Today's sermon was on the centrality of the cross as the symbol for the Christian faith. Interesting topic. Why not the manger, a safe sweet symbol of humility? Or a boat, like those from which Jesus preached?

One idea lingered with me all day, namely that we are told to boast only in the cross--that our God suffered shame. Matt emphasized over and over that we are not allowed to twist the cross into a symbol of strength. The cross is for the weak. God humbled himself to appear weak and we must admit our own helplessness to even approach the cross and keep accepting Christ's sacrifice on our behalf. This is where the sermon ended, with some great material to ponder...

1. For eternity, after salvation, the spirit of absolute humility that drove Christ to the cross lives inside of us. If the cross was the culmination and centerpiece of his mission on earth, then if we're truly submitted to Christ, shouldn't that humility be the color of all our interactions? Seems that just as the cross instantly identifies Christianity, humility and authentic, willing sacrifice ought to instantly identify the Christian. Convicting thought.

2. Recognizing the value of understanding the power of the cross as a symbol, surely it is wrong to stop at the cross. Yes, Jesus offered himself in our place and took our punishment. Yes, the cross is for the weak...but what came after represents by far the most significant moment in history! Life conquered death forever. Justice and right and good conclusively defeated evil. We can't wallow in our weakness, forgetting that all of God's strength and power to combat evil also abides in us now. Christians who have become hyper-sensitive about hypocrisy in the church, me included, have become wonderful at "admitting our weakness to others." We come groveling to the foot of the cross every Sunday, inwardly whipping ourselves for continually falling into the same old sin-traps. We desperately hold on to every shred of faith we have in God's never-failing forgiveness, in the efficacy of Christ's sacrifice. And probably rightly so.

But I don't hear much "joy in the conquest of sin" celebrated. Paul tells us in Romans that not only the spirit that drove Christ to the cross lives in us, but also the power of his resurrection. I'm infinitely encouraged by the idea that when I return to the same temptations for the five-millionth time, I have the promise of power strong enough to defeat death to help me. I usually feel helpless and hopeless in the face of temptation, instead of full of Christ's strength. Perhaps we, in our self-centeredness, have a tendency to focus our worship more on analyzing ourselves and the condition of our souls (and obviously there is an appropriate place for this) than on seeking to understand and embrace the character of God. Clearly, balance is the answer...but the antidote for discouragement must be the eternal joy that awaits us as a result of the resurrection.

My mother is always disturbed by Catholic crucifixes. I remember her simply and passionately explaining why she didn't want one in her house; "He didn't stay on the cross, that's finished forever." I've thought of it as one of her endearing little quirks, but maybe she was on to something.

Lately, parenting has seemed the most profound human experience. Not the fleeting 'classroom parental moments' embodied in bursts of protective maternal feelings towards tormented teenagers. Not the teacher-counselor playing surrogate parent. Not even the proud parent role I occasionally get to play, delighting in my students' achievements.

Parents passing on their own identities, that is the truly incredible mystery. I have watched friends marry and give birth and I have envied them. They get to see this literal, physical expression of their love grow and develop. A close friend has two little boys, four and one. I am regularly amazed at how thoroughly these boys reflect their parents. An unexpected grin of delight will light up Joey's face and I'll recognize that I'm looking at his mother. Or Jack will walk down the hall behind his father using exactly the same stride. It really is miraculous. The miracle doesn't diminish if I get biological and contemplate DNA; the idea that each child's identity is literally composed of bits and pieces of both parents.

Trying to be realistic, I had begun to assume that this part of life was something that, for whatever reason, God had decided not to grant me. Then the school year came to a close and I had to bid farewell to students. At the senior awards assembly, I had the first tingling sensations that perhaps I am indeed passing on my identity in small ways. I sat watching all of these men and women who entered my classroom raw, angst-filled teens. They were all testing boundaries then, questioning their parents' beliefs, trying to figure out who they would be. As my eyes passed over each of them, I saw bits and pieces of myself. It was the oddest sensation....one has taken on my endless fascination with history...another now gets himself tied in knots when he tries to have an opinion, because he's forever trying to step into everybody else's shoes...another young woman has trouble condemning even Hitler, because she feels sorry for him...then there's Essien, who claims he learned "how to be intense" from me...and Katie, she and I spent countless hours together honing her writing skills....

