An Interesting So-Cal Development

There seems to be a strange new equivalence in the conservative Evangelical mind between those beliefs and practices that seem “Catholic” and those beliefs and practices that seem “Emergent”.  I find this quite funny, and a bit odd.   I’m tempted to think that perhaps this stems from an inability to form more than one mental category in which to place seeming heresy.  Thus the emergent church, an explicitly non-authoritarian, non-sacramental, even postmodern brand of Christianity becomes lumped in with the authority-heavy, mystic-sacramental, premodern practices of the early Church.  I’m not sure how to address this.  Surely the emergent church is broadly to the left of the Conservative Evangelical church and apostolic Christianity is broadly to the right, thus garnering for both the label of “off-center”, but beyond that I can’t understand the association.

Maybe I don’t understand the Emergent Church enough.  This could be my own lack of research, but I wonder if it’s also a fault on the part of McLaren, Jones, and others to sufficiently explain what in the world they’re trying to do with the church.  I’ve heard vague language about “getting back to new testament Christianity”, but I’m not sure what this means.  If they mean “the church structure and doctrinal emphasis of Ignatius of Antioch”, then the current Evangelical descryers are right about the Catholic/Emergent identification.  But I’m pretty sure that this is not what our friendly neighborhood Emerges mean.

So, what’s a Christian to think?

Fashion?

The question of fashion is an interesting one, especially for the Christian who is wary of the pride and vanity that often accompany physical adornment. Yet I am becoming convinced that as people who have physical bodies, we’re deceiving ourselves if we don’t give any thought to how we dress our bodies. Take, for instance, this article which appeared in the New York Times today:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/02/fashion/shows/02fash.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all

The article tackles the strange place of fashion in the public consciousness, and the special hostility toward fashion conscious in the halls of academica and the world of politics. Guy Trebay takes a different stance than those who would denigrate fashion to a superfluity as he quotes Muiccia Prada and elborates:

‘”Even when people don’t have anything,” Ms. Prada said, “they have their bodies and their clothes.” They have their identities, that is, assembled during the profound daily ritual of clothing oneself’

Now, surely, as Christians we could remind Mr. Trebay that our identity is found in Christ, not in what we wear. Yet I find it interesting that Paul uses clothing metaphors when speaking of our relationship with Christ. We are “robed in Christ’s righteouness”. Forgetting what this implies concerning imputed-righteousness, notice that Paul here and elsewhere resorts to physical metaphor to speak of metaphysical realities. Of course, it is possible that Paul is being quite literal when he says we are “in Christ”. Either way, the body and its attributes seem quite vital in the understanding of any sort of relational or communicative interactions.

We do communicate with what clothes us. Condemn them for it if you will, but most people (all people?) form their first beliefs about us based on their physical sight of us. And condemn yourself, but you often dress with this in mind. Yet perhaps when most dress, they do it in much the same way that a six year old paints. They have a general intuition of what they want to paint (are all children representationalists?) and they paint it in shaky-handed smears. We do this with our dress. We do not know the nuances of dress, nor do we have the patience to practice those skills of manner and subtlety that are required for the art of dressing well.

I have not yet said that these things are good. I have only said that we do not have them. Should we? Mr. Trebay assumes that his readership cares about high art. He attempts to convince them that fashion can be legitimate high art. Christians are not yet convinced that art is worth caring about. I do not have the time and talent to convince my audience of such a thing.  A look into the essays of Dorothy Sayers or Flannery O’Connor will soon show a discerning reader that artistry and creativity are not only worthwhile for a Christian, but perhaps the most essential Christian activities of all. Sayers says that we are most like God when we create. O’Connor warns us that art must first be high quality art before it can be called Christian art.  Jehova is not the God of shoddy jobs.

If one comes even to the point of believing these two empresses of 20th century letters, one may still be unconvinced that actaully knowing about high fashion is important. Is it not a better thing to wear clothing that proclaims Christ? How about a “Got Jesus?” shirt? Is that not the most direct way of using our clothing to serve God in a creative, culture savvy way?

Beyond the obvious answer to this question, I think that those who see t-shirt-slogans as the most creative and Christian sort of apparel for the gentleman or lady are falling into a two-fold folly. First of all, it is very interesting to me that Christians, especially protestants, are very quick to turn everything into a book.  For some reason protestants have got it into their head that Christ can only, or at least should primarily, be proclaimed verbally. When someone says that we should proclaim Christ with what we wear, we assume it to mean that we need to have the word “Christ” on our clothes. Does this seem a little elementary? Perhaps. Christ, I believe, is proclaimed more through a well fitting suit than He is through His Name on a shirt.

Why? Well, this leads me to the second pitfall of the Jesus-shirt people. For some reason we have fogotten about tradition. Forget for a second the high-churches or liturgy. Think about the history of painting. It would be unfortunate for a painter to go through his whole life without knowing about Rembrandt, about Caravaggio, about Monet, even Hokusai or Picasso. This painter would have paint, but not know how to use it to the best of its ability. We are like this with clothes. If you do not know how to wear a suit, gentlemen, you are choosing through ignorance or will to ignore a resource and skill that men have been using for centuries to creatively express and interact. We all have a failing grade in fashion history, and it deeply retards our ability to glorify Christ though how we dress.

