Inside Luke's Head

John Eldredge, I knew it!

2009-11-25T17:43:00.002-05:00

Once, when my family and I were slalom kayaking between the 17 most ferocious killer whales in the Pacific as they tried desperately to eat us...

http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/declassified/archive/2009/10/22/feds-crack-down-on-robin-hood-drug-cartel.aspx

No hard feelings, I hope. Just thought it was a smidge funny.

Alive

2009-06-22T02:47:00.003-04:00

I am alive. Beneath all the excerpts, I am still here. Maybe soon I'll post something real again. In the meantime--

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

Amen and amen.

excerpts, Doubting Thomas, Nickel Creek

2009-04-17T02:06:00.002-04:00

"I'm a doubting Thomas, I can't keep my promises, because I dont know what's safe--Oh me of little faith."

excerpts, Ray LaMontagne "Jolene"

2009-04-07T04:50:00.001-04:00

I still don't know what love is.

--Ray LaMontagne

excerpts, Counting Crows: "Gonna Get Me a Little Oblivion"

2009-02-14T04:11:00.002-05:00

I got bones beneath my skin, and mister...
Theres a skeleton in every mans house
Beneath the dust and love and sweat that hangs on everybody.
Theres a dead man trying to get out
Please help me stay awake, Im falling...
Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me

--"Perfect Blue Buildings"

excerpts, Saul Bellow, "It All Adds Up"

2009-02-08T15:29:00.002-05:00

"At least we can stop misrepresenting ourselves to ourselves and realize that the only thing we can be in this world is human. We are temporarily miracle-sodden and feeling faint."

--Bellow, "The Sealed Treasure"

excerpts, Dostoevsky's Letters

2009-01-06T02:43:00.001-05:00

Man is a mystery. It needs to be unravelled, and if you spend your whole life unravelling it, don't say that you've wasted time. I am studying that mystery because I want to be a human being.

--Fyodor Dostoevsky, in a letter to his brother. August 16, 1839.

Ecclesiastes 5

2008-11-23T02:21:00.001-05:00

Much dreaming and many words are meaningless. Therefore stand in awe of God.

excerpts, Bright Eyes--Bowl of Oranges

2008-11-19T12:04:00.001-05:00

The rain, it started tapping on the window near my bed. There was a loophole in
my dreaming, so I got out of it. And to my surprise my eyes were wide and
already open. Just my nightstand and my dresser where those nightmares had just
been. So I dressed myself and left them, out into the gray streets. But
everything seemed different and completely new to me. The sky, the trees,
houses, buildings, even my own body. And each person I encountered, I couldn't
wait to meet. and I came upon a doctor who appeared in quite poor health. I said "there is nothing that I can do for you that you can't do
for yourself." He said "Oh yes you can. Just hold my hand. I think that would
help." So I sat with him a while and then I asked him how he felt. He said, "I
think I'm cured. In fact, I'm sure. Thank you stranger, for your therapeutic smile."

So that is how I learned the lesson that everyone is alone. And your eyes must
do some raining if you are ever going to grow. But when crying don't help and
you can't compose yourself. It is best to compose a poem, an honest verse of longing or a simple song of hope. That is why I'm singing... Baby don't worry cause now I
got your back. And every time you feel like crying, I'm gonna try and make you laugh. And if I can't, if it just hurts too bad, then we will wait for it to pass and I will keep you company through those days so long and black. And we'll just keep working on the problem we know we'll never solve of Love's uneven remainder, our lives are fractions of a whole. But if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall. Then I think we would see the beauty then. We would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges, like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.

excerpts, The Little Prince

2008-10-21T02:17:00.000-04:00

But certainly, for us who understand life, figures are a matter of indifference. I should have liked to begin this story in the fashion of the fairy-tales. I should have like to say: "Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a sheep . . ."

To those who understand life, that would have given a much greater air of truth to my story.

--The Little Prince

excerpts, "Sylvia Plath"

2008-09-12T01:53:00.001-04:00

I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
Busted tooth and a smile
And cigarette ashes in her drink
The kind that goes out and then sleeps for a week
The kind that goes out on her
To give me a reason, for well, I dunno
And maybe she'd take me to France
Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance
In a mansion on the top of a hill
She'd ash on the carpets
And slip me a pill
Then she'd get pretty loaded on gin
And maybe she'd give me a bath
How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
And she and I would sleep on a boat
And swim in the sea without clothes
With rain falling fast on the sea
While she was swimming away, she'd be winking at me
Telling me it would all be okay
Out on the horizon and fading away
And I'd swim to the boat and I'd laugh
I gotta get me a Sylvia Plath
And maybe she'd take me to France
Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance
In a mansion on the top of a hill
She'd ash on the carpets
And slip me a pill
Then she'd get pretty loaded on gin
And maybe she'd give me a bath
How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
I wish I had a Sylvia Plath

--Ryan Adams

Arrivals

2008-09-12T01:51:00.000-04:00

I am here: Surburbia, IL.

excerpts, Notes from Underground

2008-08-18T11:23:00.002-04:00

"I am a sick man...I am a spiteful man. An unattractive man. I think my liver hurts."

--Opening lines, Fyodor Dostoevsky

excerpts, True Love Will Find You In The End

2008-08-01T10:56:00.001-04:00

True love will find you in the end
You'll find out just who was your friend
Don’t be sad, I know you will,
But don’t give up until
True love finds you in the end.

This is a promise with a catch
Only if you're looking will it find you
‘Cause true love is searching too
But how can it recognize you
Unless you step out into the light?
But don’t give up until
True love finds you in the end.

--Daniel Johnston

excerpts, "The Brothers Karamazov"

2008-07-07T00:00:00.002-04:00

"For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitutde, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand."

--Dmitri.

(Dostoevsky)

excerpts: "Seeing" from "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek"

2008-06-25T23:55:00.003-04:00

"It was sunny one evening last summer at Tinker Creek; the sun was low in the sky, upstream. I was sitting on the sycamore log bridge with the sunset at my back, watching the shiners the size of minnows who were feeding over the muddy sand in skittery schools. Again and again, one fish, then another, turned for a split second across the currecnt and flash! the sun shot out from its silver side. I couldn't watch for it. It was always just happening somewhere else, and it drew my vision just as it disappeared: flash, like a sudden dazzle of the thinnest blade, a sparking over a dun and olive ground at chance intervals from every direction. Then I noticed white specks, some sort of pale petals, small, floating from under my feet on the creek's surfact, very slow and steady. So I blurred my eyes and gazed towarrds the brim of my hat and saw a new world. I saw the pale white circles roll up, roll up, like the worlds's turning, mute and perfect, and I saw the linear flashes, gleaming silver, like stars being born at random down a rolling scroll of time. Something broke and something opened. I filled up like a new wineskin. I breathed an air like light; I saw a light like water. I was the lip of a fountain the creek filled forever; I was ether, the leaf in the zephyr; I was flesh-flake, feather, bone."
...
"The secret of seeing is, then, the pearl of great price. If I thought he could teach me to find it and keep it forever I would stagger barefoot across a hunderd deserts after any lunatic at all. But although the pearl may be found, it may not be sought. The literarature of illumination reveals this above all: although it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise. I return from one walk knowing where the killdeer nests in the field by the creek and the hour the laurel blooms. I return from the same walk a day later scarcely knowing my own name. Litanies hum in my ears; my tongue flaps in my mouth Ailinon, alleluia! I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam. It is possible, in deep space, to sail on solar wind. Light, be it particle or wave, has force: you rig a giant sail and go. The secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind. Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff."

--Annie Dilliard, who writes well.

excerpts, "Opening the Bible"

2008-05-19T17:12:00.002-04:00

The New Testament asserts that the full manifestation of God is in fact a self-emptying (kenosis) in which God becomes man and even submits to death at the hands of men... The word of God is now not only event but person, and the entire meaning and content of the Bible is to be found, say the Apostles, not in the message about Christ but it an encounter with Christ, who is at once person and word of God and who lives as the Risen Lord. The fulness of the Bible is, then (for Christians), the personal encounter with Christ Jesus in which one recognizes him as "the one who is sent" (the Messiah or anointed Lord, Kyrios Christos). He contains in himself all the questions and all the answers, all the hope and all the meanings, all the problems and all the solutions. To become utterly committed to this person and to share in the event which is his coming, his death, and his resurection is to find the meaning of existence, not by figuring it out but by living it as he did.

--Thomas Merton

excerpts, Spleen

2008-01-23T17:29:00.000-05:00

And Life, a little bald and gray,
Languid, fastidious, and bland,
Waits, hat and gloves in hand,
Punctilious of tie and suit,
(Somewhat impatient of delay)
On the doorstep of the Absolute.

---

T.S. Eliot

excerpts, Across the Universe

2008-01-14T15:30:00.000-05:00

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind,
Possessing and caressing me.

Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe

Sounds of laughter shades of earth are ringing
Through my open ears inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a
Million suns, it calls me on and on

Across the universe

Nothings gonna change my world.

---
John Lennon

The Ends of the Road

2007-10-31T02:31:00.000-04:00

I wonder, sometimes, where it all goes to. Nights like this that shine with light some shade of graphite; days like this last that ring out in colors fit for works of second-grade painters. Where do they end up, if only set back into the nooks of our however-many pounds of grey matter? Will today be lost once my blood tires of the long trip and decides to rest? Perhaps they live on, these days which, all tallied, give us the sum of our lives. Perhaps this moment--my girlfriend’s face in the mirror at the end of a long hallway, scrubbing and sopping and rinsing away the makeup and daylight from her face while smells of autumn, bottled and retailed, waft through the house from somewhere—perhaps this will last.

The hope we have is like this, I suppose. The feeling that this moment has been caught in the nets somewhere, and that somehow those nets are larger than the neurological ones explained to me earlier this year by the brain scientist who sat next to me on a plane. It is a question of significance--of worth, of reality--a question of endings.

At intersections, I take notice of one small sign, sometimes at the exclusion of other more important ones. A small white sign which, in black letters, reads “END.” It is often followed by a series of numbers or a type of tree, or by a name—the name of a person—signaling that this or that person’s road has ended, it has all passed, and now another must be taken. There is a sense of completion when I reach these signs, a sense of purposefulness and meaning and definition. As I turn off those roads, the ones with marked ends, I feel a tinge of listlessness, the feeling of a seafaring man too tired to get home, or perhaps just lacking the motivation. But just as that droplet of whatever kind of chemical makes its way through my nervous system, another follows: one of curiosity, one that makes me lean to see around the traffic, one that makes me wonder, “if I could just see over this next hill…this next turn…this next night…”

The Business World

2007-10-17T01:33:00.000-04:00

I followed my father into the business world. He made his entrance through a back door, falling into a niche as a property manager in Indiana’s state parks. A winding path corralled him out of property managing into residential real estate development and sales. Now he does deals. His grandest and most recent—a 300 acre parcel of ground west of Indianapolis—has garnered favorable attention from many in the business. His neighborhood occupies 300 acres of beautiful, historic land, rummaged over by ravines, meadows, and streams, by great oaks and thick maples and nasty hickories. It has been ten years since the first papers were signed. He is still working on it, and I work on it for him.

I, like him, did not plan on doing deals. He majored in sociology or social work or psychology—something about fixing people, not things. I graduated last spring. I have a degree; it is not in business, not in doing deals. I majored in Religion and Philosophy. I was in the Honors College. At the commencement, (quite nearly a coronation) I shook the president’s hand and he called me by name. While he was shaking my hand, he told me that the school would miss me. I have been back. They do not. So I have traded in my reading and my thinking, and I am planted, rooted, in the business world. Unfamiliar as I was coming from a degree in the Humanities, I learned quickly that business needs no introduction into our lives. It is already in us; it already (and has always) had us. With the charm of a colonoscopy, money, in its gutters, moves through us, occupying all that we are.

I am now acquainted with this process. You see, I negotiated a deal this summer. “But,” you say, “in the real estate business, deals almost always begin slow, almost always pay off slower, and often collapse into a great cloud of dust.” Yes, it’s true. I grant it, but I have already negotiated my first deal. It is done. With no great grace or fluidity, I stumbled into the “sure-thing” of business lore. Admittedly, I was lucky. One could contend that I was present--that I could not have muffed it up. But most importantly (in the world of business, we reiterate this lesson often): it has come, gone, closed. It has left me to smile and pat my own back. Signed, sealed, delivered. Done.

And this, my fellow graduates—my nay-saying, incredulous, business major fellow graduates—is the story how it came about:

The tractor I drive is a dirty but dependable Kubota, a dusty orange heifer that groans from her haunches as she drinks down the fuel that brings her to life. The groan becomes a roar as she gulps down diesel. She kicks up a small cloud as she starts, and I cannot help but breathe it in, the mix of summer dust and hot black fumes. She’s amiable once she warms. I pull her out of the maintenance shed and out to the road. We usually make the trip without much fuss.

Down past the big houses, we roll over the asphalt on her mammoth rubber tires. We turn right at 100 South, cruise over the big bridge, the giant of concrete and earth that holds up the traffic as it moves between ridges, then up and left into Devonshire. We arrive exhaling and with some cracking of knuckles. Our destination: six acres of hell for which I have been contracted to conquer.

I lower the deck into position with a flick of my wrist, fire up the blades with resilience and a glare, and ride into the thickest of it—shrubs, and battle. We clamber over the craggy soil, bouncing over ground hidden by opaque brush. Behind us, the grass thanks us for its first view of the sun in months.

Our adversaries, however, are not pleased. Giant Ragweed, Canada Thistle, and their infantry oppose us with vigor never seen in these parts of Indiana. Their sordid infantry, composed of insectival foes: companies of Striped Horseflies and Biting Midges, with the occasional Robber Fly snooping in as a scout.

Three rows in, and they are swarming. We trudge through, never stopping, pausing only as the Canada Thistle gets especially thick and I am forced to pull her of medium and drop into low. The thistle in front of me opens and yields up a cloud of midges. But we will not stop. And they are on me; my arms are covered; I am being eaten. I slap and rub and slap and punch and pick, and feed more diesel into my heifer. She roars and tears at the thistle, and we sprint for the end of the row. One small patch of Giant Ragweed and we are out of it, onto lush green lawn. I finish off the remainder of wounded midges, my arm-hair showing signs of ugly battle.

I guide my orange giant in an arc, back to the edge of the fight. She is hot, breathing black fumes, ready. But a moment of brilliance overtakes me; I ease her away from the waiting hordes. We back down. My eyes are drawn up, above the tangled burrow, to dark blurs like pendulums above the madness. I squint, sharpening the silhouettes darting through the dust.

I mastermind a deal. Deftly, and without hesitation, I orchestrate an agreement, on-site, with a crack squad of American tree sparrows. We concoct our deal in the heat, in the grime and sweat of the Indiana August. Our negotiations come and go quickly. We make a deal, and it is simple.

They are the sharpshooters, the gunslingers. I am the Howitzer. I feed the diesel steadily into my mount and we run through the field. Pumping engine exhaust under the Ragweed, into the enemy camp, we force the legions of pests out into the crossfire of swooping sparrows. They are efficient. I am ruthless. The bugs are thick but outmatched. With every lap, the sparrows increase in number, and soon the deed is done. The field shows signs of the strain, but the green grass smiles up from its liberation. The sparrows, thick from their gluttony, nod to me, and I to them, until we meet again.

And to think people doubt me when I tell them that philosophy degrees are worth their weight in business, indeed, in all of life.

Welcome back, Luke!

2007-07-29T14:56:00.001-04:00

Yes, the rumors are true. I am back. Thank you, it's good to be back.

I was mostly unsuccessful in my attempts to keep updates and pictures posted on my way, but let's not let that get in the way of posting now.

Without further adieu, Cambridge, London, and Paris:

1st--Sydney Sussex (The college we stayed at in Cambridge.)

2nd--Big Ben and assorted London Sights

3rd--Mr. Eiffel's masterpiece

And on towards Madrid!

2007-07-18T16:04:00.000-04:00

I love Madrid. A lot. And I love tapas, and churros and chocolate, and old spanish couples that speak no english but run a hostel for travelers. Oh, and Real Madrid ("ray-ahl Mah-dreed"). Salivate, Robert. Salivate, Brando.
Y, hablo espanol. Here are a couple shots. Me gusto mucho.

Cambridge is coming....

I've been a bit tardy. But here's France.

2007-07-10T15:44:00.000-04:00

I've been remiss in my efforts to keep you all informed. Here are my attempts to console:

Nice, and their stinky, rocky beaches. No me gusto. Sorry France.

