical mythology can only fully be appreciated by worship wonks, particularly those who are not sensitive about male-pattern balding.

(For the brave, here is an animated gif, going back-and-forth between these two pictures. Ron wanted to put it in the post itself; I overruled that impulse. You can thank me later.)
*****

In more important news, we would like to announce something wonderful: the faculty at Western Seminary voted last week to recommend to the Board that Ron be given a regular faculty appointment as Assistant Professor of Preaching and Worship Arts.

We have hoped and waited for this since, well, since before we went to California, not even knowing exactly what we were hoping and waiting for.

This Easter, we are celebrating new beginnings, and new possibilities.

How Old Are You on the Inside?

2010-03-24T19:25:00.014-04:00

Lately I suspect I'm annoying people with my increasingly frequent references to feeling old. People older than me naturally scoff at such remarks, and younger people cringe--they do not care to be reminded of mortality. So after this post, I will attempt to curtail futher references to aging until I turn the corner on some significant birthday. Not sure which one yet. Oh, but I do reserve the right to observe our annual "ailment night" this summer with my fellow Theologigglers. You know who you are.

The truth is, I don't always feel old. Most of the time, I still imagine that I'm 27. This makes having teenage children hard to explain, but there ya go. Ron and I occasionally ask friends how old they are "on the inside." I always say 27, Ron always says 24. Friends say all kinds of interesting things. One woman, freshly turned 30, told me she felt 45. I put that down to reading too much theology and not watching enough trashy television.

This past week, we've had occasions to feel more than normally confused about how far along we have traveled on life's path. So now, a list of Things That Made Me Feel Old accompanied by a list of Things That Made Me Feel Young.

Old:
Attending, for the first time, a wedding in which our connection to the bridal couple was as friends of the bride's parents.

Young:
At the rehearsal dinner, sitting with the bride's sister and brother and sister's fiance at the "fun table."

Old:
Visiting Pella, Iowa, where we lived from 1992 to 1996, and counting up the years (that wasn't that long ago, right?) only to realize that we first moved there 18 years ago.

Young:
Seeing people we knew during those years who still look exactly the same. (However, it is entirely possible that time passes more slowly in Pella.) And check out this exciting event soon to take place during Tulip Time.

Old:
Realizing, as I explain to people how to find our new house, that the most effective method is to have them turn south at Zaagman's--thus making a funeral home the primary landmark of my life.

Young:
Scheming and plotting all the little decorating changes we'd like to make to our new house, assuming that we have decades to complete them.

Old:

Hearing my students explain that they had a hard time following a chapter about Richard Nixon in a book we read for class, while I remember Watergate rather vividly.

Young:
At least I can still remember things vividly.

Old:

Spending the bulk of my spring break grading, which at least affords me "life of grinding responsibility" points.

Young:
Feeling slightly envious of students who are spending their spring break on a road trip to the sunny South. I don't fancy the all-night car rides anymore (I've always been a complete wussy wimp about losing sleep, actually), but a little bikini-clad ray-soaking still sounds pretty sweet. I'm not ready for bus tours or early bird dinner specials yet.

Where Have You Been All My Life?

2010-03-13T09:00:00.015-05:00

Yes, I know. Six months' hiatus. Very bad. Long enough for a well-justified "delete" from the RSS feeds of family members, not to mention the three friends who occasionally tolerated our blog.

But...we're back.

No need to write a long catch-up post. Here's the summary: Finally sold old house. Bought new house. Moved during the one time of year that we swore was the only time we truly could not manage a move--end of January. But we did it. Love the new house. Everyone fine.

OK, and now back to random topics. Today: products to change your life. Or at least my life.

Moving into a new house means, among other things, installing a large spigot on one's bank account and cranking the thing all the way to "full bore." Hear that sound? Yeah, that's the sound of money gushing out like water over the Hoover Dam.

But at least for us, some of that money has gone toward the purchase of some pretty nifty achievements of a consumer-driven economy. These are the sorts of products that, after you buy one, you smack your forehead and say: "Why did I not have one of these years ago?!"
For instance...

The plastic cereal storage container--with easy-open spout.

For years we've been coping with those intractable wax-paper bags that cereal comes in. You tear the thing open, carefully so as to avoid an oatmeal-square explosion, and then you try to pour cereal into the bowl over that stupid ragged-edged opening. Well, no more. A moment of bold risk-taking in the food storage aisle at Kohl's, and now we have fresh cereal gracefully cascading out of this little beauty. The non-spouty versions work very well for flour, sugar, and other baking staples, too.

Certain Dri anti-perspirant.

When I teach, I sweat. This is not the wholesome, all-over-body, honest-day's-work sweat of an active athlete. This is the wienie, underarm-only, nervous sweat of the basically introverted public speaker. Over the years, I have ruined many garments this way. In fact, there are certain lovely fabrics I have refused to buy because I know I will corrode the armpits in three-and-a-half class periods. However, at last, I have discovered an unglamorous but effective anti-perspirant. It's cheap, you only use it three times a week at night, and by golly if it doesn't shut down those sweat glands. Maybe eventually I'll turn green from chemical poisoning (doubtful, since the active ingredient is similar to regular anti-perspirant), but at least meanwhile I'll be armpit-circle free.

The Toastmaster electric mug warmer.

Prayer and Scripture reading is a sanity-stabilizing morning ritual, but tea drinking is almost as necessary. The trouble is, if you drink a cup of tea over the course of about twenty minutes (the only proper way), by the time you're halfway into the cup, you are drinking cold tea, which is almost as icky as dirty dishwater. And you can't keep jumping up and zapping your cup in the microwave. Not classy. Well, Ron got me an electric mug-warmer for Christmas, and I must say, I'm impressed. In fact, I'm so impressed, I ordered a second one, so I can have one at home and one at the office. Every time I lift the cup and take that last swig, discovering to my surprise yet again that it's still nice and hot, I feel a little moment of triumph over the sinister forces of thermodynamics.

The Hoover Platinum Series vacuum.

Red-blooded American men love their chain saws and power washers, but ladies, I'm telling you, it's possible to perform a useful, non-destructive task and still wield some serious power. With its understated silver design and its sci-fi-blue headlight, this vacuum makes cleaning feel like conquest. The motor takes a moment to rev up--subtle suggestion of jet engine, there--and then it creates a deeply satisfying pull on that carpet. Best of all--and I'm quivering with the thrill here--the vacuum comes with a separate, portable attachment vac for dry floors, upholstery, and dusting. You sling the thing over your shoulder like a carry-on bag and start poking the telescoping (telescoping!) pole, with your choice of end-cap, into every dust-crusted corner of your house. I haven't tried it on the dog yet, but I'm tempted.

So three cheers for product-development people who get a smart idea and follow it through. I salute you.

Instead of cookies at the open house...

2009-09-20T18:57:00.006-04:00

What I Did This Summer

2009-09-11T20:29:00.013-04:00

Not much.

I moved into my new office at work and puttered around happily in there, working on this or that project. And we spent a beautiful week with our dear Theologiggle friends at Lake Michigan. And we drove the children around. And around and around.

We did do a lot of cleaning. We cleaned the house over and over for the various anonymous people who came through to look at it. Alas, still no buyer, though we’ve come close a couple times. And that’s about it. No elaborate vacations, no trips across the country (thank goodness), no major family events. This all seemed restful at the time, but now I look back and wonder what on earth I accomplished, besides a very clean kitchen sink.

Therefore, in an attempt to feel as if three months of my life has not floated by uselessly, I present:

Bite-Size Reviews.

It turns out that between car trips and scrubbing, I did wind up reading quite a bit and watching a few movies.

My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist’s Personal Journey
Jill Bolte Taylor

A brain scientist has a stroke at age 37 (caused by a blood clot) and records the whole experience in scientific detail. Her left brain seriously damaged, she entered a kind of pure right-brain experience, which resembles nirvana or similar religious ecstasies. Six years later, she had at last regained full function, but also become a more peaceful person by learning to “turn off” her left-brain at will (sort of). Her story is fascinating in its portrayal of brain function, but annoying in its exhortations to the reader. Her bottom line: you can enter bliss whenever you wish by training your brain.

On the other hand…

The Female Brain
Louann Brizendine

This book uses neuroscience and hormone research to explain hormonal influence on various stages of female experience. Very intriguing, but depressing. Her bottom line: Sure, you have free will and all, but frankly your female hormones powerfully influence everything you think and do, and they are pretty likely to drive you to madness at various semi-predictable intervals.

After reading both these books, I can’t decide whether I am helpless against my hormonal surges or hopeless in my inability to enter bliss by sheer will.

Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in Our Busy Lives
Wayne Muller

My pastor friend Dawn was right when she recommended this as a wise, balanced treatment of Sabbath. I found it inspiring. The one problem with Sabbath-keeping that Muller does not much address, though, is dealing with the other people in your household. One cannot rest very well unilaterally. And persuading the others in your household to alter their Sabbath practices—just the thought of it exhausts me. Yes, Rienstras, I’m talking about you.

The Secret Life of Bees
Sue Monk Kidd

I read this because we wanted to invite the author to Festival. Turns out she can’t make it, but I don’t regret reading the novel—a page-turner and an understandable bestseller. The portrayal of a nurturing, feminine community could have been an eye-roller, but the bee-keeping motif saves it. I’m not a big expert on Southern writers, but what is up with all these adolescent female protagonists with a tragic mother and a mean daddy? Is that some sort of genre convention or something?

Gods in Alabama
Joshilyn Jackson

Wooooo-doggie, is this a tale! I flew through this book, which is part murder mystery, part romance novel, part comedy of manners. Jackson is a Southern writer with a cracklin sense of humor. The novel is wonderfully constructed to reveal outrageous past events piece by piece, throwing repeated surprises that will cause the reader to emit audible gasps (at least this reader). Lots of frank sexual content here, so not recommended for young, innocent readers. Jackson will be coming to the Festival next spring.

The Pine Island Paradox
Kathleen Dean Moore

A philosopher with hiking boots and a backpack. Moore is a philosophy professor at Oregon State, as well as a nature writer. She was recommended to me by some nature-writer friends, and it looks like she’ll be at Festival, too. I appreciate her clear, elegant writing and her interesting digressions into philosophical musings. Nature writing traditionally involves a kind of lonely, rugged, individual human voice, but Moore self-consciously connects her love for the wild with her love for family. Her concern for humans in community with each other and the natural world makes her work fresh and relevant.

Interloper
L. S. Klatt

A volume of poems by my colleague at Calvin, whom we know as Lew. I loved reading this because it felt to me that I was exercising different parts of my brain. I’m used to reading poetry that requires a lot of intellectual puzzle-solving, but Lew’s poems make sense through sound and image-play. I found this, as well as the overarching metaphor of poet as interloper, quite delightful.

And now, some movies…

Star Trek (the new movie)
Loved it. Love the young Kirk and Spock, in fact I like them far better than the originals. Great character work from all the actors, reflecting careful research into canonical ST. Not impressed with the villain, though. So you turned to evil in response to the murder of your young wife and baby, and now your plan is revenge. That old routine? Really? And I was thoroughly disappointed by the ridiculous reliance on “red matter” to propel the plot. Visually striking, but it reminded me of those huge red balls outside Target, and I kept expecting to see product placement. Also, am I getting old, or were some of those frames so full of exploding debris as to be indecipherable by the human brain? Good thing I didn’t see it in IMAX. Despite my complaints, a fun movie ride.

Up
I came out of the theater with this thought: that was the most unpredictable story I have ever seen on screen. I found the first thirty minutes poignant and moving, of course, but felt less and less emotionally connected as the story rumbled along. Still, “Let go of that old dream, for heaven’s sake, and move on to something new and real” is hardly a stock message these days. So points for that.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Yeah, I can see what all the fuss was about. The whole ships-passing-in-the-time-space-continuum premise pleased my sci-fi-loving side, but I mostly enjoyed the historical backdrops and even the sets. That New Orleans old folks home itself may have been my favorite character. And yes, the acting was wonderful yada yada yada.

Charlie Bartlett
One of those artsy films, but don’t let that put you off. The premise is that a high school kid, stuck in yet another new school, tries to gain popularity by blackmarketing psychopharmaceuticals out of the boys’ bathroom, and ends up serving as the unofficial psychologist for a lot of messed up teens. The story could have taken a lurid dive, but it focuses on character and stays sweet and quirky and very witty. The kid’s mother all by herself is worth a spot in the Netflix queue.

Into the Wild
This one was recommended to me by many male students after discussing literary tragedy a few semesters ago. I’m not sure it connects to classical tragedy, but I can see why my students love the film: it is saturated with young adult male restlessness. A bright, sensitive fellow runs away after college, determined to live deliberately a la Thoreau. He travels the country meeting other free spirits until he achieves the solitude he craves in the Alaskan wild. And then… well, I won’t give away the ending. This beautiful film was directed by—what??!—Sean Penn, and I thought it was well put together with subtle character work and gorgeous cinematography. I wished I were watching it on a big screen instead of my little pre-HD, pre-flat-screen contraption.

Wit
Emma Thompson is a goddess. Every project she takes on, from Beatrice (Much Ado about Nothing) to Margaret Wilcox (Howard’s End) to Professor Trelawney (various Harry Potter movies) to Vivian Bearing (Wit), she accomplishes with breathtaking excellence. For this beautiful film version of the off-Broadway play about an English professor dying of cancer, Thompson helped write the screenplay and played the starring role—to perfection. She is my paradigm for the woman with the most admirably flawless career record (closely followed by Cokie Roberts).

So now the summer’s over, and it’s back to Beowulf and sonnets. At least I have the new season of Lost and some more Merlin to look forward to when I've had enough of the heavy-duty stuff.

But Mom, It's Educational!

2009-07-04T10:24:00.019-04:00

We’re four weeks into summer now, and the kids have been sleeping in, lounging, loafing, and otherwise gleefully wasting time. Well, that’s not entirely true. Mia and Jacob have been running with the cross country team most mornings. Mia has a part-time nannying job. Jacob and Philip have been practicing their instruments. And they’ve all been helping to walk the dog and clean up around the house. Of course, since they’re around the house more, there’s a lot more to clean up.

But when they’re not doing their duties with admirably moderate resistance, they are practicing the fine art of goofing off. As intermittently conscientious parents, we have initiated earnest conversations with the kids about using their time well because these are formative years and their minds are full of potential etc., etc., blah blah blah. As a result, the children have taken to figuring out how to justify as wholesome and edifying whatever amusement they currently favor.

Such as watching a cheesy, Arthurian soap opera.

You’ve never heard of cheesy, Arthurian soap operas? Well, obviously you are a cretin American . The Brits, always on the vanguard, have enjoyed the television show Merlin for an entire season already, whereas the show only began airing in the U.S. about two weeks ago.

Not to worry. It is possible (if you know how to navigate the deep web) to obtain the 13 episodes that have aired in Britain. For educational purposes. Of course. Because anything about King Arthur involving actors with British accents must be educational.

The premise of the show is that Merlin, the great wizard of Arthurian lore, was not always a great wizard. No, at one time, he was a nerdy but handsome teenager who worked as a servant for the young Prince Arthur all the while keeping his magical powers poignantly secret. Curiously enough, the main female players in Arthurian legend, Guinevere and Morgana, were also teenagers at the very same time in the very same castle. At least according to the show.

I can tell you as a professor of British literature with some actual knowledge of Arthurian legends: this is all very silly. The show has barely anything to do with the real source texts for Arthurian legend. I mean, the producers of the new Star Trek movie are fastidious scholars by comparison, having based their “reboot” of the ST “legend” on painstaking research into their canonical sources. The Merlin folks, on the other hand, use phrases like “loosely based” and “reimagining.”

But who cares? Four remarkably attractive young people in period costumes getting into all kinds of perilous mischief right under the nose of grumpy old King Uther, who is only trying to run a decent, magic-free kingdom—this is a formula for some deliciously decadent, strangely addictive entertainment.

Speaking of formulas, we've seen all the episodes now, and let's just say one can recognize some well-established... patterns. It is entirely possible to sum up the whole season with one composite episode. So here it is, our loving tribute to our new TV crush. Consider this your free sample.

Merlin: An All-Purpose Episode

EXTERIOR. CAMELOT. DAY.
Establishing shot of Camelot castle in Wales, which the French have thoughtfully preserved for the show somewhere in their country.

Cut to Medium shot of evil sorcerer-type person engaged in evil sorceror-type scheme—poisoning the water supply, kidnapping innocent townspeople, sending zombie undead knights into Camelot, etc. Dramatic music. Perhaps some cackly laughter.

INTERIOR CASTLE. DAY.
Merlin is doing little servant chores about the castle. Gwen bursts onto the scene with furrowed brow and a water jug on her hip.

GWEN
Oh dear oh dear! Something has gone terribly wrong!

MERLIN
What is it?

GWEN
Camelot is under threat! We are out of water/missing townspeople/experiencing a creepy disease/helpless against zombies and/or griffins! Also, I have a secret crush on you and we never get to have a decent conversation, what with all the evil villains around here!

They run off.

INT. TOTALLY PREDICTABLE, MEDIEVAL-TYPE THRONE ROOM. DAY.
(Uther’s throne, by the way, suspiciously resembles the coronation chair on display at Westminster Abbey. Wait. Has anyone checked lately to see that it’s still there?)

NAMELESS EXTRA
A terrible problem is threatening the kingdom!

UTHER
Gaius, you’re the stock wizened, bookish character: what do you make of it?

GAIUS
I’m afraid, sir, that this surely involves sorcery.

UTHER
Aha! Well! Never mind asking further questions to ascertain the scope or nature of the problem. I shall have to take immediate draconian measures. Because I hate magic. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I shall execute someone! By morning!

Morgana floats into the throne room in a gauzy, flowing, jewel-toned gown. Close up shot of Morgana’s furrowed brow, panning to her fetching bosom.

