What does it mean?
Holy Fools
I believe in purgatory, as should anyone who passed through junior high. Seventh grade, I believe, and I was on the basketball squad. I didn’t play much, only at the end of games when we were behind so far that there was nothing for the scrubs to screw up. I was tubby and uncoordinated, not the best year of my life. We were playing Reicher, the Catholic school where all the guys were at least a foot taller, had hair in all the right places and seemed oh, so incredibly cool.
Thirty minutes or so before game time, I walked in front of a small cadre of Reicher toughs. Nerve-wracking, let me say. Intimidation. I wore my green and white uniform, too tight, too short, too polyester. I was directly in front of them when I heard: “There goes Santa Claus.” Followed by lots of snickering and chuckles.
I kept walking, exposed, like a fish flopping on the beach while everyone gathers round and points. It was the gym shower-scene every boy fears, only it was out in the open, with total strangers.
We all have a story like this. The fear of being foolish, of being mocked or scoffed or dismissed, taunts most of us. For my boys, it shows up strong the first few weeks of school. They are desperate to go chameleon and blend, just blend. One of our boys has become obsessed, when in public, about whether or not his hair sticks up. This, the boy that would go weeks without showering if we’d let him. Somewhere in his elementary-school world, he’s been told that hair sticking up is totally not cool, foolish.
Later, our tactics to keep from ever appearing foolish grow more sophisticated. We become snarky or sarcastic, knowing that if we make others seem foolish, the light never turns on us. Or perhaps we grow distant and aloof because, if we never show desire or passion (nothing that would get us noticed), then there is nothing for others to ridicule. Some of us choose our words with impeccable care. Some of us spend many of our waking hours gulping down shame. Some of us are crass, mean and cold. Our words slice others up. Everyone supposes we are the rocks, the ones who even though we’re SOBs are exceptionally self-assured. But if anyone could see, they’d know we’re shivering inside, a flopping fish stuck in junior high.
This must be why I like so many characters in the Bible who come across as brazen, unashamed holy fools. Peter, David, Mary Magdalene, just to name a few. They cried and ranted and slept with the wrong women and stormed off and were generous to a fault and unleashed fits of rage and joy that were in every way unseemly. If you’re looking for models for careful, calculated un-foolishness, look elsewhere.
But, they loved. Oh, how they loved. And they lived. And God called them friends. Proverbs rejects “the fool.” However, for the wisdom writer, the fool is the one who arrogantly stands apart from God, detached and wooden (but entirely “together”). The ones who stumble toward God, awkward and a screw-up and forever on the verge of making a scene – that person is beautifully foolish and God’s friend.
Buechner put it well, “If the world has never lacked for damned fools, it has never lacked for holy fools either.” I should hope not.
Let it loose, I say. Live wide-open. Live. Foolishness is underrated.
Turks of Finance
This past weekend, we had a yard sale, clearing out a few closets and trying to unload a mish-mash of, uhm treasures, on unsuspecting neighbors. It took a bit of coaxing to convince Wyatt and Seth to relinquish a small collection of busted cars and forgotten stuffed animals. These toys were all buried in the dark recesses of their room, places where even an OCD-for-clean mother dares not roam (I’m not saying we have one of those in our house – just a literary image, work with me); but as soon as they caught wind of the fact that they would no longer own these tattered items they didn’t remember they had, you’d have thought we suggested they abandon their closest, dearest friend to a life of misery and pain. How could we…?
Their disbelief at our cold-hearted ways did an about-face, however, the moment they saw the possibilities. They concocted a scheme. Rather than contributing to the family pot like the rest of us, they would keep the proceeds from their items. I’m not sure how Miska and I let that one sneak by, we’re still piecing that together. But now, finding stuff to sell was no longer a problem. They would have sold one another if they could have figured out how.
Next, the boys talked Miska into a lemonade and cookie stand. Lemonade Miska and I paid for, cookies Miska made. And the two young titans informed us that, if we cared to taste either, we were more than welcome to make a purchase. We could even charge it, if cash were a problem.
That afternoon after we finished, Wyatt and Seth were flush with capitalistic visions. And Wyatt wanted to share.
Wyatt: I know something a little bit good.
Me: What’s that?
Wyatt: When you guys die – well, its not good that you will die – but when you guys die, Seth and me are going to inhale a lot of money.
Miska: Do you mean inherit?
Wyatt: Yeah, we are going to inherit a lot of money. We’re going to have a big sale with all your stuff. And we are going to make a lot of money… like $200!
Two Benjamin Franklins, that’s it. And maybe the cost of a lemonade and chocolate chip cookie tossed in, just to be generous.
