Having Two Legs

Saturday, August 30, 2003

And in other news...

I didn't want to say anything because I feared the neighbors, but as it turns out the transportation administration just keeps getting sillier. About two months ago the road crews came through Potlatch and dumped gravel and tar all over the roads and left, apparently in search of other perfectly good roads to ruin. I was a bit dismayed at the time and had certain choice questions for the joe who decided to mess with our humble Highway 8. At the time I also had my doubts about being in Potlatch. What kind of people pave over perfectly good asphalt with gravel and tar? When I lived in Alaska, it was a prized position to live on or near a paved roadway. It was like the second or third question anyone asked in normal polite conversation, "So you all live on a paved road?" "No." "Yeah, me neither." Every year, the paved roads would extend a few more hundred feet inching their way into the wilderness like glaciers in reverse. What a shame for Alaska when they find out that the trends have changed. It's no longer the 'in' thing to pave roads. Now we gravel and tar. Well, as it turns out the marauding has continued. Just this last week, the same paving prefects made their way up and down the main drag of Moscow. As annoying as it was, I was a bit relieved to be surrounded by other towns doing silly things to their roadways. Being no 'public transportation guru' myself, there may be absolute genius behind these recent moves. I'm just a little puzzled though. Now instead of smooth riding black top, I drive the eternally grizzled face of an old man. And on top of that, the chances of getting rocks in the windshield are probably tripled. Golly, what a deal. On the brighter side, I guess the roadways may offer a bit more traction in the cool and snowy months. But wouldn't Alaskans know something about that?

Wednesday, August 27, 2003

Body Language

Language is in our bodies. Our hands and feet and lips know words. The brain is not a computer full of data that happens to need a few attachments. Our mouths are no mere speakers. In this sense there is no such thing as 'rote memory' as though it is possible to simply download something staight to the grey matter in the noggin. The sci-fi dream of a brain in a bottle is bosh. English is learned through an intricate dance of rhythm and rhyme and melody. All of which require hands, mouths, ears, tongues, eyes, and far more: All language is body language.

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

Just call me Uncle

In God's kindness, my niece was born this morning around 7:30am. Madeline Lois James has added another (much needed) James to the world's population and another descendant of Abraham. Praise God for his mercies to Deacon and Amy. I'm sure Deacon will have more to add in the next day or so.

Friday, August 08, 2003

Answering Pain

I will not deny it. I am a clutz. If there are miscellaneous sharp or blunt objects with any possibility of finding contact with my body all barriers will be overcome. Are there slippery floors? No sign will warn me. Low ceilings? My forehead will find them. Extension chords, puppies, and small children will not be excepted. I will search it out, and I will find pain.

I managed to burn my forearm once again about a week ago. The baker jaket I wear has sleeves that are slightly shorter than my arms, and the mitts only come up so far such that when I reach into ovens or over hot pans there is always a conspicuous display of forearm skin waving about flamboyantly in the bakery world. So over the course of the last few months I have repeatedly burned myself in the same place dozens of times. Ok maybe it was only three times. Seems like more.

But this story is about pain.

I managed to scrape, tear, lacerate, and with all diligence rupture the tender scab that was seeking to work the magic of healing on my arm over the last week or so. On one such occasion I was moving a matress from one room to another and the matress slipped and chewed its way down my arm, not neglecting the burn recovery center midway down. The thing that struck me (right after the grimace and clenched teeth) was the inherent nature of pain as received. It's difficult to separate the phenomenon of pain from its causes, but pain, particularly the physical kind, once occuring is an overwhelming sensation that we receive. We are completely powerless when it comes to pain. We have some influence over the means of pain. But we cannot actually stop pain--apart from various drugs-- but even those take time to do their work and they serve to sever nerve firings and such. We cannot actually touch the pain and yet it is touching us. Like hot, cold, and joy we seek the means to them, but they are bestowed upon us, we cannot take and hold them. Pain too is bestowed in the mysterious packages of blood and tears. The point being, as with all gifts, the only response is thanksgiving. The car door slams, and the finger is throbbing. There is of course the natural removal of the finger from the jaws that bit. But what then? There we stand, a tiny speck in the whirling galaxies, and we have the gift of pain burning like a million stars in our index finger. Unbelief calls it a curse, but faith is the insanity to say Thank You.

Monday, July 28, 2003

Top 10 Things of the Summer (So far)

10. Baking bread and getting paid to do it
9. Live: Throwing Copper
8. N.T. Wright: Paul for Everyone
7. Eating fresh lettuce from our garden
6. Making Book Shelves with the Blues and seeing Mr. Jones (Doug and Lucy's dad) dance to Bela Fleck
5. Doug Wilson: A Serrated Edge
4. Getting a puppy (the same day my wife had a dream that we got one)
3. Peter Leithart: Against Christianity
2. Almost being an Uncle
1. Being married for over three years

Sunday, July 20, 2003

Into the Wild

The wife, dog, and myself are headed up to Spirit Lake for day or so for a camp out. I have through Wednesday off. It should be a few relaxing days before it'll be getting busy again. We're planning on seeing Pirates of the Carribean sometime in there. We hear it's a fun flick. A good Lord's Day to you.