MORGANA
Oh king, you must approach this problem with wisdom, caution, and noble judgement!

UTHER
And ruin the episode? Certainly not! I have a responsibility to protect this kingdom and to maintain dramatic tension. You are my ward and the obvious hottie of the show, therefore I expect you to obey me reluctantly and go flouncing out of the room.

Morgana throws a glance at the hunky, chain-mail-clad Prince Arthur, who is brooding and pacing about, chin on fist, in the corner. She flounces out, reluctantly obedient.

UTHER
Arthur, you must solve this problem for me so that I can stand around in leather gloves, appearing stern and kingly. Go out there and prove how princely you are by doing something dangerous and useless!

ARTHUR
Fine!

INT. ROOMS OF GAIUS, THE COURT PHYSICIAN. DAY.
Gaius is twiddling randomly with sciency-looking gadgets, usually involving candles, beakers, and string. Maybe beetles.

MERLIN
What shall we do about the terrible problem besetting Camelot this week?

GAIUS
We must solve the problem with science. Or perhaps by whacking it with sticks. Sometimes that works in the middle ages. Whatever we do, you musn’t reveal that you have magical powers. The king hates magic. Hates it, hates it, hates—

MERLIN
Yes, but Arthur is now about to do something pointless and very dangerous.

GAIUS
Oh yes. Right. Merlin, your destiny is linked with Arthur’s. You have no choice. If you do not use magic, then Arthur will surely perish! And probably everyone else, too!

MERLIN
But you just said…

GAIUS
Just promise me you’ll be careful.

MERLIN
Um. OK.

Merlin, having puzzled for a while over this problem, decides to use his lifeline.

INTERIOR. DUNGEONY PASSAGEWAY.
Merlin strides along passageway, which opens out into a large, CGI cavern. A large, CGI dragon flaps into view.

MERLIN
I need your advice. What shall I do?

DRAGON
Every time I give you a straight answer, you ignore my advice. Therefore, I will say something mystical in my Shakespearean-actor voice. Here goes. The answer lies in the golden woods. Only the sword of emeralds dipped in unicorn poo can save you now. Make haste, or Arthur will die and you will not fulfill your destiny!

MERLIN
Always with the destiny. But where am I going to get… oh never mind.

INTERIOR, PRINCE ARTHUR'S SUPER-COOL, FUR-TRIMMED TEENAGER BEDROOM. DAY.
Merlin is doing something slavish such as polishing Arthur's boots.

ARTHUR
You know, Merlin, I’m feeling a little angsty about this dangerous and pointless task my father has given me. Too bad you’re too witless and clumsy to help me. Ha ha. [He claps Merlin on the back.] Still, I guess I appreciate our moments of awkwardly expressed brotherly affection. It takes my mind off Morgana’s cleavage.

MERLIN
Uh. Yeah. Ha ha.

INT. GAIUS' ROOMS. EVENING.
Merlin is practicing magic words, but nothing is happening. Gwen bursts in.

GWEN
Merlin, what are we going to do?

MERLIN
Do you mean about the fact that you are the only non-white regular cast member in the show, and therefore must appear undefinably multiracial in order to cover all the bases?

GWEN
No, I mean about the problem besetting Camelot this week.

MERLIN
Oh. That. Well…

Morgana bursts in (different gauzy gown this time).

MORGANA
Yes, what are we going to do?

MERLIN
Let’s make a plan that involves breaking all the castle rules, since we are naughty teenagers. But don’t tell Arthur. He’s the prince and has to appear responsible.

Arthur bursts in.

ARTHUR
What are you doing? Is it something against the rules? Because if so, I want in.

OTHERS
But… your father!

ARTHUR
Haven’t you people ever heard of Freud?

OTHERS
Hunh?

ARTHUR
Never mind.

MERLIN
Well, I’m going to go break some rules.

OTHERS
Well, we’re coming with you.

MERLIN
No you’re not! It’s too dangerous!

The four naughty teenagers then argue about who’s coming with whom to do what, whether or not Arthur should actually do the useless and dangerous task, who should fool the adults with a haplessly planned distraction, who gets to be the noble sacrifical hero taking the heat for the others, etc. Arthur and Morgana alternate between sniping at each other and flirting. In the next few scenes, Merlin sneaks about the castle. Or perhaps all four teenagers sneak about the castle, the girls inexplicably wearing flowing, hooded capes that create large shadows and trail behind them around every corner.

EXTERIOR. THE CASTLE YARD. DAY.
Arthur is busy hacking away with a broadsword at the weekly guest actor dressed up as an evil minion/creepy druid/rotten brigand/zombie knight.

ARTHUR
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

MINION/DRUID/ BRIGAND/ZOMBIE
Why are we having this sword fight? CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

ARTHUR
Because every episode has a sword fight! CLANG, CLANG, CLANG! It’s an Arthurian convention! CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

MINION/DRUID/ BRIGAND/ZOMBIE
I don’t suppose I get to win, do I? CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

ARTHUR
Nope. I’m the one in the opening credits. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

At this point, it’s time for the show’s climax. This might involve the teenagers getting caught sneaking about the castle, OR the sword fight saving the day. Alternatively, we might need Merlin to go tramping about a woodsy soundstage in his rustic leather jacket, conversing with low-budget special effects. Whatever it is, at some point, Merlin will whisper magical words.

Close up of Merlin, hiding behind a tree or farm cart, his hand outstretched over or toward some object.

MERLIN
(in a vaguely Welsh accent): whusha whusha whusha whusha whusha whusha

***Something dramatic happens.
Music swells appropriately, beginning with throaty, lush lower strings and concluding with cymbal clashes and french horn blasts. ***

MINION/DRUID/ BRIGAND/ZOMBIE
Urghhh!

Druid/zombie keels over. Arthur flips off the bucket he is wearing as a helmet. He sweats handsomely into the camera.

EXTERIOR. TOWN SQUARE. DAY.
Lots of straw and animals and burlap-clad people strewn about.

TOWNSPEOPLE
Hooray! We have no idea that Merlin just used magic to save the day! We’ll give the credit to Prince Arthur instead! We are happy random townspeople again!

ARTHUR
[Sweating] There, Daddy. You see I’ve saved the day. Again.

UTHER
Yes, son. Yes, I suppose you have. And it’s a good thing you’ve rid the kingdom of magic once again. Because I hate magic. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

Witty banter between Arthur and Merlin. In the background, Morgana looks lovely in yet another gauzy gown while Gwen appears puzzled, but happy.

END.

So. You can see how we could become enamored of such a show. I’m a little worried that my students will start watching it, because if they do, they will like it much much better than the real stuff I teach in my courses. And we will be forced to lament once again the sad deprivations suffered by people in the medieval period, when they had only rhyme and meter to entertain them rather than BBC television.

The Pitter Patter of... Oh, That's Just Disgusting

2009-06-10T18:34:00.016-04:00

A little postcard from the vacation Ron and I recently took in Boyne City, Michigan

We've hiked in the Rocky Mountains, we've hiked in the Yorkshire Moors, we've hiked in Zion Canyon. So you would think that hiking in the northern Michigan woods might seem dull and unremarkable by comparison. But if you think that, as we foolishly did, you would not have counted on...

Night of the Living Caterpillars... mwah ha ha ha ha!

Actually, it was the afternoon. We hopped out of the car at the trailhead to hike the Jordan River Pathway, a pleasant little wind through the East Jordan River watershed that was recommended to us by the nice lady behind the desk at the lodge. As we started down the trail, we heard an odd popping noise. "I wonder what that is?" I remarked cheerfully to Ron, our junior naturalist curiosity fully engaged. Then, we saw a charming little caterpillar on the trail. Awwww... isn't that cute?

Then we saw more, hanging out on some low-growing leaves. Well, there sure are some caterpillars around! And look at all those caterpillar tents in the trees! Golly!

We hiked on.

Then we realized, as we hiked deeper in, that caterpillars were everywhere. On the leaves, on the trail, even hanging over the trail from little silken threads. They were writhing in large moving groups on branches crossing the trail. They were congregating slimily on certain trees, heading from one place to another on a caterpillar parkway. And from up above they were... they were dropping on us! Gross! Could that be what that plopping noise is?! Caterpillars falling onto the forest floor? Eeeuuuw!

We hiked faster. We hiked very very fast. I kept my hooded sweatshirt over my head in order to prevent ploppage in my hair. When we stopped for lunch, I did not sit down. I would have sat on caterpillars. I would have had them in my shorts.

We managed to survive about a seven-mile, extremely brisk hike. Before we got into the car, we performed one last inspection for unwelcome stowaways.

When we got back to the condo, we showered thoroughly (eesh!) and then, in true junior naturalist style, we googled "tent caterpillars" on the web.

Guess what. Yeah, apparently northern Michigan is in the midst of a huge forest tent caterpillar infestation. These outbreaks occur every 10-15 years and last 2-5 seasons. Not only that, but we hit the woods (of course) just as the little buggers were finishing their eating cycle, just as they were about as big and busy and numerous as they could possibly be. Next week will be better as all 3.5 trillion caterpillars--that's my personal estimate on the population--will be turning into moths. (Note to self: no hiking at night with flashlights until the first frost.)

There's more. According to the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources, that plopping sound we heard was not what we thought it was...

"Anyone who has been in the woods during a FTC [forest tent caterpillar] outbreak knows not to eat an open faced peanut butter sandwich there. It might sound like rain but it's really insect frass."

You don't know what the word "frass" means? Neither did we. You know, English is an amazing language. We have a special word for caterpillar excrement!

That's right. We spent our afternoon hiking through the woods during a once-in-a-decade caterpillar poop storm.

The good news: "This frass serves as fertilizer just like any other manure." Oh yay. Caterpillar poop helps the ecosystem. It's the circle of life. That totally makes up for the nightmares I'm going to have this week.

We spent the rest of our vacation lounging by the condo pool. We decided we like our nature better on TV.

UPDATE: A little entymological etymology on the word "frass."

Transitions

2009-06-08T19:34:00.010-04:00

Ah, the month of June. When the raging rapids of the school year's end give way to calm pools of summer serenity ... or something like that. We did manage to make it, as a family, through exams and final grading and all those end-of-year extra things like trips to Cedar Point (Jacob) and soccer team parties (Mia) and exasperated math teachers who want that homework NOW (Philip).

But this year we've also been coping with some bigger-than-normal transitions. Jacob has successively graduated from middle school and seems poised gracefully for the start of high school in the fall.

As parents, we've learned that this transition is easier on the parents the second time around. We don't feel quite so instantly aged this time. (But no, that's not us - that's Ron's parents and Jacob, looking sharp in a colorful tie)

Mia has been transitioning into a girl with a driver's license. This transition, we've discovered, is scarier and more awkward than we imagined.

So we'll move on to another transition: moving to a different house. When we moved into our house in 1996, we were a couple with a three-year-old and a baby. Now that we are a family of larger people with more stuff, we all dream of a little more space. So we spent the winter working hard to make our house market-ready--so hard, in fact, that I now have a chronic case of tennis elbow from scrubbing and painting. Our charming, sparkling Alger Heights home officially went on the market in April. And now, we wait, and hope, and more than anything else: clean. Over and over.

Meanwhile, my department is moving this week out of the Fine Arts Center at Calvin, which will be undergoing major reconstruction over the next 16 months. So last week I packed my books into boxes and said goodbye to the little office where I have labored for 12 years. This was a happy moment, I must say, because even in our temporary digs I will have a much nicer space: much more room and a window (finally!). We will be waaaaaay across the Beltline from campus, though. Theme for the year: hiking.

So it feels as if we are living out of boxes for the moment, camping out right in the midst of our regular lives. I struggle to be comfortable with transitions, but I'm trying to think of a time in my life that wasn't full of them. Well, it's been a long time, let's just say that. These are all transitions full of hopeful possibility, though, and for that we are grateful.

The next wave in music-making

2009-04-15T22:42:00.006-04:00

This is seriously one of the coolest things ever. Well, computer-wise, anyway.

The Orb of Happiness

2009-03-14T17:03:00.009-04:00

Today was a beautiful, sunny, proto-spring day. It took us a while, though, to recall the name of that bright yellow thing in the sky. Here in Michigan, we haven't seen much of it in the last five months. The sun! Oh yeah, that's what it's called.

Lack of sunlight tends to depress one's spirits, a fact we Michiganders deal with as best we can through indoor sports, or quiet wintry hobbies like knitting, or burying ourselves in our work, or perhaps less healthy strategies such as retail therapy, yelling at the children, or self-medicating with chocolate.

At our house, Jacob and I have been indulging in old episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Sometimes the episodes are full of the best in good old-fashioned sci-fi: cool gadgety pseudo-science, explosions, Klingon battles, and regular characters amusingly possessed by aliens. Those episodes are silly. Well, sillier. Other times we're reduced to groaning at Ferengi love triangles. Ugh.

But perhaps DS9 has inspired my latest coping strategy for the late winter blahs: light therapy. One of the DS9 ethnic groups - the Bajorans - have these orb thingies that are supposed to create divinely-inspired, dreamy experiences when you open their little casings and look at them. They've got the orb of wisdom, the orb of prophecy and change, the orb of time, and so on. (The curious or similarly geeky can learn all about it here).

So when, at a friend's recommendation, Ron bought me light therapy lamps for Valentine's Day, I decided we should call them the "Orbs of Happiness."

See how happy I look? These little boxes blast you with full-spectrum light and are supposed to put your skewed body clock and your sunlight deprived, mood-controlling body chemicals back in balance. The brand name is actually "HappyLite." And I think they might really work. We'll give it a few more months and see if the intially promising effects continue.

Meanwhile, may I suggest to the manufacturers that they offer the Deluxe DS9 version, complete with nifty Bajoran casing? I would buy one in a minute, and I bet I'm not the only hopeless geek who would....

Papa always told me...

2009-02-05T22:04:00.006-05:00

"... If you marry that good-for-nothing bum, you won't have a pot to pee in."

Papa wasn't thinking of home improvement projects, but there it is.

The Promise of Spring, sort of

2009-01-12T06:16:00.004-05:00

In early December we got a bit of a snowstorm, that came somewhat unexpectedly, and buried Mia's car, parked in front of the house:

Yesterday, after a month of typically Michiganian grey skies and persistent snowfall, we dug that Hawaiian-blue Cabriolet convertible out of the snow as a form of both protest and plea:

Spring IS coming, isn't it? Eventually?

Tracks

2009-01-02T11:26:00.001-05:00

In the black-shadowed pines
on the shore
beyond the pond
owl was sitting.
When he saw me
his eyes flared like matches
and he did his big loose hunch,
stirring up the bronze of his shoulders,

and hissed,
and seemed about to fly away.
Who knows why he didn't but instead
clamped his orange feet down
on the black limb
and stared into my face, though not my eyes--
had I been mouse or squirrel
I would have cried

for my life. And thus we stayed
for a long time. I would have given
a great deal
to have invoked some connection
eye to eye
to know what he thought of me

here in the world -- his world --
his gauzy and furzy acres,
sour, weedy, lush,
mortal.
But except for the hiss, he did not make
the least sound, simply stared

as though if he wanted to he could lift me
and carry me away --
one orange knife for each shoulder, and I,
aloft in the air, under his great wings, shouting
praise, praise, praise as I cried
for my life.

-- Mary Oliver, from Why I Wake Early: New Poems

Advent Stuff

2008-12-10T17:24:00.035-05:00

December is a difficult month for those of us who have an uneasy relationship with stuff.

Family and friends ask, “What do you want for Christmas?” and we’re supposed to have to hand a list of things we’d like to own, but don’t really need. A sweater, or electronic gew-gaws, or maybe a kitchen widget. The things on the list can’t be too expensive, or too luxurious, lest one appear greedy and craven. Nor can they be too common, lest one appear needy (or, in an insult to the consumer gods, indifferent). And of course, the gift ideas have to be real – you can’t tell your sister who drew your name out of the hat at Thanksgiving that what you really want is for all the children of the world to join hands and sing together in a spirit of harmony and peace. For some reason, family members tend to scoff at holier-than-thou gift requests.

Meanwhile we struggle: Should I want anything? Aren't I filthy rich already by world standards? Does giving away end-of-the-year donations balance out the stuff under the tree? Aren't we supposed to be using this time of year to not to get-get-get, but to get rid of stuff, to empty our homes and hearts to make room for Christ's coming?

So it has been good during this season to think a bit more deeply about stuff. We had opportunity to do so this past week through some correspondence with good friends of ours, faculty at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, who lost their homes and (nearly) all their worldly possessions in the California Tea Fire.

Academic goobers that we are, we grieve with them especially for the loss of their books. We know that books are like good friends who shape your soul, whose company you enjoy repeatedly and whom you long to introduce to others. Losing them is a big deal.

We all have our stuff-fetishes, the physical objects that we cling to most tightly. Perhaps one of the hardest spiritual tasks for this season is to remember that no thing is permanent, nothing is ultimately ours. We can hold our stuff with gratitude and appreciation, but we have to hold it lightly. Our friend Lisa De Boer--one of those Westmont faculty who lost her home in the fire--wrote this to us about a discussion she had with her students once classes resumed after the fire:

I was teaching about Gothic cathedrals this morning, and a student asked if workers ever died, falling off the scaffolding of a cathedral. Well, the short answer is “yes, of course they did.” The longer answer involved taking a poll of students who had ever had a serious infection, or an appendectomy, or any other illness that could easily have led to death…naming the number of medieval occupations that involve regular hazards to health, life and limb…and talking about general life expectancies.

Our assumption that we will have a long and healthy life is so strange and modern. So is our assumption that our homes are durable and our possessions really ours. How many people in earlier ages and even today, haven’t been burned out of their homes in war or disaster and have had to pick up again, often in a different city or country, with no insurance and very few supports?
While I do feel and grieve my loss, there is also a strange “lightness of being” that I experience at times, of being just a bit more aware of my basic humanity—minus the trappings—than I was before.