When a suit fits perfectly, when a hat is tipped in gentility, when a sweeping skirt twirls on a dancefloor, when a high-heel’s arching bow creates a seeming vault of sky for a woman to walk atop, it is then that God is glorified in our dress, then that, for a moment, we can see, even from an initial glance, the image of God accentuated and made manifest in our own feeble attempts at entering into that most holy of activities–creation.

Sonnet

So, I realized that I invited others to write but didn’t sow any of my own!
Here’s the poem that spawned the Golden sonnet idea. The last two stanzas make up the sort of construction I wrote about in my previous post.

Fibbonnaci and the Golden Sonnet

You are
fire and

earth

and space is
interval
between things–

the strings
of earth.

I have tried to put
words to things to see
table, star, and face
reveal their faces
in the space of speech,

yet think on
how they hum
without words.

This sonnet is the lyric to
the pre-found pulsing in all things,
that pre-plucked chorus of six strings
of Christ, face, table, stars, me, you.
What strains of music, old or new,
Adventure seeks, what space she brings
in dreams or backpacks, what she sings
to match earth’s music she once knew

at morning–dew-start;
she dawned and tarried
in a humming heart;
her fire harried
earth. It fell apart.

Golden Sonnets!

I know, you were expecting a brilliant post about Ecumenicism, or perhaps Harry Potter.  Don’t worry, they’re on their way.  More important, however, than Harry Potter (but not more so than the Church) is the subject of this post.

I invented a new kind of sonnet the other day.  Well, discovered is more the correct word, and I was aided by my marvelous friend Hope in the discovery.  What, you may ask, is a golden sonnet? Well, as most people who have ever been in high school learned and then promptly forgot, a sonnet is a 14 line poem which is usually in pentameter with some sort of rhyme scheme.

While reflecting on the Fibonacci sequence of numbers, I  realized that a sonnet closely mirrors the 8 to 5 ratio in the sequence. Most sonnets (check out any of Petrarch’s or Shakespeare’s) are broken up into two sections, the first 8 lines long, the second 6.  If one is to reduce the final stanza to 5 lines, the division between the two stanzas is right on the golden ratio, 8 to 5, which comes out to 1.6ish, and has, if one looks into it, lots of strange and uncanny properties (Most basically, the ratio of 13 to 8 is relatively the same as that of 8 to 5).

I’ve decided to write sonnets that are based on this ratio in two ways: first, they will consists of two stanzas, one 8 lines long, the other 5 lines long.  Second, each of the first 8 lines will be 8 syllables long, and each of the last 5 will be 5 syllables long, thus further accentuating the goldenness of the ratios.

So, my small handful of readers, try writing a golden sonnet!

“Wait” you may say, “what about the rhyme scheme?”  Well, you can use any that you’d like.  I’ve tried two: ABBAABBA CDCDC, and AABCCCDD EEFFF.  The first is Italian, the second a variation of my own design on the Fibonacci sequence.  I like the first better.  Then again, you can try Shakespearean, or even none at all!

Happy writing!

Traveling Through the Dark

I work for a wonderful worldview camp called Emmaus Forum, and this last week, I spent 5 days discussing poetry with high schoolers. It was loads of literary fun, especially our discussion of William Stafford’s “Traveling through the Dark”, a rather widely anthologised poem which some have called too popular. I think it’s a great one for beginning poetry readers because of its ostensible sadness and beauty layered over its deeper connections and profundity. The minute the students begin to see the connection between the car, the deer, Stafford, and themselves is a beautiful moment that every teacher of literature should witness if they have ever doubted poetry’s power.

Interestingly, such a sad poem has often prompted parody, including a subtle and delightful piece by Loren Goodman that appeared in Poetry in the July/August issue of 2005. My students had a wonderful time theorising about their own versions of parodies, an challenged me to write one. So here it goes:

Traveling back through the dark

Traveling back through the dark

It seems like I’ve been here before,

This tunnel of trees, this canyon yawning

To my left. I hit a deer here an hour ago.

I couldn’t leave it, heave it over the edge (I

threw out my back last year loading dead

Racoons into the back of a truck [dont ask])

Or shoot it, so I drove the lonely road to town

To get the vet. Dr. Clark says he’s seen this before,

that the baby can be delivered even hours after the

Mother’s departure. I hope for all of us; myself, the

mother, Dr. Clark. My headlights tell another tale,

A simple heroic couplet: Dying deer/ isn’t here.

But a man’s standing, with flashlight and notebook,

And are those tears in his eyes? He looks up at me in the glow

Of the headlights, red eyes flashing. I killed your deer, mister,

And all the world will think it wise.

The Error of Colloquialism

I love Eugene Peterson, I really do. His theological writing and Biblical paraphrase are not to be taken lightly nor unthoughtfully. So here’s some thoughts about modern langauge translations and paraphases of the Bible—they miss the point. I know, I know, the point of them is to put the Bible into the language of the people, just like Luther did, just like the KJV did when it was first published. It’s quite true that most people don’t speak King James’ English any more, except those brought up on that translation and Shakespeare’s plays. Yet even in these cases, there’s a disconnect in situational dialect–in prayer the KJV-phile employs “Bible English”; in the office he never does.