ViralHope
A bit ago, I mentioned ViralHope which I contributed a chapter to. Here is a video short created by Aaron Nee (of the Brothers Nee, writers/directors/producers of The Last Romantic). The words come from one of the chapters. If you haven’t snagged a copy, consider it.
Writing Notes
The past couple weeks, I’ve had a fresh burst of writing energy toward a new book project (coy look interjected here). I haven’t felt this writing vigor for a while, and I receive the gift with open arms.
But today, once again, I’ve come up blank. Zilch. Nada.
Amid the vast blankness, I’ve been handed time to think again about this maddening art I love. My cursor over on my other page sits there, blinking at me, taunting me – so I defiantly move over here to write down what I want to remember – and, if you are a writer, what I hope you’ll remember.
//surrender the quest for brilliance//
Most writers I know have flashing visions of receiving that gold-embossed envelope (okay, I have no idea if it is actually gold-embossed but that’s the way I conjure the moment) acknowledging, with accompanying accolades, that we have won the National Book Award. However, most of my fantasies are slightly less ambitious (but only slightly). I’d like to receive a phone call from my editor, breathless, over this masterful prose of mine she has just read, singularly unlike the work from any of her other vagabond writers. I’d like for The New Yorker to get in line behind The Atlantic, wrangling to publish this writer (me) who, “writes with unparalleled grit and beauty – a new literary light.” (And, yes, they are free to use my quote)
Dreams are fine things; I’m a fan. However, something gets twisted when we aim to write words that are monumental. Most of life is plain, simple, and most writers are plain, simple people. Our job is to give away what we have. Most days, that’s going to be a little trace of life, a whiff of love. A story here. A question there. Maybe we will stumble upon something that opens up new terrain, or maybe we will just stumble. Whichever, our writing must be true. If we aim for brilliance, chances are we will only create dull fabrications – because most of our days (and most of our words) are not brilliant but ordinary.
We can hope for brilliance – that’s a good hope, I think. But we do best to shoot for truthfulness and the hard work of simple, elegant craft – and then hold it out to the world with an open hand.
//read…but not like that//
Every writing advice I’ve ever seen says that writers should first be readers. True enough. However, we are tempted to read with a critical eye, comparing someone else’s skill to ours. This is all the truer when we face the deep abyss of our own lackluster writing, sitting there with nothing but the reminder of someone else’s “genius.”
Here’s the deal: every book you read, every article or blog post is not an indictment against you (but this blog post is, definitely). Seriously, we can’t read others through the eyes of what their work says about us. We have to move through our jealousy over others’ successes. Who can say why they succeed and we don’t. Or why they turn a sharp phrase or have such an amazing quick wit or are so freakin’ remarkable. Maybe they’re just a better writer. Maybe the timing was right for them. Maybe the Green Publishing Goblins just have it out for you, and you will always and forever be screwed (well, probably not that).
None of that matters. Really. Though the Amazon rankings suggest different, we are actually on the same team. We are all artisans of beauty, truth and goodness. And, God knows, our world needs all the beauty it can get. Thank the cosmic muse for every good word that finds it way free. And pray that here and there, along the way, you set a few free as well. I bet you will.
//yeah, that//
Cliche alert: Writing is hard work. Annoying, I know. Book club legend has it that Cormac Mcarthy wrote The Road in a single sitting. I doubt it, though that would explain the whole no punctuation thing – the man was in a hurry. (And if it is true, and McCarthy did write The Road all at once, first draft, forget my previous paragraphs – Cormac is a grade-A literary punk and I hope he rots in the very, very bad place for…ever.)
I feel like there’s much more to say here, but “hard work” pretty much sums it up. And my editors have always told me “less, not more.”
All the Football Craziness
I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned football here – or any sport topic for that matter. But a little bit of Winn-trivia: I’m a big college football fan. I’m Texan, what can I say? All this chatter about the demise of the Big XII brings back nightmarish memories of when the Southwest Conference crumbled. And if you know nothing of this dark day, simply let me say – those were days when giants walked the land.
The most probable endgame scenarios I’ve read leave Baylor and their Golden Wave Marching Band out in the cold. The one kid completely left behind. It’s a sad tale for the little university that could. Baylor is in Waco, Texas, my hometown. I spent many a Saturday at Floyd Casey Stadium hoping against hope for the Bears. I spent many a Saturday dejected and disappointed. Many.
Baylor is a Baptist university. It’s relatively small. It has a cuddly Bear for a mascot. The administration didn’t allow students to dance there until 1996. They’ve always had a couple strikes against them.
A few articles and favorite lines:
On whether Baylor’s Baptist affiliation will hurt them finding a new conference:
“The last time we checked, the Baptists still scored six points when the ball crossed the goal line,” said Lori Fogelman, a spokeswoman for Baylor.