"Lightness of being." Our friends, though their trauma, offer us this wisdom and this reminder. May we all find that lightness of being as we await the coming of the light.

Another Casting Announcement

2008-11-30T18:31:00.006-05:00

Earlier we announced that someone, perhaps connected with the Kohls corporation, is evidently planning a made-for-TV movie about our lives. The two starring roles have already been cast, and now the producers are cleverly leaking photos of some of the other casting choices.

Here, for example, we see a young fellow who is apparently going to be playing the role of Philip. Quite the impish little moppet--and well dressed, too!

We're also cluing in to the idea that the daily dullness of our actual lives will have to be jazzed up to make this sucker sell on the Hallmark channel. So our real-life, mostly-mutt Maizey will become not one but two radiant purebred yellow labs. Meanwhile, apparently Ron will be commuting to work not in a 1998 Geo Prizm with 100,000 miles on it, but instead will be roaring along astride this painfully hip vintage road machine. In fact, maybe he doesn't work at all, since we appear to live now somewhere in the Scottish Highlands.

Tune in next week for previews of "our" smiling family handing one another food processors and cozy socks under a 10-foot Douglas fir laden with hand-crafted ornaments--all on sale!

Hermeneutical Sophistication

2008-10-30T08:52:00.007-04:00

A few weeks ago Debra and I - along with the estimable Nathan Bierma and his wife, Andrea -- visited our friend Nick Overduin and the wonderful people at 1st CRC in Toronto. They've made use of Deb's books and Nathan's in their small groups, and so wanted to meet and chat with them. Meanwhile, I came along to give Nick a week off from his pulpit duties. We had an enjoyable ride up on Saturday, and a lovely evening eating some fabulous Ethiopian food (our fave).

The worship service and other events on Sunday were very satisfying, but I was entranced by a display in the church's narthex.

It is the product of a children's Bible study of the story of Noah. Next to idealized Bible school pictures of an ark full of elephants and giraffes and so forth are comments the students made, like these:

"The water could not have been this calm."
"The animals could not have been this familiar to us."
"They must have taken animals on the ark to be eaten, not saved,"

and my favorite:
Instead of fostering a childish view of scripture (not childlike), whoever was in charge of this study encouraged the children to read their Bibles with their brains turned on, working alongside their faithful trust in Scripture's trustworthiness.

To paraphrase someone I admire a great deal, I've not seen such hermeneutical sophistication in all of... well, in a lot of places I would expect to find it. Children taught this way are much less likely to fall into biblicist patterns of thinking about inspiration, or have their faith shaken to the core when they learn, for example, in their Religion 101 classes, of the documentary hypothesis.

Mark it up as one more thing 1st CRC in Toronto is doing well.

My Grandpa Always Told Me...

2008-10-01T22:05:00.005-04:00

...that you've got to toot your own horn, 'cause no one else is going to toot it for you.

Guess Grandpa wasn't right about everything.

Or he didn't know anything about the CICW.

Puddle-ball

2008-09-15T08:34:00.005-04:00

Not to compare ourselves to the poor folks on the Gulf coast, but we've had a bit of rain here the past few days. Not enough, however, to stop die-hard sports fans...

When the made-for-TV movie of our lives is filmed...

2008-09-08T19:01:00.007-04:00

...these two are who we want to star as us.

Fruits of their Labor

2008-09-03T12:51:00.006-04:00

While all the rest of you were lounging around at the beach this past weekend, we put our kids to work in the fields. It was, after all, Labor Day.

And here is their reward: A runner-up trophy for Pip's team, and the championship trophy for Jacob's.

(Sad to say, Mia's team, while displaying lots of potential and improving markedly from game to game, was unable to rack up enough points to be bling-worthy. But she's got a head start on her brothers anyway.)

No More Boring Sunday School

2008-08-26T16:19:00.001-04:00

If you're in charge of adult education at your church, check out this hot new curriculum from the good people at Faith Alive, the publishing group at CRC HQ. Available just in time for fall programs! Buy it by the truckload!

Full disclosure: we won't make any money if you do. So never mind the truckload. But still, here's an adult ed. curriculum on worship that we think turned out pretty well.

Ron was working on it last December, when we should have been out shopping for Christmas presents for our children (sorry kids! that doggone kingdom work again!). The task was to write an engaging, five-week study guide on worship for regular folks in a regular congregation: individual lessons for five days each week, then a group lesson for the end of the week.

So Ron took all his best, most tried and true worship talks (let's have a show of hands for how many folks reading this blog have heard, for example, Ron talk about the participate-o-meter); he zazzed them up with nifty stories and examples, then condensed them into this attractive little package, complete with Bible study sections, discussion questions, the whole bit. It fits into the Disciples series as part of year 2.

The daily readings walk, step-by-step, through a typical four-fold worship pattern (Gathering, Word, Meal, Sending). Along the way, alternating lessons explore key adjectives that describe faithful, vital worship. These don't function prescriptively ("Listen to the worship wonk who will tell you exactly what to do!"), but descriptively -- they are extended meditations on virtues and values no congregation would wish their worship to do without.

Of course, if you do want a worship wonk to come to your church and tell you what to do, that could be arranged. (Ron has been known to do a bit of itinerant work from time to time).

So if your church needs a Sunday-service makeover (or even if it doesn't), this study guide is a nice way to build grass-roots understanding of worship basics. A little understanding can go a long way toward quelling pointless debates and toward opening a congregation to the Spirit's work in cooking up lively, meaningful worship. (Maybe that accounts for the otherwise perplexing photo of a burner on the cover. But does the Spirit use natural gas? A non-renewable fossil fuel?? Wouldn't the Spirit use wind energy?)

Happy Trails

2008-08-10T20:32:00.019-04:00

One would think that after making four trips back and forth to California in the past few years, we might head out in some other direction for a summer odyssey, but... no. We've just returned from the wild west yet again. Not all the way to Cali this time, but still far enough and long enough to explain the posting drought since July 4.

Before hopping in the van for the frontier, we spent a fun weekend with Ron's family out at Lake Michigan. The lake was swimmable (or, for our hardy Pipster, surfable), but for the wimpier women, hey, the hot tub is always fabulous.

One evening we gathered on the beach for the traditional bonfire/s'mores combination. I think we've had s'mores about twenty times this summer. At some point, ya know, s'nuff.

Sunsets like this, though, we could handle every night.
Then after a brief pause for a week of soccer camp (Mia) and string camp (Jacob) and blessed freedom from siblings (Philip), it was time to cram into the minivan for hours of family togetherness on the way to: Colorado.

Along the way, we visited many old friends. It turns out we are lucky enough to have friends, if not in every port, then at least in a good number of Midwestern towns, including St. Charles, Illinois; Bloomington, Minnesota; Willmar, Minnesota; Sioux Center, Iowa; and Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

While staying with our friends the Kleinhuizens, the children discovered all the fun things other kids get to do and they don't, such as tubing and fishing (though Jacob found that the infamous "grass bass" was a more common catch than the elusive walleye).

In Sioux Center, Ron got a chance to golf with old friends Todd and Curtis (can you tell the golf course is carved out of the cornfields of the midwest?).

In South Dakota, we visited old friends Dawn and Andrew, whose precious daughter Althea took a shine to Jacob.
At last, we arrived at our destination, Snow Mountain Ranch, where we got to hang out with the Calvin students on staff there this summer and serve as their official professors-in-residence-of-the-week. Besides running around the ranch indulging in camp-style fun, we took a hike one day in Rocky Mountain National Park, and marveled, once again, at how close to the sky one can feel at 12,000 feet above sea level.
After our week at SMR, we zinged home to our little tiny baby puppy Maizey, only to find that somehow, in our absence, she had become... a DOG. We're grateful to the two Calvin students who house-and-dog sat for us, but also suspicious: steroids maybe??
So much for another westward odyssey. We're pretty good at it now. But next year, maybe we'll head east. Crabcakes, anyone?

The Cheesecake-to-Chard Challenge

2008-07-04T11:04:00.011-04:00

And now, another installment in our continuing series on the Rienstra family table. Deb's three years of researching the politics of food for her English 101 classes continues to incur collateral damage at home. That is to say, the Rienstra children are suffering from a more and more severe shortage of hot dogs, pop-tarts, and cheez-its. Meanwhile, they are opening the fridge to find it stuffed with things like kohlrabi and organically raised eggs.

So today we will address directly the commonly perceived relationship between the yumminess and health benefits of food. Everybody knows that the better something tastes, the worse it is for you. Scientifically speaking, as yumminess increases, mortal danger also increases. Likewise, as nutritional benefits increase, alas, so does yuckiness.

This is the perception. But is this really the case? A close examination of the following chart reveals a couple of outliers:

Blueberries, for example, rank high on the yummy scale and have also recently been proven to cure major diseases and promote the development of superpowers. On the other end of the scale, lots of fast food products are both disgusting and fatal.

It is possible, of course, to strike a strategic balance. Note, for example, the dish at the precise center of the chart. The classic American tuna casserole with broccoli has been shown in scientific studies at major research universities to balance taste and health in perfect equilibrium. The tasty cheesy sauce, though a little fatty, can be counter-balanced by whole-wheat pasta; the health benefits of the omega-3 oils in the tuna and the roughage in the broccoli can be yummied up with crumbled potato chips or fried onions layered on top of the dish.

Nevertheless, perhaps we need to change our misconception about yumminess and health. In an effort to do that at our house (and also to promote the development of the local foodshed, know our farmer, and build community with crunchy granola types), we have purchased a share in a CSA farm. That means we paid in February for a share of a local farm's harvest from June through October. So now, every week, we bring home several grocery bags (the re-usable kind, of course) full of green stuff like this:

We're trying to eat, in other words, as much as possible in the upper left quadrant of our chart. And perhaps to coax some things in the lower left quadrant into inching upwards. It turns out, for example, that Swiss chard, if prepared correctly, falls higher on the yumminess scale than we thought.

So Rienstra children, take heart. You may dip your kohlrabi in some standard American super-processed, corn-byproduct-infested, overpackaged ranch dressing. At least, for now...

Come to me, all you weary...

2008-07-02T11:17:00.003-04:00

In keeping with the theme of interesting chair photos, there is this, from the goofy god-stuff gallery at Ship-of-Fools:

Summer Fun at General Synod. Seriously.

2008-06-21T14:06:00.010-04:00

The summer began this year with about three weeks of what I thought was great fun at the RCA's meeting of General Synod in Holland, June 5-10.

"Fun" isn't a word that many would use to characterize these large meetings where the denomination does its business. (Those of you who have been to such meetings can leave your favorite adjectival descriptors in the comments.) But by God's grace, I wasn't reading sub-committee reports and analyzing debate on contentious topics -- I was preparing for, and then leading, daily worship every day. Hooray!

The opening and closing services, held in the gothic Dimnent Chapel at Hope College, were rather substantial affairs: a congregation full of elders, ministers, and guests; a whole phalanx of pastors to read and lead, to preach and pray and preside at the table; a group of outstanding dancers to physicalize scripture or key liturigcal moments; an organist and choir, brass and string quartets, my old pals Bob Keeley on guitar and Rachel Klompmaker on piano, and my super-friend partner in all this, Greg Scheer ("Worship-twin powers activate! Shape of... an ice-harp! Form of... a gorilla!")

A number of my WTS worship students were there, and noticed that the services reflected an emphasis we'd discussed in class: to worship as voluminously as possibe -- to shape our celebrations so that they were diverse in expressive styles, engaging people on many levels, speaking as fully as possible (in words and more) of the extravagant covenant love of our faithful God. They also noticed that we were intentionally faithful to the RCA's liturgy. While I might offer some suggestions for improving it, it is ecumenical and reformed, rich and beautiful, and therefore - not surprisingly - impossible to do voluminously in anything less than 90 minutes: and on those days in early June, 90 really hot and humid minutes.

Yet the services were deeply satisfying, praise God, and my deepest fear -- moments of logistical terror ("The service starts in one minute -- Oh no! Where's the bread and the wine?") -- were minimal. Those we had were ably managed by an old friend and former student Tim TenC lay who stepped in like the Christ-like servant-hearted pastor he is, and took those burdens from my shoulders.

Because these 'festival' services were such hefty and hearty affairs, and because during the day the delegates spent hours and hours and hours talking about God-stuff, it seemed good to Greg and to me to plan the every-day morning and evening prayer services to be just as deeply participative, but a bit less wordy, a bit more stripped-down liturgically and musically.

It helped that we met in a beautiful worship space: a slice of the DeVos center (a large sports venue where the delegates did their work each day) that had been curtained off and shaped for our purposes. The morning services followed a simple daily prayer pattern rather than the more typical word-and-sacrament-without-the-sacrament service ordo. My favorite new worship-wonk friend, Rosanne Barton-DeVries, helped us to worship with our whole bodies and not just our heads, Bob Keeley again helped out on guitar and djembe, and my newest best keyboard-playing friend, Jeremy Simpson, helped to lead the music, with selections largely taken from Sing! A New Creation, a copy of which every delegate took home.

The evening prayers were even more stripped down: one well-chosen song, with each sung verse prompting spoken and silent prayers for ourselves and the world. So, for example, one evening I used a JT-infused guitar riff to accompany our singing of the classic gospel song, "He's Got the Whole World In His Hands" -- grounding our petitions in God's providential care. For example, when we sang about the "little bitty baby," we then prayed for our families. When we sang about the "wind and the rain," we spent some time praising God for care of creation, etc.

But the key to what we did that evening was this: instead of singing about God, we tweaked the lyrics so that we sang the song addressed to God: "You've got the whole world in your hands." Changing just that one pronoun alters the way one experiences the song, shifting it from testimony to prayer, and prayer that even while earnest or even desperate, has an undertone of confidence in God's power and love. (Bonus result: excising the overt and exclusively masculine language for God.) Interested worship wonks can learn more about this prayer/song on the related post over at WorshipHelps.

All told, preparing and leading worship this past month was delightful and exhausting and invigorating -- and because it was all resting in God's hands, it was fun.

An Instructive Comparison...

2008-06-18T06:20:00.004-04:00

Go West -- A discotheque semi-hit by the Village People (and another semi-hit when covered by the Pet Shop Boys in 1993).

Give Thanks -- a worship mega-hit by Henry Smith. Covered a gujillion times by every praise band on the planet.

Timing? BOTH songs were written in 1978, and released in 1979.

Coincidence? You be the judge.

(Of course, it's not like this particular chord pattern is unique.)

Disclaimer: Listen at your own risk. The authors of this blog are not responsible for the onset of worship-impairment syndrome brought on by viewing these clips.

That Sermon Needs a Bigger But

2008-06-16T07:02:00.015-04:00

So yesterday we're all at the dinner table, talking about the morning's church service. The conversation turned to the sermon, titled "Unjust suffering," and offered by our fabulous pastor, Jack Roeda (happy 25 years, Jack!). The text was 1 Peter 2:13-25, a passage addressed to slaves about appropriate submission. Next week he's tackling the next pericope: submission of wives and women. Gee, good luck with that one, Jack.

We all agreed that Jack did a great job explaining what the passage says and proposing how it might apply to our lives. Yet we also agreed -- especially given the history of a troubling text like this one and others like it -- that sometimes it's important to articulate what the passage doesn't say. It means this, BUT not that. Deb was the one who encapsulated our thoughts so memorably: "I guess the sermon needed a bigger but." I'm going to be using that one in my preaching classes this year, I'm pretty sure.

And it's not a bad way of talking about those occasions in sermons or political speeches or, heck, English 101 papers when the possible objections are so near the surface that they need to be addressed. Deb says that from now on, instead of telling her students "You should add a section in which you refute possible objections," she's going to write, "This paper needs a bigger but."

Chew or No Chew

2008-05-20T21:20:00.000-04:00

Welcome to another episode of "Chew or No Chew," the entertaining new game show for young puppies! That's right, it's the game in which young puppies wander around the house grabbing random objects and trying to figure out whether the objects go in the "chew" or "no chew" category. Fun for the whole family!

Here at the Rienstra house, we seem to be living a perpetual episode of "Chew or No Chew," with a certain fuzzy yellow contestant.

So, Maizey, in which category would you place these objects?

Obviously, Maizey is still in the learning stage when it comes to chewing. Her way of thinking could be represented by the following Venn diagram where P = playing and B = biting.

We, on the other hand, would like her to see the world more like this.

She is catching on, slowly. Meanwhile, we are getting very very good about keeping our shoes and socks put away. Oh, we're also learning to keep the door to the bathroom closed.

Resilience (or Ruth's Revenge)

2008-04-25T15:32:00.005-04:00

So first thing after they moved in
the neighbors dug up Ruth’s old garden,
a front-yard oddity that had appeared —
shaggy, extravagant, sprawling — wherever
her springtime sweat cast its charms.

The new people pulled out
her spindly jungle of asparagus; tore up
the nasturtium border whose sensuous petals,
like mangoes, you could pluck and eat;
they hacked down six-foot sunflowers;

mowed over silky native grasses that flowed
on breezy days like a woman’s hair.
The little paw-paw tree they decided to keep.
They mowed around it.

Grinning and waving at us as we strolled by,
they spent a hot September weekend
digging and seeding, laying straw,
staking off squares of flat, potential decency.

The straw muddied, winds came,
snow fell then melted, the weather warmed,
and Ruth’s earth took its revenge:

A hundred tulips shot up
in the feeble spring lawn,
raising first their cocked leaves,
then their green, defiant heads.

(c) 2008 Debra Rienstra

The Pitter-Patter of Little Paws

2008-04-21T20:37:00.005-04:00

It's been a whole week now and we're still giddy with the excitement of adding a new member to the Rienstra family: an adorable little canine fuzz-ball. Yep, last Monday we adopted a puppy.