By Graduation the next day, I felt entirely overwhelmed and full to the brim. What a rich life we have been given! I have been aching to be able to raise a child of my own, and allowing that hole to begin to sour me. All the while, God was granting that very wish, but thirty times over. Every time I work myself up into a fury at God for not giving me what I want, he demonstrates that he has something rich and deep in mind that I am overlooking. It's humbling to have to keep learning to trust his giving, his timing, and his direction. Through the last two weeks, goodbye letters have been trickling in from students. The sense of parenthood and legacy only deepens. I get lost contemplating the idea that God put me into the lives of these individuals to impart what I know of Him, and each of them will carry that knowledge for the rest of their lives.

I know that's different than pouring myself into two or three children for, what, eighteen years? That must be infinitely richer. Still, I feel so privileged and so fulfilled. The way God uses all of us to minister to each other is beautiful. I'm seeing this is how the body of Christ is literally knit together.

Recovering from a week-long battle with a wicked sinus infection, I spent Saturday sprawled out on the couch. I had to read The Archer's Tale, by Bernard Cornwell, to review it for Whitefield's Summer Reading list. A more gristly tale I can hardly imagine.

What struck me is that even a less than great novel can suck me into an entirely different mental universe. For a day, I wandered through 14th century France during the Hundred Years' War. I have concrete memories of the Battle of Crecy now, of a cavalry conroi (I'm still not exactly sure what that is, I just know it involves huge horses and knights riding very close together) charging toward me, as I wait with only a sword. I've felt the hot sun, smelled the blood, had to climb over the bodies of dying men and horses all tangled together....even more strange, this is a mental 'place' I'll be able to revisit. If I ever reread this story or even a portion of it, the same images will spring to mind.

I'm reminded that I don't read near enough. Too often I take the speedier movie-route and avoid the effort of finding a book and actually taking the time to read it. There's something delicious about choosing a book: Walking along the shelves looking at titles, covers; waiting for a word, a color or yes, even a font, to jump out. I want the book that will create a world for me, that will allow me inside someone else. Hungry for all of life, I want the book that will allow me to devour the experiences and adventures my life lacks.

Some might call this escapist. Perhaps it is. On the other hand, maybe that's part of who we were created to be. God created our minds with this phenomenal capacity to imagine other people's experiences and live with/through them. That's one of the primary reasons I love history. There's something fundamentally communal about imagination. If I imagine other times and places and experiences, somehow they all become part of who I am, and I don't mean that in an Eastern we-are-all-one sense. Imagination allows me to empathise with others, to feel compassion, or rage or bitterness, for that matter. In fact, maybe imagination binds the whole human race together--past, present, and future. If that's true, then I should be eager to imagine as fully as possible when I read, to try to embrace as much of what it has meant/means to be human.

Last week, I chaperoned a group of my students on their senior trip to Destin. Late the night we arrived, I found myself standing on the beach. As each wave broke and lapped its way up and over my toes, my feet sank deeper into the wet sand. The taste of salt grew stronger every time I licked my lips and my hair began to feel heavy with the weight of the humid breeze.

Several students surrounded me, awkward and endearing in their obvious attempts to stick close by for these last few days together. We stood there in the darkness, looking out to sea. On the not-too-distant horizon, we could make out the gray and black swirls of a particularly ominous bank of clouds. The wind grew stronger and occasional sheets of lightning lit up our faces—Mother Goose desperately trying to shelter her goslings and hold off the storm a little longer.

As they contemplated life after high school and what the future might bring, all their unasked questions rose to the surface and tumbled out. With one eye on the approaching storm, I scrambled for answers to their impossible questions:

1. How do you know if you’ve found the right person to marry?
2. What’s the point of marriage anyway?
3. The world is full of so much pain, is it really justifiable to have children?
4. If reason isn’t the only way to come to faith, what kinds of tests can you use for other things, like emotion or an ‘instinct to worship’? How do you know when to trust an experience?