And, Nice and night. Nicer, but not that nice.

En Espana

2007-07-04T11:58:00.000-04:00

I´m in Spain. I love Spain. I want to stay, but Paris is rude and won´t be kept waiting. And of course, Cambridge.

Much love and happiness and other things to my friends who have all gotten married. Jon, Amy, Nate, Jen: enjoy.

(They did not all marry each other. Jon married Amy, and Nate married Jen. But they are all living in a small town where no one else lives. Other than my Aunt Jan. Weird, all the way around.)

I cannot upload fotografias from here because this internet cafe uses a Windows platform that predated Gates himself. But take my word, we are all having a wonderful time.

Jen, Phillip, and I are in Madrid, having left Nathan, Annaleis and Megan behind in Barcelona. I am envious of their week(+) to explore this country. With any luck, I will be back. Pronto.

To Family: I will hopefully talk to you soon, but Europe keeps distracting me. I love you all.

Two Words:

2007-06-19T17:53:00.000-04:00

Two Words: Harapos Kutya.

Today was a good day

2007-06-18T18:09:00.000-04:00

I'm feeling better, after a short bout with snot. The conference is amazing. These are some pictures.

The Magyar

2007-06-15T17:08:00.000-04:00

That's what they call it here: Magyar. I think. We arrived yesterday, and today was the longest day (after yesterday) that I've been a part of since...a while ago. "Hungary" as we say it, is "Magyar" in actual Hungary--I might have made that up, but I think it's true. We've had a few translation problems thus far, including the attempt to enter the Hungarian phrase "Scratch off here" as the password for our driving team's cell phones. (Ahh...the password was under the shiny letters...)
I spent about 15 of today's hours either driving, riding, or sitting by vans. I think the grammar is wrong there. Too bad. I'm here and I'll use bad grammar (missed comma) in lieu of exhaustion and a small case of the sniffles.
In any case, things are good here, and more importantly, things are here. We made it. Hello and much love to all back in the states. Peace.

Luke

Bon Voyage

2007-06-13T10:47:00.000-04:00

This will be my last post from this side of the pond. I'm headed to the airport at 4; the plane leaves Indy at 5:40 for Chicago; there I'll meet up with volunteers from my uncle's conference; and from there it's off to Budapest (apparently pronounced "Budapesht"). As for now, I'm at the desk in my brother's old room at my parents house. It feels a bit like what I imagine a launch pad would feel like, but that's just the mood I'm in.

I hope to blog while I'm over there, but in light of my failure to blog when I've been at home with a computer and no job...I apologize in advance.

The current plan is this: Eger, Hungary for the missions trip until the 21st; leave Eger, head to Budapest; tour Budapest the 22nd; leave Budapest for Venice the 23rd with five traveling companions (enter Jen); leave Venice for Interlaken, Switzerland the night of the 25th; and from there, the tentative plan is to go: France--Spain--France--England--Cambridge.

Now, we're traveling with six, and my limited experience tells me that none of this trip will follow the guidelines I laid out in the preceding paragraph. And that, my friends, is the wonderful thing about Travel.

Wish me luck!

Time to go pack.

Reflections from Stanley

2007-04-30T21:48:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting at the table in the kitchen. It's in the living room, too, technically. This suite has been home to the six of us for the past nine months, excepting the four weeks of Christmas break. We have the kitchen table sitting between the carpeted living room and tiled kitchen. Realistically, only the tile divider separates the two. Piles of trash connect them. My housemates are all still here, the day after campus drained its students from of its dorms, into their cars, and into summer. Four of us are graduating Saturday; the other two will graduate after a semester, or at least soon soon, God willing.

I've never lived with a group of guys like this. I've never lived with guys who work this well together. Five of us have been friends throughout college, but only two of us had lived together. The sixth, RA and roommate Greg, fit in like another spoke on a sturdy wheel. We share life, the six of us. We share faith, friends, food and, FIFA—our video game of choice. The room is dominated by the brown couch that I inherited from a friend after freshman year. The brown couch is almost dead. Josh blames Joe’s—and I quote—“fat ass.” We curse at each other. And laugh together, often in quick succession.

Our room is much cleaner--the wrappers and clothing are off the floor, or at least, they're in piles in the corners of the room. Stanley, my lamp, is watching over the room with his stately demeanor, giving off the healthy shine from his large brass circumference. His lampshade is half-gone; he's a wall-lamp, hugging the wall so tight that his wide base sometims gets in the way. I brought him home from a garage sale during the fall of my junior year. His brass finish is imprinted with a (very authentic looking) body of ornate asian artwork. Stanley's body type is responsible for his name; he was christened in honor of his striking resemblance to the hockey trophy that is coveted, hoisted, and kissed in the NHL each spring. His wide base funnels upward in increments, providing a grip at the neck that requires a hoist and a triumphant shake. His cream colored shade is a bit big for him and, depending on the angle of the sun, can look much like a barrel. People tell Stanley that he is the ugliest lamp they've ever seen. He doesn't mind, because he knows that some of the beautiful things in life must be lived with, must be dealt with, to be appreciated.

Immersion and Ascent

2007-03-19T01:45:00.001-04:00

“There is a time for everything…” Ecclesiastes 3

The water in the baptismal rings out, shiftting crystal housed in a brilliant teal, and the church smiles on, encouraging the ruddy, nervous seven-year-old. Barely containing his excitement, he steps down into the green basin. Above the baptismal, a Mother’s Day sun breaks apart as it passes through a round, stained glass centerpiece, streams of light passing through the down-stretched arms of an ascending Jesus.

The young boy sets his folded hands into his father’s massive paws. The father nearly fills out the massive baptismal waders that many men wear up to their chests. From her view in the second row, the little boy’s mother cries softly. With a hand raised, the father asks the boy to raise his, and to repeat the Sinner’s Prayer.

“I believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of the Living God…” The recitation comes and goes; the words are lost in the focus of getting it right.

“And now, because of your good confession of faith, I baptize you in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

The boy pinches his nose hard, just as he was instructed by the smiling woman at the door to the pool. The father holds the boy’s wrists powerfully; the boy’s deep breath, almost a gasp, signals that he is ready. The crystal water swims up around him, enveloping him in swirling marble greens, soaking through the white gown, soaking through his shorts, his shirt—soaking through.

The descent ends and he is underwater. The pause lasts only a moment; firm hands bring him steadily back. Now a steady rise. The feel of passing water ensures him that he is moving up to the surface, ascending. He breaks the surface, but the surface stays with him, and he is still rising, the feeling of falling up and falling away. And he is with the stained glass and with the Mother’s Day sun.

The surface breaks, and he is wet. His father loves him, hugs him, and the church’s uproarious applause meets him in the sparkling wetness. The boy smiles wide at them. He turns to glance at Jesus ascending; he knows the feeling well. He sees his mother and she is happy but not smiling. Her eyes are closed, her face tilted up, reflecting the light off Jesus and the sun.

* * *

I sat in Mr. John Rott’s fourth period Conceptual Physics class, hanging on to his teaching, never by much. He conquered Indiana’s all-male engineering and aeronautical school, earning a 4.0 GPA en route to becoming the painfully overqualified teacher of my remedial Physics course at Brownsburg High School. “Conceptual” Physics—not to be confused with—“Theoretical Physics.” Philosophy and genius makes physics “theoretical.” Rounding and pictures makes physics “conceptual.”

The teaching methods of choice, rounding and pictures, turn 9.81’s into 10’s, show Stick-figure Jack and Sally throwing balls off a balcony to Stick-figure Steve, the path of the ball, a red dotted line. And I struggled—standard procedure for science classes. Natural sciences were always unnatural. My only niche in the scientific world was “The Debate.” God vs. The Bad Guys—The Dumb Guys. Creation vs. Evolution.

Somewhere in my childhood, I took an interest in the all-pervasive Evangelical Proofs. These pillars of the faith protect the fold from the prowling wolves, enclosing them in a high, three-runged fence. The first rung—the unassailable perfection of the Bible. The second—the incontrovertible fact of Jesus-as-God. The third—a clear refutation of Evolution.

The non-denominational churches in our area denominated when celebrities came to town. Celebrities like Ken Ham, the patron saint of stopping Evolution. We all piled into one of our sister churches to listen to the Australian who looked frighteningly like Abraham Lincoln. The crowd was pleased, convinced once again that our schools had been infested by an insidious sham, a sham started by a small, God-hating scientist club, presided over by Darwin himself. “Evil-lution” t-shirts sold hot. Books that hit like an uppercut were gobbled up. My mother bought Ken Ham’s opus for me—The Lie: Evolution. I gobbled it up, impassioned, excited to show the world what Ken Ham and I knew.

The nightstand next to my bed supported an obnoxiously large, round lamp, and also, my nightly reading material. Ham keynoted my nightstand for years; he faithfully provided rounds of ammunition for my conversations with my friends (acquaintances, really) of liberal dissent.

I was familiar with a fair number of the arguments, having proven Evolution to be a farce at least twice during junior high school with stunningly conclusive papers. So during class, when Mr. Rott mentioned the 2^nd Law of Thermodynamics, I honed in. He wasn’t talking about Evolution, not even remotely, but I stayed after class to break the news about The Lie to him.

He disagreed, and he explained why. And he was smart, and he made sense. And he knew more than I did. And he was nice about it. I was confused.

* * *

I kissed girls in high school. I spent my weekends trying, and sometimes succeeding, always just for fun, always innocently. The summer before my senior year, I decided I shouldn’t do that. After all, I was still a Christian, even if I had some pretty serious doubts about some of it. I swore off girls for three months.

Three months later, I had succeeded. It was late fall, nearing winter; I had kissed no one, flirted with a few—nothing grievous. The following weekend the state student council convention descended on our high school, and with it, my demise. Girls, everywhere, thinking I was important. Three months were up. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.

The next weekend, I went to watch my cousin Jordy play in his sectional final. I went by myself, certain that I would find someone to sit with, knowing many of the people in his small Christian high school. After the game, I went milling around, smiling, shaking hands, enjoying the friends, the crowd, and the cool night. My friend Phil was also there. Phil was always talking, almost always to a girl, usually an attractive one. He was talking across a small group to a gorgeous brunette, so I approached and intruded.

“Hey Phil, what’s the homework in that Chemistry class?” I was not in Phil’s Chemistry class.

“Oh, I don’t know just some problems in the book,” he said and kept talking to her. I stood in silence, half in the circle, clearly not introduced. She was stunning. The group dissipated and she left with them.

“Who was that?!” I asked, surprised that I hadn’t met a girl that pretty in such a small circle of towns and churches.

“Her name is Meagen; I think I’m gonna ask her out.” I knew Phil. He asked everyone out.

“No way, man,” I shook my head and smiled at him, “that one’s mine.”

A few weeks and a few failed attempts after that game, Meagen and I went on our first date. Almost all of our friends were mutual; we lived in the same town; we had almost met countless times.

Our first date—a double date with her best friend, who happened to be one of my eight elementary school classmates—ended on a couch, watching a movie, but mostly flirting. I was going to kiss her. She wanted to kiss me. She asked me to wait, to leave our first kiss for a night that we knew each other better, so it meant more.

I drove the minivan back to my house, wondering what it feels like to find the person you are going to marry.

Her father was a pastor—a Charismatic pastor, at that—and she loved Jesus like I did, or at least as much as I did. We talked about God sometimes, but we spent most of the time staring at each other, wondering how we ever survived before we met.

Through Meagen, I met John, a teacher at her school. He became my mentor, and through John I met Luke, one of my sister’s friends who asked me to help teach a Bible study. They called the Bible study “Phish,” because they liked the band and because they were sophomores in high school. I became the senior leadership. We met in Luke’s parent’s basement and attic (depending on the part of the service), and God shook their house with passion and with bass.

In six months, God revealed Himself to me—not many parts of Him, but parts of Him that were true enough so that I knew I could never forget them. I spent those six months as a single note in a grand symphony, certain that everything before had led to that point, and everything after would crescendo to glorious completion.

I met God through Meagen, but she never met the same “Him” through me. The meeting of a person, a Person, is a finicky process, one in which both parties have to be actively participating.

At the end of six months, I would dismiss Meagen, breaking her heart, feeling certain that I must, feeling led by the warm and tactile love for God that I had learned, somehow, through her.

* * *

College students are said to change their majors, on average, six times. At the end of my senior year of high school, I had declared a double major of Economics and Business Administration, sure that I would switch once I found what I wanted. And I found it, even before classes started in the fall. A man named Francis Schaeffer wrote a lot of books that convinced me that religion and philosophy were the weightiest stuff around, the stuff most worth my life. I entered college as a Religion & Philosophy major with a leery eye on the writing program. I had, after all, gotten to know God the previous spring.

Studying religion turned out to be much more like a biopsy than the deepening of a friendship, and philosophy—philosophy began to look like my faith’s bigger, braver brother. By the end of the first semester, my mind began to itch. I had followed a few trails, looking for answers that I needed but couldn’t find. I found myself thinking about losing myself, and hoping that a bigger, stronger brother to philosophy would turn up. And I found myself wondering about the God of the spring and about the God of my mother.

There’s something you should understand: My mother loves me. She loves me with the irrational kind of love, the strong kind of irrational, the kind that doesn’t care what you think or why you think it. The kind that psychologists purse their lips and nod at, and the kind that reminds me what it felt like when God met me.

In the spring, I decided to start over. I decided that Ken Ham wasn’t a real scientist and that my faith had more frayed ends than I could live with. So I dropped it all, told God that I wasn’t to be trusted, and resolved to figure it all for myself.

* * *

A young man sits on the edge of a comfortable hotel bed in Sopron, Hungary. His brother is sprawled out across the far side, mouth open, snoring softly. The young man is leaning over, elbows resting on his knees; his hands hold open a small book with a springy binding. His legs drape off the bedside. He is tired. He is reading because he is tired, exhausted by eighteen months of unmoored drifting, exhausted by questions piled on questions, exhausted by giving up on his mother’s God. His brother mumbles and shifts, taking up most of the bed.

The young man is alone, familiar with the deadened void left behind by a lost relationship. This conference has brought him to Hungary, to Hotel Pannonia, for the second time. This time his family has come. His mother and father are in an adjacent room, asleep. The hotel is filled with Christian philosophers and theologians. Down the street, the conference center sleeps as it prepares for the coming day. But the young man has not found his answers.

The room’s high walls look down on him; gaudy patterns on the wallpaper seem to stare with Soviet eyes. He checks his watch, double checking the date, and flips to the corresponding page—a small book, called a daily devotional, written by a man named Oswald, who died young.

The young man has read this page before. At least twice. But it does not matter. The page arrests him, and a voice pierces him, and it starts the beating of his dead heart—

“…At the most unexpected moments there is the whisper of the Lord – ‘Come unto Me,’ and you are drawn immediately. Personal contact with Jesus alters everything. Be stupid enough to come and commit yourself to what He says.”

And it was a familiar voice that pierced him, nothing like the cold prongs of his philosophy; almost as if a knife had been imbedded, dormant but warmed through the cold years, suddenly cutting loose a warm flow.

The room’s Soviet eyes soften, the hotel shifts, and the feelings of ascension stir. The young man is not okay—with himself, with God, or with the boy—but he is alive again, and almost ready to breathe.

The Brilliant Smells of Zygon

2007-02-15T19:43:00.000-05:00

I cradled the football in my left arm and sprinted down the lit field. Cars provided sidelines; headlights cast jagged, horizontal shadows across the players, across the soccer-turned-football field. Our annual co-ed football game; the Night Game. My friend Peter, the farmer’s son, caught up to me. He always tackled like a girl—never with his shoulders, but with slapping, flailing hands. His left arm swept around me like a frightened cat. He clung for a moment, allowing his right hand to swing in—a stupid, frantic tree branch. He caught the bridge of my nose, the septum, and blood rushed to meet him.

My friends kept playing; I blazed a trail of blood—a rich red—off the field, on my dad’s car door, and then out to the lit barn. Peter came with me, and we assessed the damage. There was no pain, or very little at least—more like the dull soreness of being hit in the head, and less like the sting of like splitting skin. Peter advised pinching the nose; I refrained though—I’d heard reports of drownings.