She is a yellow Lab on the mom's side, and on the dad's side... well, let's just say there's a suspicion a Retriever was involved, but as sometimes happens with these situations, no one's entirely sure. Whatever stock she's from, she's loaded up with the "cute" gene.

Though I was initially lobbying for some clever/geeky professor-type name (Ophelia or Egeria or something like that), wiser family members insisted on something plainer. After much palavering, we settled on Maizey, not after the illustrated mouse, but as a nod to our alma mater.

So far she's super sweet and gentle, at least most of the time. She does have what we call her "crazy Maizey" moments, especially late at night, when she bounces around, chewing anything small, clamping onto loose socks and thrashing them into submission. But as a typical puppy, she also has her "lazy Maizey" times when she curls up in her crate -- or in someone's lap -- and nods off after a loving look and a little lick on the cheek.

We don't have much animal experience, but we've puppy-proofed the house, are reading lots of relevant books, and projecting our best calm-assertive energy.

Welcome to the pack, Maizey!

A Little Dating Advice

2008-04-04T20:49:00.009-04:00

Mia turns 15 this week. That means driver's training, obsessive Facebooking, ipod-assisted parent ignoring, and (*gulp*) boys. Fortunately, the giddy terrors of dating remain, for Mia, largely unexplored as of yet. This is giving us time to slap together some parental wisdom on this perennially puzzling topic, filled as it is with risks, with unknowns, with new life and new civilizations.

Not being experts on dating ourselves*, we figure we need to consult the source of our most valuable life-wisdom: Star Trek. (Sample: never beam down to the planet while wearing a red shirt!)

Wesley Crusher, for instance, the ST character in the tender teenage demographic, has a couple of alarming encounters with "young women" who are not what they seem to be. In fact, many a promising space romance has been cut brutally short by some groaner of a revelation. Picard, Riker, Kirk, Bev Crusher, Troi, Jake Sisco--just about every starfleet character with a smidge of libido has discovered that love can bring, shall we say, unexpected challenges.

As with so many things in life, a lot of these complications could be avoided with some careful screening beforehand. So here we present the "Wesley Crusher Pre-Date Quiz." All Rienstra children will be required to administer this quiz to all interested parties before anybody backs out the driveway.

Are you now or have you ever been a being of pure energy?
Are you a psychic projection, a transporter reflection, or a sophisticated hologram?

Are you a shape-shifter? (this does not necessary disqualify you)
Are you ferociously guarded by a shape shifter? (this does disqualify you)

If we innocently kiss, will I be impregnated by your alien spawn?

Do you reproduce in some unexpected way that you really should inform me of right now?

Are you a symbiont being, and if so, do both your parts agree in their affection for me?

Do you only like me because I'm the first thing you saw when you emerged from your maturity pod? (this doesn't necessarily disqualify you, either).

Do you, in fact, exist at this point in the space-time continuum?

Of course, in addition to this filtering system, all would-be suitors will also be required to cite, from memory, the first question and answer of the Heidelberg Catechism. Let's see Wesley's space girlfriends do that.

*By the way, not being dating experts and being Star Trek experts -- total coincidence!

Ream o' Fun

2008-04-01T07:51:00.005-04:00

Yes, there have been some cobwebs accumulating on this blog, and now it's time to explain the neglect and brush the cobwebs aside (thanks for the metaphor, Mary).

After about three years of labor (sure, let's have another metaphor) we have at last managed to give birth to the manuscript of a book. It may or may not end up being called Worship Words: Attending to the Power of Language in Songs, Prayers, Sermons, and All of Worship. The good people at Baker will make the final decision on title. But it is a book about language in worship, and it has indeed been a collaborative effort.

Now that we've finished it (and quick--before it comes back to us for formatting decisions, proofreading, permissions fuss, etc.), it feels good to move on with life and maybe get back to all the other things that we have been neglecting. Such as blogging, raising the children, and even brushing the very real cobwebs out of the corners of our scruffy house.

Answer to Prayer

2008-03-03T06:33:00.005-05:00

Back in 2002, Deb and I took a long hike in Colorado and discussed a crazy notion that was just beginning to dawn on me. Prompted by some friends, I was wondering about getting a Ph.D. I thought that train had left the station years back, and at my age and stage - well, it was too crazy. Well, maybe it wasn't so crazy. Was it crazy?

In the months that followed, we found we could not ignore the nudgings. They seemed kind of, well, divine. So we committed to everything it would mean to travel this road, including a two-year sojourn in California and other related adventures.

But all along, there have been many moments of wondering "Am I SURE this is the right thing??" These moments did tend to occur just before major papers were due or major bills needed to be paid. Always (eventually) I would return to the need to trust that this was right, that I hadn't mis-read the signs, and that it would make sense in the end. And often enough there was a remarkably well-timed affirmation that would make me feel dopey for having had those doubts in the first place.

Which brings us to today. Since moving back to Grand Rapids, I've been doing a bit of adjunct teaching here and there, writing and preaching, doing research, planning and leading worship. Oh and of course, there's that one big paper I still have to write. And while all this keeps me from robbing liquor stores to pay the bills or squandering my freetime on too much frivolity, it hardly seems like God would send us down this Ph.D. road so I could end up patching a professional life together from such bits and pieces.

Today, however, I feel as if things are starting to make sense. I am glad and grateful to announce something that I never imagined or guessed when we started on this journey: I have been appointed Assistant Professor of Preaching and Worship at Western Theological Seminary in Holland, Michigan.

I've taught several classes there already and it feels right to be at an RCA school, among my peeps, my tribe. I'm thrilled and honored that they're entrusting the covenant youth bound for their pulpits to my care.

But now I'm beginning to wonder if they're thinking: is this crazy? not too crazy, maybe a little bit crazy?

Mathlete

2008-02-26T18:39:00.018-05:00

Warning: Indulgent brag-post ahead!

Everyone knows that athletes get all the glory. Even on this blog, we spend a disproportional number of column inches on the family's soccer exploits. Fortunately, those who love other fields of endeavor have their ways of shining, too.

Jacob, for instance, has become quite the Mathlete. Now, I don't entirely understand the allure of this extra-curricular activity. For me, doing math problems under time constraints in competition with others sounds like a hot little corner of hell. But Jacob loves it. And the good teachers at his school happily give extra time and energy to help their students excel.

So last Friday while Deb and I were driving to Chicago, Jacob was doing slide-rule calisthenics in the city-wide "Math Counts" competition. And of all the kids from the 23 competing schools, Jake snagged a 5th place individual score and an invitation to the state competition next week. We were pretty proud when the "Home Bulletin" from GRCMS arrived yesterday and we saw the write up on Jacob's achievement. Especially since last week's Home Bulletin also included a top-left write-up on another area of Jacob's scholastic achievement.

So here's to the normally unsung exploits of math and English lovers, the decathaletes of the calculator and the word processor.

A Weekend Snapshot

2008-02-25T16:51:00.007-05:00

This past weekend, Deb and I temporarily experienced an alternative universe. We handed over our usual life to my good friend, one-time student and mentee, and present Teaching Assistant, Rachel Klompmaker. Rachel climbed in the mini-van and took over. Here's what her weekend looked like:

Friday night involved two soccer practices, two trips to the mall, and a late dinner of frozen pizza. Saturday began bright and early with a soccer game for Pip at 8:40, then a brief break before the afternoon madness: Jacob's game at 2:50, Mia's first game at 4:00 and her second at 7:30. Then Mia went to a high school dance with some friends. Sunday morning meant getting everyone to church, working around Rachel's early morning rehearsal for her own role in the service.

All in all, a pretty normal weekend at our house. Rachel found it pretty exhausting, although it must be said that she was doing this as a single, hardcore soccer mom, whereas we usually (but not always!) have two parental units to spread the love/load around.

Meanwhile, Deb and I lived the life of carefree, big-city, no-kids adults. Friday afternoon, we jumped into our hot little sports car (well, it's a GEO Prizm, but hey, we can pretend) and took off for the Windy City. Car wash: $4.00. Full tank of gas: $33.74. Three hours in the car with just the two of us actually able to sustain an adult conversation for the first time in weeks: priceless.

Once in the city, we met up with my brother and sister and their respective spouses in downtown Chicago where three of them work at Double-click/Performics, soon to be part of the Google Empire. We toured that particular iteration of Cubicle World and then went to a fabulous Chinese dinner. We aspired to big city night life: lingering over dinner talking about politics, Lost, careers, etc. We did, of course, discuss our children and their many exploits and accomplishments. One can't leave it all behind...

The next day I had a meeting of the Liturgical Conference Board (the ostensible purpose of our visit). Meanwhile Deb... well, Deb pretty much slept in, had breakfast, worked out, and read a little bit. No responsibilities, no logistics, no schedule: nice.

That evening and the next morning involved even more eating out, at a Greek restaurant (opa!) and a classic diner. And then,

it was back to our regular lives. Sigh. Still, it's good to visit another universe once in a while.

Elephant Seal Sweet Potato

2008-02-16T11:01:00.001-05:00

Caption This Photo

2008-02-10T16:16:00.000-05:00

Inspired by an offhand comment made at Calvin's Symposium on Worship, some friends of mine persuaded me to pose for this picture.

You may guess the phrase which prompted it, or make up your own. A few options to get you started:

Ron is Riding his Homiletical Hobby Horse
~~The world~~ Meijer is my parish
The Word straight from the Horse's...
Penny for your Thoughts

Embrace Your Inner Geek

2008-02-04T17:31:00.000-05:00

A normal Saturday night around here most weekends involves one or more of the following elements:

Driving back and forth to an indoor soccer game. Or two. Or more. At different fields.
Scrounging around in the cupboard and the back of the 'fridge to find something random for supper.
Contenting ourselves with whatever crapola happens to be on TV 'cause we're too tired to do anything creative and soul-nourishing.
Laundry--always the laundry.

I'm proud to announce, however, that last Saturday, we did something utterly wild and crazy: we had a party. Yup, it's true. With friends and party food and the whole bit.

Admittedly, this was a party with a geek quotient that was off the charts, but this will surprise no one. The occasion was the news that Ron passed his Ph.D. comprehensive exams, as described in the previous post. So naturally we invited people who would appreciate such a geeky occasion and who would consent to play games fitting to the day.

For instance, we had a "name that dissertation" contest. We divided into four groups and handed out a list of theological and academic buzzwords. Each group worked the jargon, and now Ron has four excellent dissertation titles to choose from. See the poll on the sidebar and cast your vote for your favorite!

Personally, I prefer the one about "post-post-post emergent nuhomiletic," but that's because my group, which included Jenny "Slash" Williams and Laura "Orthoparadox" Keeley, lovingly crafted it.

We also played "Liturgical Balderdash" -- a worship-wonk version of the game "dictionary," wherein Ron gave us obscure liturgical terms and we came up with proposed definitions.

Never mind what these words really mean (look 'em up if you must know). Here are some highlights culled from the group's suggestions.

Thurible -- adj. When the Maundy Thursday service goes south (speak with a lisp to get the full effect).

Synaxis -- noun. The mathematical calculation of snacks needed per person during fellowship time, taking into account hunger, need for energy (in terms of sugar), mood of hungry people, length or sermon, bitterness of communion wine, etc.

Insufflation --noun. The heavy sigh made by long-suffering congregants when the sermon is insufferable (this never happens at our church, Jack. No worries). It could also mean the sharp short inhale when the pastor makes an unexpected reference to sex (this -- maybe).

So all in all, the party was a success. The kids were having their own geeky fun downstairs playing "Settlers of Cataan"(the apples don't fall far...), but let the record show that Miriam and Lynnae hung around with the grown-ups, and they also gave every indication of enjoying themselves.

Let the record also show that while I refrained from switching loads during the actual party, I nevertheless still managed to get some laundry done on Saturday night.

Ph.D. "Candidate"

2008-01-15T08:49:00.000-05:00

Whoo-hoo, it's time to Ce-Luh-Brate!!

I have received official word that I passed my comprehensive exams!

That means I'm A * B * D , baby!

(That's "all but dissertation" for those of you who haven't endured the torture.)

A big shout-out to to all of you who:

kindly asked how the studying was going
were extra special nice to me during November and December
helped Deb out with managing the kids and household while I was "in seclusion"
put up with mood swings from despair to elation, etc.
lent me obscure theology books or assured me that the one I was looking for wasn't that important anyway

I'll now be engaged in a week's worth of celebration -- said celebration consisting mostly of crossing household-chore-type items off to-d0 lists that have accumulated since 2004. Anyone wanna come over for a seriously fun "replace the utility sink" party?

Karen Muyskens

2008-01-15T08:29:00.000-05:00

We are grieving as a family over the sudden loss of our dear friend Karen Muyskens. Karen died early Sunday morning of a mysterious infection. The previous Sunday, we had chatted after church with her as usual, and now she is gone.

Karen and Mark have been our good friends for over ten years. Our children have played together often since preschool days. We have seen close up how Karen and Mark were partners in every way, as parents and professionals, as servants of Christ. They have inspired us and supported us very practically as we have tried to follow their wise example in balancing work and family.

Karen's life was too short. Yet it was complete in the honor, integrity, and beauty with which she lived it. She belonged, body and soul, in life and in death, to her faithful Savior. We are aching with Mark and the children, but we are aching in hope.

"The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable." I Cor. 15: 42

Whew!

2008-01-11T10:06:00.001-05:00

Evidently, we have discovered the line of preoccupation beyond which blogging does not occur. It's a line formed by Ph.D. comprehensive exams and shaded with a major public lecture situation.

But all that is over now! Ron spent November and much of December up to his elbows in esoteric theology books and up to his eyebrows in esoteric theological thoughts. He completed the comprehensive exams the Friday before Christmas. Still haven't heard back yet on whether he passed them all, but we're cautiously optimistic, and we'll post news here as soon as we have it.

Meanwhile, he prepped for two intensive classes on Worship and Homiletics that he's in the midst of teaching right now at WTS, and he completed an adult education curriculum for the CRC on worship. Not entirely sure how that got done by the deadline (December 16), but a bit of help from me and the promised financial bonus for on-time delivery no doubt had something to do with it.

Meanwhile, I spent Christmas break preparing to teach interim and to give a January Series lecture. The lecture happened yesterday. Thankfully, it went fine, at least according to some witnesses of possible extreme bias. It's hard for me to know, truly, as the whole thing felt rather like an out-of-body experience. I can say that the Calvin staff was at their best: organized, hospitable, cheerful. As someone once remarked about Calvin, "the place runs like butta." That's often absolutely true. I hope all our guest speakers feel as welcome and appreciated.

I also found out just how kind and supportive my good friends and colleagues can be. I have a lot to be thankful for.

Let's see: what else? Sometime in the last few weeks Christmas happened, too. I think. Not entirely sure, actually. It's all a blur. Hmmm. Well, we do have photographic evidence that Miriam, Philip, and Ron played key, bathrobe-style roles in our church's Christmas Eve pageant. Miriam made for a very blonde, blue-eyed Mary. Philip played the young Jesus (for which he was gleefully teased by his siblings--"What would Philip do?" etc.). Ron drew upon his seminary memories of certain professors and convincingly portrayed the wicked King Herod. Thankfully, Jacob and I just lurked among the musicians, playing our instruments along with the hymns.

So at last, after all that, life slows down a bit and we're back to just work and school and the usual round of soccer and church stuff. Poor Jacob finally got a haircut yesterday after a month of looking like David Cassidy circa 1974 after misplacing his mousse and blowdryer.

Oh, in other news, Ron has at last succumbed to two years of propaganda (the result of my politics of food class) and become a food zealot. Michael Pollan's new book, In Defense of Food, toppled him over the edge. The children are completely dismayed. Now it's not just Mom making snide remarks about high-fructose corn syrup. Now Dad is constantly asking "Would your great grandmother recognize that as food?" and writing things like "organic chickpeas" into our family menu.

That about catches us up, I guess. Now back to our usual blogging on random nutty ideas and insignificant news items.

How Do You Measure Mental Focus?

2007-11-23T21:10:00.000-05:00

Jacob and I were arguing the other day about whether or not Jacob should spend his own money to buy a Wii. For those of you blessedly ignorant of the gaming console world, the Wii is a loathesome, evil box of devil-spawn that people willingly spend hard-earned money on and invite right into their living rooms to emit death-rays in their direction. At least, that's what I was arguing. Jacob was arguing that it would afford harmless amusement with which to pass a few free hours.

In an effort to make my devil-spawn argument more persuasive, I tried to explain to Jake that if he spent x minutes per day playing video games, he would have x minutes less to do other wholesome, productive things like practice his violin, do his homework, juggle a soccer ball, do our taxes, etc. I also tried to argue that playing video games actually has a deleterious effect on one's ability to concentrate. It actually makes you dumber, in other words. Not having any hard scientific evidence for this readily to hand, I decided I could at least sound scientific, so I posited a new unit of measure: the concetron.

The concetron is a measure of mental focus. "You'll use up concetrons you could be using on something else!" I argued. Jacob was willing to concede this point. "You'll reduce your concetron capacity!" I persisted. This one he was not willing to concede.

Actually, the whole Wii argument was just a casual hypothetical on his part. What he really wants is a laptop someday. However, the idea of the concetron has caught on in our family, and we have since had even more heated discussions trying to determine...

1) How do we define the base unit of 1 concetron? Is it, say, the amount of mental focus required to recite your address? the Gettysburg address?
2) Are there different kinds of concetrons? or can you divide a given activity into a concetron distribution chart? So, to play the piano requires a certain number of concetrons for the physical movements, a certain number for musical expression, etc.
3) If we define concetron capacity as the amount of concetrons one can expend (and is that the right verb?) in a given amount of time, then can certain activities increase or decrease one's concetron capacity? If so, how?