‘So’, Eugene Peterson and others thought, ‘let’s put the Bible in the language of the office, the language of the coffee-shop, even the language of the alley-bound cigarette break. Then people will read it! Then people will relate to it!’ You know, I think it worked. After all, why shouldn’t it work? If anyone has paid any attention to 20th and 21st century popular literature, one will see that those who read in our culture respond better to and buy more books written in the colloquilisms in which they speak. To the Baby Boomer customer who yawned at Dickens, Tennyson, Dostoevsky, and even Fitzgerald, the mid-20th century offered Kerouac, Salinger, or Heller. To the 20 and 30 something children of Boomers who think that the Beat generation was mostly unsanitary and that Jazz is a boring anachronism, bookstores like Borders now offers Weisberger chick-lit with its latte-swilling pop-profanity, or the postmodern, testosterone-laden satire of Copeland or Palahniuk. And to a new generation of the X-er’s waxing adolescents who aren’t allowed to read profane books (nor would they really enjoy them) there is the fantasy-lite of Rowling, who teeters between the neutered romance of a Disney Channel comedy and a hackneyed neo-classicism.

My treatment of literary ‘generational’ changes from Dostoevsky to Kerouac to Weisberger may seem to some unfair, and I fully acknowledge that The Devil Wears Prada is not the best literature to be released in the last few years, but all of these books, I think, have occupied the same place in literature in their respective time periods, namely that of popular fiction. Kerouac doesn’t hold a candle to Dickens and Dostoevsky, neither does Palahniuk match the earlier brilliance of Kerouac. That popular literature is less polished, less thoughtful, and much more transitory today than in previous generations is almost itself an anachromism to say (which doesn’t, by the way, make it less true). Yet beyond the usual criticisms of today’s popular literature, I’d like to add that the english used in contemporary literature is more elementary and unstudied than in previous genrations. Take, for example, the opening line of last year’s best seller The Devil Wears Prada:

“The light hadn’t even officially turned green at the intersection of 17th and Broadway before an army of overconfident yellow cabs roared past the tiny deathtrap I was trying to navigate around the city streets.”

So begins the most loved of the new millenium’s stories about juicy social intrigues and the humor and horror of the upper class.

Now let’s back up. A little less than 200 years ago, another up and coming female author, a Weisberger of sorts in the early 19th century, published a novel that her generation was to love for its juicy social intrigues and satirical treatment of upper class snobbery. The novel was Pride and Prejudice, the author Jane Austen. Here’s how Austen begins her novel:

“It is a truth universally acknolwedged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

Let’s compare the two openings. First of all, Weisberger is writing in first person, Austen in third. This might seem inconsequential, yet it may show that in Austen’s time, an objective, removed narrator was seen as more trustworthy and desirable than the more subjective voice of a main character. Second, I’m not sure Weisberger’s opening makes sense. I had to read the final clause 5x over before I could begin to see what she was describing concerning the traffic. This, however, may just be a problem with me. Third, and, I think, most importantly, the intention of the two openings is different. Weisberger seems concerned with setting up a tone of voice. The phrase “hadn’t even officially turned…” is evocative of a sort of contemporarily feminine, 20-something ‘overspeak,’ where longer adjectives (seriously, literally, definitely, officially) are used as seemingly articulate (albeit unnecessary) flourishes of language. It seems that the content here is much less important that the way it is said. If one were to strip the sentence of flourishes, it would say something like “The stoplight had not turned green, yet the cabs drove through it past me as I tried too tried to drive successfully.” Yes, I know, I couldn’t help putting that adverb at the end, though I don’t think I’m committing ‘overspeak.’ Here, I think, Weisberger gambles. She bets that her audience either identifies with the type of language (exaggerated pop-cynicism and faux intellectualism) she writes in, or at least would see a character who speaks such language as

I said above that Austen’s opening was different than Weisbergers in intention. Whereas Weisberger’s intention is to describe an image in a tone revealing the age, attitude, and social status of her main character, Austen’s opening borders on a sort of “moral of the story” feel. It is written in straighforward, albeit articulate, english. The reader with soon find that the sentence sets the stage for a story that explores the truth-value of the opening claim. Is the truth universally acknowledged? By the behavior and speech of the characters, it may be debatable. Note that Austen’s use of the adverb is different than Weisbergers’. Whereas Weisberger uses her adverb to add exaggerational tone to her sentence, Austen uses her adverb as an important modifier which both intensifies and casts suspicion on the truth value of her statement. To say that a truth is acknowledged is neither as risky nor exciting as to say that a truth is universally acknowledged. It seems that Weisberger is not interested in universal truths nor universal acknowledgement, though it is a truth universally acknowledged by contemporary authors that universal truth is in want of any strong supporters.

Perhaps the poor use of adverbs and the sacrifice of meaning for tone is an isolated incident with Weisberger. Well, then lets leave the popular, chick-lit demographic, and look take a look at the male authors of today and yesteryear. I know that it’s popluar to make fun of The Da Vinci Code, and I don’t want to make fun of it, I want to look at its use of language. Here is the opening of Dan Brown’s bestseller:

“Robert Langdon awoke slowly. A telephone was ringing in the distance–a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Rennaisance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed, and a colossal, mahogany four-poster bed.”

Now let’s rewind a century to 1908, to another novel about detectives, academics, and supernatural mysteries. G.K. Chesterton opens his famous The Man Who Was Thursday like so:

“The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its skyline was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art.”

