back in khaki!

(i got new pants on friday. they are flannel-lined.)

wow, it's been so long since i had anything good to say, or at least any good way to say it. i hope someone still comes across this even though it's been inactive for so long.

so how's everybody doin? i hope well, and i can't wait for hope to become reality when we (a lot of us) see each other at ryan and kara's wedding.

so the biggest situation since the last post was the trip to northern ireland. awesome. brian and i met up in newark and flew over for a week or so to see john, erin, dwight, and emily. if i've gotta miss family thanksgiving, that's the way to do it, and i think the interns felt similarly. it was an incredible week and i think mutually encouraging for all involved.it's one of those situations where the vague notion you have of what someone's new life looks like becomes finally more real. we went to dublin and the coast, and the weather, whether (ha) crappy or great, was just right, in its own way.

the rest of events here are too numerous to try and outline, as with anyone's life, but suffice it to say that the fellowship is great, challenging, affirming, and fun.

i miss you guys.

journal:

True Lies (starring Zhe Gubernator!)

(Just kidding about the title. And if you have no idea what I’m talking about, don’t worry about it.) I’ve lived a large portion of my life based largely on the large idea that Truth can be found in the lies of authors, screenwriters (playwrights, a little), and songwriters. In countless moments and ways, God has proven able to utter this often-unpronounceable Truth to me through these unwitting preachers – enter Ryan Adams, Ray LaMontagne, and Walt Whitman, among plenty of others. I wish I could write a letter to each of these people and tell them how they’ve ministered to me these past few years, helping me mourn the loss of all the girls I never had. I use the issue of relationships just because there haven’t been any compelling songs written on jelly donuts, internet stupidity, comfortable couches, or any of the other things I struggle with. As G. K. Chesterton says, “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.”

But somewhere in the midst of my loving to hurt with these mournful brethren (and sistren, Patty can come along, too), I began to let my regard for the Truth meld with my regard for its media. The beauty of the music and the nearly prophetic resonance of the words mystified me into stopping there. I became somewhat convinced that soaking up, studying, and poring over the Truth I saw in these works functioned as a kind of substitute for feasting on the real Truth, the real Prophet, the real Word. I think I may have had a ratio system of sorts where, say, seven “Slow Motion”s equaled one psalm, or maybe three “Missed My Chance”s, just because Griffin House is a Christian and David Gray’s not.

The reality, though, is that meditation on the best, most beautifully composed, most deeply evocative creation doesn’t itself fit into setting my mind on the “things that are above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God” or “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable…any excellence…anything worthy of praise.” Now don’t get me wrong, when it’s between a Shane Barnard song and “The Shadowlands,” I’ll pick Ryan Adams 98 times out of a hundred, and often enough for spiritual reasons. But for all the good these pointers can do in sending me to the Source, they can never speak to save me. For every affirming groan they deserve, they cannot themselves win my deepest parts. Those places must be reserved for Christ alone.

All of that being said, my life still stands as a “Yeah, but…” to this whole idea.