I swear we spent 20 minutes driving in the van one day arguing over this stuff with great passion and not a little rancor.

One thing we agreed on was that we run out of concetrons by the end of the day and have to replenish them through sleep. I plan to use this excuse to avoid helping the kids with homework after 9 p.m. (Sorry! Out of concetrons!)

So if you are a scientifically minded person, and you have suggestions about this, let us know. We're particularly interested in designs for a Star-Trek-prop-style piece of headgear that could measure concetron output.

If, on the other hand, you would like to argue for the benefits of the Wii, get thee behind me.

Sunset

2007-11-13T19:39:00.001-05:00

11.13.07 5:36 p.m.

I'm still in seclusion, but have decided not to clog up this blog with more pretty pictures of mine. The new site for daily Lake Michigan photos is here.

Where sky and water meet

2007-11-09T14:27:00.000-05:00

12:27 p.m.

Sunshine on the sand

2007-11-08T11:40:00.001-05:00

11/08/07 11:09 a.m.

What is that bright thing in the sky?

2007-11-07T11:28:00.000-05:00

11/07/07 3:57 p.m.

A Touch of Pink

2007-11-06T17:50:00.000-05:00

11/06/07 5:38 p.m.

The Lakeshore Hermitage

2007-11-05T14:15:00.000-05:00

My comprehensive exams loom on the horizon, and it has become plain to me that I cannot study efficiently at home. Too many distractions, both wonderful and tiresome. So I have headed to my folks' place for a few weeks, where I will stay in in seclusion to concentrate on my studies.

But I will post, everyday, a picture here of the one thing that remains a distraction: the ever-changing beauty of Lake Michigan.

11/5/07 1:56 p.m.

Today was a very blustery day.

The Most Beautiful Thing You'll Read Today

2007-10-15T09:32:00.001-04:00

Accomplished agnostic poet + Simone Weil + a young marriage + cancer + church = love, life, hope.

Excerpt:

So now I bow my head and try to pray in the mornings, not because I don’t doubt the reality of what I have experienced, but because I do, and with an intensity that, because to once feel the presence of God is to feel His absence all the more acutely, is actually more anguishing and difficult than any “existential anxiety” I have ever known. I go to church on Sundays, not to dispel this doubt but to expend its energy, because faith is not a state of mind but an action in the world, a movement toward the world. How charged this one hour of the week is for me, and how I cherish it, though not one whit more than the hours I have with my wife, with friends, or in solitude, trying to learn how to inhabit time so completely that there might be no distinction between life and belief, attention and devotion.

Church Hopping

2007-10-12T18:55:00.000-04:00

This is dangerously, accurately, embarrassingly funny.

Courtesy of ChristianClips.com

Word of the Day

2007-09-30T07:43:00.000-04:00

As the youngest member in family of rather effusive talkers, Philip has always had to fight for his right to be heard. Once, when he was around three, he interrupted an adult discussion in in the front of the car by pointing to himself and calling out loudly from his car seat: "HELLL-LLLO! Can I have some talk back here?!?"

Philip also has a terrifically fertile imagination, so that in his head he's constantly inventing new playground games with complex rules, or devising plans for world conquest as the superhero Captain Fire. And of course, he loves to share these plans with the family.

In detail.

Amazing, non-stop detail.

So it doesn't surprise us that these days, in the car or at the dinner table, if someone should give the conversational floor to Philip, it's not likely to be relinquished anytime soon. This is only partly because he has something to say -- it's also because he simply wants to give his parents and siblings payback for all the years he had to sit quietly, listening to all their talk.

Hence, the word for today, to describe these occasions when Philip makes a parliamentary power grab using his gregarious gift of gab:

Philibuster
phil·i·bus·ter fil-uh-buhs-ter -noun

Sombrero with sprinkles

2007-09-16T17:15:00.000-04:00

When someone scores three goals in a game, you call it a hat-trick.

We puzzled today over what to call it when someone scores four goals in a game.

Since four goals is more than three, it's a rather large hat. And since the team is predominantly hispanic, we decided that a four-goal effort should be called a sombrero.*

But what do you call it when that four-goal effort is:
a) the only scoring in the game (final: 4-0)
b) when the fourth goal comes after sitting out 10 minutes for debilitating leg cramps?
c) when the win comes against former teammates?
d) when the family decided to go to Coldstone's afterward to celebrate?

You call that a sweet sombrero.

*a term not entirely unprecedented in sports lingo.

Your Theological Alter Ego

2007-09-13T09:01:00.000-04:00

Let's say you work at an academic institution named after a prominent theologian. (Not that I do; it's a hypothetical. I could be talking about, for example, Wesley Seminary, or Luther Seminary).

How does your own personal theology comport with that of the institution's namesake? How do you fit in amongst those who claim a particular theological heritage? Do you feel perfectly at home among the elect? Do you regularly read whatever is nailed to the doors of the chapel? Is your heart strangely warmed as you enter class?

For those so inclined, check out this quiz and then post your results in the comments.

Two small caveats and an extra-credit assignment:
1) advance apologies for the gender exclusive language
2) of course the quiz is limited. It has to be.
Assignment: How would you amend the quiz if you could? Is there a theologian you'd like to see represented who isn't? Questions you'd like to add?

What Happened to the Boys in Blue?

2007-09-10T07:50:00.000-04:00

It's the curse of the skyboxes.

When a team like the Wolverines loses to the Ducks, after getting whupped the week before, you know there's gotta be some bad karma going on.

Bling for the Jakester

2007-09-02T21:05:00.000-04:00

After a long, long dry spell, we can at last post another obnoxiously braggy announcement (fair warning) about the soccer exploits of the Rienstra offspring. Jacob's new team (Olé) went to the MILD tournament this weekend and came home champions.

OK, well, there were only eight teams in the division (U-12 boys), but the ones we played were very good. The final game, especially, was a good challenge--for the parents' nerves, I mean. The score was a decisive 3-1 even so. Jake was responsible for popping one of those in on a nice cross.

To Jake's disappointment, the resulting bling was a mere "participant" medal, in the interest of how, for younger kids, this is all about having fun, blah blah blah. Don't they know that 12-year-old boys have visions of very large, very shiny trophies?

So a nice start to the season, even if we did have to write "champion" on the back of the medal with a Sharpie.

Olé, Baby

2007-08-14T19:53:00.000-04:00

We've been a soccer family for quite a few years now, so we've seen plenty of family vans pulling into parking lots at tournaments and practices with the little soccer club stickers in the back window. But our own Dodge Caravan has remained pristine--until today.

Yes, we have succumbed.

Back in June, both Miriam and Jacob endured the equivalent of Greek pledge week, trying out for four or five different clubs teams each. Now, we had learned already in California that soccer can be a harsh taskmistress, a tyrant, an idol. Oh yes. We knew that. But slowly, over the course of "hell week," we came to realize that there were dimensions of soccer commitment even beyond our own level -- "crazy." We could see the path ahead to "insane," and even beyond it to "over the edge." The path was lined with parental fantasies of Division I scholarships, Olympic Development programs, practice schedules that rivaled a typical pro players, and most of all, lots and lots of cash.

Strangely enough, after dragging the kids out to suburban happy-land -- to Hudsonville and Cascade and Ada -- and feeling somehow uncomfortable and out of place at the well-tended fields among all these obviously very affluent white parents, we finally ended up... well, right around the corner: in the city, at the slightly less posh public park, as the minority white people among our mostly Hispanic neighbors. Ah, finally! This felt right.

Having gained all our soccer savvy in Southern California, we were used to folks who played the juga bonito: a style of play built on foot skills, speed, and crisp, short passing. And it felt familiar being around coaches and players with Hispanic surnames. (In fact, Mia has an honorary Hispanic name--"Mia Torres*"--granted by her former coach, John Mejia.)

So we're very grateful that Jose Rodriguez invited both Mia and Jacob to be on his teams in the brand-new Olé Soccer Club. Jose and his assistants ran by far the most well-organized, rigorous tryout, and we could see immediately that this club was a classier act than anything else we had seen around here.

Turns out Jose is on a bit of a mission to improve West Michigan soccer. He's been a player and coach in town for many years, but now it's his turn to do things a new way. He's also smart enough to do a little club marketing, including providing players with Olé practice shirts, and parents with their very own back-window stickers.

--------
*Side note for etymologists: though it might be cool if "Torres" had something to do with a bull (Spanish: torro) --given the team graphic -- it is actually a habitational name for someone who lived near a tower, usually a defensive fortification or watchtower (from Latin turris). However, given her actual ethnic heritage, it's interesting to note that this word also has a Dutch derivation, a short form of Victoris, from the Latin personal name Victorius. Fitting.

Phrase of the Day

2007-07-27T17:03:00.001-04:00

"glorious glob of worship-leading stringiness"

Well played, Mr. Scheer; well-played.

Scenes from Summer

2007-07-23T10:50:00.000-04:00

Our posting has been thin lately, and I'm not apologizing for it: we've been taking it easy this summer, as our long years of schooling have trained us to do.

Still, we haven't been completely slovenly, as we've relaxed as hard as we could:

We all enjoyed a week's vacation with our Theologiggle pals in Cincinnati,

and Miriam has spent time at summer soccer camp,

while the boys hang with friends and play with bubbles.

I went fishing with old college pals in Minnesota,

we often hung out at my folks' place on the beach,

and this past week was busy as everyone did some last-week cramming before the big event on Friday night.

Of course, I've also been doing a bit of actual work, helping to host a consultation on Pedagogy and Seminary Worship at Fuller in June, and presenting here and there. Meanwhile, remarking repeatedly how nice it is not to be moving across the country again this summer, Debra has been working on various writing projects, both academic and trade.

Now we find that there are only a few more weeks of summer before the headlong rush into Autumn's crazed business. Augh!

Reaching Harry Saturation Point

2007-07-18T15:51:00.001-04:00

Yes, we are definitely caught up in Harry mania. All five of us. We have been speculating about the contents of Book 7 since, oh, the release of Book 6. ("Harry is the heir of Gryffindor!") The boys and I went to see Movie 5 last week. And we have tickets to the Harry Potter release party at Schuler Books on Friday night. ("Hagrid will win the giants to the side of the Order!") We will be staying up till midnight to get our book.

Yeah, that's singular. After much family debate, we have decided to purchase only ONE copy of the book. ("Harry will have to save Malfoy's life!") That means we will be taxing, probably to the breaking point, all the lessons about sharing we have been teaching the kids since their toddler days. We parents, not surprisingly, will be called on to model the greatest degree of patience, as we are last in line to get our hands on the book. ("Snape is really a good guy underneath!")

Ron and the boys seem perfectly happy to keep spinning out theories for what will happen in Book 7, but I think I have reached a saturation point. ("Hermione's study of runes will be important in finding a horcrux!") I have officially commenced the sequester-from-the-media stage in order to avoid spoilers. But I also wish everyone would just take a vow of silence on new speculations. ("A crumple-horned snorckack will be needed to protect Harry from Voldy!") Let's all just read the book now and get it OVER with!

Before today, I noticed some public intellectuals sticking their literary tongues out at J. K. Rowling, and maybe I'll write about that later. For now, I'm trying to hunker down and survive till Friday at midnight, at which time I will flop relievedly into bed--while Jacob takes the first reading shift. ("Neville will use his herbology skill to defeat Bellatrix!")

The "It's up to You-Charist"

2007-06-20T15:56:00.001-04:00

Apparently we here in Grand Rapids are on the cutting edge of liturgical inculturation. Not just once in a while, but every month a few churches here in town sponsor an increasingly popular event that is known as the "U2charist."

Despite the admiration of Bono in certain circles , (not entirely undeserved), the U2charist is not the worship of an Irish singer who sacrifices his rock-star career in order to lobby for African debt relief.

No, it is, rather, a fairly ordinary worship service wherein a congregation from a liturgically conservative tradition (usually Episcopal) lifts up the One Campaign and the Millenium Development Goals (in the sermon or prayers in particular) and incorporates U2 songs into the traditional liturgy, replacing, for instance, an opening hymn with Mysterious Ways, or singing Gloria as service music.

I'm not sure I want to comment too critically on this sort of thing -- it does indulge a healthy impulse to reach out and connect with people the church usually doesn't, and to embrace the good things God is already doing in the world outside the church. That's nothing but good. Full stop.

Still, one wonders if the clever marketing ploy that is the name of the service (and it is clever) might distract attention from, well, Jesus. The holy supper isn't about U2; and the sermon isn't (or shouldn't be) first about laudable social goals -- except as they are a fitting response to Jesus' message of concern for the poor.

Furthermore, it does feel a bit like a desperate lunge at cultural relevance by the usual staid and respectable members of the church family. Done wrong, I suspect, it may feel a bit like when Uncle Eugene tried to dance the Macarena at Suzie's wedding. Awk. Ward.

And then there's the inevitable slippery-slope questions. If the church offers a service to attract the U2 fans and that particular sub-culture, should it do the same for other subcultures? Should Christians somewhere offer a Competitive Prayer-service for athletes and prayer warriors? Or a Goth Mass that really embraces the dark side of the human condition? Or a Jazz Vespers that is so cool it's hot? (Short answer: maybe.)

All of this might or might not be worth commentary on this blog, except that today I found that the instigator of the first U2charist has a sense of humor about herself, as she responded to critics with a list of further liturgical experiments unlikely to come to your town anytime soon, including:

The Kazoocharist - for vaudeville musicians
The R2D2charist - for Star Wars enthusiasts
The Goo goo g'joo -charist - featuring music by the group that once claimed to be more popular than Jesus

To which we add, in the spirit of Theologiggle, the following:

The Achoo-charist - a service of prayer for healing from colds and allergies
The Chim-chim-chiroo-charist - a good-luck service featuring music from Mary Poppins and the ceremonial "shake 'ands or blow a kiss" with your neighbor
For the gourmand, there is the Cordon bleu-charist, the Fondue-charist, and even the Home-brew-charist (that's for you, Chip!)
The Sioux-charist and Zulu-charist -- bold experiments in adaptation to particular cultures; those willing to go a bit further may consider the Voo-doo-charist or the Vishnu-charist

At this point, you can easily see how one can get carried away.

I.O.U.-charist - capitalizing on the Dave Ramsey rage -- an offering will be held for people dealing with overweening debt
Haiku-charist - The Lord be with you/With one voice, in verse, they spoke/And also with you
Et, Tu-charist - a service of reconciliation for those who have been the perpetrators or victims of betrayal
Deja-Vu-charist - talk about anamnesis! (WARNING: worship geek joke alert)
Shoo-bee-doo-bee-doo-charist - featuring the music of Frank Sinatra and dry martinis as the blessed beverage

And now, we invite you to comment on the following or add your own ideas:

Tattoo-charist (hmmm)
Kung-fu-charist (whaddya think, Andrew?)
Pas-de-deux-charist (liturgical dancing with the stars?)
Timbuktu-charist (this one is way out there)
Kalamazoo-charist (this one not quite so far)

You know, there seems to be no end to the possibilities here. Maybe I should make this part of my 5-year scholarly plan...

UPDATE: Hey - just realized I can start my scholarly work right here. Since my dissertation has to do with paedocommunion (i.e., the full participation of all baptized children/infants in the Lord's Supper), perhaps the last chapter, after all theological analysis, should be a return to praxis: a set of liturgical recommendations for the cootchie-cootchie-coo-charist.

UPDATE2: Jacob just suggested that congregations uncomfortable with the cootchie-cootchie-coo-charist can keep their sunday-school or children-in-worship programs and have an age-appropriate celebration of the Winnie-the-Pooh-Charist. Hunny. Mmmm.

UPDATE3: How about the Dr. Who-charist? Check it out. For reals. (Thanks, Bethany!)

Tempus Fugit

2007-06-06T12:25:00.000-04:00

Last night was Mia's middle-school graduation. We all got dressed up and went to the local high school for a very nice ceremony with pomp and circumstance and earnest prayers and speechifying about making a difference and even a bit of liturgical dance. Nary a hint of the civil religion we endured at Jacob's culmination last year.

Years ago, I wrote a snarky song for my little sister when she graduated from middle school. The song was entitled "No Big Deal." It suggested that the genuine big deal would be a few years off yet.

I still feel a little of that snark, but I admit that last night was kind of a big deal. Not necessarily because passing 8th grade math and English and science is a significant accomplishment in itself, but because these events give us a chance to look back and see that there has been a whole lot of life invested in this blond 14-year old with a big smile and an iron will -- a whole lot of tears and talk, of playing and praying and laughing and loving, and no small number of mini-van miles. She has been this wonderful gift from God -- to us, and increasingly, to the world.

Pride, it seems, is a potent alchemy of nostalgia, gratitude, humility, and astonishment.

Time flies -- and significant milestones pass us by in a blur.

Bizarro World, Act II

2007-06-02T13:19:00.000-04:00

BIZARRO WORLD
a screenplay
(cont'd)

Act I
Act II

Scene: Large suburban grocery store. RON has stopped his half-full cart in the produce section. He tests a few melons for ripeness before picking one and putting it into the cart. He checks his watch, and begins quickly pushing the cart from the produce section toward the dairy section. He gets his cell phone from his pocket and dials.

RON

Hi honey, it's me. I'm at Meijer getting some food for tonight and I have 20 minutes to kill before I have to pick up Jacob from soccer. Is there anything you need me to get?

DEB

Hmmm. Milk?

RON

Duh. Already got it. Anything else?

DEB

(pause) Not that I can think of.

RON

Hey - you seem distracted - what are you up to right now?

DEB

Just doing my share of the work of the family.

RON

(Puzzled) OK. I'll see you later tonight.