I hung my nose over a trash can, trying to stop it, trying to drain it. Soaking tissues and napkins began to accumulate, the faucet stayed on. Peter and I made small talk—the barn was new, and nice; the sweet new four-wheeler; the impending second year of high school. He grabbed a few Cokes from the barn’s stocked fridge. Drinking and bleeding proved difficult. Outside, the game continued. Inside, my nose clogged and shut.

The doctors didn’t tell me anything because I stopped the bleeding and decided not to go see them. It bled one more time, thick mucous blood that seemed like it came straight from my brain. After that, I was fine.

---Ž---

The philosophy department at our school is a one man band; Steve Horst; The Big Show. There are thirty of us, his young and eager and budding philosophers. We own our philosophy—and take our futures lightly. We are not well respected. We do not get into big programs. Our future is a tooth tied to a doorknob and we love it. Some left our group, and we hated them, dismissed them, and gathered back to ourselves, muttering about turning back, about not having it. I love philosophy. Philosophy answers questions. Or at least, it asks sharper, pointier ones that prick and poke until you have to wrap them into different questions. We love our philosophy major because we find out what and who is wrong, and because we become sensitive, finally and above all, to truth.

We went to Chicago last weekend. Five of us attended a lecture series at the University of Chicago honoring Arthur Peacocke, a pioneer in the dialogue between modern theology and modern science. He spent his life arguing that Religion and Science could be friends again. The Zygon Center for Religion and Science hosted the event. The Zygon Center. I was half-expecting (and fully hoping for) aluminum foil helmets and Kumbaya. I was only slight disappointed. Philosophers and scientists—brilliant ones, in particular—have earned their stereotypes. To be charitable, “tousled.”

---Ž---

Five years after the night football game, my nose still cracks like a knuckle. The sound is a mix between a light switch and the click of joints popping. Most people don’t believe me. My uncle does a very convincing nose-pop rendition with his thumb and teeth. Mine is real; it really pops, cracks, or snaps—whichever sound I think is most appropriate to a particular setting. Most people cannot deal with my nose. I asked my Aunt Elaine, an RN of twenty-five years, for advice. She shrieked “Eww! Eww! Eww!” as she ran out of her kitchen. Anyone who knows me well has heard my nose—and most hate it. I find myself playing with it a lot. Not on purpose, but often. The bridge of my nose can be maneuvered to the right or left; I do this to take a deep breath, or smell.

---Ž---

The University of Chicago houses the Center and acts as a beacon for the big names in the field. We took the biggest name we had—our school’s resident genius, Dr. Willem Van De Merwe—a first-rate physicist, and an aspiring philosopher. The Defense Department ships him to Washington, D.C. a few times a year for debriefing and things. He was the sail of our ship, and the recipient of a $10,000 grant from the Templeton Foundation. In the field of Religion and Science, “Templeton,” is a big name. Sir John Templeton began giving his money away in 1972, encouraging the dialogue between science and faith. As we scrolled down the accolades of the conference’s presenters, we realized that our ship and sail were undersized; many of the people present had received Templeton prizes up to the $1,400,000 award for the best overall contribution to Religion and Science. Two of the girls in our group had their picture taken with a little reptile-looking old man who wrote their textbook. At the Zygon Center, smarts are cash; only brilliance earns celebrity. The five of us meandered through the crowd of giants: little old men, and a few spunky women with big brains and self-confidence. We gawked at them, wanting to know how they learned, how they found out—how they knew.

---Ž---

Noses, especially human ones, are not imaginative. The senses are not good with “what could be.” They only do “what is.” Imagine a person whose sight is slightly underdeveloped at birth, so that green is never more than dull gray. Their brain will never understand rich Amazonian hues, no matter how long they try. It’s something about categories and possibilities; everything our senses detect must fit into a drawer in our mind. Our minds sort out our senses efficiently, but if there is no drawer for a sensation, the mind discards it.

I’ve learned that drawers can be locked, too—and if enough time passes, drawers can be forgotten altogether. My nose forgot what it was like to breathe. A few months ago, I was fidgeting with it, probably in a class, maybe in church—I pressed firmly on the malleable cartilage, squishing it down and slightly left. I took a breath—mouth closed—and air spilled through my nostrils like an open dam. Exhilaration. I did it again. It worked again. Inhale. Exhale. So that’s how it is supposed to work—and a drawer swung open.

---Ž---

The people who gathered at the Zygon Center did not wear tall hats made of aluminum foil. The second day they did sing a few hymns together, though we skipped out for a quick tour of downtown Chicago; so technically, the hats could’ve come out then. It seemed more likely, though, that deep down, they were just normal people. At one point, they were just like the five of us, now changed by years of study and immersion, made less sensitive to some things (like whether plaid shirts match striped ties), and more sensitive to others (what truth smells like).

I think that truth has a stink to it. It’s slight, but it’s there. Truth is kind of the ultimate drawer—everyone has some sense of what it smells like. I don’t know how so many conflicting reports about truth emerge, why people can look at the same information and come up with such different answers, or why there are always traces of the smells that never seem to lead us to the things in themselves. Some get closer than others, but we never quite get there.

Those brilliant, crazy people at the Zygon Center spent their lives acclimating themselves to the smells, pinching and pushing their noses into place, breathing deeply to catch the tiny particulate matter that is truth. For decades, they tinkered in their respective fields, learning what to look for and how to learn, and as for the five of us, we listened intently, straining not to miss the smells, straining air through our clogged and shut noses.

My Friend Frank ---(Warning: Explicit Lyrics)

2007-01-27T14:23:00.000-05:00

One of the best compliments I’ve ever received came in a conversation on a flawless spring day, the kind that empties dorms onto the lawns. After a long winter, a hot sun warmed our skin, and a breeze the temperature of the crisp blue sky sauntered through. My friend Frank told me, “Luke, there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who are full of shit; and those who aren’t. You are not full of shit.”

I do not understand my friend Frank. I tell him this regularly, and he agrees. It was high school that sent us in different directions—perhaps it was junior high—but I left high school polished, socially confident, with an air of popularity. Meanwhile, Frank uncovered himself through music and friends, turned his back on popularity and high school, on the hierarchy of smiles and manicured faces that I had silently lusted after. My friends and I had discovered the joys of being beautiful and being nice. Frank and his friends discovered—created—a loophole, living far from the bright lights of popular society, discovered how to love more and care less.
I entered college with the skills to survive a world of painted Plexiglas—the real world. Talking at people and smiling keeps the world running, and I was learning the steps, finding the cadence. Frank entered on the train of counter-culture, the wind of music, the pride of making it.
We met during our sophomore year; he sat with his friends in the corner of Ancient and Medieval Philosophy, talked infrequently and laughed discreetly. Naturally I assumed they were laughing at me, at my clothes and face and inane comments, as this is always the most plausible explanation of laughter among friends.

It took most of that first year for us to become friends. I had heard that all people are basically the same, but I doubted it with Frank. Philosophy had shifted my faith off its moorings and onto nothing, and I needed someone else who was basically the same. My friends did not talk about, nor care about philosophy. But Frank did. Even before he joined the major, Frank read the French philosophers because he believes people should read the French philosophers. We started a philosophy club. I talked to Frank and his friends whenever I could, mostly about philosophy, because that is all we had to talk about.

I recently told Frank my first impression of him and his friends, using my fingers to illustrate three points—
First Finger: They knew something I didn’t, something intrinsic about philosophy and being important. Second Finger: They were all inherently smarter than me. Thumb: Whatever they knew, they weren’t going to tell me.
He used his own fingers to respond—
First Finger: In a philosophy class, everyone thinks they are the dumbest person. Second Finger: —with a shrug—Who knows? Thumb: Well, that’s true.
Frank has never liked my friends, and though he has grown nicer since I met him, he has always been easily offended. Frank swears and has friends who say God is a dickhead. My friends, the ones who are going to be pastors, offend him. He is offended at how easily they are offended. Conformity offends him. Pat Robertson provokes Frank to cursing and tears. The Mormons he invited to lunch last semester were wrong—or at least crazy, and Frank wants people to know Jesus.

Frank and I are very different. I am tall; he is average. I have long hair and wear a baseball cap; my clothes can be seen on the plastic mannequins in stores. Frank has always worn really torn pants—tight jeans from a long time ago. When it is cold, he layers flannel shirts and zippered hoodies, and he carries coffee. His hair is short, and he has one baseball cap, a blue one, which sits flat on his head; it reminds me of a milkman. I don’t know why it reminds of that, except that it may be from a dairy farm. More often, he wears stocking caps—knit black ones—they remind me that he is in a band. And bands, much more than clothes, make Frank go.

Frank believes in music, lives in it, until it pours from him. I’ve had a lot of friends who play music, even love music, but not like Frank. The music scene at my high school consisted of cover bands and awful bands, and Frank would’ve been offended by them all. They played for audiences, and we cheered because they played songs from the radio. They smoked pot and got jobs at hardware stores after high school. Frank used to smoke cigarettes, but he sucks in music like a sponge trying to drink down the ocean, like a huge, inhaled breath. And every time he moves, it pours out. It pours into his friends’ art, into his new CD; it explains his copies of Heidegger, Sartre, and Baudrillard. I’ve known Frank for three years now, and I’m still trying to find out what he knows and I don’t. He still baffles me, most of the time. We have both changed a lot since then; he loves people better, especially people that aren’t like him. He still has trouble with my friends—with people like me—and I am beginning to wonder if I gave him too much credit—if he ever knew anything I didn’t. I’m beginning to think that he gave me too much credit—that we all, in different varieties—that we all are full of shit.

Writers' Block vs. The Deadline: the Art of Needing 350 words by morning

2007-01-12T01:37:00.000-05:00

My fingers sit poised on the keyboard, eager, waiting. As I look at them, they wait with me, one finger twitches, then another, then a flutter of clicks and we stare at the screen together, my fingers and I. Crap. It sucks. BackspaceBackspace. SpaceSpace. And we wait. The pushups I did earlier aren’t helping. My arms are sagging, and the weight of my little muscles pulls my hands from the desk.

It sure is getting late, I say to my fingers.

Yeah, sure is—they say back. You better get going.

Yeah, I better.

The tips of my fingers are restless. The letters are lying beneath them; they’re touching them. They know the letters are waiting to scamper up to the bright screen and shine bright words into my dark room. I’m not sure why the words are not coming tonight. The other night, I wrote two pages, just cause I wanted to.

We, say my fingers.

What? I say.

We wrote two pages.

Oh, sorry. We.

Tonight, it’s just staring, and waiting. My arms really want to fall off, and I don’t think I’d mind too much—pretty original excuse: Why didn’t you finish the assignment? Well, (give them my arms) I, uh, couldn’t.

Unlikely, I think to myself.

Yeah, you’re telling me, say my fingers.

Oh my gosh! I say out loud, in my head.
You can hear my thoughts! I say to my fingers. This is getting weird.

Yeah, they say, but you’re only at 238 words, so I’d take what you can get.

Good point, I say.

So I go back to staring, waiting, twitching. What profound thing can I write about? I think about clouds and mountains. Wait. I think I’m on to something: My fingers, on the keyboard—it’s like I’m waiting, watching for what comes next. Just like life. Senior, graduating, no job—but then I figure out that the keys won’t push themselves; that it’s me that has to type. It’s perfect. I’ll write about that.

What do you think? I ask my fingers.

Sucks. That’s a terrible idea. They say that.

Whatever! I say. What’s your idea, then?

Go to bed, they say. You’ll think of something in the morning.

Whatever. I say again. Fine.

The Final Chapters

2007-01-09T01:49:00.000-05:00

College is almost over. Almost, over.

My first night in Hodson 117: a night apart from home and family. My roommate hadn’t arrived; only my RA and a soccer player named Brandon had moved in. The orange lights of campus seemed unnaturally warm, sifting through the blinds into my darkened new home. College was a new and frightful microphone into which I’d sing beautiful and utterly important songs. I had recently caught fire, knew God, and IWU would soon hear my sweet music. Humbly, I would sing, and they would love me.

This night—the East Lodge 202—what happened? Through slotted blinds, the familiar orange glow falls on unfamiliar bricks. My memories are splintered, shattered—a reflection off moving water. My years were never years; they were weeks, days, shards of time, glued together by a miscreant child. And whatever happened to endless possibilities, and what about helping IWU learn all that I knew? I was going to change things—amount to something—make ripples. Didn’t I sing? No—they didn’t hear! Did I sing? And what was it that I was going to tell them, again?

I strain to isolate the memories in the onrushing current; I can’t make them out; I recognize some, others are lost, washed out and away. Stop it! Stop the rush! I’m not ready for this. For this, to float on.

Sorrento: An introduction

2006-12-26T21:16:00.000-05:00

Sorrento: An Introduction

This short story arises out of a number of experiences that I’ve had in the past few years. The setting—Italy, and then Detroit—are both locations that I’m familiar with; I’ve traveled to both at least twice in the past four years. The storyline comes as a dramatic retelling of a position that we read for our Philosophy of Religion class. The Obstinacy of Faith, by C.S. Lewis, served as the grounds for the conflict. The plot, as with all fiction, is not based on a point-by-point rendering of his philosophical approach—rather it is a loosely-based interpretation of “relational faith.” The conflict between the speaker and Marc, his roommate, represents the tension between those who have experienced the relationship and those who have not. The situation between the speaker and Annie represents the faith relationship—though it may not have been a relationship that C.S. Lewis would’ve been comfortable promoting. Still, I hope that he would be happy with the attempt, appreciating the fictional approach. I’ve found that fiction can be a helpful conduit in understanding situations that have not been experienced. In that sense, Sorrento is a defense of faith from a relational standpoint. I hope you enjoy it!

I'd suggest following the chapters numerically--not chronologically. I loaded the story in five parts. Start with part one. Or don't. Your call...

Sorrento (epilogue)

2006-12-26T21:09:00.001-05:00

Epilogue

My seat on the plane is an uncomfortable holster with too little room, and I’m stuck between two large, sleeping sisters. Their children are sitting behind me, kicking my seatback and making it impossible to sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep later. I almost wish I would have paid for first class. But that would have been even more money on this gamble.

Around the smaller of the two sisters, I can see the sun-soaked blanket of clouds, and I know the Atlantic is tucked somewhere beneath it. It is a beautiful view; unfortunately, I’ve been too uncomfortable to enjoy it for most of the trip.

But, I’m on the plane, and that’s the important thing.

Sorrento (part four)

2006-12-26T21:08:00.000-05:00

I decided not to tell Marc. Sunday evening passed and he still hadn’t talked to me, so I figured it would just be easier to deal with him when I got back, whenever that would be. I called my parents to let them know not to worry because I wasn’t going to call in to work until I was in Italy. I thought I might be able to come up with an excuse about retracing my steps for my upcoming second book by the time I got there.

My ticket confirmation came through email on Sunday afternoon, and I planned on leaving Monday morning for my noon flight. I waited until Marc went to sleep on Sunday night to pack; Monday morning, my luggage was ready and sitting in my bathroom. I woke up early Monday, before Marc woke up and carried my large backpack out to my car. The morning air had just begun to warm in the climbing sun. Airport parking would be exorbitant, but I had no qualms about paying to avoid asking Marc for a ride. I walked back up to the apartment and toasted a quick breakfast. I could feel my nerves on edge—waiting, expecting. I drained the tart cup of orange juice and poured another. Somewhere beneath the nerves, I sensed a great well of hope, restrained by necessity, eager to break. I finished the toast, and slowly and deliberately washed the dishes. I knew I had to gather myself for the upcoming trip. What could I even let myself think? I had to assume it was another con. On Sunday evening, I travel-proofed all of my credit cards and bought travelers checks online. I grabbed my smaller backpack and walked out the door; I could hear Marc stirring in his bedroom.

I drove, first, to the bank to exchange the cash for the travelers’ checks. The process mirrored the procedure of the previous year; I was pretty certain that it was the same displeased teller. Travelers’ checks were a hassle, apparently. After a string of sighs and eye rolls, I had plenty of time to make my flight. I’d grown accustomed to the constraints of foreign travel. The cheapest parking lot left me a half-mile from the terminal, and the Michigan winter encouraged me to keep moving. I slung arms through the large pack and buckled the waist supports. Even in the frigid air, the pack sat comfortably around me. I held my smaller backpack in my right hand and began the journey toward the terminal—or a transport bus—the pack was not comfortable enough to turn down a ride. I narrowly remembered to check my parking section—CC—I squinted at the sign that was now a distance away. It may have been OO. I should have checked earlier.