Thursday, July 17, 2003

A Porter Tale

My wife is making me blog about our dog. She says I can't go to sleep until I tell a story about him. So here I am with my Corona in hand to do my duty.

So there we are. It's Sunday afternoon. All is pleasant. All is peaceful. All is serene. As we gaze down upon the wide world of Sunday serenity, there's a particularly quiet block of residential homes that occupy the south hill of a smallish town called Potlatch. And along that very block runs a street called Spruce that humbly stretches a short distance a top that southern hill. And if one wanted, one might take a stroll down such a street and pass the goodly neighbors of Goudimel Parish. There's Magnus, Lucy's lion, chewing on the bloody remains of a deer, Mr. Jones is out on his hands and knees talking to his front lawn, trying to convince it to be happy and green, and then there's my house, a small white dwelling built in the 1920s.

So there we are. It's Sunday afternoon. And the Sumpter home is pleasant and peaceful and serene. Then there is a loud bang that echoes through that quiet block of residential homes. What is that loud bang? It is not the sound of the Atwood boys blowing up a small lizard. Nor is it the sound of Nathaniel Rosendahl running his bike into a tree, and no, it is not the sound of Eric Jones drifting asleep and falling off his chair during family reading. No, it is the sound of Porter, our puppy, helping himself to a two layer cake, cooling on the kitchen counter. Sadly, the story doesn't end there. The poor puppy proceeded to pack his little belly with every crump of cake. The little 14lb puppy had a beer-belly to make me jealous. Of course that's not saying much, but believe me, it was big. And my wife says he looked like Templeton from Charlotte's Web. Needless to say, the dog got sick.

The End

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

In which strong objections are made to a certain musical group and other thoughts manage to surface in this small and (for the most part) silent pond

The other morning (ie. night) my soul was torn out and run through a food processor. Actually someone scandalized my ears with a CD entitled "Apologeti-X". There I was: minding my own business, making bread, when what should happen but Christians should go around being stupid, record the idiocy, and make money for it. The CD consisted of Christians "gospel-a-fying" secular artists including but not limited to Queen, Em&m, Monkees, Limp Bizkit, Van Morison, Linkin Park, Three Doors Down, ah-that's all I can bear. I recognized other radio music but I don't know names. I looked up their website and it turns out they think they're pretty darn funny. They describe themselves as "The Christian Weird Al Yankovic". The banner flashes on the screen "Biblical Parodies of Rock Hits". In the Question section of the website, they answer the question "Are Christian Parodies Sacrilegious?" There they meander through some psuedo-quasi-defense of Rock music and then defend their 'apologetic' by appealing to Paul's description of 'becoming all things to all men'. Right. I bet they've even got the same boxers as Fred Durst.

The thing that sickens me is not that I have any intimate attachment for the music they were imitating/making fun of (read: mutilating). Some of it I like, some of it annoys me, some of it's trash. But my stomach sinks and churns for their lust for the shallow glitz of modern pop music, the stupidity of the lyrics ("I gave it up for the crooked" "This is the story of a squirrel"), and most of all how they turn many of the songs into 'how-to-get-jesus' tracts. Their website continues: "The biggest blessing for us is that people come back to us after a concert or listening to one our tapes or CDs and say: "Now, when I hear the original song, I can't help but think of the new Christian words." The lyricist Jackson adds: "We try to incorporate as many Bible verses, facts and verse numbers into our songs as possible. I am absolutely delighted when people come back to me and tell me that our songs are helping them to memorize scripture." These people obviously don't think about what they're saying. They're doing parodies of "Great Hits" by changing the lyrics to Bible stories and 1-2-3-jesus-is-my-boyfriend-drug. Taking all this together, it sure sounds (and looks) like they are parodying themselves and consequently our Faith. If I'm a pagan, I'm thinking 'hey look! stupid Christians making fun of themselves!' Of course none of this is new. I listened to my fair share of 'Christian' music in high school, and I remember the scene.