The questions kept coming. Thunder joined the lightning. We began almost to shout to be heard over the wind. I could sense that my answers were only partly satisfying, and as the first, enormous raindrops pelted my face, I grabbed two students by the shoulders and we all turned to stumble back across the sand to our cottage.

Now Graduation is over; they’re gone. I have spent two years trying to hold off the storm for this group. Seems ‘the real world’ always presses in before you’re quite ready. I wanted so much to find yet another angle on all the old questions, to try to answer the new ones. I thought I’d have more time. Then I’m reminded that it is God himself who is calling to each of them and ultimately sheltering them, not me. And he monitors the storm. It’s my turn to step back and pray that they have the tools they need, that they’ll remember all they’ve learned and that they’ll find their way to the same haven of security, joy, and peace that I’ve found. Tough to let go, though.

Last night, Erin and I went to see a movie I had never heard of, Dogville. I think it might rank in my top 10 movies. Maybe top 5.

To be honest, I'd watch anything once, so I didn't pay too much attention to the description Erin read me, "..something something...small town...The Great Depression...Danish director who's never been to the U.S....understands the American Spirit...visually stunning." Sounds interesting. After all, I am a history teacher and I'm always on the prowl for new material/ideas.

I was not prepared for a story that would reach right into the heart of me and rough me up spiritually. First off, Dogville is visually stunning, but not in the conventional way. It's all filmed on the same theater set, a set that hints at a town and its occupants. To begin the movie, we see what looks like an old-style green blackboard, with the simple map of a town chalked in. As the camera begins to zoom in, some props appear: A steeple/bell tower suspended from the ceiling marks the church. No walls anywhere in the town. A class door, complete with a bell and a few figurines in the window indicate the lone store in town. Each house has only one or two pieces that become increasingly significant as the movie progresses. The whole town and all the characters are visible in every scene. No computer-generated special effects. No random chase scenes. No non-stop action. Just a story: The story of the town of Dogville and its encounter with Grace.

Somewhere in the Rockies, at the end of the road, sits the placid town of Dogville, struggling to make it through the Depression. The local would-be intellectual, Thomas Edison, has decided that the problem with humans, especially in this town, is that they don't know how to receive a gift. He tells the town, and they resent him for it, understandably.

Then one night, a beautiful and mysterious fugitive, Grace Margaret McKinnan, runs into town. 'Terrible, powerful gangsters' pursue her and will not give up. Tom Edison persuades the townspeople to harbor her for a trial period of two weeks and suggests to Grace that she might win over the town by making herself useful to each family. He's sure she's the perfect illustration of the 'truth' he had discovered about humans. So Grace begins to work, for the first time in her life. She is willing to be anything/do anything, if she will just be allowed to stay. The town appreciates her help and pays her for her work. She and Tom begin to fall in love.

At the end of two weeks, the town votes to keep her, but all express a desire to 'get more' out of the arrangement. Her work day is doubled. One of the local men, an apple farmer, eventually rapes her. Incidentally, the rape scene was one of the most difficult images I've ever seen. Brought back awful India memories of last-minute escapes. Anyway, Tom sees and is horrified, suggests that perhaps it is time for her to try to escape.

Together, they plot for the local truck driver who(m?) Grace has befriended, to carry her away in a shipment of apples. As soon as they're on the road, the truck driver demands extra payment in the form of sexual services and promptly brings Grace right back to the town. Angry, the townspeople place a slave collar on Grace's neck, complete with the bell from over the storefront door. She must drag a huge piece of scrap iron behind her everywhere she goes. Within a short span of time, she has become the town whore. Tom, in his frustration at his desire to use her the same way all the other men do, ultimately calls the gangsters to turn her in.

The movie ends when the gangster boss turns out to be Grace's father. He gives her the power to do whatever she wants to do with the town of Dogville. All along, she has forgiven every wrong against her, has served each person faithfully, has loved, has understood their evils, appreciated their goods...Grace decides that the town of Dogville must be destroyed, and it is. Entirely.

So, after that LONG recap...why was the movie so powerful? I have never seen so clearly just how ugly it is when innocence is polluted/misused. When all, even the closest ones, betray. Ugly is the only word I can think of and it seems inadequate. But I kept thinking that this is how Christ and his grace have been exploited by me, by the church. Christ continues to offer himself to us faithfully, meeting needs we never knew we had, much as Grace did for the people of Dogville. We grab selfishly at all he gives and just increase our demands.