He must have found the confirmation on my computer. I heard an engine racing and tires squealing in the next row of cars. I saw the car in flashes, appearing and disappearing behind the cars between us. It seemed to be frantically looking for a parking spot. As it rounded the corner and started down my row, my heart dropped. It was Marc’s old Saab, racing towards me. He almost passed me without noticing in his desperate attempt to find a spot. A few feet past me, he noticed my tell-tale pack. The car was grinding to a halt as he opened the door. He came after me in a burst.

Watching him come toward me, I wondered what was about to happen. Are we really about to fight? I wondered to myself. I began to nonchalantly unharness the pack. As he got closer, his facial expression showed a dynamic mixture of betrayal, anger, and confusion. I had just set the pack down when he reached me.

He stumbled over the words. “What—What?!” He looked at me, bewildered, trying to find a place to start. “What, the hell, are you doing!?” A good place to start, I thought, all things considered.

“Do you want to know the answer to that question, Marc?”

“I saw the ticket on your computer. You’re going to Italy.” I nodded. “Please don’t tell me you are going back to Italy for her. Please.”

“Sorry, Marc.” I shook my head. “I got an email on Saturday, and she asked me to meet her back in Sorrento.”

“You left that email up, too. I read it. You don’t have any idea if it was ‘her’ or not!” He was yelling. “It could be anyone—anything! You could literally be walking into anything. Who knows who organizes that sort of thing?”

I responded evenly—“So you pretty much know what I’m doing; and it seems like you know why,” leaving the conversation up to him.

“This is ridiculous, damn it!” I wondered if he might hit me after all. “Even if it is her—if it is the girl you spent three weeks with—she played you once, what makes you think she’s not going to screw you up and disappear again? You are leaving your job, your home, paying thousands of dollars, traveling across the world on a ticket that will probably lead you into getting your heart broken all over again. Nevermind kidnapping or, possibly,” he paused…”possibly anything!” He stood there, seething, almost wanting to understand.

As usual, I stood there silently, staring right back at him. “Listen, Marc, I don’t expect you to understand. I never have.” I paused, collecting myself for my final plea. “Alright, let’s say I go, and it turns out to be legit—she has a good reason for disappearing, and she eventually makes it back here with me. Maybe then, once you meet her, then you will understand what I understood all along.”

“But there’s no way for you to know!” He continued his protest, and the warm air from his breath stormed out against the blue sky. “There’s no way for you to know you aren’t blindly walking into an impossible situation.”

I smiled and nodded. “You’re right. I have no way of knowing that for sure. I never said I did.”

“Well, then why? Why in the world would you take a chance on something so stupid?” He was still incredulous.

“Marc—you can’t possibly understand this, and I know that! This decision isn’t stupid. But you’d have to know her—to know what I’ve come to know—to truly understand that.”

He still wasn’t satisfied—“So you’re just gonna waltz over and pretend that there aren’t a thousand different possibilities that end up with you robbed, kidnapped, or dead?”

“Well, wait a minute, Marc.” It was my turn to lift my voice. “What if you’re looking at this whole thing backwards? What if she is the one who has something at risk—what if she needs my help?” He looked at me confused. “Think about it,” I said, gaining momentum. “What if she had no other way of doing this—if there is something that prevented her from telling me everything, just like she said that night?” I pointed back and forth between he and I—“Look at us; the two of us, standing here arguing. What good are you to her? Even if she needs your help, you can’t give it to her, because you don’t trust her. And that’s ok, because you never met her; but I have!” I hoped my face showed the honest resolve that I’d seen on Annie’s face in Sorrento. “So what good am I to her? I don’t know—maybe none—I honestly don’t know. But she asked me to trust her, and she asked me to go. And because I know her—because I know who she is and what she’s like, I’m going to go. Even if you think it’s blind and stupid.”

As I finished, I felt better. I felt the well of hope begin to leak out on everything around it, and I was a little less worried about letting it splash out. I could see that I hadn’t persuaded Marc. His face lacked the rage of his arrival, but his anger had been replaced by sheer consternation. His baffled look disappeared only as he turned and walked silently to his car. I stared sadly after him, wishing I could do something more. Perhaps if I could bring Annie back, I thought. The closer I could get to her—the better his chance of understanding.

I checked my watch, suddenly aware of my approaching flight.

Sorrento (part three)

2006-12-26T21:06:00.000-05:00

“Are you kidding me?!” Marc swung his arms up into the cold air; his exasperated breath puffed white before disintegrating into Friday night. “What is your deal, man!? She’s pretty; she’s funny—she certainly seems to like you! Why not?”

The sea of motor-city vehicles rushed by on the downtown street; Marc and I stood facing each other on the dirty sidewalk. I said nothing—certain he would not appreciate my answer.

“Well?” His eyes pleaded me not to say what we both knew was coming.

“I’m sorry, man.” I really was. He’d labored for weeks to assemble our double date with his girlfriend’s attractive friend. “I just can’t,” I muttered.

His voice swelled. “It’s been over a year! It’s almost closer to two!” The valets glanced up at us from behind their outdoor post. He began pacing, furious. I tried to appease his frustration—

“Listen, Marc, I’m sorry you went to this much trouble. I know how much you had to work to get this thing organized. And it’s not like I’m going home. Can’t we just go finish dinner, watch the movie, and I’ll be nice.”

“You’ve been nice.” His voice lowered, but his eyes were just as angry. “You’re always nice; that’s not the problem.” He walked closer; I felt my muscles tense. “Listen—” he gripped my shoulder and looked at me, measured and cool—“She’s not coming. She played you, man. Her parents, if they were even hers to begin with, haven’t shown up in a year. It’s not happening. You have to deal with it. I’m sorry.” He lowered his head, his hand still on my shoulder, and then turned and walked back into the restaurant.

The valets looked at me until I stared back to show that I saw them. I hailed a cab. It’s a shame, I thought, as a large Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb. I turned back to look at the restaurant; I would have liked to had dinner with them. But I knew what Marc meant about being nice. I was only there for dinner—they knew it, and I knew it. I lowered my head out of the sharp January air and into the warm backseat, feeling a familiar pinch of frustration. Could a girl who “loved” me put me through this? Could a person truly love after three weeks?

City lights blurred the city buildings outside the foggy window. The confrontation in front of the restaurant was only the far end of a long ride. Marc and I had been charging to that end, like a train on steel girders, since our conversation in his Saab the previous fall. Our infrequent dialogue since then had almost prepared me to stand there, alone on the dirty street, defending the indefensible.

After that first car ride when I told him about her disappearance, he never listened to anything about her, or about my time with her. I couldn’t blame him; I didn’t really have anything but the time I spent with her. The camera I took to Italy was supplied by work, so she took all the pictures of us together. She was supposed to email them to me. I retained a few broken shards of the mug that had shattered on the steps at the train station. It carried the smell of wine for almost a full year.

A few times I watched Marc wonder, without saying anything, whether I made the story up. He knew I’d been changed by whatever happened in Italy, but my story seemed foolish to him. The evidence I gave him would never be reason to believe my memories of Annie. His perspective interpreted my tales for him. I understood—it was too little grounds for him to share in my hopefulness. I didn’t hold it against him; he did hold it against me.

The drive passed as a sustained flash, long but unnoticed—like a momentary camera flash stretched across an evening. I handed a crisp twenty dollar bill to the cabbie—it wasn’t even a great tip by the time we reached home.

“Have a good night, buddy” said the voice from the front seat. I hadn’t noticed him at all—an Indian man, offering a polite half-smile.

“Yep,” I said with a slight sigh. “Thanks.” I heard him say something as I scooted out the door. I ducked my head back in again. “What’s that?”

He pointed to the stereo and said in a funny Indian accent, “It’s gonna be a long hard drag, but we’ll make it.” He saw my puzzled expression. “Janis Joplin—she was just on.”

“Oh,” I chuckled. “You have a good night, too.” I walked away from the cab, glad for the chance to laugh. Marc was always at home so I didn’t get the place to myself much, and I knew we were going to have to get things settled when he got back home, so I sprawled out on our couch and enjoyed the dark silence of the living room. I reached over to the table and grabbed my laptop, setting it on my outstretched legs.

I surveyed the news quickly, checking for any developments that I shouldn’t miss, and then clicked through to my email. “(1) New.” Both the lines labeled “Sender” and “Title” were left uncomfortably blank. I had never known that an email like that could be sent at all. My curiosity overcame the likelihood that it was a virus.

When the text of the email appeared, I felt the nerves run the length of my neck. I launched to my feet and nearly threw the computer:

I need you to meet me. I promise I’ll explain then.

Tuesday at three—Italian time. Via Nastro Verde 96. Sorrento.

I stared, my eyes wide and mouth open. My eyes could have penetrated the glowing screen as it lit up the dark room. I didn’t take my eyes off the screen for a long time, subconsciously worrying that the mysterious message would be gone if I blinked. I eventually granted the inanity of my stare, but not before I had cautiously copied the text into another open document. The rumble of warring factions stirred within me. Hope is an infection—the most obstinate of all diseases. Once infected, something must die—either the hope itself, or that which stands between the hope and the hoped for.

I had no interested in piecing myself back together. Many of Marco’s arguments had made sense. But I already knew I would be going.

Marc arrived home late, walked past me without a word, and went to his room. I figured I’d tell him in the morning. I fell asleep on the couch, my computer open to the available flights before Tuesday.

▼

Sorrento (part two)

2006-12-26T20:53:00.000-05:00

The plane screeched down, scraping rubber onto Detroit’s tarmac as the wheels caught up to speed. My window set the drizzly background in a plastic oblong frame, and I could feel the artificial light escaping past me into the night. The stewardess thanked us for flying US Air, and she smiled a pretty smile as I stepped past her into the gate. Her complexion and dark eyes almost seemed Hispanic, but her curly blondish brown hair betrayed a fake tan. Her hair split into two pigtails and laid across her blue uniform. Annie wore pigtails when she worked because the owner of the hostel thought it was very American and would attract business. I spent the long walk up the gate trying to think of another way to find her. A huge hug startled me back to Detroit.

“What, you don’t recognize me after a few weeks in Italy?” protested Marc as he stepped away and clasped his hands on my shoulders.

“Buddy!” I laughed at my mental lapse. “How are you, man?” I asked, as I reached out and grabbed his wide shoulders in return.

Marc and I had roomed together for almost two years, and we thoroughly enjoyed each others’ company. His real name, Marco, conveyed his Hispanic lineage; his distaste for the American stigma of Hispanics helped him drop the “o.” His family was wealthy, and I assumed they had been for generations when they first moved to Detroit.

“I’m good, now that you’re back” he remarked, and I could see honesty across his wide smile. “That place just isn’t the same when there’s only one person there. Who am I supposed to beat in foosball all the time? Not to mention those video games. Getting’ hammered online by some Japanese kid just doesn’t have the same effect as my victory dance after I drop a game winner on you at the buzzer.”

“You better keep your fingers crossed, Marc, because that’s never gonna happen,” I said with the traditional arrogance of our video game banter.

“Better be careful there, sport. That almost sounds like a challenge,” he retorted. We joked and talked about the month that had passed as we walked to get the rest of my luggage.

“So, you, a 26 year-old bachelor, gets paid by a tour book company to travel Italy while I spend my days wasting away at a law school that takes my money and makes it financial unreasonable for me to finance a girlfriend?”

“Oh,” I laughed, interested, “so it’s the finances of it now, huh? You can’t afford a girlfriend.” I laughed again. “I have missed this.” His jab lit up my right shoulder; I struggled to pretend it hadn’t hurt, and I laughed harder.

“Yeah. That’s right,” he mocked, “Don’t rub it. Did you miss that, too?” He grabbed my backpack and threw me the third bag. “Oh, yeah, my car is in the ‘Do Not Park Here’ section, so we should probably hurry unless you want to pay to get it out of the impound.”

I laughed again, “Oh, I’m paying? Is that how it works around here? That’s cool.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” he said, lifting his hands in innocence. “I just keep them.”

My parents never left Indianapolis, where my dad ran the public relations department for an aspiring prosthetics company. My undergrad degree in History never got me excited about grad school, so after college I got a job in my dad’s PR division. A year in a cubicle was all I could take, so I set off into Europe. By the time I returned home, I figured I could write travel books better than the ones I used. So I wrote one, and my first one on backpacking the UK was bought by a large travel publisher.

They brought me on staff, and I spent much of the next year checking other authors’ travel suggestions. My parents were happy when I ended up in Detroit—though I was gone about two weeks out of five. Despite all the travel I did for work, Detroit had slowly come to feel like home. Marc and I met through a mutual friend from undergrad, and we rented a nice apartment near his law program just outside the city.

We made it to Marc’s old Saab before the tow-truck, but we didn’t escape the verbal lashing from the middle-aged woman in a blaze orange “Parking Attendant” vest. She made a spirited argument that Marc had to wait for the Police to come because she could not write him a ticket herself. Once inside the car, Marc determined that he could no longer hear her yelling and promptly pulled away.

He took the expressway out to I-69, and we talked of the previous month—his month leading up to year three of law school; my month of research for my next book.

“Research?!” he yelled, “Research?! Ha! Try two years of law school, and then call that ‘Research’!” He enjoyed his flamboyant tirades, and most times, I enjoyed them just as much as he did.

“How are the boys doing?” I asked as we passed a giant billboard showing the Detroit sports teams. He filled me in on the playoff race for the uncharacteristically good Tigers, and the off-season acquirements of the Pistons. I’d never been a fan of any Detroit teams, but living there makes you a fan…makes you. Marc’s dad had season tickets to all three professional teams, and Marco was bred to root for anything “Detroit”—sports, products, people—if it was “Detroit,” Marc was for it. He was fully capable of talking for hours about the highlights and blunders of each team.

“So, you spend just over a month in Italy, and you spend three of the weeks traveling with some chick?” The question caught me off guard, and he watched my face turn.

“Whoa,” he said, immediately interested. I looked back at him, trying to decide if it was too late to hide my facial expression. He barged in—“What did that look mean, chief?” I looked out the window. He continued, “Hey, you’re the one who told me about her in the email. You said she was a family friend, right?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. Her parents were friends of my parents. I’d never met her before.”

“So I assume she’s a pretty girl?”

“Beautiful,” I responded. I couldn’t hold back a pent-up sigh.

“You certainly sound excited,” he said sarcastically. “So far, I think I’ve missed the part of the story where you start making painful faces and sighing every time she gets mentioned. Did something happen to her?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

“No—” I started to say, but realized that I didn’t have any idea whether something had happened to her. She had drifted away, into that night, and I knew nothing after that. “Well…I guess I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Alright, I’m pretty confused,” he began. “I want to make sure I’ve got this,” he said, steering with his knees so he could use his hands as visual aides. “So you and this girl—you run into each other in Naples, Italy; you hit it off; you spend three weeks romping around Italy hand in hand; she leaves and never calls?”

“Well, not exactly,” I responded defensively, telling him of the final moments of our conversation. “I mean she did say that it didn’t make sense.”

“Didn’t you exchange phone numbers, or email, or address…” he paused, wanting to continue the string…“or pictures or names or anything for that matter!? I mean, come on! Social Security numbers for goodness’ sake. She has to be somewhere.”

I knew he wasn’t going to like my answer.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I have all but the Social Security number.”

“AND?! No response?”

“No. Well, yeah sort of—none of them work.”

His head cocked and he turned toward me, wide eyed. “They don’t work? None of them!?”

“Nope,” I sighed. “None—cell phone was disconnected, the emails addressed to her got returned, and the address was to a hotel in Vienna where she was supposed to be staying with her dad—hotel doesn’t exist.”

“That’s unbelievable!” He sat, stunned and silent.

“I know,” I spoke into the silence. “I don’t really know what to make of it.”

“I’ll tell you what to make of it!” I could feel his tirade coming. “What a tramp! That’s what you make of it—Pretty girl, American. Probably lives in Italy and picks up a different guy every few weeks then jumps ship. I bet you paid for her everywhere you went, didn’t you?”

“Well, no, actually she paid for everything on her own, except dinner a few times when I refused her.”

He kept going; “She probably just lives in Italy, living off good natured American boys who think they’re getting the love of their live. Disgusting!” Marc was mad. “I’m really sorry, man. I had no idea that had happened.”

“Thanks man.” I mustered a hopeful voice, “I don’t know that I’ve given up hope yet.”

