story

One of the threads that weaves through Douglas Coupland's apocalyptic novel concerns blogging. (Yes, Generation A is apocalpytic in that it portrays the end of the world as we know it--and, thanks to a Prozac-like drug, we feel fine.)

Each of the main characters in Coupland's story tells his/her own stories. One character tells a story of a young man who has lost the story of his life. The implication is clear: springing from our obsession with fame, we all look for the story of our lives. Unfortunately, with nothing real left in life, we can't find one. We use our extreme sports and death-defying feats in attempts to bring fame-worthy excitement into our lives.

In the story of the young man who has lost his story, the following exchange occurs between a woman at the Learning Annex, where this young man has gone for lessons in something interesting (bungee jumping, Tae Bo), and the young man (it begins with Craig, our young man in question):

"I thought maybe Tae Bo would loan my life a unique narrative edge."

The woman--whose name was Bev--said, "Craig, the hardest things in the world are being unique and having your life be a story. In the old days, it was much easier, but our modern fame-driven culture, with its real-time 24-7 marinade of electronic information, demands a lot from modern citizens, and poses great obstacles to narrative. Truly modern citizens are both charismatic and [sic] can only respond to other people with charisma. To survive, people need to become self-branding charisma robots . . . So, in a nutshell, given the current media composition of the world, you're pretty much doomed to being uninteresting and storyless."

"But I can blog my life! I could turn it into a story that way!"

"Blogs? Sorry, but all those blogs and vlogs or whatever's out there--they just make being unique harder. The more truths you spill out, the more generic you become."

(I'd give you a page number, but Kindle doesn't list page numbers.)

To add to this evidence, I read an article in The New Yorker the other day about media, specifically in regards to Obama. This article also pointed out the (negative) consequences to this 24-7 media marinade, which disallows journalists from getting any real story. Several times, especially when quoting Obama communications administration, they referred to the narrative Obama wanted to communicate, or the narrative of Americans. Have we become so self-aware of our own story that we can no longer let it unfold naturally? What are the implications of this?

(Side note: These past weeks, we all watched the events in Haiti, blogging, twittering, perhaps watching a rescue on TV. I'm happy to see our concern for another nation, but I wonder how much is true concern and how much is it safe concern? If our sympathies are real, why not spend time on a weekly basis in homeless shelters, orphanages, and nursing homes, entering into their suffering?)

While these Neil Postman-esque prophesies unfurl around us, I don't believe this means we abandon blogs (obviously, or I'd be using this post to say Goodnight, Gracie). Ruth Haley Barton warns us against accepting technologies without evaluation. This doesn't mean we all don Amish garb. It means we better know how things affect us--our Christianity, our communities, our families, our work, our play. We can't all become Wendell Berrys. Because of blogging, I've found other writers, knitters, gardeners, poets, and photographers (as well as a slew of other artists) who have encouraged me in these endeavors. I've discovered friends who have encouraged my spirituality. If I consider creativity and spirituality (not entirely different entities, by the way) to be essential to humanity, than blogging has shaped me in positive ways.

But I also have been obsessed with finding my own niche, my own small pond in which to be famous. I've asked, how can I be unique in this space? What is my brand?

I suppose we approach this as we do everything: with mixed motives. I am neither purely good nor entirely corrupt. I am saint and sinner. Coupland's comments and The New Yorker's article remind me to always pay attention to the whats, whys, hows, and consequences, to not do things willy-nilly just because I want to. And that's a good thing.

Thoughts? Reactions? Poison?

Print between the lines: Title quote from Bones (Sealy Booth)

Kirsten wrote about the beauty of ordinary life. This is something I've been thinking a lot about lately. In any story, the resolve we seek is not the high emotions of the climax. It is the (sometimes assumed) ordinary days. In them lies the happily-ever-after.

In the liturgical calendar, we have two periods of ordinary days. The first follows Epiphany, and the second period occurs after Pentecost. After the high emotions of Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany, after the extreme sorrow and celebration of Lent, Passion Week, Easter, and, finally, Pentecost, we have ordinary days. In these days, we live most of our Christmas life. 

Paul tells us to rejoice in everything and to be content. This joy and contentment occurs in our beautiful ordinary, as Kirsten calls it.

Here's why I've been noodling on this lately: world-wide, nationally, and personally, uncertainties threaten our joy and contentment. My response--escape. I want to sail away (I'll give you a moment to finish the Styx chorus). I want to bury my toes in the sand of a white beach and my thoughts in a book.

But we can't live in the escape. We live in between the anticipation and hope of our Savior's return and the joys of our ordinary lives. To the rhythm of our rosary beads click-clacking between our fingers, we run errands and wash dishes and change sheets. We care for the widow and orphan. We dance to a favorite song. We sip our wine and chew our bread. We work, bringing good to the earth through our businesses. These are the sacraments of our ordinary days, bringing grace and beauty in ordinary elements.

I'm up today at the Tapestry blog: I Love a Good Myth about how we read our Bible.

An excerpt: "The Bible is a story, or a collection of stories, that define a people, that give the people identity."

It happened one night, it was a dark and stormy night, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No matter how it begins, everyone has a story to live. This series looks at the story of the Christian life. Part Eight looks at the Reward earned after the Ordeal--when you've finally found what you've been looking for.

(You know a girl's gotta quote U2.)

Part Eight runs five and a half minutes.

It happened one night, it was a dark and stormy night, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No matter how it begins, everyone has a story to live. This series looks at the story of the Christian life. Part Seven looks at The Ordeal, the part of the story where the hero is cornered. It's the death scene.

The video is four and a half minutes.

It happened one night, it was a dark and stormy night, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No matter how it begins, everyone has a story to live. This series looks at the story of the Christian life. Part Six talks about our allies and enemies and how we are to react to them as Christians.

It happened one night, it was a dark and stormy night, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No matter how it begins, everyone has a story to live. This series looks at the story of the Christian life. Part Five talks about the tests we encounter along the way.

It happened one night, it was a dark and stormy night, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No matter how it begins, everyone has a story to live. This series looks at the story of the Christian life. Part Four is about Meeting the Mentor. It challenges Christians to find and be mentors along the journey.

This podcast is just over 8 min. 

A Disciplined Disciple Artist from Diary of an Arts Pastor--the "Christian artist" v. the "Disciple Artist." Good thoughts here about spiritual formation and art, living wholistically, and the daily rhythm and vision that keeps us from burn-out. Some quotes:

"A disciple artist is fundamentally a disciplined artist, and such an artist is integrated and fully alive."

She pops the red flag up, glancing over her shoulder as she does. They all do. She looks at the sky and presses the palms of her hands to her eyes.

It's Jack I feel bad for. A postal worker in life, he didn't know he'd be required to continue his courier services by death.