First, note the length of the sentences. I have quoted the first four by each author, and not until the fourth does Brown match the length of any of Chesterton’s. Now long lines are not the mark of a good author (any comparison of Melville and Hemingway might persuade some of just the opposite), but here it seems indicative of Brown’s inability to use adjectives well. How many adjectives are in Brown’s opening? If we stretch, we find 7: tinny, unfamiliar, bedside, plush, hand-frescoed, collosal and mahogany. How many adjectives are in Chesterton’s opening? There are 8, including: red, ragged, bright, fantastic, wild, speculative, artistic, and definable. Are Chesterton’s words better than Brown’s? I could say alot about this, but I’ll limit myself to this observation. Brown’s first two adjectival phrases are these: “tinny, unfamiliar ring”, and “plush, Renaissance bedroom”. The first is, admittedly, a bit novel. Tinny is a fun word to say, and pairing it with unfamiliar gives a variety to the types of adjectives in the phrase. The phrase itself, though not alliterative in any way, is mildly melodic in its sound. However, the second phase is dismal. It sounds ripped from a brochure for a 4-star hotel. Generic and plebian, it sounds like what a junior high student would write if asked to describe a nice bedroom from War and Peace.

Now lets look at Chesterton’s first two adjectival phrases: “as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset,” and “built of a bright brick throughout”. The first is downright beautiful in its sound and image. The superb consonance of “red and ragged” is matched only by its trochaic meteric structure. “Built of a bright brick throughout” takes the alliteration to a new level, finally releasing us from a string of ‘b’ sounds with ‘throughout’ which hooks back around and creates a subtle consonance with the ‘t’ ending of the first two words in the phrase. Chesterton is a master of the casual alliteration, creating accidental-feeling streams of sound (like the luscious “sunset side of London”) which ring in the ear and the remain in the mind. The closest Brown comes is the assonance of the three ‘i’ sounds in ‘tinny, unfamiliar ring’. Both books are popular thrillers written by men; one author dances with the english language and creates new semblances of sentence, the other flounders and throws out others’ phrases.

You may be asking yourself whether I’ve strayed too far from the point. But what is the point? The point has been that there is a reduction and simplification of language over the last two centuries in popular fiction. If I’m not mistaken, this trend is roughly proportional to the trend in the common English speaker’s vocabulary and usage. Which is responsible for which is an interesting and probably quite complex discussion. Chesterton seems to be able to greatly influence his reader’s vocabulary and usage, though it may be argued that this is only true for the 21st century audience. Perhaps all turn of the century Englishmen described Western London as the “sunset side,” and thought of all ruddy skies as “red and ragged.” Though the basic vocabulary of such a reader was perhaps greater than a contemporary reader’s, it would be befitting to note that Chesterton’s opening lines do not contain any words that would give the 21st century audience much trouble. The words ‘sunset’ and ‘side’ are not unknown to us, but the pairing of them is fresh and unfamiliar, just as the ring of Robert Langdon’s telephone is, ironically, not. It is this freshness that our language lacks, and which most often divides lasting wordsmiths from flash-in-the-pan fakes. It is my suspicion that The Man Who Was Thursday was just as surprising and mysterious in its diction and subject in 1908 as it is today. In fact, the seeming novelty of a spy novel with a “secret-code” mcguffen set in the world of Renaissance art is probably the only true virtue of Mr. Brown’s bestseller. Yet it is a seeming virtue. One look into Umberto Eco’s (or any of Sayers’ or Chesterton’s for that matter) novels will desensitize us to the magic of Da Vinci’s fictional, unbroken code.

And now we are ready to transition back to the subject of Biblical translation today. What language is like in novels and what language is like in common usage both influence each other, and both are taken into account when the ‘plain-English’ translator is preparing a Biblical text. Yet any 21st century teenager can tell you that when an adult (especially a bookish one) tries to mimic street slang, the result is most often comically way off the desired mark and sometimes a little sad. So it goes with some Biblical translations. Consider the NIV Revolution Bible: The Bible For Teen Guys. The inside flap of the Bible reads like this:

“In case you didn’t know, you’re in a war. Your enemy is dead serious. He wants you to think the battle raging around you is not big deal. It is a big deal. You relationships, your world—it’s all a big deal, and it takes a big, God-filled heart to make a difference. It’s time to stand up and fight for what is right. Time to be a revolutionary—living your faith on the edge, challenging thins that need to be challenged, discovering new possibilities, and helping others to discover them as well. Fill you hands with revolution. It’ll open your eyes, strengthen your courage, and guide you like a compass toward a life worth living. But this is a Bible! Yeah—a Bible like none other you’ve ever read, for today’s teenage guy going toe-to-toe with a hard-hitting world. A world God knows all about.”

This is an interesting introduction to a Bible desperately trying to be relevant. Beyond the subject matter and character qualities (battles, enemies, strength and courage) that this assumes will appeal to teenage guys, it is interesting that the author of these introductory comments assume that short, often fragmented sentences are more appealing to guys that longer, more complex sentences, or even complete sentences. This seems to be a case of audience dialect dictating author’s usage. But what this propagates is the assumption that we should talk about the bible using the language we already know and use—that religious discussion uses only the terms we’re already familiar with. Yet this seems to dampen the ability for religious discussion (notice we haven’t yet looked at the actual text of the Bible yet, just language about the Bible) to teach us anything new. Any schoolchild knows that the introduction of new vocabulary is an indication that new concepts and systems are on their educational way. No new vocabulary often means nothing to be learned (this is not always true; as we will discuss next, new combinations of well known words can be revelations as novel and effective as whole new words). This introduction, though it has the merit of perhaps making a young man interested in the Bible teaching him things, works against these future learning opportunities by its very linguistic construction.