What got to me, too, was how I completely agreed with her judgement at the end. The town of Dogville did not deserve to live. They had misused her and her gift. As I drifted off to sleep last night, I found myself praying desperately that I would understand the beauty of such pure giving and that I would embrace God's grace--that he would make me receive it worthily. I'm not even sure that prayer makes sense. I guess when I get to the end, I don't want my life to have been full of ugly demands and selfish manipulation.

By the way, the movie offers all sorts of food for thought. There are tons of other interesting layers that I haven't had time to process yet. The names are significant. The image of apples keeps recurring....definitely $8 well-spent.

One student's response to a test question asking for a description of American cultural trends in the 1950s:

"The '50s gave birth to the stay home wife. The idea that she should take care of the children and stay home doing house jobs and shopping. Mass consumerism also emerged. People spent money like it was rice. They bought big cars and cars for the stay home wives to drive. Plastics became a popular item to purchase all kinds, so the stay home wives could have tupperware parties. The men worked and came home to a house wife."

I'm noticing a theme here...

And what does it mean to spend money like rice?!

Luke 4 describes the devil's temptation of Jesus. The second temptation reads:

"And the devil took him up and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time, and said to him, "To you I will give all this authority and their glory, for it has been delivered to me, and I give it to whom I will. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours." And Jesus answered him, "It is written, "'You shall worship the Lord your God, and him only shall you serve.'" "

Reading this last night, I found myself wondering how exactly it happened. Where was the 'up' that the devil took Jesus to? Some extra-physical dimension? It's so bizarre to think about how spirits operate in our world. Not surprising at all that Newton spent his life looking for some sort of 'God particle' to prove His omnipresence.

And was the devil lying about the authority he claimed to possess? Or does he really have authority on earth right now? Is it through our sin that he gains that authority? There's an interesting, sobering parallel that I've never noticed between this passage and Psalm 2. I think the Son here is Jesus:

"As for me, I have set my King
on Zion, my holy hill."
I will tell of the decree:
The LORD said to me, "You are my Son;
today I have begotten you.
Ask of me, and I will make the nations your heritage,
and the ends of the earth your possession.
You shall break[2] them with a rod of iron
and dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel."
Now therefore, O kings, be wise;
be warned, O rulers of the earth.
Serve the LORD with fear,
and rejoice with trembling.
Kiss the Son,
lest he be angry, and you perish in the way,
for his wrath is quickly kindled.
Blessed are all who take refuge in him.

I love Spring. Even more, I love walking during Spring. I get this deep sense of well-being...like I'm experiencing something I was created to experience. Almost every afternoon, I walk by some of the same houses and gardens. I love being able to watch life come, step by step.

One day I'll walk by a fairly dead-looking tree with bare brown branches. Only a day later, green buds cover every inch. Two days later, the leaves are brilliant, and big enough to rustle loudly.

Then there are the mulberry trees. I've counted four on my daily route. In the last two weeks, they've gone from leafless to berry-full. The poor trees bravely struggle to stand upright under their load of ripening, red-black berries. It's almost comical, like they're desperately trying to lift their arms and wave, but they're carrying too much. They're so fruitful it's a burden.

My favorite are the all the lilies and irises. The shape of each flower is so perfect and complex. I never get tired of them. I've formed a special attachment to an old, peeling white house with a wide front porch. In the front yard stand two enormous patches of deep purple irises, carefully tended by an elderly man in a stained t-shirt and overalls. He sits on his porch each evening, I imagine for hours. I bet he has an incredible story. He's white; his wife, the woman who's nearly always standing next to him, hand tenderly placed on his shoulder, is black. I always wonder what they've seen.

Then, of course, the evening walks. Even better. The fragrance of honeysuckle literally intoxicates. Last night, the honeysuckle merged with a full moon rising and the quiet hum of crickets. I walked right into the pages of some novel about the old South.