“Hope?” He looked at me like I’d told him I was headed back to the hostel—not that the plane ride hadn’t given me ample time to think it. He gathered himself, trying to conceal his bewilderment. “I don’t know, man. I have no idea what all that means, but I can’t imagine its worth thinking about.” I nodded my understanding; it did look crazy. I had no idea what to think of it. But I couldn’t expect Marc to understand; he’d never met Annie. He never saw the resolve wash across her face when she told me she’d find me.

Marc glanced over; seeing me wrestle the question of hope, he moved the conversation away from the aching matter of “future.”

“And how, exactly, did you run into your parents’ friends’ daughter 4,000 miles from either one of your homes?”

I laughed as I told him about my mom’s email; he rolled his eyes and complained—

“So your Mom sets you up with some gorgeous girl on a different continent? In Italy, no less! Ridiculous. I can’t get a date in my hometown—where I, and my mom, have lived for well over twenty years.” I couldn’t resist the comment that snuck into the back of my mind—

“Internet dating, man; I’m telling you; it’s for you.” I laughed through the suggestion before being pounded by him; he draped himself across the wide cup holders, swinging violently to reach me as I clung to the far door, howling at my own humor.

The conversation meandered back to the Tigers, their pitching staff, and their chances of making it to the World Series. A short discussion about his family brought us into the parking lot behind our building. He helped me carry the luggage into the lobby, and we took the elevator to our fourth floor home.

The doors parted with a ding on the fourth floor. Each floor had two apartments; ours was to the left; the uptight Hutchisons at the far end of the hall. His key slid in and opened our door, and as it swung wide, I shook my head at the previous month. I followed him through the door frame, feeling, suddenly, the weight laid upon it.

▼

Sorrento (part one)

2006-12-26T20:46:00.000-05:00

Sorrento

A short story by Luke Helm

The calm darkness of the Mediterranean descended on Sorrento as we eased toward the city’s small train station. The picturesque Italian buildings settled back into their natural pastels, fading from their brilliance in the coastline’s setting sun. A heavy rain had stilled the city from the bustle of tourists’ days, but it passed as quickly as it fell, and the town was beginning to shows signs of the tranquil Italian evenings.

I carried her backpack, and we walked the cobblestone streets that had been quaint when we first arrived. Now, they seemed to give an impression of home. We passed a smiling little man, sitting in a rickety wooden chair outside his trattoria. He motioned for us to come closer, and then, in colored English—“De best Etalian vine, you buy, for her.” She smiled and lightly set her hand on his arm. In the best performance of his life, he drew his hand to his forehead, threw his head back and used the wall to steady himself. Turning to me, he whispered loudly, “For her…anything!” We laughed, and he disappeared through the narrow door and emerged carrying a bottle of white wine and a rose. Only fifteen Euros for “vino migliore in Italia!”—and the rose was a gift to the “Bella Donna.” His eyes widened as she, in graceful Italian, thanked him but explained that she had to catch the final train to Naples. I paid him for it anyway, handing her the rose and stuffing the bottle into my backpack. We walked on, the deepening night bringing the distant sounds of the train, miles away but approaching noisily along the lush mountain shore.

The email from my mother had humored me when I first read it—I’d been in Rome for two hours, including customs. I could tell that it had taken her hours to find the keys and peck out the six line message. It must be important, I thought.

The infamous Annie, the elusive gem, the oldest daughter of my parents’ friends from Cornell, would also be touring the Amalfi Coast during my three week Italian endeavor. And, the email added in a small aside, my mom loved me. I’d never met Annie though we got a Christmas card from her family for years. After I turned twelve, each card had a short message from her to me—I assumed her parents forced her to write it. I’d met her parents once, at an airport, when my parents and I were traveling. We ran into them while getting coffee. Her dad had worked in the international department for one of the German car companies. He was based off the East Coast, but they did their share of traveling, too—Annie, her one sister, and their parents. Her parents had always been intriguing, but after retirement, they were apt to disappear for weeks or months at a time, no address and no phone number.

In my last year of high school, my mother told me she’d seen a picture of Annie—beautiful, apparently. A few years later, I uncovered a college plot between the four friends to have their children marry. When I got her email, I scoffed. A convenient email address link hung at the bottom of the page. I knew Mom didn’t know how to do that.

I deleted the email and left the café, laughing to myself. The next train out of Rome left me plenty of time to enjoy a few trademark Roman delicacies. Espresso to fight the jet lag until nightfall; Tums—not Roman, but necessary to calm the stomach; and the Italian confection gelato that always made everything better. I arrived in Naples well before evening and began calling the local hostels to ask which had what I was looking for.

“Ciao, Hostel of the Sun—English o Italiano, por favore?”

The convincing Italian from a distinctly American voice stopped me.

“Uh,” I closed my eyes to gather my thought. “Umm…English. Sorry”

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

The voice seemed eager to help, but the slight Bostonian edge paired with her smooth Italian baffled me.

“Um, yeah—I’m looking for a place in Naples for the next week—I was wondering whether you serve breakfast.”

“Yes, we do. Fresh bread and fresh fruit, every morning.”

“Ok, do you have internet access?”

“Well…yes. It was in and out last week—mostly out. But we’re feeling positive about it this week.”

I laughed and asked if they had an open room for the week. They had open dorm beds through the weekend, and after that, an open single room until the weekend. I took it and hopped a trolley to the Hostel of the Sun.

When I arrived, I met Annie for the first time. Her job as the receptionist hostel ended, along with the summer season, three days after I arrived, and we spent the next three weeks together, venturing through all places she still wanted to see, and the sites I had to visit for work.

We sat on the white stone steps of the train station, reeling from her imminent departure. I took out the bottle of wine; the homemade label had already begun to peel. She opened it with the red, white, and green bottle opener she bought for her sister from the bike vendor outside Pompeii. We toasted to our next meeting and sipped the crisp wine from “I Heart Italy” mugs she would soon take to her dad in Vienna.

The foghorn of the train signaled its customary, three minute early arrival. We stared silently at the spinning red petals of the rose, as she rolled the stem with her fingertips.

“I won’t be back in the States until October,” she said slowly, “And even then, I’ll be stuck in Maryland without any vacation days. The most I could do would be flying out for a few days before heading back. Once I start in Maryland, my life is essentially over for two years.”

“Aww,” I pleaded innocently, “but Detroit is so nice in the fall. Michigan State has a grad Psych program, too.” I nudged her shoulder with mine—her light grip on the mug gave way, and we instinctively gasped as the cheap mug shattered. A heap of alabaster pieces and sprinkled wine scattered the damp stone. She smiled and pouted, picked up one small piece, and lowered her head to lay it on my arm.

Standing high overhead, the tiles of blue arrivals and green departures purred as they slowed and clicked into place. The puddles on the platform shook under the weight of the train; the neon greens and blues danced across the remnants of earlier rainstorms. The train bounded into the station, and the horn blared, deafening from twenty yards away. I gripped the large pack to hand to her. She looked down at the bag, then back up to me, her face strained—the first time I’d seen her look uncomfortable.

“What is it?” I asked, unfamiliar with her expression.

“I’m sorry”—she stared at me—“I couldn’t tell you everything here.”

The doors to the train opened; a handful of Italian men and tourists disappeared past us.

My face flooded with color and confusion. I managed only—“What couldn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry, darling; I know it doesn’t make any sense. I’m sorry, but you have to trust me.”

The conductor hollered, “All aboard!” My head snapped around to see that we were the only two still on the platform. She held out her hand for the bag, and my arm obeyed, but only with all the discipline it amassed over a lifetime. She slung the pack over her shoulder and grabbed my hand, and we walked toward the open doors.

“Wait,” I scrambled, “trust you about what?” My mind raced to understand. “I’ll call you sometime Thursday—once you get to the hotel with your Dad. I’ll talk to you then.” My statement was more of a plea.

She looked sadly into my eyes, and shook her head in an apologetic “no” as a few tears started down her face. The conductor hollered his final call; she turned and stood tall, awkward under the weight of the bag, straining to kiss my cheek. I lowered to her, feeling her wet cheek. And then she squeezed my hand, and stepped backward onto the train. Her gaze steadied as the horn blew again.

Her face looked of nothing but resolve—“I’ll find you. I love you. Trust me.”

The doors slid shut with their mechanical conviction; I watched her retreat to the handrail and set her pack down. And with that, the train exhaled deeply and slid, slowly at first, into a world without me. She was gone, gone before I could think to jump on the train with her, gone before I could think anything. The train sped her off, along the sea and then toward Vienna, with no regard for my affections.

I drifted back down the white stone steps and stopped to sit next to the broken mug. She had told me she had to leave on the 13^th, but we didn’t talk of it again until that night. She’d packed her belongings into her enormous backpack and emerged from the girls’ wing of the hostel in Sorrento, smiling but quiet.

Going with her was never mentioned—she never gave me the option. She had given me her email address and her cell-phone number from the States and the hotel number where she was meeting her Dad. I reeled from our last few moments. I had work to finish in Italy, and I needed to fool myself into believing I’d get it done. I scooped up a few pieces of the broken mug and headed back through the dark streets.

▼

No one cares but me: IWU's R-rated movie policy

2006-12-06T00:31:00.000-05:00

“R”

Indiana Wesleyan’s Student Development department has taken upon itself the responsibility of regulating students’ media intake. The Media Policy, as listed in the Student Handbook, is the result of their efforts. The rule, even according to the Vice President of Student Development, represents an imperfect effort to formulate a policy for a thorny subject. Many students and faculty have become frustrated with the rule, a fact that Student Development readily acknowledges. IWU wishes to promote critical thinking and discernment and to provide a “safety net,” and to utilize a hands-on approach that challenges students. However, the current policy defeats each of these goals because of its overbearing attempt to enforce a safety net. The Student Development department needs to recognize the specific pitfalls of the current rule and make the appropriate changes.

Many similar institutions share IWU’s philosophic and denominational views of education. The policies used by other Wesleyan schools provide a suitable starting point for evaluating Indiana Wesleyan’s policy. The Wesleyan tradition has been well-represented in higher education throughout the past two centuries. A large number of colleges and universities have carried the Wesleyan name, and many more stem from a similar Methodist background. Many of these schools have wandered from their religious roots, continuing the Wesleyan and Methodist traditions only in name. Yet a number of schools still faithfully adhere to Wesleyan code and conduct. Many of these institutions have joined the governing body of Evangelical Christian Education—the Council for Christian Colleges and Universities (CCCU). These schools share a vision for excellence in higher education and a faithful dependence on their Wesleyan/Methodist heritage. The CCCU website lists four schools affiliated with the Free Methodist Church: Greenville College, Roberts Wesleyan, Seattle Pacific University, and Spring Arbor University. The Wesleyan Church also has four schools listed with it: Houghton College, Indiana Wesleyan University, Oklahoma Wesleyan University, and Southern Wesleyan University. These eight schools represent higher education in the Wesleyan tradition. Most of these institutions have made their student handbooks available online, and their media/movie policies are listed within them.

When we observe their respective handbooks, these eight schools are clearly similar in their philosophy of eduction. All of the schools echo common refrains concerning beliefs, goals, and the distinctiveness of a Wesleyan education. One consistent theme is an emphasis on Christian living that stems from the Holiness movement. The schools embody a set of values tied directly to Wesleyan doctrine, and these dictates are applied in various forms of “Lifestyle Expectations” through the Residence Life departments. A good example of these principles comes from Houghton’s “Responsibility of Community Life.”

The people of Houghton College comprise a Christian community that has joined together to seek academic progress, personal development, and spiritual growth. We strive to uphold a unity based on the lordship of Jesus Christ, guided by Biblical principles and the moral laws of God. We affirm our commitment to the triune God, perfectly revealed in Jesus Christ. We recognize that the Biblical standards for both individual and corporate life within the body of believers are necessary bases upon which to live.

As members of a community, we expect each other-- trustees, administrators, faculty, staff, and students-- to take seriously the responsibilities mentioned herein. We dedicate ourselves to individual academic progress, personal growth, and the building of a Christ-centered community that will provide spiritual nurture for all.

Together, we seek to honor Christ by integrating faith, learning, and living as we reflect the process of maturing in Him. We choose to live according to the word of God, to respond to one another in love, and to make decisions motivated by unselfish love and divine truth.

Our goal is the ideal of mature self-regulation and active participation in fulfilling community responsibilities. In joining this community, we freely and willingly take upon ourselves the responsibilities outlined in this statement.

This exemplifies the spirit of the schools in question—particularly, the Student Development departments of the schools. Though the phrasing changes from school to school, the basic tenets of Christian education are expressed by each. The specific goals within Residence Life of Christian institutions are worth noting. Unlike non-Christian schools, these colleges and university seek to encourage Christian values in the lives of their students. “Lifestyle Contracts” and “Community Values Contracts” exhibit these goals. Still, within these eight schools, movie policies vary widely. Yet all eight schools address entertainment in some form.

Indiana Wesleyan’s version of the rule, however, differs greatly from the other schools. The school’s history and the current policy serve as a backdrop to the other institutions’ approaches. The Vice President of Student Development at Indiana Wesleyan is Dr. Todd Voss. In our November 1^st meeting, he explained to me the history of Indiana Wesleyan’s movie policy. Since the school first offered classes in 1920, the school had maintained a conservative Wesleyan aversion to film. The national ratings system changed over the years—Dr. Voss quickly pointed out that the changes were enacted to allow for more risqué material to be marketed to young people. This change put the current system in place, giving us “G,” “PG,” “PG-13,” “R,” “NC-17,” and “X.” According to Dr. Voss, the school has not allowed students to watch “R” rated movies at any point since the rating system was put into place. The policy stood unchanged until the summer of 2000. One student’s persistence put into motion a conciliatory effort to allow the viewing of some “R” rated films. The school acknowledged the “redeeming value” of some “R” rated films and wanted to allow students to watch them. At the same time, the school wanted to ensure that students to critically engage the entertainment that they encountered. During our discussion, Dr. Voss told me that Student Development struggled to find a policy that embodied all their goals. This frustration led to the formulation of a new rule—a rule which would contribute to reach all their

The policy has been tweaked slightly since its inception in 2001, and the changes continue as Student Development sees fit to improve the rule. Dr. Voss seemed proud of the steps that IWU had taken towards a more inclusive policy. He listed the improved policy and the recent addition of the Globe Theater in the student center. He contrasted those developments with the staunch disdain of film that characterized the Wesleyan/Holiness movement for much of its history. In comparison, he said, IWU is emerging as a leading proponent of movies within the tradition. A look at other schools policies will shed light on this.

The CCCU has eight schools listed within the two religious affiliations that are most closely associated with the Wesleyan/Methodist tradition. Using these schools, we have a helpful common ground from which to assess IWU’s movie policy. The distinctive aspects of each school’s policy are discussed beneath as they appear in their student handbooks; a few pertinent policies have been included to give examples of helpful distinctions. The policies are listed in Appendix A, excerpted from the student handbooks.

Free Methodist Church

Greenville College uses a policy very similar to Indiana Wesleyan’s. They ban all “R” rated films in residence hall/house lounges and living rooms. If a student wishes to show a movie that is “R” rated, he/she must submit a request to the staff in their building. This policy is different in a few important ways. First, the ban extends only on campus. The students are allowed to make their choice outside of campus living areas. Secondly, if a student wishes to show a movie on campus, he/she must seek approval. This seems similar to Indiana Wesleyan’s policy, but it differs with its individual approach. Movies are approved for watching on a case by case basis, rather than movie by movie.

Roberts Wesleyan lists no official policy regarding “R” rated movies. They do, however, use a rule that is shared by all eight of the schools. They ban all use or possession of pornographic material. The student handbook goes no further, allowing the students to make choices that align with the guiding principles listed in the handbook under “Commitment,” “Wholeness,” and “Excellence.”

Seattle Pacific also gives no specific policy for students regarding rated “R” movies, but they list a few helpful rules regarding student conduct. SPU shares IWU’s ban on alcohol, tobacco, and illegal drugs. Their rule, however, includes an important clause that IWU’s policy omits. Their student handbook states “SPU makes no attempt to preempt the customs of the family, which may include the use of alcohol at a family meal or family event...” Included in their website is a potentially helpful statement concerning the use of movies in Club activities. They explicitly ban all “NC-17” and “X” rated films, and they make a concession allowing for questionable content to be shown if it has “exceptional moral, social, or ethical message that is well established.” This, again, is addressed to school-based Clubs, not the student population; however, it reveals a look at the school’s stance on movies.