But we must get to the actual scriptural text. Let’s look at two texts in four different translations. First, I want to look at Romans 8:37-39, the verbally intense conclusion to over 8 chapters of St. Paul’s complex Christological argumentation. Here’s the text in the King James version:

“Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Now, here’s that same text in the English Standard Version a new, 21st century translation that proclaims to hold the literal translation of the Greek text intact while offering a smoothness of reading at the same time:

“No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

A cursory comparison of these two passages, translated nearly 4 centuries apart, show a considerable shift in vocabulary and wording. ‘Nay’ is now ‘No’, ‘persuaded’ is swapped out for ‘sure,’ ‘principalities’ is now the simpler ‘rulers,’ and, curiously, ‘creatures,’ which looks strangely placed in the KJV, is retranslated ‘anything…in creation,’ this shows, perhaps, how the meaning of the word ‘creature’ was once construed more broadly than it is today. Now it could be argued (and many have) that any change from the KJV language other than is absolutely necessary for understanding (such as changes from ‘thou should’st’ to ‘you should’) is an unrighteous corruption. Yet such changes as the ‘creatures’ change seem appropriate, given the actual change in the scope of the word’s meaning in the intervening time (this assumes that words actually can change meaning; for the sake of time, I’ll assume that such a phenomenon is possible). The appropriateness of such changes as ‘principalities’ to ‘rulers’ is more debatable. From a purely linguistic standpoint, the latter word is simpler and differently derived than the former. Also, the meaning has changed some, if one assumes the ‘ruler’ no longer carries the connotation of ‘ontologically higher being’. Yet it might be injudicious of us to assume that shorter and less Latinate words are less preferable to others. Short words, such as ‘red and ragged,’ can carry punches and connotations that longer worded phrases, such as ‘crimson and corroded,’ may not. It is not, I think, unfair to say, however, that the language of the ESV is less sophisticated than the KJV, though even sophisticated English may not always be called better English. After all, it is one of the goals of all true literature to use language in the best ways possible. There is a way to use ‘cerulean’ well, and it should not eclipse the proper use of ‘blue’.

But now we must look at the two other translations of scripture, one of which is a full blown paraphrase of scripture, Peterson’s popular Message:

“None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us.”

Finally we have the New Life Version, a ‘contemporary English’ version, but less obviously paraphrased:

“But we have power over all these things through Jesus who loves us so much. For I know that nothing can keep us from the love of God. Death cannot! Life cannot! Angels cannot! Leaders cannot! Any other power cannot! Hard things now or in the future cannot! The world above or the world below cannot! Any other living thing cannot keep us away from the love of God which is ours through Christ Jesus our Lord.”

It is easy to see that this English is much more in line with today’s colloquialisms. From the use of words like “fazes” to the excessive use of exclamation points reminiscent of IM-speak, these translations overstep the simpler language of the ESV to the point of appearing a different dialect. The message goes as far as to change the whole meanings of phrases. Look at the last phrase in the KJV, ESV, and NLV. They read “the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord,” “the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord,” and “the love of God which is ours through Christ Jesus” respectively. All speak, with varying degrees of specificity of God’s love belonging to in Christ. Yet the Message does something interesting. It reads “God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us.” This is interesting not only in that ‘Lord’ has been changed to ‘Master’, but also in that the specific image of an embrace is used when none appears in any other translations. Now, given that this is a paraphrase, Peterson is allowed more leeway than a NASB translator would have, yet it is interesting that he has chosen this phrase as one that needs more specificity. The linguistic choice on Peterson’s part seems indicative of a contemporary poetics that favors concrete images over abstract relationships. “The love of God is ours in Christ” is harder to ‘see’ than “Our master has embraced us.”

Yet perhaps this poetics has eclipsed a greater one. After all, another large change that both Peterson and the NLV make is in the last clause of the first verse. The KJV and ESV both read “through him that/who loved us.” The Message reads “Jesus who loves us,” and the NLV “Jesus Who loves us so much”. Though the ‘so’ of the NLV is highly superfluous, there is a deeper difference here, namely the changing of ‘who’ to ‘Jesus.’ This difference may seem small, but it reveals another difference in poetics. From Homer to Dante, a common trope is the use of a vague noun or pronoun modified by a specific adjectival phrase to hint at, or give a different viewpoint of a person or thing more specifically named elsewhere. In The Iliad book 18, Homer chooses, having referred to Hephaestus many times earlier, refers to him in a new way when he says: “Now/ When the famous crippled Smith had finished off/ That grand array of armor…” Homer could have just said the god’s name instead of ‘famous crippled Smith”, but the strange mix of ambiguity and specificity gives us not only a new description of, but even a new, fresh vision of the character. Dante uses such tropes often. So often does he use them, in fact, that it is still unclear to this reader which star of all the multitudes he refers to when he writes phrases like ‘the star by which sailors guide their East-bound ships’. Such tropes force the reader to ask “who?” or “what?” of people and objects they thought that they already knew. To question what we have seen is to more deeply see it, and our language about it.