Cut to closeup of DEB as she puts away cell phone. Slow zoom out as we see her in a local hardware store, with a selection of plumbing parts (specifically, toilet parts) atop the counter between her and the store clerk. The clerk is finishing drawing something on a piece of scrap paper.

DEB

(Pointing to the drawing) So I need to put the rubber washers on both sides of the tank to get a tight seal?

CLERK

That's right. You'll use this brass nut. Then you'll put the tank back on the bowl and reconnect the water supply to this.... (tech talk fades as camera zooms out further)

Fade out

Fun with Food

2007-05-28T09:06:00.000-04:00

What Will Happen in Harry Potter 7?

2007-05-23T21:53:00.000-04:00

[WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD for those who have not read the 9^th, 12^th, 14^th, 16^th, 17^th, and 18^th best-selling books of all time].

Our friend Jana Riess has posted her predictions on her blog, but I thought I would reply here rather than stuffing her comment box. Not long ago, Jacob read the Mugglenet prediction book to which Jana refers, which sparked a whole flurry of impassioned speculation at our house. Ron commented on Jana’s post, but he hardly exhausted the substance (or fluff?) of Rienstra household discussions. So here come some of my predictions, linked directly to Jana’s. (I apologize up front for referring to J.K. Rowling as “Jo.” Overly familiar, I know. But hey, she can call me “Deb” anytime she wants.)

1. Jana says: Either Fred or George is wearing a red shirt. Oh, no, I can’t agree with that one. That would be too awful. Surely the flame of frivolity and silliness cannot be snuffed out -- or even so sadly diminished in the world; Jo is too firm a believer in the redemptive power of humor. Fred and George’s mischief is more than comic relief: I think they are twin elements of hope and resilience. Remember their genius revenge on Umbridge as they left Hogwarts? (This is one of my favorite scenes in all the books.) So please: keep the twins alive! I do agree that a Weasley family member will probably have to go. Ron (my Ron, that is) has long predicted it will be Arthur Weasley, on the grounds that Arthur is another father figure for Harry, and as archetypal patterns would have it, our young hero’s father figures have been slipping away one by one. Of course, it would be lovely if Percy would finally, as Jana says, come to his senses, do something heroic and restitutive, and then conveniently bite it. But that might be just too easy. In any case, I think it’s true that one way or another poor Molly is in for more agony.

2. Jana suspects/hopes: the Gryffindor horcrux is Fawkes. Nah. I predict that the Gryffindor horcrux is something we haven’t encountered yet, and Harry will find it at Godric’s Hollow. My reasoning is that in every book, Jo has introduced new characters, new objects, and new ideas, all of them clever and intriguing. The Gryffindor horcrux (if it exists) would be far too important an object to be some old thing we’ve seen already. Harry’s trip to Godric’s Hollow has to yield some big revelations, and I think this object will be one of them. After all, Voldy would have had plenty of time to create a horcrux after Lily’s death. Who’s going to stop him or notice? One-year-old Harry?

This prediction also eliminates Harry’s scar and the invisibility cloak as horcrux candidates. More on this later.

5. Jana wonders what caused Harry’s scar because it couldn’t have been caused by the AK curse. I say: Why not? It’s true that the AK curse doesn’t usually leave a mark, but then again it usually kills the victim, too. Something went weird that night, so it’s possible the curse did leave a mark.

6. Jana’s friend says: Crookshanks is really Regulus Black. Maybe. Ron covers this in his comment on Jana’s blog.

Now to respond to Jana’s wish list.

1. Neville beats the CRAP out of Bellatrix LeStrange. You go, Neville!

2. Harry saves Snape’s life. Sure, that’s possible. I think Snape will have to make some difficult decision in a crisis situation that will force him to stop sitting on the fence (see Ron’s comment) and show his ultimate loyalty.

3. The Malfoys are outed as vampires. Amusing, but I’m not convinced on this one, primarily because I had some vampire experts I know (for real) comment on the possibility and they don’t buy it.

4. The Ravenclaw horcrux is, as Ron has predicted, some loopy thing the Lovegood family owns. Yeah, I love this one. If Jo didn’t think of it already, she should have.

6. Jana wants to know more about Harry’s grandparents. Yeah, I think it’s pretty clear that we know virtually nothing about Harry’s ancestry because Jo has been waiting to reveal that he is a descendent of Gryffindor.

See Jana’s blog for a few more of her wishes.

Here are a couple things I personally would like to see in book 7.

A. I would like to see Harry live. I’m worried about confirming yet again that the path to heroism for 17-year-old males is to sacrifice their lives in the battle against evil. I know, I know. Genuine evil cannot be defeated by holding hands, making nice, and just getting along. But history—and current events—show how very easy it is to mask the will to power in a neat, black-and-white ideology and then send young men to die to save us all from “evil.” Granted, good and evil is pretty unambiguous in the Harry Potter world, but still: can we please honor forms of heroism other than young men dying? As the mother of two sons, I feel pretty strongly about this. People fight evil every day through the long, slow slog of constant resistance, diplomacy, incremental systemic change. And in the end, ultimate evil was (is/will be) defeated by absorbing evil without passing it on. So let’s see Harry 1) cope with the complex mixture of his own impulses both to defend goodness and to exact revenge, 2) defeat Voldy, and 3) realize that even after Voldy is gone, the battle continues. Moreover, just literarily speaking, it’s much more of a challenge for a writer to let her hero fight his great battle and then figure out how he will go on living afterwards. Come on, Jo. You’re up to the challenge.

B. Here’s my theory about the last line of the book. I don’t really mean it, but it always makes my kids laugh when I say it. I think that if Harry has any sense, he will reproduce with Ginny ASAP so that whatever happens, he will have an heir. I know they’re young, but hey, times are tough. They could have a double wedding with Bill and Fleur. (Ginny and Fleur could armwrestle over the tiara: fun!) Honeymoon details could be kept very discreet; Jo has been so respectful of Harry’s romantic privacy thus far. Once Ginny is pregnant she can go into deep hiding to protect her and the baby. (No twins, please. Too Star Wars-y.) So then, picture the end of the book: Harry has done away with Voldy. He’s reunited with Ginny. There they stand over the crib, looking down at their brand new little heir of Gryffindor. Ginny says, with gentle affection: “Look, Harry: he has your scar!” THE END

C. Seriously, I really hope Jo has been careful in Book 7 about how many tricks she pulls. Anything really wacky—Ron is Dumbledore from the future, Hagrid is Molly’s sister in drag , Buckbeak makes friends with a Norwegian Ridgeback and they swoop in to save the day at some point —will detract from the emotional heft that she surely wishes to build in this book. This is why I don’t like the idea of Harry’s scar or the invisibility cloak being a horcrux. I think this would create an irritating “fooled ya!” effect for the reader. After all these years, I’m still peeved about Madeye Moody being Barty Crouch all along in Book 4. Scabbers as Peter Pettigrew was cutting it close enough, but the Madeye business really bugged. I don’t want the series to end on that kind of sour note. Cleverness is great, but this book has to have a seriousness not dimished by authorly pirouettes.

It pains me in all of this to say that THE BOOK IS ALREADY DONE and copies are probably pouring off the presses by the thousands as we speak. It’s a shame Jo didn’t have access to our brilliant ideas before she finished. Well, she can always make corrections for the paperback…

What do you other Potter fans think is in store come July 21?

Children in Worship

2007-05-02T08:15:00.000-04:00

Pastors of souls must therefore, realize that, when the liturgy is celebrated...it is their duty to ensure that the faithful take part fully aware of what they are doing, actively engaged in the rite and enriched by it. -- Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, Vatican II

In an ongoing parental attempt to fulfill our happy duties as "pastors of souls," we try to actively engage our children in corporate worship on Sunday each week as best we (and they) can. That can mean any number of different things: letting them hold the bulletin so they can see the words we are to say together, encouraging them to sing along and explaining if we come to a confusing word or phrase (e.g. here I raise my Ebenezer), and sometimes just pointing to things that are happening: "Pip! Look! Here comes the dancer with the water. Let's see if any splashes around when she pours it into the font."

The hardest part of the service in which to keep the kids engaged is the sermon. So not long ago, during an uncharacteristically tired exhortation, I asked Philip to listen, to read the scripture text, and to draw pictures. I said "if you were preaching on this passage with your pictures, what would you draw?"

Here is a sample of the artwork he produced:

(Bonus points if you can identify the text)

Active engagement is a bit easier when you're involved in some form of leadership. This past week it was a family affair: Debra and Jacob were playing viola and violin, respectively, and Mia and I were percussing. Before church, then, I invited Philip to try to learn a simple rhythm on the djembe so that when the drummers led the congregation in song at the presentation of the gifts, he could join us and offer his own musical gift. I sang the song, and he was starting to own the groove, but when I started cutting a counter rhythm he got confused and stopped. "I don't want to do this in church," he pouted. "I'll mess up."

"Well, you certainly don't want to mess up," Deb replied. "If any of the leaders make mistakes, no one in church gets their God-points that week." We all smiled at the family joke we use when we find ourselves caught up in behavior that implies that we worship in order to get something from God. Thus assured, he agreed to play.

Of course, he did a perfectly fine job, and his offering, along with any mistakes he made -- like the inattentive or insincere worship any of us make -- were still received by the Spirit, perfected by Christ, and offered to the Father.

But it also assured him to see that he wasn't the only one whose worship needed perfecting. For example, he seemed delighted to note that our pastor led us straight into the prayer of confession after our opening hymn, bypassing our usual liturgical Alleluias (perhaps he was especially eager to confess something?).

I hope that in all of this, our children are learning that the house of the Lord -- where they will dwell one day forever -- is a hospitable one, where they and their gifts are welcome and cherished. And until that day, here's a Pip-drawn picture of our prayer for them, one we hope each of them can own:

Get thee behind me, Fat

2007-04-29T14:16:00.000-04:00

Thou shalt place outside thy door a vat of fat. And this shall be a sign unto the angel of heart disease to pass over thy house. Purge thy dwelling of saturated fat (polyunsaturated is OK in smallish amounts) and purify thy house. Set outside your dwelling, then, the vat of fat to signify your purity, so that you may be holy and live long in the land. - Hezekiah 12:33

It all started years ago, when I (Deb) read the book Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser. And now we've come to this. Quasi-biblical rituals designed to appease the diet gods. Well, that's what it looks like, anyway. What really happened is that reading Fast Food Nation caused me to give up fast food (not a big sacrifice for me) and then to become more interested in the politics of food. That led me to design my English 101 class this year around the topic, and that led to further reading and many research papers on the topic from my students.

That all led to inviting my honors English 101 class for dinner on Friday last, with the students bringing various foods, both virtuous and un-, to share around. One pair of students brought banana wontons, which required deep frying, and that led to a pan full of hot oil set outside the door to cool, which I of course promptly forgot about for a couple days. So the quasi-biblical ritual was not intentional. But there it is.

All this study of food politics has brought about, as I call it, "collateral damage" in our household. In other words, we are actually eating healthier these days. We've been especially fond of the "super foods" concept, which involves emphasizing those foods that are especially high in all kinds of invisible, magical nutrients like betacarotenes and flavonoids. They also taste good.

We're not "food nazis" by any means. But here's some recommended reading, with the warning that you may find yourself, someday soon, carefully perusing the sweet potatoes at the local farmer's market. And putting pots of oil outside your door.

Eric Schlosser, Fast Food Nation
Michael Pollan, The Omnivore's Dilemma
Michael Pollan, Unhappy Meals
Bryant and Anna Lappe, Grub

Grading Gets my Goat

2007-04-11T09:45:00.000-04:00

Debra and I are spending a lot of time this month grading student papers. A recent batch from her English 101 class (theme: the politics of food) had students reporting on what happened when they went to various places of food production -- farms and factories and so forth. Meanwhile, my students were writing about their worship experiences at churches whose worship was supposed to be "decidedly different" from their normal Sunday service.

The other day we were discussing with each other the similar responses our students had to things they'd seen on their field trips. You know the old saying about sausage tasting good, but you don't want to know how they make it? Turns out you could say the same thing about liturgy.

And how food is never quite as clean as you'd like it to be, even when it goes through the appropriate steps? Same thing with people and church.

But we laughed together at the student of Deb's who remarked about the farm she went to, and the goat who, at a moment when she wasn't paying attention, ate the sheet of paper on which she had written her notes.

"Not likely," said Deb, "that you'll find a student who ran into goat troubles on a worship field trip."

"Well," I responded, "I suppose that depends on how seriously they took my suggestion that they seek out a worship experience 'decidedly different' from their usual fare. I can think of a few contexts in which goats play a prominent role in worship."

Alas, no one ventured quite that far afield.

Sweet Potato Sunrise

2007-04-06T19:16:00.000-04:00

There's a frustrated artist in the family.

UPDATE: "Dad! It's a sun-SET!"

As the Purple One once lamented...

2007-04-04T21:47:00.000-04:00

A Moment in the Sun

2007-03-30T14:22:00.000-04:00

I haven't posted for a while here because I've been busy preparing for, flying to, and then fulfilling my obligations at a speaking engagement in...

wait for it...

Hawaii.

I think this makes up for that whole worship wonks don't know when and where to meet thing.

Then again, the conference wasn’t for worship wonks. Sponsored by Hawaiian Island Ministries, it's an annual gathering for church leaders of all sorts, with all sorts of interests. But they did have a handful of specialized tracks: a “youth” track, a “ministering to military” track, a “parenting” track, and the worship track. It’s a really well-run show, featuring some outstanding people – and I don’t just mean the speakers, but the organizers and the attenders, too.

And everything they tell you about Island hospitality is true. The Hawaiian Convention Center is a spectacularly beautiful building; the people are warm and friendly – where else do you get introduced to speak by someone who gives you a hug, a kiss of peace, and then puts a floral garland around your neck? I think we should adopt it in all the churches of the mainland: the liturgical lei.

I gave three related talks on worship, and found my sessions well-attended (and well-received, I think) by some earnest, eager-to-learn people. Many came in without having been intentionally reflective about worship before, and found their circuit-breakers popped by rather simple ideas (e.g. worship is more than≠ music; or that a “congregation = audience; leaders = players” mindset reinforces an alarmingly God-free picture of what happens in worship). At the same time, they knew more than they thought they did, and offered some spiritually insightful responses when I asked them, for example, why they came to worship each week.

Though I made use at times of material developed by or for the Calvin Institute of Christian Worship, I was actually brought to Hawaii under the auspices of the Brehm Center at Fuller Seminary. So in addition to the three general talks I gave, my colleague Ed Willmington and I led a cohort of a dozen or so students in some more intensive training as a first-step on their way to receiving, 18 months hence, a certification in Worship, Theology and the Arts from Fuller.

I think programs like this are important. In so many churches, especially evangelical churches, those who are the worship leaders have no theological training, and a subtle sub-cultural anti-intellectualism ensures that they won’t be going to seminary to get any. But they have a holy fear about what they do, and are very appreciative of the opportunity to deepen their own understanding and practice of worship. I know our cohort will be going back to their churches eager to see what God will do with some of the tools they acquired in our time together.

But now the conference is over, and I have one free day to spend in this tropical paradise – Palm Sunday among the Palms. Think I’m going snorkeling with some sea turtles and dolphins. Hosanna and Aloha!

We CAN'T Be the Only Ones to Think of This

2007-03-17T13:24:00.000-04:00

HOLLYWOOD, CA -- As the TV phenomenon American Idol enters the exciting countdown-to-the-winner phase of its sixth season, FOX network announced today an inevitable development: a spin-off, set to begin airing next winter. Evangelical Idol will search from coast to coast for America's next great worship leader.

"We're looking for people with a heart for God, who know how to bring worship to the next level," said Louie Giglio, recently hired by FOX to produce the show. "It's not enough to be a great vocalist. We're looking for star power--people who know when to close their eyes or raise their hands, when to make their voice break, when to modulate up a step. It takes the whole package to praise with passion and power week after week, to bring the Spirit of God in the house."

According to a FOX press release, the judges for the show have already been signed. With the Randy-Paula-Simon formula so crucial to the success of American Idol, it's no surprise that the three judges for Evangelical Idol correspond obviously to their secular counterparts.

In Randy Jackson's seat will be Texas musician David "Our Love is Loud" Crowder, who will bring industry savvy and gen-x grunge cred after years of experience in arena worship settings. Unlike Jackson, Crowder will be unlikely to call anyone "dogg." But according to show insiders, he could easily come out with "Dude, keeping it real... I just didn't feel the Spirit this time. It was just OK, a little pitchy in places. But here's what I love about you...."

Multi-platinum recording artist Amy Grant will bring to the judges' table wisdom (and modest sex appeal) culled from a bygone era of Christian music. Grant is expected, like Paula Abdul, to supply the quasi-maternal voice of compassion and encouragement. Grant blazed trails as a recording artist in the 1980s, raising the profile of the female evangelical artist with her crossover success. With the worship scene still dominated by male guitar messiahs, Grant is expected to help pass the mantle to the next generation of female trail blazers.

Filling perhaps the most difficult role--that of simultaneously beloved and loathed curmudgeon Simon Cowell--will be former Christianity Today columnist Andy Crouch.

"Andy is perfect for this role," stated a FOX network spokesperson. "He has tough objectivity, authoritative manliness, the ability to deliver the prophetic truth. After all, he's not only going to have to tell people they can't sing. He's going to have to tell them that, no, God is NOT calling them to worship leadership. But Andy's got the other half of the Cowell equation, too: the powder-puff heart deep inside."

Crouch will not be leaving his current post as director of the evangelical think tank Culture Makers. When asked about his new role on the show, Crouch stated, "How can I get closer to the heart of culture-making than this? This is where it happens, baby. The worship leaders of today will create the culture of tomorrow."

Crouch also admitted to brushing up his personal image for the show. "I'm scheduled to be fitted next month for tight, black T-shirts. Actually, I think I look pretty good in them."