Spring Arbor University uses a rule that seems to combine Greenville’s and Seattle Pacific’s. “X” and “NC-17” movies are not allowed to be watched or possessed, “R” rated movies cannot be shown in lounge areas, and films that are “exceptionally violent, vulgar, or sexual in content” are prohibited. But, it should be noted, this distinction is left up to the student.

The Wesleyan Church

Houghton College, a “sister school” of IWU, gives no formal policy regarding “R” rated movies. The section regarding entertainment sounds much like IWU’s and a number of the other schools’, but they leave the decision-making to the students. “Fellow Christians have urged discretion and restraint in our choice[s]…especially if these…are morally questionable or diminish…sensitivity.” These cautions are made primarily from a standpoint of time-stewardship. In addition to this rule, however, Houghton joins Seattle Pacific by conceding authority to parental standards when students return home. Included with this concession is a request for students to exercise restraint as representatives of Houghton and of God.

Oklahoma Wesleyan University makes another formulation of the rule. Their policy is listed under the “Televisions/VCR’s/DVD Player” heading. They insist that, when used on campus, movies rated beyond “PG-13” are not allowed. This rule disallows “X”, “NC-17,” and “Mature” along with “R” rated films. This rule seems to negate all “R” rated movies, making it more stringent than IWU’s policy; we should note, however, that the rule applies only to movies watched on campus. This leaves open all other venues for student discretion.

Southern Wesleyan University, while addressing the issue from a conceptual standpoint, never explicitly gives a list of allowed/disallowed ratings. They ask students to “avoid activities, entertainment, media establishments or materials that promote violence, pornography, sexually explicit themes and immoral practices.” They also list a series of punishments for “media misuse” that includes the same list of restrictions. Again, this policy leaves the decisions up to the student.

With these seven schools in mind, Indiana Wesleyan’s policy is seen in a different light. Greenville and Spring Arbor have the clearest, and longest, movie policies. Both of these schools have one paragraph concerning students and movies. Indiana Wesleyan’s student handbook gives three full pages concerning students and media. The majority of these pages deal with movies. Clearly, Indiana Wesleyan has expounded on the policy more than the other schools, probably combined. This is understandable as IWU’s policy is much more exhaustive than the other schools. In our meeting, Dr. Voss mentioned the lack of a suitable precedent from other schools. IWU seems to be attempting a flagship effort, providing a more comprehensive approach. The contrasts are readily apparent.

The most glaring difference pits IWU’s policy against all seven of its fellow schools. No other policy extends the rule past the students’ families. A number of schools qualify their policies, allowing students to be under parents’ rules while at home. Indiana Wesleyan extends their policy (on all matters of student behavior) throughout students’ enrollment. Any time spent at home and any time on breaks, students are expected to follow Student Development’s rules—even if they conflict with family customs and traditions. I asked Dr. Thompson, the Assistant Vice President of Residence Life, about this in our discussion, and his response was unsatisfactory. When faced with the conflict of IWU rules versus parents’ rules, he loosely remarked that Student Development doesn’t “actively pursue” rule-breakers at home or during the summer and Christmas breaks. However, he did stand by the school’s ultimate position—students are technically expected to follow the school’s rules at home, even if they conflict with family customs and traditions. This formulation of the rule is certain to frustrate students. The school puts a rule in place technically, but willingly allows students to function outside of it. The frustration lies with the students’ motivation to follow the rule. The school relies on students’ integrity to keep their rule, but they diminish the importance of integrity by, in effect, expecting students to spend the summer at their own discretion. The school wants to use a convenient grey area to avoid the fact that they impose their rules above family customs. The students who heed the school’s call to integrity are left on the losing end of the school’s convenience: forced to exclude themselves from watching movies and from family traditions.

The media policy at Indiana Wesleyan is clearly more involved than those at other schools; unfortunately, the involvement has not brought about the goals the school aimed for. The rules from other schools regulate movies on student-owned electronics and in campus buildings. In fact, every other policy ends on the edges of campus. Understandably, no other school extends a movie policy to include all students’ choices. This extension undermines the school’s goal to “encourage discernment.” Students are asked to discern good movies from bad movies, but the policy allows no chance for that discernment to occur. Every other school encourages students to be cautious in their media selections; Greenville and Oklahoma Wesleyan even join IWU with a ban on “R” rated movies on campus. But only IWU, amidst all eight schools, extends this ban to all students’ choices. Greenville ends its regulation in campus housing; OWU also restricts movie-watching but only when they are viewed on campus. These other schools still acknowledge students’ prerogative to make decisions off campus and at home. This allows students some freedom to do the discerning about available movie choices.

The system erected by Indiana Wesleyan attempts to screen the “R” rated movies before the students are allowed to view them. Once the individual movies are deemed “redeeming,” students are allowed to view them. Obviously, this process is more involved than any other rule in place at the related institutions in the CCCU. The result is a far-reaching ban that defeats the school’s original goals. According to Dr. Voss, the school wants to encourage critical thinking and discernment, maintain the school’s “safety net,” and to utilize a hands-on approach that challenges students. The current policy defeats each of these goals because of its overbearing attempt to enforce a safety net. Critical thinking and discernment are discouraged—denied, even—by the extension of IWU’s policy to students’ decisions off campus and at home. The safety net defeats itself, the way overprotective parents force their children to rebel. Ironically, the school knows this but makes no provision for students at home or off campus. The same principle applies to the “hands on” approach. Too many “hands on” anyone will eventually force them away.

The school should either admit (and justify) their insistence on their own rules over families’, or, following the example of Seattle Pacific and Houghton, make an official provision for students under the auspices of home. IWU’s hesitance to give this qualification comes from the worry that students will abuse the freedom. However, the school should take responsibility for this problem, recognizing that playing on students’ integrity is unfair and exasperating. As for students off campus—the uniformity of the other seven schools gives a convincing illustration. If the school makes those concessions, the resulting policy would allow students an opportunity to think critically and to discern. The current IWU policy shows that a “hands on” approach cannot be successful without an occasional breath of “hands off.” The best safety net is, and always has been, good balance.

And so it began--(the prologue)

2006-11-08T02:28:00.000-05:00

The hills of Southern Missouri disrupt the table-top flatness of the Midwestern landscape. Winding through them en route to Kamp Kanakuk, I missed the monotony of corn and big skies. The day started hot and turned miserable. The AC gave up twelve minutes from home. The breeze from the window carried me, sweat and all, through Indiana, Illinois, and into Missouri. I’d spent the preceding summer months working a two man crew—eight hour shifts shoveling mud and laying grass seed. My partner, Leo, was a crafty Mexican with a knack for fixing things. The summer had already been littered with a number of painful goodbye’s. Ten young men—boys, rather—would soon find themselves under my jurisdiction, under “my” plywood roof in Cabin 1. Leadership seemed foreign and awkward, like balancing a millstone on my head. Any deaths would, of course, be my responsibility, but the camp directors had already warned us of far more solemn calamities.

The application process for joining Kanakuk’s nationwide staff of 2,000+ began at their high-impact presentation in a banquet room at school last year. A maze of different camps featuring the latest and greatest stuff: endless opportunities. The videography was rocking—awesome—as was the speaker and the interview. I didn’t know if I’d pass the interview or if my Philosophy major would get in the way. I knew they’d like me, but I didn’t know if they’d hire me. But their job offer came excitedly through email a few months later, and my acceptance letter was met by a Get-Krunked-for-Jesus reply that boasted of the best summer in cosmos history.

The valleys surrounding Branson deepened as the distance to camp dwindled. I had driven the route once before, going to round one of staff training in mid-May. This time through, the July sun was faithfully baking my green Honda and me with it. I stopped for my final pre-Kamp meal—Subway—watching CNN on a surprisingly clear, wall-mounted flatscreen. Goodbye, world. I finished my foot-long BaconCheddarRanch and strolled back out to my car, noting how much I preferred corn to Krunk-ness.

Staff training lasted three days, though round 1 had lasted two weeks. The male counselors reported to the boy’s gym. Camp leadership fortified their initial warnings about counselors who “coasted”—reminding us that their campers missed out on eternity. Then they prayed for us, with everything they had. And then we all screamed: the intensity climbed to rock-your-face-off levels. The next four weeks were going to be about the kids. About Jesus. About awesome.

Some thoughts on Christians and Film...

2006-10-02T02:03:00.000-04:00

Much like other emerging issues that the church faces today, this issue does not have the luxury of a clear, Scriptural answer to the question “What Would Jesus Do?” Jesus is never recorded outside the local theater—neither holding a picket sign, nor buying a ticket. Clearly, the issue can be, and is, argued by Christians to numerous conclusions. As is true in most of life, those who fail to think through their view of culture often fall prey to either ignorance or indoctrination. As Brian Godawa describes, the two glaring extremes in this instance are “cultural gluttons” and “cultural anoxerics”. His book “Hollywood Worldviews: Watching Film with Wisdom and Discernment” outlines the dangers of both camps before going on to reveal the vast infrastructure of worldviews beneath Hollywood’s glimmering surface. First, Godawa argues that the so-called “Anorexics” endanger their very humanity. He references the image of God bestowed on Adam in Genesis 1. The human inclination towards creativity and expression, he says, is reflective of the ‘imago dei’; thus, to ignore or shun the creation of art is to rebel from part of what made God declare that man was ‘very good’. The end results of this error are irrelevance and estrangement from the people of the culture. Certainly, the church today is feeling these effects. Second, Godawa explains the “cultural glutton”. The key attribute of this type of
person is a tendency to engage the arts in a passive manner. They are taken in by the art, but they fail to discriminate in light of their Christianity. Their main concern is to be entertained, and the value they place on particular works display this. In this instance, the common refrains are, “I liked it”, or “I hated it”. And when asked why, the response is “I don’t know. I just did”. This response to the arts is no more adequate than the first, and this approach often results in moral desensitization and the loss of a wonderful opportunity to interact with the people of the culture on honest terms.
Christians must find an acceptable middle ground on which to stand. Film, as a market, continues to grow in its size and power. As a cultural stimulus, film has seized the opportunity afforded by our increasingly visual culture. If Christians fail to understand film as a genre, and the individual films that make up that genre, the church will go on being self-focused in spite of a sizable opportunity to dialogue with an ailing culture. Simultaneously, if Christians indulge in the culture without pausing to remember the significance of “Christ, and him crucified”, we still forfeit the possibility for dialogue, but we also increase the risk of being drawn downward and deceived by the various forms of enticement.

Why is film (specifically film) so special in its ability to communicate the culture?
--Film is a large portion of the popular arts, and, as many have said, the popular arts of a time period both reflect and form that era’s values and prejudices. Film is one of the most accessible forms of popular culture and as such, it must be utilized as a point of comprehension and a point of conversation.
And, the power of film, as a genre, is a force that has been unseen to date in any culture. The combination of story, music, acting, and photography incorporates a variety of already powerful mediums into one giant. The playwrights of all ages would salivate at the options that lay before the directors of today’s blockbusters.
Because of movies’ massive ability to influence, the writers of movies hold an immense power to persuade or to convey a particular idea with bravado. Often, movies are told from a perspective that automatically gives them a particular partiality in one direction. These biases are very often the unconscious result of a writer’s worldview, but, in some cases, they are clear-minded, voluntary advertisements for a particular ideology or conviction.
This aspect of film’s power is yet another reason that it is imperative that Christians develop and implement a healthy approach to film. The picture of Christians going to the theaters and checking their Christianity at the door is as troubling as the idea of Christians outside the theaters, picketing away a chance to reach weary souls.
(for more reading on Christians interacting with the Popular Arts, read Eyes Wide Open: Looking for God in Popular Culture by William D. Romanowski)
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This undertaking is intended to offer a healthy, vibrant, constructive approach for Christians to employ in regards to popular culture, and more specifically, in regards to film.
First steps: What are the questions that must be answered in trying to develop a solid methodology for interacting with film?
n What is Film?
n What are the benefits of engaging and understanding Film?
n What are the drawbacks?
n What is the relationship between moral compromise and cultural relevance?

--Film is one branch of the popular arts that relates a story using the medium of theaters, whether home theaters or otherwise.

Benefits: / Goals:
A) More accurate understanding of the culture:
1) Detweiler’s Relevant article-- “We must see the world as it is before we start trying to fix it.”…Difference between ‘Descriptive’ and ‘Prescriptive’ truth.
B) If “A)”, then we are more suited to bringing a clear, accessible, and understandable message to fellow film consumers…which is a great percentage of those with whom we live. (80% of Christians who attend church almost weekly said they also attend the movies .)
C). Film is one of the best ways to develop discernment regarding the various worldviews and ideologies that make up our cultural landscape. More often than not, Christians cannot relate to the foundations from which people come. As in most art, film both shapes and represents the culture, and Christians should utilize film to develop a keener eye.
D) Interpretive Communities: (Romanowski 32) The opportunity to form a fellowship with others that is geared toward a joint goal of engaging popular art. (As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another… Prov. 27:17) Because the medium of film is entertaining, this provides an ideal situation for forming deeper, more meaningful relationships. This can be true between both Christians and non-Christians.

____________________________________________________________________
Drawbacks:
A) ‘Stumbling’—the interaction with film causes a personal failure in regards to the personal walk with God. Moral hindrances. (Including sexual addictions, pornography, lust, infatuation with romance, infatuation with evil/violence)
B) Distractions: Often movies can successfully remove a person’s focus from the things that rightly deserve attention and place them elsewhere. This coincides with the ability of film to transport the viewer into a separate reality, and can disrupt personal devotion to following Christ.

A healthy approach to Film will certainly begin with a consideration of all the possible benefits and drawbacks, and after a careful study of the ramifications of engaging film, we should attempt to emphasize the positives and work against the negative aspects. The following is an example of what it could look like to implement an approach to film that utilizes beneficial aspects of engaging film and safeguards against the snags. For this narrative example, I will call the Engager, “Eddy”.
Eddy is a devoted Christian, and his first priority is his relationship to Jesus Christ. This is the pivotal commitment of his life. He enjoys film, but he also believes that there is much potential for film to deepen his relationship to Jesus. There are a number of points that Eddy would do well to remember as he begins his quest to fully appreciate and use the genre of film. First, Eddy needs to remember the cultural landscape from which most films hail. The Christian heritage that Eddy believes is the true understanding of reality is not appreciated by most of the industry that produces the majority of films. The implications of this insight are complex, and contain both positive and negative effects. Eddy must realize there will be content in this area which could be potentially damaging to his pursuit of God. As he interacts with pictures of reality painted by people outside Christianity’s moral code, he must be on guard against what can be a minefield of temptation and distraction. Simultaneously, Eddy realizes that a Christianity turned in on itself is really no Christianity at all. He must use the opportunity to more fully understand the people, the culture, and the ways which they function. Returning to the problem of his moral compromise, it would be unwise for Eddy to approach the potential minefield by himself. This can be a great way for him to build relationships that will keep Eddy accountable, not only in this arena, but throughout all areas of his life. Just as Christianity focused in on itself is no true Christianity, neither is a private, individual Christianity. Eddy can pave the way for deeper, more meaningful relationships through a shared interest in the area of film. This surely can true both inside and outside the reach of Christendom. He will realize that, as with all good art, truth shines forth in good film that stimulates discussion and thought.
With this first mention of ‘truth’, we must discuss with Eddy a critical distinction in the pursuit of truth. There is an important dichotomy in the usage of the word truth, especially when referring to the world of art. Eddy should take a look at Craig Detweiler’s Relevant Magazine article May/June 2005. He writes, “The artistic community deals primarily with descriptive truth. Artists attempt to hold up a mirror, to reveal the human condition as is, quirks and all…Great art describes life as we know it.” For instance, when Eddy watches a movie, and the majority of characters end up dead as a result of drug use and drug trafficking, he should remember that the writer, producer, and director are probably not encouraging Eddy to get his feet wet in drug use. They are more likely describing the life that often coincides the drug scene. Or, given this example, it may be possible that a vivid description has the intention of discouraging drug use.
This is a good opportunity to deal with another important aspect of the Eddy’s engagement of film. If Eddy has struggled, or does struggle, with drug addiction with drug use, then the scenario certainly changes. He must recognize that, for him, this is an area of weakness and likely temptation. Once again, it seems important that Eddy involves others in his quest to engage movies. Being human, Eddy will face personal temptations that he must deal with, but these need not be magnified by his film watching. With support and involvement of his friends, he can use film to establish healthy habits and boundaries in all of life.

At Camp

2006-07-28T18:10:00.000-04:00

Hey Everyone!

I'm at camp, and i love it. I have to go. Bye.