In fact, this concept–that linguistic defamiliarization is a powerful tool in helping an audience to see more clearly–is not in any way unique to epic poets of yeasteryear (though often they are our best tutors). Walter Brueggemann, when discussing the use of reduced, untilitarian language in preaching, says this:

” The issues facing the church and its preachers may be put this way: Is there another way to speak? Is there anoither voice to be voiced? Is there an alternative universe of discourse to be practiced that will struggle with the truth in ways unreduced? In the sermon–and in the life of the church nmore genrally I propose–we are to practice another way of comminication that makes another shaping of life possible; unembarrased about another rationality, not anxious about accomodating the reason of this age… Reduced speech leads to reduced lives. Sunday morning is the practice of a counter life through counter speech. The church on Sunday morning, or whenever it engages in its odd speech, may be the last place left in our society for imaginitive speech that permits poeple to enter into new worlds of faith and to participate in joyous, obedient life. “

It goes without saying that the earlier Bible for teen guys takes an opposite approach to Brueggemann’s. It is so anxious about accomodating at least the language of the age that it makes itself only relevant to the literarity nieve, linguistically unobservant teen of the last 5 years. In 5 years it will seem antiquated and laughable. I think the same could be said for much of the Message’s language. Already there are at least 2 versions of the message, one for the older generation, one for the hep teens. Jargon changes often; must scripture and our language about scripture change and continually mutate with it? Perhaps one could say that though this is true of the KJV’s diction as well, but I don’t think it is as much. The KJV’s wording has lasted for the greater part of 400 years without substantial changes in translation after translation, even by translators that are seemingly displeased with the KJV’s style and philosophy. it is hard to argue against the observation that the English language was more rich, vibrant and full in the several centries previous to our own than in our own. And it is this richness, this vibrant reality, this fullness that Biblical language must reclaim if it is to be the countercultural, life changing fource that Bruegemann says it should be. The Bible above all else should be respected as the Word of God by translating and quoting it in the best words that our language has for it. Much has been written about the unique literary style of Christ’s preaching. To reduce Christ’s words to their lowest synonyms is, it seems, nigh unto blasphemy. This does not mean that all words and phrases must be as complex as possible, but it does mean that the wordsmiths of the church (Bible translators, commentators, and preachers foremost) should give the Bible and the Christian religion the best our language has to offer. And, if Brueggemann is on to something, the further from the colloquial, maybe the better.

Yet we also have the strange job of shying away from not just culturally worn phrases, but also Christian-ly worn phrases. Some of the language unique to the Church has grown stale, and we need newness from this as well. But this should drive us to innovation and resource in English, not slouching toward slang. What we need is poetry in the church, which might just mean refocusing our eyes to see the poetry already around us. When William Stafford, the rural grandfather of mid-20th century American poetry, was asked how poetry could be introduced into worship services he answered:

“This one is easy. Church services are poetry from beginning to end; they just are poetry. A strange thing to me is that someone can come out of a church service and ask about whether poetry is flourishing today. They have been inside singing, praying, repeating cadenced uplifting words. They are helplessly enthralled by poetry without knowing it–that is, many of them do not know it. Religion is serious poetry–which is not to say religion cannot be lighthearted. But at its highest it turns important; and important involvement with language, use of language for significant human experiences, merges inevitably into poetry.”

If we are to care about relevance, let us care about being relevant to ’significant human experience’, not to the langauge of the unexamined life. In Bruegemann’s words, “The Bible is our firm guarantee that in a world of technological naivete and ideological reductionism, prophetic construals of another world are still possible, still worth doing, still longingly recieved by those who live at the edge of despair, resignation, and conformity.”  Language is an attribute that we share with our creator.  Sure, it is splintered; sure, it is sometimes untranslatable, but God’s word is not.  Let us not translate it poorly, or, which is more often, with incorrect intentions. God’s Word is to be universally understandable, but not because it is universally bland.  There are things in it that no man understands, and to translate so as to make it all understandable, with nothing to wrestle with, nothing to wonder at, nothing to shock us into life, is to do disservice to the Word which we hold dear.

Easy Tiger

This morning I was awakened by two things–the light through the crack in my shades and a deep desire for Ryan Adams.  I rose before my alarm, dressed, brushed my teeth, washed my eager ears, and set off to be the first to buy Easy Tiger at Target.  I think I was the first, and I hope to God I’m not the last.

Adams is often criticised for an inability to self edit, both personally and musically.  While I don’t know about the personal issue, I do agree that if Adams was a novelist, he’d have far too many chapters in his books.  Both when 2003’s Love is Hell and when 2005’s Cold Roses were released, I got the distinct feeling that Adams was more concerned with number of discs he release than the continuous quality of those songs.  Don’t get me wrong, I love both albums, but they could have stood for some snips and cuts.  Then again, I prefer literature that is sparse and to the point–Dickinson seems to me more palatable than Dickens.

This being said, Easy Tiger does not suffer from the oft-plaguing lack of editing present in Adam’s previous work.  Every song of this 13 track album flows, fits, and flirts with the beauty of love and the depression of failiure.  Gone are the honky-tonk drinking ditties of Jacksonville City Nights, gone, for the most part, too are the epic swells of Cold Roses.  In their place are more matured, folk-founded acoustic sets reminiscent of Demolition, even Heartbreaker.  Adams’ knack for startlingly beautiful melodies and riffs, so spotty on his last 4 albums  are front and center on Easy Tiger.