So as to not end on a sour note, I must at the same time insist that Christian musicians ought to make the best quality music they possibly can within the genre of their talents. The solution to stupid Christian music is not no Christian music, although the comment of one of my Christian co-worker's: 'I'm not allowed to listen to Christian music' seemed rather inviting at the time. The syrupy and shallow, snuggle-with-the-world-fest of most Christian music is obviously not building the deep culture and glorious Kingdom that we pray for. At the same time, an up-tight, high brow disdain of anything that sounds remotely modern and Christian isn't helpful either. One of my friends, Jamie Soles, does a fun (and fine) job of retelling Bible stories for kids set to music. Obviously this shouldn't replace the psalms and hymns of the Church, but until someone does a better version of some of the most gruesome (and humorous) stories in scripture (Siserah, Jezebel, Ahab, Haman) without the usual Kinkadian glow in every thought, Jamie's my man. So my rant here isn't a universal indictment, rather, a stated aversion to a particularly pointy finger that found its way into my eye. And just to make it clear: Apologeti-X is one of the many children and grandchildren of Charles Hodge, RC Sproul, and Francis Shaeffer, to mention just a few of the names on their reading list. So if you see us at a party and anyone asks, they're with me. And that's why I'm writing this.

Thursday, July 10, 2003

Wright

One enjoyable part of my summer has been the opportunity to study the book of Galatians with a friend. We decided to read a couple of commentaries alongside the Pauline puzzle: Luther and Wright. As it turns out, N.T. Wright sometimes goes by the name Tom. His contribution in Paul for Everyone has been very helpful. After reading his other more scholarly titles this seems nearly playful. Both of us have noticed that while Luther is often saying true things, he is more often not as careful with the text. Wright seems more honest in some ways, and while I'm not always convinced, he's at least dealing with the words on the page. Luther, I always enjoy reading; he is vigorous and lively page after page. Sometimes, in his excitement, he just seems to forget the passage in front of him.

Friday, July 04, 2003

Porter

As it turns out, we got a puppy this week. He's an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix. We did some checking and heard very good things about the 'Aussies' and mixed reports concerning Border Collies. Some folks said they loved the Border Collie, but we read that they can tend to be a bit high strung. Anyhow, this little feller that we got seems to be about as mellow as we could hope for. He occasionally does puppy type things, like chasing ice cubes and spiders and chewing whatever fits in his mouth, but most of the time he sleeps (which is probably also very puppy-like). But he's very people friendly. He follows either one of us around where ever we go, and he has to be put to bed like a baby, otherwise he cries. Some of the motivation behind getting the pup was company for Jenny when I'm at work all night these days. Thus his name, Porter: keeper of the door, good beer, and juicy steak. Anyway, meet Porter, the newest member of our family.

Thursday, June 26, 2003

Of the Moon and Education

Yipes. It's been a while. If I were someone else, I wouldn't be checking this blog anymore. I have somewhat of a lunar blogger schedule it seems. Meaning, it takes me a while to work up to a full blown post. Most of the time, I'm a rather half-hearted blogger, working through my phases.

Recently, I've been thinking about education and teaching and those sorts of things. I'm currently under the impression that learning is a kind of giving. And despite the fact that we usually think that learning is a kind of receiving. There are several reasons for my credo: First, we have to understand learning in the context of Jesus learning through his sufferings (Heb. 5:8). Second, learning is imitation of a teacher or teachers (Lk. 6:40). Third, and this kind of adds to the previous reason, subjects don't exist. The subject of Latin does not exist. Neither does math or literature or science. What we study are people and their particular takes on the world and aspects of its story. This is primarily true of our faith. Christianity is not a subject to find and study. It's a person to know and imitate (Eph. 4:20ff). And imitation demands giving. We can't receive a 'pure' download of math. We have to imitate someone (in person or in a book) who shows us how to do math.

Monday, June 09, 2003

Whistling in the Dark

One common way people tend to classify themselves is by what time of the day suits them best. My friend Jon is a night owl, and my dad is definitely a morning guy. I suppose there are folks out there who can do either. As it turns out, I'm a morning person. I can stay up late on occasion, but my people skills decrease exponentially after 8pm, as do my card playing skills. But there's a certain amount of ambiguity as to when night ends and morning begins. There is of course the 'technical' am and pm, but as far as my body is concerned 1 am is still night. I've found that I can get up and be at work at 3am with relatively little pain. But the difference two hours makes is really weird. 1am is a completely different story. I physically hurt at 1am. Anyways, that's the most exciting thing in my life right now.

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

Not to Mention the Weather

I am reminded of what an amazing community Mosow is. I have lived in southern California, Alaska, Maryland, and visited just about everywhere in between. Moscow is an amazing place. Of course at the center of the community is Christ Church. Never have I been in a church that overflows with such love and kindness as this one. Never have I been in a church with elders of such stature and wisdom. Never have I experienced such hospitality, friendship, or encouragement. You cannot go anywhere in town (and sometimes out of town!) without running into Kirkers. I have been in large and small churches, and I believe this one is the largest I've ever regularly attended. But the folks here are a family as tight knit as the smallest churches I've been in. And I thought at the outset that moving to Potlatch might be a bit of a 'downgrade', living 20 minutes from the bulk of the church community. But I was nowhere near the truth. The community and hospitality has increased exponentially. What a blessing to be here right now. God has been amazingly kind to this little plot of land in northern Idaho.