Summer and Everything After.

2006-07-15T01:04:00.000-04:00

On Monday night, I will begin working as a counselor at a camp in southern Missouri. That means that I'm currently in the midst of my last "Summer" weekend. I return to school four days after I get back from camp. So if you think about it, this is my last summer break (making this my last summer weekend). After next summer, I will most likely not return for classes in the fall (thus nullifying it as an official summer). I have very little knowledge of what life will look like at that time. But I digress.

Tonight it's time to reminisce. I've had a streak of about 17 fun-filled summer breaks--not bad, if you ask me. I started school at my church's Academy. I spent my elementary school in classes never bigger than 20. One year, we had 6. My life was good then. Not that it's not now, it was just really good then. I had a problem every once in a long while, but they were normally overshadowed by recess. I started my love/hate relationship with Christian culture there. I also began to undertake the thing called faith there. My summers consisted of neighborhood games, neighbors, and the occasional sporting event.

Junior High took me from the protected gulf of Traders Point Christian Academy to the lion's den--Brownsburg Junior High. A very different education awaited me there. I learned that people weren't all Christians. I learned lots of things, socially and otherwise. I found that most people hated Junior High. I loved it--decent grades for minimal effort and girls. Neighborhood night games (oh, how I love capture the flag) were the mainstay of my summer nights.

High school was pretty much the same as Junior High, but harder work (harder, not hard) and more sports. My life through high school was very enjoyable. I loved hanging out with people, liked flirting with girls, and liked playing sports, probably in that order. Driving opened up choices--choices that (luckily) I was sufficiently insecure/goody-goody to screw up too badly. Summers took on a different air when I got keys. My first car was a Jeep; may she rest in peace. My love for Indiana was forged on summer nights with windows down and stars illuminating thousands of acres of corn. Each summer was different and wonderful. The summer after senior year brought a budding faith and a waning first love (strangely intertwined, I suppose).

I should also mention the blessing of other friends--I could not have asked for better people to know and love. In both high school and college, they've made life wonderful.

Ahh, college--new friends, harder school, and actually realizing my potential in sports. School became a passion instead of an obligation. Adulthood seemed imminent when I college began, but I've since learned that its a facade anyway. Still, adult life has slowly enveloped me in it's methodical droning. My friends--high school and college alike-- have begun to spread out and embark on life as grown-ups.

So here I sit, looking back on a great run of summer breaks, hesitant to move forward into my own "real" life. Thus far, life has been good. The past few years I've tasted the joys and pains of becoming my own man. I can't say that I'm fearless. Actually, I'm quite fearful.

This would be a good time to believe the words of a Jewish carpenter who had something to say to the world.

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? "

If worrying added hours, I'd live forever.

Realities in Contrast.

2006-06-22T01:47:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine recently did some research on the human eye as a part of his biology major. He explained to me (in the short, simple words I requested) how our eyes work and how they deliver a picture to our brains. One thing stood out to me in his description.

Without contrasts, we are blind.

The human eye relies on a basic system of contrasts to provide our spectrum of colors, shapes, and textures. I dont really understand how it all works--but the connection between contrast and clear vision struck me.

About four weeks ago, my uncle Dan died. My dad's younger brother was the picture of health, a vegetarian, a high school athletic trainer. His heart stopped on a Friday night as he fell asleep in his favorite chair.

My sister and I were in Missouri--a week into staff training at our summer camp. The camp director pulled me aside at lunch on Saturday to tell me there had been an emergency call from home.

An anniversary cruise limited my parents cell-phone reception, so my brother was the first person I could get on the phone. My sister and I waited as my brother prepared us for "really not good news."

News like that has a way of stealing your breath. We sat, stunned and breathless, waiting for our heads to clear. We decided to leave right away, and I walked down the gravel path towards the cabin to pack. Cabin nine was my home for the week, and I followed the familiar path, my head still reeling.

How could Uncle Dan be gone? I'd seen him two weeks before, alive as ever. He spent Mother's Day with us at Grandma and Grandpa's house. Leaves and gravel passed slowly beneath my feet. The same path I had walked all week seemed different. The same place, the same cabin--all somehow changed.

I spent a lot of time staring that day. All day, an empty feeling deadened my mind and senses. All day I thought, "Really?" We drove all evening, arriving at a hotel just after dark. The hotel was clean, air conditioned, and empty.

Sometime during that evening I remembered my friend's description of the eye. The eye relies on contrasts--without them, shapes and colors fade to black. So it seems to be with life.

Some realities in life must always be held in tension with the contrasting reality.

Life and Death, for example. We get accustomed to the reality of being alive. But we must not forget--it will not always be so. It is not until we realize that we will die that we will truly see life.

Two weeks ago, I was at my family's lakehouse--the realization of my late grandfather's dream. He and my grandmother have since passed away; unfortunately, my grandfather did not live to see the lakehouse finished. Grandma did, however, and I recently found myself in her favorite room, looking at the pictures of their life together. In particular, I found myself looking at their wedding picture.

My grandfather stands to the right of the wedding cake, in his dress Army uniform. My grandmother smiles vibrantly, foreshadowing the smile she would pass on to six daughters. Her dark hair and eyes imbue life into the picture. They stand together, smiling sweetly into the camera, enjoying the first moments of their marriage. And what moments they must have been!

Fast-forward seventy years. I stand in a quiet bedroom with a wooden floor and picture frames dotting the walls. Forty miles away, the couple rests in side-by-side burial plots. Standing in front of the picture, I contemplate the irony of my position. I am alive, contemplating the fact of death, looking at people who have died, but have no thought of anything but life. An appreciation of life slips through the irony.

The only remnant of their day is a faded, sepia-toned facade. But their experience was in vivid color.

Life will always boast more vibrant colors if we maintain a healthy respect for realities in contrast.

Conceptualization Ad Infinitum--my struggle.

2006-05-03T23:04:00.000-04:00

Did you catch that title? "Conceptualization Ad Infinitum"--this is my problem.

If you are a part of the general population (those less weird than I and my philosophy cronies), you probably don't know what I mean. Here it is, laid out for you: I am often accused of--"thinking too much"--end quote.
Depending on the occasion, I am willing to challenge this--"Do I really? Or, is it possible that you think too little?" I offer this thought, not as a challenge, but as an honest question. I am convinced that most people are far too content with their boxed-in worlds. They sit, placid and safe, refusing to engage troublesome ideas that lurk outside their comfort zones. I rarely make an stand to point out this error, but occasionally I encounter people who claim to know the real world yet refuse to engage honest questions. On these occasions, I pepper them with left jabs before landing my right hook. (Joking, mostly.)

In all truthfulness, though, short-sighted attempts to explain life and God exasperate me. Life is a beastly animal; we must not think it tamed, or it will soon get the better of us. Those who believe that they have it figured out are the quickest to see discordant data destroy their paper towers of certainty.

My college studies did away with my paper towers of certainty. Yet, as philosophy has introduced me to new, critical tools and systems of thought, I have begun to use them to understand my life (and faith), much like adding weapons to an arsenal. These have shaped the way I process the information that life presents to me. Some people employ rigid structures that interpret life for them; my approach is much more fluid. Over the years, many people have paid compliments to me on the wisdom that I exhibit. I credit this, mainly, to one specific tool that I use in understanding life--conceptualization. I break things down to root causes and motivating factors. If I have a disagreement with someone, I ask "why?" What caused that? Why was that result the outcome? The benefit of my habit comes in my ability to understand “the big picture.” When most see the immediate situation, I am pondering about weeks or months or years down the road.

Conceptualization happens, also, when it comes to decision making. If you ask me to do something with you, I can guarantee that I will weigh the options, outcomes, long-term possibilities, and the effect that a slight northwesterly breeze would have on our plans. I will ask, “What is the big picture? What are the implications, and what is at stake here?”

Now, before you think I’m too weird, I offer my defense. I don’t think I’ve ever actually thought “I wonder what he really means by ‘Are you going to eat that?'….Hmm….What are the implications here?’”
I must plead guilty, however, to looking for the bigger picture, a larger idea, an all-encompassing principle. This semester, I began to see the drawbacks to this form of thinking. Two references pop into my head; they are very similar sources. One—C.S. Lewis. Two— James Taylor. (So maybe they're not exactly similar.)

C.S. Lewis, in The Abolition of Man, speaks brilliantly of the end goal of man. He paints a picture of modern man, looking past the view in front of him in order to see the bigger picture behind it. The difficulty comes, however, when man ceases to see the larger picture, attempting to look through it as well.

(The parallel between my situation and Lewis’ argument isn’t exact, but I think of it often when I “find myself careening.”)

Lewis’ book ends with this reality—seeing past the immediate setting is only helpful if it allows one to see the bigger picture. But if we continually look through for the next Bigger picture, we eventually see through everything, which is the same as not seeing.

That is my problem. Sometimes in my attempts to 'figure life out', I look through everything, and suddenly (in all my wisdom) I see nothing. --Proverbs 3:7, I suppose--

James Taylor sang, in Something in the Way She Moves,

“Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning, And I find myself careening Into places where I should not let me go.”

I often remember this line— finding myself “careening,” and looking for “the things I lean on.” Once I've looked past all of the realities in front of me, I'm soon lost and looking for things to lean on.

I haven’t figured out what to do with my discovery—perhaps it is best to do nothing at all, perhaps it is best to listen to critics and “stop thinking so much.” Life presents us with many paradoxes, and this is certainly one. My greatest strength—my ability to discern wisely—somehow is my greatest weakness—my inability to live in light of the realities before me.
For now, I propose this solution: If you see me, feel free to remind me that the big picture is significant solely because it is the sum of little pictures, and I will politely point out that the smaller pictures gain meaning and purpose in light of the bigger one. I suspect that we all have room to improve.

(You) Encourage.

2006-03-01T01:14:00.000-05:00

In third grade, my teacher explained that every phrase must have a subject and a verb to be a sentence. Dad ran. Chris ate. Mom said. I thought I broke her system when I found a sentence in one of my books that said "Do the dishes." It even had a period--no subject in sight. We eventually got to the Command Rule. I was intrigued by the invisible "You" that mysteriously sits on the front of every command.

In fifteenth grade, a friend expressed that he/she thought that work that I had done was worthwhile--even good. The modest compliment inspired me. This month (it is the first few hours of March now), I want those around me to feel more encouraged than if I weren't around them. If I were not a part of my friends' lives, would they be more encouraged and less the butt of jokes? In my absence, which way would that pendulum swing? How often do I settle for teasing over encouraging?

I'm still a little gunshy about inserting myself into books of the Bible that are actually letters written to other people. Regardless, I think I'll take Paul's exhortation to the Thessalonians as a personal extension of my third grade teacher's invisible "You."

He said "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up..."

"(You) Encourage one another."

How much better would our friends' lives be if we encouraged them?

Not about V-day.

2006-02-13T16:35:00.000-05:00

Here we are, on the eve of the happysaddest day of the year. What am I going to write about? I told myself that I wouldn't write about Valentine's Day. My fingers are making me a liar. Its not really their fault, though.
Its probably your fault. If you like chick flicks, its your fault. If you read romantic novels (Christian or otherwise), its your fault. If you like romantic novels (Christian or otherwise), its your fault.
What is romance? What is emotion? Its my fault.

Does God really speak to us?

If yes, then how? Do you really believe that?

Where is my life going? Where should my life be going? Should that should really be there?

Is my life planned out? Do I really believe that?

Are my relationships really planned out?

Is it my responsibility to figure any of this out?

Can I really rest in God? Can I really trust?

What should I do? What can I do?

Should or Can?

Luke Helm at 4:51.

An Ode to Friendship.

2006-01-04T01:39:00.000-05:00

Tonight--the third of January, 2006--friendships claimed their rightful place as the most joyful part of my life. Truthfully, I should reflect more often on the quality and significance of my friends. What greater gift has been given on this earth? Romantic love is in a category of its own; but what is romantic love if not the pairing of deep friendship and its physical expression?

Tonight, however, I give thanks for platonic friendships. The fine gentlemen with whom I shared this evening have been close since our sixteenth birthdays arrived with their promise of first-car freedom. High school served us with the formative years of our friendships. We waded through the endless bouts of high school drama, and we shared the savory taste of intramural glory. And we'll never forget our forays into petty vandalism. Since high school--heartbreaks, victories, changes--we've shared them all. In my understanding, our group is an anomaly. Very few of my college friends (and dear friends they are) share a similar treasure. Each semester ends; I pack up and head home. And home is a blessing--I am insatiably indebted to my ever-loving family--but how many of my college friends cant wait to see there high school buddies? So after enjoying my family's company, my mind turns to the reunion of "the boys."

As I have often said, there is no place I would rather be than at the lakehouse, with the boys, on the dock, smoking a cigar, (having a beer...helllooo 21)--talking about life, love, God, and the meaning of life. Sound cliche? Come sometime. Its not. There is no room for cliche. Either the dock is too small, or we are too tight.

Winding roads hide the lake and disconnect it from the outside world. Being in each other's company sheds any pressures or strains. All pretense is lost as we tell the same stories, and occasionally stumble into a new one. Its the comfort of these friends that yields real laughter--the kind from way down inside--the kind that shakes the dock and sends ripples out over the lake. What joy there is in friendship!

December.

2005-12-05T01:34:00.000-05:00

December arrived with its traditional fury. November’s mild evenings and chilled nights slipped into chaos. Beautiful chaos, but chaos nonetheless. The snow blanketed everything, and my bike is only moderately helpful for getting to class on time. At least twice before the end of the semester, count on seeing me tangled up in my stylish 4-speed Cruizer along the icy sidewalks. If you see me coming, your best bet is to bob and weave (though a simple stop-drop-and-roll should probably suffice).
Of course, the true fury of December lies not in the cold, the snow and the travel; rather, it lies somewhere between Dr. Brown’s notorious final in Sentence Strategies and the remaining twenty-seven pages I have to write before next Wednesday. The twenty-four hour period between 12 a.m. and 12 a.m. somehow shortens in December. I’m not sure exactly how much time drops off the clock, but I know I’m always one spell check shy of the full twenty-four hours.
And then come the ingredients that really make this month challenging. December means Yuletide drama. For the sake of brevity, all issues regarding Christmas and its accompanying “festivities” will be lumped into one category--“Life.” People of all predicaments are lured into situations that seem perfectly…jolly. Yet "Merry" Christmas rarely translates into holiday cheer for all. I dont mean to spoil Christmas; I like Christmas, but December can be rough.
But this year, I say, “December, Do your worst.” Snow. Ice. Dramaterize.
The way I figure, December provides the next big lessons for a life in pursuit of God. Welcome to December. I intend to stay.

A new phase of Blogging: Round Deux

2005-11-06T15:24:00.001-05:00

As I said in the previous entry, I have begun a new phase of blogging. I call it "Actually Blogging". We'll see how often I am able to put these out; these letters were written in a class, but I wrote them about topics I cared about. So, without further adieu, this letter was originally written to the Dean of Chapel, the great Steve Lennox but passed on to you for your feedback. Let's hear it. What do I miss?

I have been a member of the IWU community since the fall of 2003, and since that time, I have faithfully attended every Summit week. As I write this, I am unable to attend this evening’s service due to an athletic competition from which I am returning. To my knowledge, today is my first day failing to make it to Summit though as I pointed out, my absence is involuntary.
I was in attendance for both sessions yesterday, and after pondering the experience, I have a few questions. The services yesterday were certainly moving, and the speaker communicated a heartfelt message about convictions and their impact on our lives. But, for all my appreciation, the emotionalism of the service seemed awkwardly familiar. Obviously, the purpose of Summit week is always to refresh and refocus, therefore the services aim to produce similar results. Yet, as my friends and I discussed Summit ‘this time around’, I realized that I wanted more.
In fairness to the speaker, I should mention that he addressed the very issue I initially wanted to criticize—he discussed the importance of finding friends to go through life with. That point has been conspicuously absent from all the previous Summit speakers we’ve heard. On another evening, we prayed together, as students and as friends. And what a blessing it was! Still, all of these things took place in a very ‘Summit-like’ atmosphere, with voice inflection and finger picking on an acoustic guitar in the background.
I’m reminded of Oswald Chamber’s warning in My Utmost for His Highest: “Beware of a surrender which you make to God in an ecstasy; you are apt to take it back again.” Emotion is central to our functioning as human beings, and it can certainly be used (and is used) to mold us and break our hearts back in tune with God’s. The correct place of emotion in worship is not an issue which I wish to solve; however, I feel that a concerted effort should be made to find a Summit speaker who is willing to forgo powerful, emotionally driven messages of rededication. These are effective and serve a noble cause. But what a blessing it would be if the Summit week could be a time for quiet, determined journeys into discipleship! I wonder how many students would cease to be confused and discouraged in the following days as the emotion departs and the grind recommences. Let’s bring in a speaker who is less a speaker and more a teacher. Let’s bring in a teacher who is primarily concerned about whether we grow, not how we feel.