I suppose this isn't terribly exciting for anyone else to read, but I find so much joy and peace in the simple act of taking a little time outside. Seems like I always find some new plant or animal or person to notice, some new marker of God's activity. He's continuously bringing life and beauty into our world. Taking life, too. Perspective, that's what it's about. I see the natural cycle of the seasons, the natural cycle of human life, my powerlessness to change it, the beauty of looking for my place here. In an odd way, it helps me keep believing that there really is some great purpose for my existence. If God can show me who He is through a mulberry tree or an iris, surely He can show Himself through me.

We've been studying World War II. Today I read my students an excerpt from Rudolph Hess's account of how he ran Auschwitz. By the time I finished reading, there were only two or three minutes left in class. Dead silence. A few girls sniffing and wiping their eyes. A few boys looking angry and shaking their heads. One of the boys slowly and quietly says, 'I didn't know.' He looks around the classroom and a wide smile breaks across his face. He starts enthusiastically bobbing his head and out comes, 'Dang, this class is crunk!'

I think what he was trying to say was that he was excited to be interested in what he was learning. Sad that that experience is so novel for students. I wish I had the energy and drive to 'suck them in' every day.

Also, maybe I should keep a slang dictionary on hand for words like 'crunk' and 'fi'. Reminds me of the scene in Airplane where the elderly British woman interrupts a confused stewardess with, 'Excuse me, ma'am, I speak Jive.'

Our church meets in an art gallery. Yesterday we arrived to find a new exhibit: 'Mythic Journey.' Set up on pedestals around the space we use as a sanctuary were several sculptures of writhing, witch-like women with long, stringy hair and bloody hands. On either side of the platform were huge Buddhist banners, one depicting a boddhisattva sitting in lotus position on the carcass/skin of an elephant. The walls were filled with an assortment of religious art, everything from Native American to wicca to druids, with the occasional odd crucifix thrown in.

The whole morning, I felt strangely disoriented. These were symbols intended for worship. They belonged in dark, incense-shrouded temples with priests muttering chants. I kept expecting to hear the centuries-old shuffling of desperate, bare-footed souls waiting patiently to ring a bell that would arouse their god.

Yet here, the bright and cold gallery lights illuminated the gods of man like mere cultural artifacts. The detachment was what got to me. Do these artists even realize the import of the symbols they use? Do they understand that civilizations have focused their entire hope on these images?

For example, growing up in India I learned that the elephant-god Ganesh is not just a quaint little decorative piece to keep around. I had friends whose families were certain that their continued prosperity was dependent upon daily offerings of marigold garlands and coconut at the household shrine. Mothers would begin each day by reciting incantations and waving incense sticks, entreating Ganesh to look with favor on their loved ones.

I see educated, open-minded Americans becoming increasingly fascinated with world religions and I am deeply disturbed. The tagline for the exhibit was something like, 'discover where your own journey rises to meet the mythic journeys of the past.' All journeys are not equal. My soul feels heavy with the futility and desperation these gods represent. I want to shake those who find this sort of art intriguing and say, "NO! It's not 'fascinating,' it's tragic. Millions have been misled into eternity through these man made gods, and you're blindly following down the same path."

One of the plagues of singleness, I find, is the superficiality of most social interaction. I often have a strong desire just to be with the people I know and love, a desire to know them better. I like to be around them, hear about the latest argument they got into with their boss, or the latest word their son picked up. I like to share the week's 'highlights', or some new revelation I've had.

So why do we all try so hard to come up with 'social activities'? Why does the activity often take precedence over the people? It's not enough for me to simply desire to spend time with people...I have to come up with an activity and sell the idea, so that people will show up. Or maybe that's just the mindset I've been sucked into. Perhaps if I were to call a friend and say, "I've missed you this week. I don't really care what we do, I just want to be around you and hear how you're doing" they'd be gratified, maybe even relieved. I know I would.

We all get lonely and desire true fellowship with each other. We want friendships that deepen over time. We need opportunities to create 'real' relationships--of any kind. But when the priority of an event is playing a game or watching a movie or listening to music, valuable time to invest in each other slips through the cracks. We end up spending years involved in casual, pleasant, ultimately meaningless friendships; never discovering all the layers underneath the social 'faces' we wear.