Wednesday, May 28, 2003

Bart Loves Jesus

So I've been told and have been led to believe that the Simpsons, apart from being clever, entertaining, and funny, is also the most Christian show on television. Well, my wife bought a DVD player with some graduation money this week, and for our first DVD, purchased the 2nd full season of the Simpsons. After watching just three episodes, I'm convinced that we no longer need Westminster, Dort, or Heidelberg. Whenever a great ecclesiastical pickle arises we ought to call a presbytery meeting and watch a season of the Simpsons.

Life Returns

My wife is home. The world is a better place. This is only the second time I've ever sent her away. The last time I told myself I'd never do it again. Well, this time I mean it. Although, for all the agony it's caused, she brought home a good deal of plunder.

Monday, May 26, 2003

Thwack

So for all you bread connoisseurs or those aspiring to be such, I thought I'd give you some inside information. There I am. It's 2:15am (give or take a few hours), and I'm waiting for my dough to rise. I decide to be studious and resourceful with my time, and I pull out a fancy looking book on the art of baking fine breads. The key to good bread is timing and temperature. That's not too hard to understand at the beginning, but believe me, it's a whole lot more mysterious once you get started. Anyways, there I am reading my book and trying to get my bread to look and taste as good as the pictures and descriptions they have in the fancy book. I get to the section on temperature. This book is fancy. It has chemical equations and math I haven't seen since high school. The chemicals do magic things, and the book explains this in big words. I keep reading. Depending on the bread, a finished loaf probably ranges from around 180 to 210 degrees Fahrenheit. So far so good. The most accurate method of testing the loaf's temperature is with a probe thermometer, but as it turns out, the book explains that the internal temperature can also be accurately detected using the fail-proof thwack method. Yes, that's right. All you have to do is remove the loaf to a cooling rack and turn it on its side. Then thwack the bottom of your loaf, and if it makes a hallow sound, it's done. Who needs digital thermometers when there's the thwack method?

The Shepherd

I'm still thinking about the words to the Live song that I posted a few days ago. I've spoken to Remy about this before, and I think maybe we even talked about this very same song. It's tempting to leave it where it is, in the mouth of an angry man, and shrug our shoulders and say golly, too bad for him. But we serve a God who always turns to good what we mean for ill, whether we ever come to realize it or not. And thus we can't help do the same. So rather than a bitter cry for freedom from God, I see those words as mountains of gratitude to Him. Rather than leaving me to myself, God has been a shepherd who would not leave me alone. He's in my face with his love and mercy: The shepherd of my days. Thanks be to God.

Friday, May 23, 2003

Doubting Rene

I know nothing in deed and all in thought
says Descartes, without a tongue of sense
or a cheek of meaning.
No aspirated syllables or hands with fingers
to write or spell insanity in
Latin words--curses--faceless and disembodied
like smoke to meet the sky.

I'll not believe your matterless musing
until I put my hands through your side
and see your body part to my fingers.
I'll not believe until I know you've rid yourself
of skin and bones forever.

Wednesday, May 21, 2003

It is always stunning to meet or read someone who displays the unbelieving heart without apology. Working at the bakery this morning (early!), I listened to an old Live album, Throwing Copper. Kowalcyk, the lead singer and song writer, I understand grew up in a church, I think I recall some sort of Baptist. There is something haunting and beautiful about the words from the song "Pillar of Davidson":
The shepherd won't leave me alone
he's in my face and I
The shepherd of my days
and I want you here by my heart
and my head, I can't start till I'm dead

Tuesday, May 20, 2003

So I've been really enjoying Plutarch these days. Originally, I had scheduled two weeks on the guy, but I have so thoroughly enjoyed his story telling, I pushed it to four weeks. We're reading his Lives. Theseus, Romulous, Demosthenes, Solon, Cicero, Alexander, Caesar, Pompey, Lycurgus, Antony, Brutus, Artaxerxes are just a few of the well known biographies. The thing that's especially cool about reading Plutarch is the fact that you're getting two history lessons at once. You're getting both the story Plutarch tells and the story that Plutarch is in. Plutarch is not shy about who he likes or what he thinks. That's cool. I like that. It's annoying how 'objective' modern historians try to be. What that really means is a writing style that is as dry as chalk and a little more interesting than reading science journals. There's a very flawed understanding of 'objective' at the bottom of that mess. We're reading 1 Maccabees next week. I'm looking forward to that. I've not read the Apocrypha before.

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