Adams is still sad on this album, but his discontent seems less driven by the immediacy of romantic heartbreak and more from adeep metaphysical yearnings; at times, like on ‘Two,’ Adams seems downright religious, with lines like: “I’m broken from the fall, and I wanna go home.” When he does decide to leave his loneliness and rock out, like on ‘Halloween Head’ (where there is a perfectly placed “guitar solo!” shouted from the bridge), it is every bit as good as Cold Roses (and far better than Rock n Roll).  But Adams seems less intent to ‘let it ride’ on this album, and more content to swim in the melodic sea of his best album in years.

After midnight

Once I stayed up far past midnight,

Drank gin, and read Italian futurist poetry, felt

the passion-play of facist verse pin  me

to the couch, and I, trying to get a handle on myself,

Responded with a spondee and a stanza.

Another night I just sat and thought,

Turned on the flourescent light

And pretended it was day, like

The artificial day you find on a

transatlantic flight, when the light

Comes on you like a flash-fire, and you know,

Somewhere, it’s night, and you’re still in that

Dark, dreaming.

Is all late night writing just a dream? Is my hand

Even now typing out fantasy, and  my head

Swirling down  rabbit holes of  rhyme?  Do I even

Type this now, or could these last words

Be a letter from that dream kingdom, sent across

The sea of sleep, telling you

That the weather here is fine, the food better than

Expected, and the company

Divine.

Books on Poetry!

So, my friend Andrew Selby asked me which books were helpful if one wanted to know more about writing and reading poetry. I gave him a detailed list, and he said I should post that list on my blog. So here it is!

The Ode Less Travelled – Stephen Fry. This book is utterly delightful. It’s much less “poetic theory” and much more “let’s learn to write poetry with a British Comedian”. Fry guides you through the basiscs and not-so-basics of writing traditional metric verse and isn’t shy about getting technical, making fun of you for being bored with it, and then making you write using the technique he just taught you.

How to Read a Poem – Terry Eagleton. Eagleton is on the other end of the spectrum from Fry when it comes to poetry books. This book is quite heavily drenched in literary and critical theory and how to apply it when reading poems, but Eagleton is an engaging writer and even in the first few pages I saw so much more about poetry than I had before.

You Must Revise your Life – William Stafford. Stafford isn’t a literary theorist, nor is he a comedian. He’s a poet through and through, and thus, in this collection of essays and poems, tries to paint a picture of what a poet’s life and practice should and can look like.

The Sounds of Poetry – Robert Pinsky. Pinsky, in my opinion, is a better theorist than he is a poet, and in this beautiful little book roots around in the roots of sound and meaning within poetry, hopefully forever changing the way that you hear and say words. This book can be tedious, especially if phonetics aren’t your cup of tea, but it’s quite rewarding.

The Writing Life – Annie Dillard. No list of books about poetry writing and reading could be complete without this masterpiece by Dillard. Every time I read her I fall in love—not necessarily with her, but with the world, with writing, with people, and with God. Here is a harrowing, humble, heartbreaking, and holy look at the joy and cost of living your life as a creator, as an artist. This book isn’t really fiction or nonfiction. It could be a book of poems, or it could be a memoir. I don’t even know what to call it other than one of the best books I’ve ever read. A warning though: this book is so good that you’ll want to read more of Dillard’s stuff, which turns out to be even better than this is. Then you will be lost forever and long for Dillard’s beauty in a parched world.

Hello, here’s why this blog has a weird name!

So, who is Louis Hara, you ask?  Well, he’s a small but imporatant charachter in one of my favorite novels, Manalive, by G.K. Chesterton:

“Sir, — A person answering to the rather extraordinary description required certainly went, some time ago, over the high pass of the Sierras on which I live and of which I am probably the sole stationary inhabitant. I keep a rudimentary tavern, rather ruder than a hut, on the very top of this specially steep and threatening pass. My name is Louis Hara, and the very name may puzzle you about my nationality. Well, it puzzles me a great deal. When one has been for fifteen years without society it is hard to have patriotism; and where there is not even a hamlet it is difficult to invent a nation. My father was an Irishman of the fiercest and most free-shooting of the old Californian kind. My mother was a Spaniard, proud of descent from the old Spanish families round San Francisco, yet accused for all that of some admixture of Red Indian blood. I was well educated and fond of music and books. But, like many other hybrids, I was too good or too bad for the world; and after attempting many things I was glad enough to get a sufficient though a lonely living in this little cabaret in the mountains. In my solitude I fell into many of the ways of a savage. Like an Eskimo, I was shapeless in winter; like a Red Indian, I wore in hot summers nothing but a pair of leather trousers, with a great straw hat as big as a parasol to defend me from the sun. I had a bowie knife at my belt and a long gun under my arm; and I dare say I produced a pretty wild impression on the few peaceable travellers that could climb up to my place. But I promise you I never looked as mad as that man did. Compared with him I was Fifth Avenue.
“I dare say that living under the very top of the Sierras has an odd effect on the mind; one tends to think of those lonely rocks not as peaks coming to a point, but rather as pillars holding up heaven itself. Straight cliffs sail up and away beyond the hope of the eagles; cliffs so tall that they seem to attract the stars and collect them as sea-crags collect a mere glitter of phosphorous. These terraces and towers of rock do not, like smaller crests, seem to be the end of the world. Rather they seem to be its awful beginning: its huge foundations. We could almost fancy the mountain branching out above us like a tree of stone, and carrying all those cosmic lights like a candelabrum. For just as the peaks failed us, soaring impossibly far, so the stars crowded us (as it seemed), coming impossibly near. The spheres burst about us more like thunderbolts hurled at the earth than planets circling placidly about it.