The network announced an ambitious audition schedule beginning next fall. The crew will hold auditions on megachurch campuses in ten cities across the country, including South Barrington, IL; Colorado Springs, CO; Houston, TX; Lake Forest, CA; Fort Lauderdale, FL; Nashville, TN; and Grand Rapids, MI.

The show's producers also made public a list of potential themes for the last weeks of competition, when competitors will have to lead the studio band in worship songs of their choice from categories such as "Substitutionary Atonement," "Hymn 2.0" (rocked-out versions of traditional hymns), "Christmas Covers," and "X-treme Intimacy with Jesus."

Special guests already signed for the first season to work with the competitors include Worship Leader Magazine editor Chuck Fromm, British songwriter Matt Redman, Down-Under worship diva Darlene Zschech, former members of the Christian metal band Stryper, and professional Christian opinion-giver and bow-tie wearer Martin Marty.

While initial plans had the show airing in the cable ghetto of TBN (Trinity Broadcasting Network) a chance meeting at a Burbank, California, AYSO soccer game got FOX people involved.

"FOX is already hip to the mighty spending power of evangelicals. Given our past success with the conservative demographic, we immediately saw the opportunity here," said a FOX network executive, who asked to remain anonymous.

"If the show catches on, we're looking at great potential for brand extension. Preliminary talks are already underway for a Liturgical Dancing with the Stars. We've approached Fuller Theological Seminary President Rich Mouw as host."

CAVEAT: This is a joke, OK? Just for laughs. Call off the lawyers. Thanks.

Gaudiamus Igitur

2007-03-07T16:25:00.000-05:00

Consumatum est. I took my Latin final today.

How'd I do?

Let me just say: veni vidi vici bootay (or would it be declined boot-am? Well, quem cura.)

We're thinking of having a toga party this weekend to celebrate, based on a friend's dictum. Crank up the tunes! Gaudeamus Igitur!

Ouch!

2007-03-06T08:17:00.000-05:00

Poor Mia. About two weeks ago she was playing around with the soccer ball after a practice, and she somehow lost her balance, landed funny, and turned her ankle. I ended up carrying her out to the car it hurt so much.

X-rays revealed that there was nothing broken, but she did have a severe sprain. The doctor said to recuperate she should simply use a warm compress regularly and rest it well.

She's been resting, and we do treat it while she does homework or watches TV -- using a tube sock filled with microwaved dry rice. (Now that's a yummy smell!) It's been two weeks, and she's only now trying to hobble or shuffle around without the crutches. The swelling has gone down some, yet the bruising still mottles all the way up her calf, looking pretty tragic.

This whole experience poses many difficulties for Mia: she has trouble getting around at school, which confounds her sense of easy competence. She absolutely hates asking for help, but she really has no choice. The worst part -- at least for the rest of us in the family -- is that she is so dependent for her psychological well-being upon those endorphins that vigorous exercise produces. No exercise, no endorphins = a remarkably less sunny daughter. Actually, she's been very brave about it all.

Of course, none of us are feeling very sunny here in Michigan. March is here but spring is nowhere to be seen. According to the AccuWeather people, there is a "fast-moving Alberta Clipper system" bringing 3-5 inches of snow to the area tonight. And plenty more clouds. Maybe by the time Mia's ankle is better we'll again be familiar with that golden orb in the sky.

Anyone with experience rehabbing an ankle successfully is welcome to post suggestions and advice.

Or bringing spring any sooner.

Somatic Memory

2007-03-04T10:35:00.000-05:00

Our bodies know things that we don't know that we know. Our brains, happily, forget lots of stuff, and what's lost is often gone forever. Who sat three seats in front of you in second grade? Your brain says: Not important. Buh-bye.

But somewhere - in your muscles, your nerves, your guts -- your body remembers what happened to you when you were eight. That's why you can, as the saying goes, "never forget to ride a bike." Even if it's been years since your last two-wheeled trip, you can just hop on, start pedaling, and you're good.

This phenomenon is called "somatic memory." My students don't always believe it when I tell them about it.

I tell them that when they are in a dark building, sitting on cushy seats, surrounded by energetic music, watching something up front (e.g. a large screen on which are projected fast-moving images), they have learned in their somai-- in their retinas and cochlea, in their bones and in their butts -- that they are to be rather passive observers of a bit of entertainment. Their brains may tell them that they are at church, and that this experience is one in which they are to participate fully, consciously, actively -- giving their worship to God. Their worship leaders may even say "come, now is the time to worship, now is the time to give your heart." But their bodies tell them -- based on years of Saturday night movies and hundreds of thousands of hours of television watching: "You're not going anywhere, or giving anything, dude. Kick back and enjoy; this is for you. By the way, wouldn't some popcorn be good right about now?"

Admittedly, this is a rather contentious example, and I can see why some of my students would be hesitant to accept the truth to which it points. So here's a more benign example:

Last week, I'm in a bathroom at a New Jersey church. I go to wash my hands, and notice, under the sink, a small trash can with a foot-pedal mechanism that opens the lid. I push the pedal a few times, just to… I don't know, test it or something. Then I turn my attention to the sink, and -- even though I see the knob right there in front of me, another part of my body overrides my rational function and I push the pedal on the trash can, expecting thereby to turn on the water. Why? Because my body remembers something about using a foot pedal to turn on the water in a washroom. It remembers that lesson from second grade. And third grade. And fourth grade. And so on.

All of which is not to say that we should never worship, or can never worship in the dark building on the cushy seats, etc. But it is to say that we ought to be careful about what somatic memories we invoke in worship. We can correct mistaken ideas. We can't correct our somatic memory -- we have to work with it, or against it. But to do that, we need to know about it. We need to know what we don't know that we know. You know?

Complexifying the Liturgy

2007-02-25T22:40:00.000-05:00

After giving a worship workshop this past weekend in New Jersey, and lecturing the week before that on liturgical ordo, I have been thinking some about the ways in which structure the elements in our worship services -- why we put in the elements we do, and why we order them in a particular way.

This led me to remember an article I wrote last year while at Fuller seminary, about experimenting with the worship ordo of our All-Seminary Chapel services.

We were struggling with three related problems: liturgical boredom, thematic coherence, and sacramental expectation. To summarize, our default liturgical structure was on the simplistic side: 20 minutes of singing (led by a group from the right hand side), followed by a sermon (preached by a professor from the left hand side). In addition, it was hard to give that "singing time" any focus because we often didn't learn what the professor/preacher was going to talk about in enough time to do anything about it. Finally, both the singing and sermon time became freighted with sacramental expectations that neither could regularly meet.

Our experimental solution was to borrow a simple worship pattern from the rites of daily prayer. Those rites were developed long ago as the devotional times used by monks and academics in the precursors to our universities and seminaries. We divided up our time together into four categories, mnemonically remembered as "Praise / Psalm /Proclamation / Prayer." We found this pattern most helpful for a number of reasons...

But exactly how it did that is a bit too much for this family blog. Instead, check out WorshipHelps, where I've re-posted the whole thing.

Mortification

2007-02-20T10:34:00.001-05:00

Well, it's Shrove Tuesday, (or to those of French extraction, Mardi Gras), which means that tomorrow we begin the Lenten journey.

We've often decided collectively, as a family, to engage in some modest mortification as a part of our devotional discipline during this season. Some years we've given up television, other years chocolate. We have chosen the usual suspects, things in which we indulge and that do us little good, and perhaps some small harm -- things we would be better off without, so that suffering their absence we are made aware of our dependence upon Christ. We tell the kids that this discipline is like doing weight training. You work and strengthen your "I can say 'no' to that" muscles during Lent. Then, if (or rather, when) you are seriously tempted by something you know is best left alone, by God's grace you've got what it takes to turn away.

Well, this year we don't have television in the house; and so the discussions have begun about what else we might give up during the upcoming 40 days. I am not sure that this year we'll all choose the same things. The kids are now old enough to identify budding dependencies and recognize the wisdom of nipping them now. Pip is considering a season without computer games. More than a month without Moose Trax ice cream will be a genuine sacrifice for Mia. Jacob will work on foregoing his need to get his own way in encounters with his little brother. And me? Well, I think that I would do well to put aside my daily web-trawling. Though I sometimes find interesting bits of information, there is way too much by-catch.

Debra, however, is in a rather different spiritual place than the rest of us. She doesn't need much toning of her "I can do without that" muscles. No, she's the Arnold Schwarzenegger of self-denial. She is working so hard these days at Calvin, and so long... and truth be told, lately without much enjoyment. Life circumstances and spiritual disposition have given her an especially deep awareness of her own shortcomings, a keen sense of her many responsibilities, and along with these, the melancholic outlook so fitting for Lent.

We are wondering therefore, if what she needs to mortify, i.e., what she needs to put to death this Lent, are the overbearing senses of privation, obligation, and condemnation she carries with her. She needs not less of the world's delights, but more of them. More music, more poetry, more prayer, more laughter, more chocolate -- more sabbath repose in the good gifts of God.

Of course, if she ends up indulging in all the things the rest of us are denying, it will make for a rather interesting 6 weeks around here.

Stick it to the Mouse, Corbin

2007-02-12T08:34:00.000-05:00

So I was trawling the web the other day, and found this item on TMZ.com, about a fellow we know, and some bumps on the way to the sequel to High School Musical.

For those of you who don't know, HSM was Disney's huge movie last year. Soundtrack #1 in the nation in 2006, massive DVD sales, a traveling concert tour, and more. Well, the Disney folks aren't dumb: they're rushing to make a sequel. But turns out that some of the cast members from the first flick aren't so dumb either. Now that Disney has locked themselves into using these same actors (with promotional materials and a poll offering ordinary viewers a chance to help write the storyline), three of the young folk are in a rather strong negotiating position. So they're refusing to go to rehearsals -- holding out for a slice of the merchandising pie. It doesn't take much to see that could be quite a lot of pumpkin.

Well, one of the hold-outs is Corbin Bleu, a fellow we got to know just a little bit during our time in California. His sister, Hunter, was on Mia's soccer team, and we often sat on the sidelines with their whole family. We can personally verify that Corbin really is the sweet, pleasant guy he appears to be on screen. He comes from a terrific family, especially his folks David and Martha, two immensely gifted but down-to-earth, warm, funny people. By the way, if you think Corbin is good-looking, you should see his three gorgeous sisters.

Anyway, our family loves HSM, partly because there are no drugs, no gangs, no angst, and only the most innocent sort of romance. It's a reality-challenged Disney fantasy world and hooray for innocence and youthful energy.

Still, the Disney Corporation is not all sweetness and light, and we've seen reports about their hardball negotiations, especially with child actors. So it's nice to see that by holding out in these negotiations, Corbin is willing to do what teenagers do best: stick it to the ~~man~~ mouse.

Of course, this strategy will only work if all the holdouts cooperate. In the words of the hit song,

We're all in this together
Once we know
That we are
We're all stars
And we see that
We're all in this together
And it shows
When we stand
Hand in hand
Make our dreams come true.

Stuck inside...

2007-02-05T09:22:00.000-05:00

It's a bit cold around here lately. The temperatures are supposed to reach all the way to +5° degrees later on today with the promise of sunshine; right now it's -10°F, with windchills in the -20 to -30 range. Yeesh.

Plus about a foot of snow.

So we've been stuck inside for the whole weekend. No events Saturday, Church canceled Sunday, and school shut down today.

I actually got out of the house Saturday -- doing quite a bit of shoveling, trying to keep up with the three types of snow we have in Michigan: Falling Snow, Blowing Snow, and Drifting Snow.

But on Sunday, I didn't shovel even once. Why? Because all my neighbors -- members all of the brand-new Christmas-present snowblower club -- seemed to be competing with one another to see who could do more good deeds by blowing the drives of the block's less fortunate. I guess they were feeling either very full of love for their fellow human beings, or guilty for not going to church, and thought that blowing the driveways of those who hadn't yet was a way for them to earn God-points. I'm not complaining. :)

So we had a very restful Sunday afternoon. We read, played and listened to music, and the boys enjoyed quite a chess tournament, using their favorite alternative chess pieces. I'm hoping for more of the same today.

Networkers

2007-02-02T08:56:00.000-05:00

Malcolm Gladwell speaks in his book The Tipping Point about different types of people with different types of genius gifts. Among the types he identifies is the "Connector," the sort of person who knows about a zillion people (and remembers their first names). But it's about more than knowing folks; it's about bringing people together, about being the connecting link between multiple overlapping worlds. There's something very appealing about this type of person.

I know a few good connectors, but here's my favorite, the expert at linking folks from very different social worlds, linking them together, linking them to God:

The cool graphix courtesy Many Eyes

Connections

2007-01-28T18:49:00.000-05:00

Once again the three-ring circus that is the Symposium on Worship has concluded. After six worship services, a dozen presentations, and countless encouraging and stimulating conversations with people doing and teaching and loving worship, Debra and I are both exhausted.

One of the best parts of Symposium is that because so much is going on, it is a hot house for serendipitous connections: connections between gospel music and liturgical dance; between the cruciform glory of God and alternative worship practices; between old and new friends.

Some of this year's highlights included a fun Friday night at a local brew joint with a collection of our favorite Fuller folk (and honorary Fuller folk): Clay Schmit, Fred & Dottie Davison, Luke Hyder, Todd Farley, Chuck Fromm, Mary Hulst, and Eric Jacobsen. Whatever else you say about folks in California, manifesting the eschatological joy of the kingdom (i.e. partying) comes a bit easier to them than it does to us dour and frozen Midwestern Calvinists. We don't really deserve to enjoy ourselves, we think.

Deb presented on her/our recent work on words in worship; I presented on developments in the emerging/alt church.

I think my presentations went well, but suffered from their context. That is to say, the fellow presenting just before me was Doug Gay. His topic was similar to mine (he's one of the authors, in fact, of the book on alternative worship, titled Alternative Worship). Add to this the fact that he was brilliant, charming, tall, and... to top it all off, Scottish. So he spoke brilliantly and charmingly from on high about "Altairnative Woarship" while I followed him speaking competently, if nasally, a bit closer to the ground, about "Alternutive Wuurrship." Fortunately, I had a lot of pictures in my presentation.

Even more fortunately, Doug had some free time when Symposium concluded, so he came to church with us yesterday morning, and then came over for brunch. Another serendipitous connection between two practitioners and thinkers that is now a connection between friends.

Nerd Squared

2007-01-22T21:18:00.000-05:00

I had a wonderful lunch meeting today with a friend of mine, and fellow worship-wonk, Sue Rozeboom. We talked liturgy pedagogy and Ph.D. work and all sorts of other stuff, continuing a conversation we'd begun a few weeks ago while in a minivan on the way to Toronto for NAAL - the conference of the North American Academy of Liturgy. It was during that conversation, that ride up, that I came face to face with my inner dweeb (again), and during the conference that I really owned it. Sue and I and our companion, John Witvliet, were talking about a particular Swiss liturgy of some centuries ago, and one of us made a joke -- I can't even remember the details now -- a joke about whether or not that liturgy had a "split epiklesis." And we laughed. In our defense, we did then laugh at the fact that we laughed. But still.

No, if you're wondering; split epiklesis is not suggestive, it's just dorky.

"Huh." I said to myself. "I am far gone. This Ph.D. thing is doing it, I think. Maybe Mia (my daughter) is right about me. Perhaps I belong in the abyss of utter and hopeless nerdiness."

I discovered at the conference that in that abyss are some wonderful people. But they are odd. Odder than most academics. They have the mild-to-severe social awkwardness of your average "smartest kid in the class" types. But these are liturgy wonks. So you have to factor in the "church nerd" component (increased not by simple addition, but by an order of magnitude), and it turns out ~~these folks~~ we folks are off the charts. So yep: I belong.

Further proof: the "worship wonk" annual academic conference this year was held in early January in TORONTO. Brrrrr. (Ok, to be fair, last year was in SanDiego; but still -- Toronto?! Ever heard of the Bahamas, people? Or some choice island in the South Pacific? Doesn't anyone want to do a study of liturgical hulu dancing?)

Further proof: one of the best practical conferences for folks like me is held in late January in Grand Freezing Rapids. But more on that in a few days.

Premiere!

2007-01-18T07:43:00.000-05:00

Don't miss it -- tomorrow night (that's Friday, January 19) is the premiere of my baby sister's new TV show, Ms. Adventure! It's on at 9:00 p.m. on Animal Planet. Since we don't have cable, we're going to a big party my folks are hosting to celebrate.

We've been watching rough cuts of the episodes as she sends them to us, and the show is funny and informative and just plain entertaining. Be sure to check it out!

A Recollection of Genius

2007-01-17T09:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's post about drum circles reminded me of a funny song lyric written by our genius friend Andrew Burnett. He wrote it for the comedy show we started together at PTS in 1992, Theologiggle. The lyric doesn't mention drumming explicitly, but the reference is there for those with eyes to see and ears to hear.

The opening skit of the show was a spoof Gilbert & Sullivan musical number, "I Am the Very Model of a Princeton Seminarian." It consisted of a handful of seminarian caricatures each singing a verse introducing themselves.

there was the brown-nosing, nerdy super-student, who sang: "I've memorized the dates and times significant in history/but the other kind of dating, I'm afraid, is still a mystery."
the insufferably arrogant Old Testament Ph.D. candidate: "I gladly share my knowledge of the sources extra-biblical/That show the Hebrew scriptures for their time were pretty typical."
the crunchy-granola eco-feminist: "I've done my best to rescue the rain forests of the Amazon/in winter I turn down the heat and put my wool pajamas on."
the pragmatic, about-to-graduate senior: "I've got new glasses, done my hair to make my image glossier/I've heard it's the first thing they look at your dossier."

