Sunday, November 11, 2012

The Golden Year

After Christmas last year, I bought a daytimer in a moment of nostalgia for a similar one I had in Oxford. My Oxford one was purple, but this one was gold, which I thought fitting because, in my mind, 2012 was going to be a golden year. I think I expected this because 2011 was a time of transition and stress in various ways. I suppose I was trying to predict how God would work, that a year of pruning is followed by one of growth.

Yet, here in November, I am tempted to characterize 2012 by a list of its tragedies. I'm not trying to trivialize them down to a list of life lessons or try to find redemption where tears are more appropriate. But it is a human impulse, I think, to see a story emerge from disconnected pieces, and to reconcile expectations with reality.

The year started crumbling one April morning when I called my mom to confirm the news I'd found in my inbox: my fifteen-year-old cousin had committed suicide the night before. Even as I fought nausea, I understood, a little, why he did it. I remembered a day when that despair flickered across my own mind.

A few months later, I drove home from work with ashes falling on my truck as the smoke from the Waldo Canyon wildfire clouded my mind with fear. My roommate and I threw some hastily chosen belongings in our vehicles and drove to her family's house on the north end of town, where we watched the flames engulf homes. Not sure where they would stop. Helpless.

As Colorado was still recovering from the fire, the Dark Knight shooting made me wonder when will it end. When will life go back to normal? I remember thinking that the arrival of cold weather would make it safer. After the lethal summer, the rain and snow would blanket us in security again. Yet the fall brought another blow.

There had been rumblings of what was happening, bits of news and conversations. But when my dad called and said the doctors thought he might have cancer, that was no comfort. Lung cancer. Asbestos. Aggressive chemotherapy. All words I now need in this golden year. Good news now comes in pieces I seize like life rings. News that the cancer has not spread. That the chemo is working. While my dad's cancer is not always the first thought I have when I wake up, it's there by the time I hit the shower. The new normal.

A few days after I got the news, I was flipping through a gift catalog and saw a plaque with a quote from Winston Churchill: "If you're going through hell, keep going." And while it sounds irreverent, I think that's what God would say. He doesn't tell me this year's events are not so bad. He doesn't wave them off and tell me they're all for a greater purpose (even though they may well be). They are hell. They are the work of Satan on earth.

So why should I keep going? Why is it so tragic when someone doesn't keep going? It's easier to stop waiting for the golden year, for Tolkien's eucatastrophe, the sudden and unexpected turn for good.

I suppose what I'm trying to understand is that the eucatastrophe has already happened. Every so often I'll catch the faintest hint of an almost mythical joy trying to break through. As if the most beautiful story in the world has been true all along. Tolkien wrote that "the Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy."

Why do we keep going through hell? Because Christ already did. And while there is certainly cause for grief, there is none for fear. None. "We do not lose heart...for this light and momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison" (2 Corinthians 4:16-17).

I think I can still call 2012 a golden year (1 Peter 1:7).

Friday, February 24, 2012

New York: A Photo Tour


I loved visiting New York with two international friends, representing France and South Africa, respectively. It was a good way to connect with the character of a city that is at once iconically American and essentially cosmopolitan. While preparing for the trip, I remembered that New York used to be called New Amsterdam; it was Dutch before it was British. In the American Revolution, New York served as the base for the British Army.

Speaking of the Revolution, here I am thanking my French friend Juliette for her country's gift: the Statue of Liberty (you can barely see in in the background).


Also in Battery Park, not far from where we took the first photo, is "The Immigrants" statue. This reminded me of the haunting Famine Memorial along the river in Dublin--one of the most moving pieces of art I've ever seen. I don't know the circumstances under which my own ancestors came to America from Germany and Romania, but very likely it was with the mix of desperation and hope represented by these figures.


After Battery Park (and the obligatory photo with the bull on Wall Street), us three internationals visited the 9/11 memorial. Here you see one of the two reflecting pools, which will eventually mirror the new World Trade Center towers. Just to put this in perspective, before we could enter the memorial we stood in line for about an hour (this was after reserving tickets for a time slot) and went through an airport-style security check. It was a bit frustrating, but after what happened here, who can blame them?


Unexpected pleasures: one of the best things about the trip! After dinner at a gourmet pizza kitchen, we found ourselves at a folk concert in the middle of the subway.

Another serendipitous moment of a different sort: Tiffany's "Autumn Landscape" in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After visiting the medieval tapestries, I wandered into the American Wing of the huge museum, and stopped in my tracks to stare at this stained glass. I associate stained glass with biblical scenes, but this was more beautiful than anything in a cathedral. Its beauty pointed to the beauty already present in the world; light on trees and water actually IS that stunning. It made me think of how nature is God's "stained glass," and that this artistic celebration of it is deeply fitting.

...more later!

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Pottermore

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

—Dumbledore

I’ve never read the Harry Potter books, but last summer I watched all the movies in the space of a few weeks. Last night I rewatched Deathly Hallows Part 2 and spent an hour afterwards reading about various plot holes/details. And I understood how people could and did get drawn into that world of Hogwarts. (I might have been among them but for The Lord of the Rings.)

But what I really wonder is this. All those fans who love the story and write wikis about the spells and charms and don’t want to say goodbye to the characters—the fans who would presumably enter that world if given the chance—why would they not fully embrace the unseen “true magic” of Christ? (I’m now speaking of fans of any fantasy epic.) Why would such fans not take seriously the true supernatural—that there is indeed great power and transcendent forces and self-sacrifice and love?

Of course it is self-sacrificing love that forms the most powerful force in Harry Potter. Yet we will not believe that same kind of love in our own world. If we feel that we would stand with Neville Longbottom and the others to defend Hogwarts—if only we could have magic castles and wands—will we not stand guard over our own souls? Why? Why will we not fight for something we cannot see?

I’m sure there are other Christians who, like me, would admit to being more moved by the sight of Gandalf riding out to face the Nazgul than by even the most haunting Good Friday service. We ache for beauty; we wish we had a heritage and home to defend; we wish for the camaraderie that is only born of deadly peril. At least we think we do.

What would we really think if Harry and his gang broke into our world? If we were faced with a mission that would certainly mean death? Would we not want to slam the book shut? Say that such things belong in stories, not in real life? We prefer the Muggle world. The world that says transcendence belongs only in your head.

In the end, we will find it is real.

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the sign that the things not seen are true.”

Hebrews