//Yes, six points are the same. Only, no touchdown jigs that shake anything below the waist.//
“Pac-10 always has been allergic to Brigham Young, another church-based school,” one sports writer said. “A Baptist friend of mine says Baylor actually is quite liberal in Baptist eyes, but I don’t think that’s a concept Berkeley recognizes, liberal Baptist.”
//Yeah, probably not.//
And then a piece from Joe Posnanski on how the football conferences are built for ratings and dollars, end of story. Greed, says Posanski, birthed the Big XII and will end up killing it.
The conference was built for television sets. And Texas had the most television sets.
//All fine and good – so long as we all are clear that Texas has the most.//
Healthcare for Dummies
Miska has endured foot pain for a couple months now. Multiple appointments (and shots with very large needles) later, they’ve scheduled her for an MRI. We have a high-deductible insurance plan, and so we will be responsible to foot (sorry) the bill. Of course, this means I want to know how much it will cost. How much do I need to come up with by next Tuesday? Sounds reasonable, wouldn’t you think?
However, after three phone conversations, no one – no one – can tell me what the charge will be. I understand when it comes to the results that they can’t say with 100% certainty if a red tea detox for weight loss will work, because a treatment result can vary, but how on earth the price can be uncertain is beyond me. How could they have no idea the price of a treatment they are proposing. In the words of the last agent I spoke with, “We can’t follow that paper trail. It goes too far.”
Can you imagine anyone doing business with a Chevy dealer who said, “Just sign the contract. We’ll tell you in a couple weeks, after you’re home and have already put the first ding in your fender, what you owe us.” Nothing good could come of such an arrangement, other than a fatter paycheck for Mr. Car Dealer.
I’m no economist (really), but I have enough brain noodles to know that this scenario has inflated prices written all over it. If I have no incentive to watch out for my costs and (more unbelievable) if medical providers have no responsibility to tell me what in the sweet name of Mary I’m going to be charged for something, no wonder my insurance rates go up 20% a year.
The next time I receive an insurance premium bill, I’m going to write them back: “Just keep providing me insurance. I’ll tell you in a few months what I’m actually going to pay.”
Among the Paparazzi
Amazing who you run into during international travel.
Obama seemed a little thinner than I imagined.
England in Review
Saturday night, Miska and I returned from a wonderful week in England. We’ve both been to other spots in Europe, but never England – and both of us have long had a strong connection to things English: Miska with her Victorian writers and her fetish for scones and tea, me with my love affair with Oxford and fascination with European history. Thanks to a better than expected tax refund and the kindness of our friends Cory and Juli to watch the boys, we skipped over the pond for six fabulous days.
We spent most of our time in London, and I love this city. I could live there. Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Parliament on the Thames and Big Ben and the parks – oh, the parks! St. James Park and Hyde Park and Green Park. Hyde Park was my favorite, bliss. They have a little path in the park called “Lover’s Walk.” Of course, Miska and I had to take a stroll. We were pretty cute, if you ask me.
My favorite moment was probably lunch at Eagle and Child on our day trip to Oxford. This, of course, is the spot where the Inklings (Tolkien, Lewis and co.) met each Tuesday morning for more than 25 years to discuss their writing, ideas and politics. With their ale and their pipes, they ventured into friendship and conversation in their little pub (which they nicknamed The Bird and the Baby). We lunched in their favorite spot, in the Rabbit Room, at the very corner where they sat. I’m a sucker for such things. It was great.
We also enjoyed a private tour of the Kilns, Lewis’ home where he penned Narnia and where he and his brother Warren smoked so much the walls turned to solid black. Apparently, before Joy arrived to bring a womanly touch to the house, the Lewis brothers would pour their ashes into the rugs and stomp them in, insisting that it kept the beetles away.
I appreciate the way several of the curio owners at the Portobello Market (known in the U.S. because of the movie Knotting Hill), simply closed up shop for lunch. Amid all the potential customers and potential profits, they paused for a sandwich and a banana and a cup of coffee. I like that. I enjoyed the civility we experienced on the Tube (their subway). I was fascinated watching their election unfold, with their first coalition government since World War II (we were at 10 Downing Street on the historic day). Mostly, I was grateful for my wife Miska and the joy of sharing life and new experiences with her.
Good travels, a good week.
Giving Away a Copy of ViralHope
Ecclesia Press has just launched with its inaugural title, ViralHope: Good News from the Urbs to the Burbs
I have a copy to give away. Per the usual, we’ll do it with a drawing. The drawing will close Saturday at midnight. To enter, simply post a comment and give us three words that come to mind for you when you think of or hope for the gospel. If Jesus’ gospel isn’t something you buy into, then give us three words that, for you, would represent good news for our world.
Also, please check back to the comments section to see if you’ve won – our previous two winners never passed along their mailing information.