“All this may have driven me mad: I am not sure. I know there is one angle of the road down the pass where the rock leans out a little, and on windy nights I seem to hear it clashing overhead with other rocks — yes, city against city and citadel against citadel, far up into the night. It was on such an evening that the strange man struggled up the pass. Broadly speaking, only strange men did struggle up the pass. But I had never seen one like this one before.

“He carried (I cannot conceive why) a long, dilapidated garden rake, all bearded and bedraggled with grasses, so that it looked like the ensign of some old barbarian tribe. His hair, which was as long and rank as the grass, hung down below his huge shoulders; and such clothes as clung about him were rags and tongues of red and yellow, so that he had the air of being dressed like an Indian in feathers or autumn leaves. The rake or pitchfork, or whatever it was, he used sometimes as an alpenstock, sometimes (I was told) as a weapon. I do not know why he should have used it as a weapon, for he had, and afterwards showed me, an excellent six-shooter in his pocket. `But that,’ he said, `I use only for peaceful purposes.’ I have no notion what he meant.

“He sat down on the rough bench outside my inn and drank some wine from the vineyards below, sighing with ecstasy over it like one who had travelled long among alien, cruel things and found at last something that he knew. Then he sat staring rather foolishly at the rude lantern of lead and coloured glass that hangs over my door. It is old, but of no value; my grandmother gave it to me long ago: she was devout, and it happens that the glass is painted with a crude picture of Bethlehem and the Wise Men and the Star. He seemed so mesmerized with the transparent glow of Our Lady’s blue gown and the big gold star behind, that he led me also to look at the thing, which I had not done for fourteen years.

“Then he slowly withdrew his eyes from this and looked out eastward where the road fell away below us. The sunset sky was a vault of rich velvet, fading away into mauve and silver round the edges of the dark mountain ampitheatre; and between us and the ravine below rose up out of the deeps and went up into the heights the straight solitary rock we call Green Finger. Of a queer volcanic colour, and wrinkled all over with what looks undecipherable writing, it hung there like a Babylonian pillar or needle.

“The man silently stretched out his rake in that direction, and before he spoke I knew what he meant. Beyond the great green rock in the purple sky hung a single star.

“`A star in the east,’ he said in a strange hoarse voice like one of our ancient eagles. `The wise men followed the star and found the house. But if I followed the star, should I find the house?’

“`It depends perhaps,’ I said, smiling, `on whether you are a wise man.’ I refrained from adding that he certainly didn’t look it.

“`You may judge for yourself,’ he answered. `I am a man who left his own house because he could no longer bear to be away from it.’

“`It certainly sounds paradoxical,’ I said.

“`I heard my wife and children talking and saw them moving about the room,’ he continued, `and all the time I knew they were walking and talking in another house thousands of miles away, under the light of different skies, and beyond the series of the seas. I loved them with a devouring love, because they seemed not only distant but unattainable. Never did human creatures seem so dear and so desirable: but I seemed like a cold ghost; therefore I cast off their dust from my feet for a testimony. Nay, I did more. I spurned the world under my feet so that it swung full circle like a treadmill.’

“`Do you really mean,’ I cried, `that you have come right round the world? Your speech is English, yet you are coming from the west.’

“`My pilgrimage is not yet accomplished,’ he replied sadly. `I have become a pilgrim to cure myself of being an exile.’

“Something in the word `pilgrim’ awoke down in the roots of my ruinous experience memories of what my fathers had felt about the world, and of something from whence I came. I looked again at the little pictured lantern at which I had not looked for fourteen years.

“`My grandmother,’ I said in a low tone, `would have said that we were all in exile, and that no earthly house could cure the holy home-sickness that forbids us rest.’

“He was silent a long while, and watched a single eagle drift out beyond the Green Finger into the darkening void.

“Then he said, `I think your grandmother was right,’ and stood up leaning on his grassy pole. `I think that must be the reason,’ he said — `the secret of this life of man, so ecstatic and so unappeased. But I think there is more to be said. I think God has given us the love of special places, of a hearth and of a native land, for a good reason.’

“`I dare say,’ I said. `What reason?’

“`Because otherwise,’ he said, pointing his pole out at the sky and the abyss, `we might worship that.’

“`What do you mean?’ I demanded.

“`Eternity,’ he said in his harsh voice, `the largest of the idols — the mightiest of the rivals of God.’

“`You mean pantheism and infinity and all that,’ I suggested.

“`I mean,’ he said with increasing vehemence, `that if there be a house for me in heaven it will either have a green lamp-post and a hedge, or something quite as positive and personal as a green lamp-post and a hedge. I mean that God bade me love one spot and serve it, and do all things however wild in praise of it, so that this one spot might be a witness against all the infinities and the sophistries, that Paradise is somewhere and not anywhere, is something and not anything. And I would not be so very much surprised if the house in heaven had a real green lamp-post after all.’

“With which he shouldered his pole and went striding down the perilous paths below, and left me alone with the eagles. But since he went a fever of homelessness will often shake me. I am troubled by rainy meadows and mud cabins that I have never seen; and I wonder whether America will endure. — Yours faithfully,

“Louis Hara.”