And the theological adventurer, whose whole verse goes thus:

I am the very model of a Princeton Seminarian.
When I arrived, it's true, I was a boring Trinitarian;
Confined within the constructs of my heritage confessional;
But now I can equivocate just like a real professional.

I've known the tension and the angst of circles hermeneutical;
My quest for authenticity has been so therapeutical;
I've been a fool; thought I was cool for being neo-orthodox;
But now I've seen the light while dancing naked at the equinox.

I used to think in black and white my doctrines Calvinistical;
But now I know to claim absolute truth is egotistical;
I thank thee, God, that I am not like Hodge predestinarian,
I am the very model of a Princeton Seminarian.

It's pretty cold in Michigan on March 21, but I make no promises about where I'll be that night. Especially if there's a full moon.

Own the Groove

2007-01-16T10:36:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned in the last post, Deb got me a wonderful Christmas present this year: a beautiful djembe drum. It's hewn from a solid piece of Indonesian mahogany, and has great decorative carvings on the side. Deb got it from a far off (and far out) guy in California who spends his days surfing and tending to his, er…., exotic herb garden. But he also plays and skins and tunes and sells drums. And he carves messages into the bottom of them.

One could reasonably wonder: On what occasions could a pastor and Ph.D. student in worship possibly make use of a drum? More than you'd think, as it turns out:

1) I played in a drum circle on New Year's Eve at the home of our good friends the Keeleys. Around the hour of our arbitrarily designated transition moment from one year to the next (because of small children we don't wait for midnight), we made a small drum circle -- me and Bob and Bryan and Meredith's boyfriend Calvin, and whoever else picked up some sort of percussive noise-maker. The movie here is from early in the night; later on Bob found a great groove in 5/4 and we worked that for a while. It's a much better way to spend New Year's Eve than getting smashed on champagne and kissing whoever happens to be close by at midnight.

2) Then this past Sunday I played in our church, for the first time as designated percussionist. I've played guitar and clarinet and recorder before, but this was quite different. While everyone else was trying to hit or tune the right notes, worrying about the key modulation on verse four, or just finding their place on the page -- I sat there with an empty music stand at my side, and a drum in my lap, trying to find the groove. I'm not so worried about owning it just yet. Just trying to find it.

A djembe is great to play because it's so versatile, with both a deep, resonant boom when struck in the middle, a sharp snap when struck towards the edge of the drumhead, and lots of other sonic possibilities in between. Helping me find the groove Sunday was my colleague Greg Scheer, the music pastor at our church. Like me, he enjoys inventing the fun onomatopoeic words percussionists use to describe the sounds we want to produce. The shaker, for example, makes a "shukka shukka" sound. And, as he told me Sunday, when you use nylon brushes on the djembe, sliding and slapping them on the drum head, you might be looking for a groove that sounds like this: "whooka sh-sh thuuk thuuk, whooka sh-sh thuuk thuuk." (This phrase © 2007 Greg Scheer Music, ASCAP).

3) It turns out Greg is also the leader of our church's drum circle, which meets this week Thursday night. I can't wait. Now, I know all the jokes about drum circles and male bonding. After all, I went to grad school in the 90s. I know about Robert Bly and feminist backlash, the myth of Iron John (or Iron Ron) and the news stories that tell, in a chuckling sort of way, about male-bonding retreats: gangs of sweaty and hairy men, dragging their sons into the woods at astrologically propitious times to howl at the moon, tell stories of the hunt, and bang on goat-skin drums. But Greg tells me the church drum circle is not like that. Our drum skins are sheep, not goat.

Anyway how cool is it that our church has a drum circle? We are about as far from "alt" worship as you can find, but the last time I did a drum circle in church was in L.A., at a very emerging congregation called "Tribe." One of the unique things about Tribe is that when they worship on Sunday evenings, everyone gathers in a large circle in a dimly candle-lit room, and grabs a drum. (The worship leader is a professional percussionist).

Though there is a bit of an electronic keyboard providing some harmonic structure, it is the rhythm that channels and focuses the congregation's energy Godward as they drum and sing their praise and prayers and Psalms during the first 20 minutes of worship. It's visceral and different, and exactly right for this congregation. I don't know if I could do it every week, but it was pretty great a few times last year.

So thanks to Deb, I now own the drum. And thanks to Bob and Greg and others, I may someday own the groove. Right now, I'm enjoying just leasing it.

Catching Cold, Catching Up

2007-01-11T06:36:00.000-05:00

It's not surprising that over the holidays the whole family fell prey to whatever flu-like illness is going around this year. Once the pressures of school and work let up, our bodies' immune systems pretty much collapsed without the constant adrenaline reinforcement. (Skeptical? Here comes the science). It lasted 24 hours for me, a bit longer for the kids, and a stubborn strain laid Debra low two separate times, leaving her weak during the intervening week. Thankfully, after a massive surge of homemade turkey soup, emergenC, and prayers for healing, it appears as though we've finally got the bugs on the run. And so, time to once again blog instead of bluurgh.

While not being sick these past weeks, various members of the family enjoyed doing typically seasonal things -- including a visit to the reindeer at Meijer gardens, a wonderful Christmas worship service at CoS, a gourmet meal prepared by my nuclear radiologist brother-in-law, lots of fun conversations with uncles and aunts, an afternoon of bowling with cousins (it would have been sledding, except for, well, global less-cooling, I suppose), and the sorry embarrassment that was the Rose Bowl on New Year's Day.

Of course, there was also our only moderately reluctant ritual participation in the pagan Santa cycle of acquisition/consumption/disposal (thanks, Dell deChant). It yielded a Lego Star Wars ship for the boys, an iPod Nano for Mia (see her next year depicted here), a book of Roz Chast cartoons for Deb, and a Kalimantan mahogany djembe for me.

We can hope that by doing our dharmic duty we have once again appeased the gods of the Economy. But I'm not taking any chances when it comes to divine retribution: I'm playing my djembe in church on Sunday. That way, I sound my gratitude to the God of the Universe with the instrument of my placation to the god of the economy. If either is the appeasing kind, that should do the trick. Don't know how Deb and the kids can swing something like that with their gifts. Let's hope they don't incur some sort of punishment. Like getting sick.

Food Art

2006-12-21T16:33:00.000-05:00

Others make beautiful truffles. But come Christmastime, me and my son, we prefer fudge.

And the best part -- at least artistically, if not gastronomically -- is greasing the pans with butter.

The Ghost of Christmas Pluperfect Subjunctive

2006-12-13T12:02:00.000-05:00

In Dickens’ classic A Christmas Carol, Ebeneezer Scrooge is visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future -- ghosts revealing to him what once was, what now is, and what will soon be. As a result of his encounters with these yuletide apparitions, Ebeneezer turns from his miserly ways and determines to live life differently from that day forward.

At this time of year, as much as I enjoy Dickens and the numerous TV and film adaptations of his short story (kinda prefer the George C. Scott version), my preferred holiday haunting comes not from the ghosts of past, present or future, but from the angel Clarence, from Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life, or as I consider him, the Ghost of Christmas Pluperfect Subjunctive.

Clarence gives the movie’s protagonist, George (who is having a very, very bad day), a “great gift”: an imaginative exercise in the pluperfect tense (past completed action), subjunctive mood (contingency or hypothesis). George gets to see what the world would have been like if he had not been born.

Deb and I love this movie, but we haven’t seen it in a few years because the kids are often around when we watch something on the tube, and we don’t want them to see it just yet. We think you need a little more wear on life’s tires before you can really appreciate Capra’s message. You have to have lived awhile with some precious dreams, and some dreams deferred. You have to have seen some tragedy up close, and some tragedy averted. You have to have stood up for what’s right when it cost you something. You have to know the love of family, and of loyal friends. You have to have had some very, very bad days.

The kids aren’t there yet.

But we are.

I think it’s fitting, especially during this season of reflection, to spend some time following George’s path of wonder. I don’t usually go so far as to consider the state of my hometown in my absence (let alone a broader world -- I can’t imagine things would be much different), but simply to consider my own life and the choices I’ve made, and to imagine my life:

if I had joined choir instead of orchestra in junior high
if I had been a better friend to Craig in college
if I had continued working in advertising instead of going to seminary
if I had let someone else teach my kids to read
if I had studied Latin in high school (sigh)
if I had prayed more each day
if I had prayed less each day

A small choice here, a tweak there, and the trajectory of one’s life changes altogether. I can imagine an alternate universe – one in some ways perhaps better than the one I’m in now, and in other ways quite a bit worse.

The exercise is tinged with some regret, but as I look at the particular path I’ve walked these 40-odd years, with its adventures and accomplishments, its sorrows and celebrations, I mostly agree with Clarence: it’s a wonderful life.

You Make Me Happy, Snow!

2006-12-05T08:49:00.000-05:00

I just got back from dropping Pip off at the bus stop. Though it is reasonably cold right now (21 degrees), and we had been waiting 10 minutes for the bus to come, we were both disappointed when we saw it round the corner and head down the street in our direction. We were having too much fun.

Remember that Pip hasn't seen snow in something like three years. Already in October he was asking me "Dad, when is it going to snow? I want to see snow again!" Well, he got his wish this past weekend -- and then some. The kids had their first snow day of the school year on Friday. They went sledding that day and again Sunday afternoon with our friends the Muyskens.

Then this morning at breakfast he asked me about icicles. That led us into a conversation about snow being water that has crystalized. (Crystals, apparently, are inherently cool to 2nd graders). He'd heard elsewhere that each snowflake is unique. And of course, he's done the kindergarten scissors & paper decorative snowflakes. But nothing prepared him for an up-close look the real thing on its own terms. And today the conditions were perfect: the snow was falling delicately from the sky, and it rested gently on our gloves and coats in single flakes and small clumps, where it practically posed, inviting close inspection, admiration, wonder. Pip was flabbergasted at the beauty and complexity of this stuff that we blithely trudge around in and stomp off our boots when we come in the house.

"Wow! It's got so many points!" he said. "It's so tiny! It's so beautiful!"

"Look at this one!" I'd say, and we'd look. "Oh! Look at this one!!!" he'd say -- and we'd look together, each of us sharing each little gift as God dropped it down.

It reminded me of a winter years ago, when little Miriam had just acquired language and was eagerly awaiting the first snowfall. The December day it came, we bundled her up, and then she went outside, skipping through the front yard and praising God with with a direct address full of delight and joy: "O snow! You make me happy, snow!"

Let's face it, snow is not always something you can appreciate when you're shoveling it, or driving in it, or even sledding on it. And I think my friend Kent is mostly right when he says that snow in Michigan is about as exciting as Tuesdays in Michigan. But this particular Tuesday morning, through the eyes of my youngest, I found it pretty exciting.

Rienstra Family Jumping the Shark?

2006-11-27T21:41:00.000-05:00

AP - Grand Rapids -- The Rienstra Family show, after many successful seasons, may finally be jumping the shark. As the children get older, the daily family cute-o-meter has been seeing a steady decline, despite compensatory gains in chore accomplishment, musical advancement, and political humor. Mia is now fully entering her cranky adolescence, and Jacob and Philip are growing in testiness (or testosterorneriness).

It was long ago that a toddling Pip asked for a hug by saying "Pweease?"...

...and even longer when a cuddly Jacob hid by climbing into his clothes cubby...

...and back in the mists of pre-history that Miriam put a stick in her mouth and asked Dad to play fetch on the beach.

So, in what some see as a desperate bid to recapture the prized 'grandma' demographic, we have been seeing more and more of next-door neighbor and Cute Overload poster boy, Nathan Williams. With his big brown-eyed wonder at the world, his precocious vocabulary, and his only-child forthrightness, he's become a regular and delightful visitor in the Rienstra household at playtime.

Whether this old ploy will work remains to be seen. The cultural consensus is that the classic family show, the Brady Bunch, jumped the shark when they brought onto the show the way-too-cute-next-door-neighbor Oliver. The same fate could await the Rienstras. Or they could go even further in their desperate bid for cuteness: rumors suggest that negotiations are currently underway for a permanent addition to the family -- a puppy.

Is that a dorsal fin I see in the water?

The Big Game

2006-11-17T16:34:00.000-05:00

We are pretty giddy with anticipation over here in U-M land, eager for the biggest of all big games tomorrow. We'll be heading to my folks' place to watch the game on his HighDef ginormous flat-screen TV. I'm tellin' ya, the detail you can see on that thing is unbelievable: you can make out individual blades of grass, the sweat hanging off a lineman's nose, the terror in Troy Smith's eyes. I can't wait to see the color of the lipstick on the Buckette the 10th row up as she yelps in dismay when Mario breaks the long one, and to count the number of ice cubes in the cooler as they pour its over Carr's victorious shoulders at the close of the game.

My brother will be joining us. He lives in Illinois, but is he a Meeeechigan fan? His AOL name is Wolverienstra. I was thinking of him yesterday as I read a really good article from
Slate on the game. At this quote in particular, I was quite sure Johnny ghost-wrote the whole thing:

Buckeye fans are probably counting on Troy Smith, a shoo-in for the Heisman at this point, working the same magic he used on Michigan the last two times he faced us. Don't count on it. The Wolverines' last defensive coordinator, who peed down the side of his leg every time he faced a mobile quarterback and whose name I cursed every morning when I awoke and every night when I went to bed, is finally gone. Our new coordinator plays a far more aggressive style.

I am not the sort of fan who remembers offensive and defensive coordinators, but Johnny could pretty much name the entire U of M coaching staff for the past 20 years.

And speaking of coaches, this afternoon, after the sad news of the passing of UM football coach Bo Schembechler, I received the following email, which I found altogether too funny not to post so that the rest of world can learn why I think my friend Todd Kleinhuizen is one of the funniest guys in the world.

O.K., Ron, tell me how you and the rest of the Wolverine nation managed to orchestrate Bo Schembechler's death on the eve of THE BIGGEST OSU/UM match up ever?

If ever the stage was set for a story-book game, the stuff of which hoary college football legends are made, this is it.

Imagine this scenario: Michigan leads by two points with a couple ticks remaining. The Buckeyes are lined up for a very makeable 32 yard field goal to win. The kick is up ... suddenly, an inexplicable zephyr puffs across the field pushing the kick ... just ...the tiniest bit ... WIDE!!!

Pandemonium ensues. The Michigan victory will be credited to the intervention of Bo's spirit wafting that pigskin away from the uprights. From then on, whenever Michigan faces a critical field goal attempt from an opponent, the Michigan faithful will solemnly chant: "Oh, Bo ..., Oh, BO!" seeking his benevolent intercession from beyond as on that fateful November 18, 2006.

GO BLUE!!!

Grandma

2006-11-14T12:52:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, after a long illness, Thedford Dirkse, the husband of my maternal grandmother ("Great Ted," the kids called him), joined the Church triumphant.

The days surrounding his death I spent with family -- especially with my Grandma. The funeral was really quite good (a solid sermon, a comforting prayer, and dixie-land trumpet playing "When the Saints Come Marching In"). And there was something fitting about the cold fall day we interred his body; after the morning ceremony, I worked the rest of the day in the yard, putting other things in the ground in hope of new life in the not-so-distant future.

We know God works all things for good -- and one good thing to come from Ted's death is that we are spending lots of time these days with Grandma. She comes for dinner at least once a week, and we get to see her some weekends, too. She is a lively conversationalist, a wise and godly woman, and she enjoys rather than shuns the sometimes...shall we say... vigorous sociability of the children.

I was thinking about what a great woman she is when I remembered a piece Debra wrote 15 years ago (the last time I was in grad school!) for a Princeton Seminary community publication called Testament. It's about grandmothers -- Debra's own, and the two she inherited when she married me. I looked it up in our files, and thought it deserved to see the light of day again, in honor of one great Grandma. (Click on the thumbnails for a readable size .jpg file.)

My one ambition for my old age is to be a church lady. Not the kind who has turned bitter, complaining, and judgmental, but the kind who has grown nearer to wisdom and peace. I will be the lady in the same pew (or whatever we sit on by then) every Sunday, and I'll know all the little kids' names. I'll show up at the potlucks and volunteer to tutor the neighborhood kids. I'll sing loudly even though the people standing around me will secretly wish I had retired my voice years ago. Mostly I will pray, pray for people even when they haven't asked for prayer.
-- Debra Rienstra, So Much More, p. 181

Amo Augustinum

2006-11-10T09:59:00.000-05:00

OK, it's kind of a pain learning another language at my advanced age, but as I'm studying for my Latin exam (the last step before I take my comprehensive exams), I'm realizing some interesting things. Among them: Augustine was a pretty fair writer.

Here's a choice couple sentences from the Confessions III.i

Veni Carthaginem et circumstrepebat me undique sartago flagitiosorum amorum. Nondum amabam et amare amabam et secretiore indigentia oderam me minus indigentem.

Even if you even if you wouldn't know an imperfect indicative if it bit your nose; even if you don't catch the subtle pun between Carthago (Carthage) and sartago (frying pan); even if you don't really understand what he's saying, even after you've translated it,* it's still undeniably cool word-work.

And I'm just geeky enough to think it's pretty cool that I'm learning to appreciate some 1600-year old rhetorical artistry -- artistry and appreciation both offered in service of the one God who is, according to the Bible, Love.

*Literal: I came to Carthage, and (there) crackled on on all sides of me a cauldron of shameful loves. I did not yet love, but I loved to love, and (from) a secret want, I hated myself wanting little.

Less literal: I came to Carthage, and on on all sides of me frizzled a frying pan of shameful loves. I was not yet in love, but I was in love with love; and (from) a secret want, I hated myself in want of wanting.

OR ... from a hidden hunger, I hated myself for my small hungering.

Carving our favorites

2006-10-30T21:34:00.000-05:00

The boys designed and carved their own Jack-O-Lanterns this week in anticipation of tomorrow's festivities.

Miriam had lots of homework to do, and so didn't participate; but she found pleasure later on in her own sort of carving.