Thank you for lending your ear to a concerned soul,

Sincerely,

Luke Helm

A Recent Writing

2005-11-01T23:03:00.000-05:00

Howdy Folks,
Today I begin a new phase of blogging. The following is a letter I wrote to the editor of our school paper, and thus, it wont be interesting if you dont go to the WU. But for those of us living in the Bubble, it is something worth thinking about.

Letter to the Editor:

I’m all for community, but IWU oversteps its bounds as a university when it attempts to enforce its Community Values Contract throughout the summer. When students agree to live by the standards proposed by Indiana Wesleyan, they adhere to values that the school feels necessary, seemingly, for two reasons. First—the school aims to encourage community among students by eliminating common distractions. Second—the school makes a concerted effort to maintain the Christian ethos.
How are these goals supported by enforcing the community values when there is no community? The extension of the contract serves only to frustrate and hamper students during the summer months. The school has the right to determine the rules and regulations that students must abide by when the students are a part of the community; however, when the community has disbanded the administration should no longer attempt to determine the personal choices of the students.
The rules of Student Development reflect the Christian ethos and even a clear parental tone. Of course, we should not forget the clear reflection of the Wesleyan denomination as well—which is only one subdivision of Christian heritage. When the Apostle Paul addressed those who ate meat sacrificed to idols and those who didn’t, the base of his ethic was clear: don’t cause your brother to stumble, but do what you feel is right. He also condemned the Judaizers for insisting that gentile Christians follow unnecessary rules. Many of the rules of the school take away freedoms that need not be taken away—at least from a Christian standpoint.
Granted, the school does not force students to join the community, but does that really justify the school’s application of denominational standards to students who are not Wesleyan? If the school feels that denominational rules are crucial to achieving the Christian community it desires, then by all means it should enforce these rules. It should not, however, attempt to saddle students with extra-Biblical rules after the community has disbanded for the year.
Indiana Wesleyan will not and should not shed the venerable Wesleyan tradition. Simultaneously, the school should not attempt to force its denominational and parental standards on students who have their own denominations and their own parents.
Indiana Wesleyan is a university, not a statement of belief. Whatever we do in the summer, let us do it all for the glory of God.

Sincerely,

Luke Helm

On Trust and Vulnerability, Part One

2005-10-04T09:35:00.000-05:00

My apologies go out to the month of September. A week ago, I knew what the entry would be about, but I never made the time to give last month its dues. Belated by four days, here it goes for September.
Last month almost ended me. "I don't know what life will be like in a month" has once again proven remarkably true. The past four weeks challenged me in ways I've never experienced; yet, somehow I am not surprised that I have been so thoroughly challenged. As always, the actual challenge caught me completely off guard. But if I am to stay consistent with the 'roads' I referred to last month, it should not shock me that I am forced to cross a few rivers or canyons.
The rivers and canyons will always come, and it seems fair to think that God must put us through trials to train us in the art of trust. Anyone who endeavors to trust a God who cannot be stared at , embraced, or speed-dialed must be put through the pain of vulnerability. Trust and vulnerability. Honestly, I hate those words right now. I wake up every morning feeling naked (I'm not, for the record) and alone (I'm not, for the record). Countless times through each day, I want to throw up my hands in disgust and plan my own life. And that is exactly why I have to be here right now. Despite the empty churn I feel in my stomach when I say this, I know I am supposed to be here at this point of vulnerability and unrest. If I never came to this point of unrest, I could never go on to the point of rest that lies on the far side of trust.
Uggh.

Well, I said I knew what I wanted to say for September, but this wasnt it. I think I'll be back at this soon, so stay tuned. Or dont. Its your call.

Roads Worth Traveling

2005-08-15T14:53:00.000-05:00

Being on the 'One entry per month' plan, here goes August. I am now preparing to head back to the WU in a little under a week, and in a bit of a reflective mood. The upcoming move back to school forces me to reconsider the events of the summer. As always, my life seems significantly different from the beginning of the summer. I suppose that the college years often have this effect on people's lives. There is so much happening, so many decisions being made, so many directions being chosen. Our lives receive their initial direction from these years, and the choices we make now will certainly pave the way for the rest of our lives. I am beginning to see this phase of my life as a time of road building. The roads that I am paving are not easily constructed, but it is certainly easier now than at any other point in my life. My goal is to lay paths that I will not have to abandon later in life. I want all that I do now to contribute as a good beginning to the direction that my life takes. The paths that I am laying must be in the right direction (general direction), and they must of good quality. These two priniciples apply to every aspect of my life. My relationships, my academic work, my 'blue collar' work, and my future plans all should proceed in light of this realization.
Another important point, I should not fail to mention that in all I do, my goals stem from what I feel that I being called to do by God. For those of you who arent Christians, it probably seems arrogant to say that I would expect a god, in fact, The God, to direct my life. However, as I continue to learn and lay roads, I am encouraged by how my trust in the Christian God has been rewarded by a path more wisely chosen than any I could have arrived at. I would be lying if I concluded that my immediate happiness has always been acquired by following after God. Many times, if not most, I am challenged to the point of despair when I submit to following after a Will that is not my own. Yet, I have consistenly found there is light at the end of the paths that are required of me. Most of the difficulties I have encountered have yielded a measure fruit beyond anything I could have anticipated. There are some things that I have yet to see come to fruition, but here I feel I am assured in trusting an Engineer beyond my capacity.
Ok, now I'm pulling it all together, so that you can stop reading and start posting that comment that you are dying to get started on.
Well, I think the reflective mood that I mentioned at the outset has been rewarding, but I am even more convinced that the summer has been a significant change. Good. I needed a change. In any case, school is about to start, I have no clue what this semseter will bring, but I'm excited. I like knowing what I am going to do about not knowing what I am going to do. Here's the game plan: I am going to continue to lay roads that will hopefully prove solid and in the right general direction, and I am going to trust that an ultimately wise Dept. of Transportation has some incredible plans for the roads ahead. Not necessarily a superhighway, but at least a highly useful dirt path.

I'm Back.

2005-07-06T21:06:00.000-05:00

I'm Back.
How many different things can one phrase mean? I'd be hard-pressed to come up with a maximum number, but at least two.
1) From Europe. Been there, done that. Twice. (Really, I went twice.) Both adventures have been centered around the European Leadership Forum, as mentioned in the previous post. This time, the trip was with my family: our last as our classic nucleus of 5. (We are about to pick up a winner of a # 6 to go along with our # 3.) Anyway, the trip was our last as a family, and as always, my family never ceases to amaze me. I appreciate them more everyday I am with them, and they frusterate me in new and exciting ways each and every day as well. Thats number one. Europe with the fam: check.
2) Everything else it could possibly mean. Thanks in large part to the Forum: participants, leaders, material, etc., I (though I suspect not really me) was able to revive the faith which I had nearly lost. The Forum included philosophers, theologians, scientists, pastors, and laypersons, all holding strongly to the belief that Christianity truly is the true description of reality. I would be lying if I said I no longer struggle with the doubt which had so clouded my mind and memory, but I can honestly say that my faith has not been more vibrant in well over a year. Being a philosophy student, I have no doubt that my current understanding of God/reality/etc will be challenged come Fall. Yet, the shift that I have made was not towards a logical diagram of God, nor a cut and dry philosophy or theology. I simply agreed to trust in Him who I once trusted. I agreed to believe that life has a meaning and a purpose, and that it is perfectly reasonable to think that humans function better with a purpose and meaning because that is how they were made to function. I am learning, but more importantly, I'm growing. There are still a myriad of important, vital questions that I must answer, but I seek to do that in clear view of the One who has called me.
As the title indicates, this is not a new place for me. I remember well that a few years ago I experienced the nerve-wracking excitement and painful comfort of a life lived in pursuit of Godliness and in relationship to God. So now, as I work towards a healthy and well-thought out faith, I pray for faith and faithfulness, as well as for obedience and the chance to make God smile.
"So, whats next?" you ask. Good question, faithful blog reader. Unfortunately, I dont know. Well, maybe fortunately I dont know. For now, I am working on tomorrow--that it would be a day lived more passionately devoted to God, lived out in service of others. Yeah, I better just stick with tomorrow. (Also tomorrow includes hanging out with the Vaas clan in Columbus and then a weekend up at Kelley's Island with the Bells. SWEEET.) Take care, and God Bless.

Oh, and hang in there if you cant see God right now. Your eyes arent good.

Oh, and I miss Rachel. A lot. <---------------> At least that much, if not more.

Thats all for tonight.

From Hungary

2005-06-13T10:34:00.000-05:00

Well, this will probably be short. But, its from Hungary. I'm here for the European Leadership Forum. What is the ELF you ask? It is the 5th annual gathering of the Evangelical leaders from across Europe: western, eastern, and otherwise. The group is amazing. The lecturers for the week are the most accomplished men in the world (considering their background and fields). Theologians, philosophers, scientists, pastors, community leaders, and others, all here to discuss the foremost issues facing Christianity today. It is truly incredible. I am constantly humbled and puzzled and yet argumentative as a result of the presentations. Its a bit frusterating to have to drive the shuttle when the world's leading Christian thinkers are giving lectures 3 blocks away. Oh well, you'll have that. After this week, my family is headed through Austria and down through Italy. Sweeet. The worst part about Europe is the fact that it has none of the residents of Westerville, OH. That sucks. Other than that, its pretty sweet.

Camoflauge

2005-05-28T16:51:00.000-05:00

This may have been my longest gap yet between blog entries. And what a gap it has been. Well, I dont really know where to start because I always feel like a different person when I sit down to type another entry. Technically speaking, I am not a different person, but the 'inner working' of Luke Helm is a fairly fluid thing at this point in my life. So, what do you want to hear about? How about this girl? She's a winner in my book. What a find! In case any of you are wondering, Columbus is a long way from Indianapolis. Also, gas money--not cheap this time of year. Still, OPEC is gonna have to go higher than it is now to keep me from making the trip. (Keep your fingers crossed.) In other news, I am appreciating nature more than I have in quite some time. If you get a chance, go sit in the woods without moving for about 26.3 minutes, and then tell me it isnt a wonderful world. (Camoflauge is preferable but not required.) Overall, life is sweeter than it has been it a long while. I am still wrestling a ton with matters of faith and religion, but I am settling in on an uneasy, long road home. If you are reading this, chances are I would like to talk to you, because I dont dislike many people. To those of you who dont know, Lewkas84 is my AIM screen name, and I am a loser, so I'm on a lot. Its gorgeous outside, so I am gonna go put on camoflauge and sneak up on some deer, maybe take some pictures of them, then call Rach and call it a day.

Some Guy Writing

2005-04-05T01:08:00.000-05:00

Hey folks. I still dont know if there are folks. But, if you are reading this, then you are folks. So, I am technically writing to you. As always, its been a long time since my last entry. Time goes by so fast, its really quite ridiculous. I am getting almost to the last stage in Kyle Pardon's theory of stages involved with end-of-semester craziness. I dont remember what it is, but i remember it was funny. I have too much to do in too little time. Tennis is going now, (I would say 'full swing' if that werent so punny) it has been pretty frustrating. Can't hit a backhand to save my life. It just sucks. Woof. A few other other bits of info from la vida de Luke Helm: philosophy club, aka The Pub, is now up and running, meeting with some great guys and gals, working through stuff that normal people dont care about...yay philosophy majors. That whole side of my life is still coming around; I dont really know what to do with all that stuff. Suffice it to say that I am leaning towards Postmodernism. I am also dating a young lady. She's great. Like everything else in life that matters, I am scared by all that it could mean--positive and negative. Still am really worried about everything. Still wrestling with what it means to have faith, and what it means to have a relationship with God. Still worried to say what my relationship to the pretty girl means. Oh craziness. Anyways, staying in good spirits, and still learning. By the way, if you have read any of my earlier blogs, this is pretty different. They were pretty intense, and I enjoyed writing them out, because it helped me process stuff in my head. However, for now, I think I'm ok with just being some guy writing.

Weekday Update

2005-02-17T15:10:00.000-05:00

It has been a long time since I have posted something. Sorry about that. As always, life continues. Wow. What a wild ride?... The past few months have been intriguing and enlightening. I am really starting to get a grasp of what faith is, though certainly not without becoming more familiar with doubt. One of my away messages is someone saying that doubt is too blind to see that faith is its twin brother. So true. I am gathering reasons to believe, and really, I guess you could say I am training in the habit of faith. I still have a lot of very important questions to answer, yet I am continually more sure of staking my 'wager' in the 'faith camp'. So, what is life like? Life is sweet. Not in a 'Dude Where's My Car' way; more like the way that 55 degrees and birds chirping feels like heaven after a cold winter. I am still not fully satisfied...I wonder if I ever will be, but I am getting closer to losing myself to something better.

Life Flying Past

2004-12-23T00:04:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe that it has been over two months since the last time I posted a new blog. If anyone reads these, my apologies to keep you waiting. Thinking about what has transpired since I posted the last entry, I see a paradox. So much has happened, and my life is irreversibly changed. Yet, at the same time, the peace of heart and mind is still foremost in my mind, and the search for faith continues. Day by day I wrestle with the questions of life which I have always assumed to know. Doubt is still very much a part of my life, though now it is not voluntary as it once was. I am much closer to Christianity in thought than I have been. My current thoughts are directed towards the incarnation. This seems to be the issue on which historic Christianity rises and falls. Though I began my journey in search of a completely objective conclusion, I abandon this now. Fair-mindedness is now a lofty goal, and I will not deny that I have been working towards faith, and the work is not easy. I have not stumbled upon an undenyable truth; I am working towards a faith in something I don't understand. Though I do not claim to know on behalf of others, I have learned much, and what I have learned I would not exchange for the certainty which I once held. Still, it seems that my journey is not without more than its share of unforeseen turns and obstacles. It is likely that I would have long ago stopped my journey--if only to rest (a scary thought), had it not been for an unlikely source. I like a girl. To downplay the effect this relationship has played in my thought would be downright dishonest. I constantly look for the places where my journey can run alongside another's. This aspect of life constantly reminds me of the richness that this life has to offer. Recently I had a very sudden and surprising realization. There is very little I am certain of in this life, and what little clarity exists stands out brilliantly from the much more prevalent darkness. If there exists such a thing as capital "T" truth, I have found it not in the classroom; but in love. I have found the truest things I know in living. Standing outside in the Indiana winter, the abruptness of reality left a profound impact on me. The truth found in living requires many things; the most important of these being life itself. What can be learned in living requires a life in which to learn. Everyday life must be more than everyday life, because life as we know it is life flying past.

And life goes on....

2004-10-14T01:04:00.001-05:00

Well, life goes on. For those of you who are reading this out of interest, thanks for checking up on me. For those of you who are merely compulsive AIM away message checkers (I have been suffering a minor case), then, welcome. The news here at the moment is not much news. Life does indeed go on. I have been engaged in the past 10 months on a journey that has brought down walls and torn out foundations, yet slowly, rebuilding is taking place. Many of you, (when I say many I mean as many people as read this... i dont know), have talked to me in short or at length about where I am in life at the moment. It is a very good question--where am I in life right now? The answer to which, I really do not know. In this search for "Truth", capital "T" or otherwise, I have essentially abandoned most of what I have ever believed in the past, all for the sake of "Truth". When setting out, I began with a lofty goal of seeing, comprehending and believing what the "Truth" about the universe was, in relation to God, me, Jesus, etc. As a Christian, I figured that if Christianity was true, then no search for truth could ever do any harm. Looking back, I realize that my goal was quite lofty, and now I even might say impossible. It was truly me trying to search out tangible, objective "T"ruth, arrived at with no biases. I have slowly and painfully become aware of the shortcomings of my attempt. "As one of my profs put it, "objectivity is a pipe dream". Interestingly, he did not say this to discourage objectivity, but rather to encourage it. I now see the wisdom in this. I have to realize that I am, as a human being, more than just Reason. I am not a search engine. There is more to me than my intellect. I am human. I am beginning to ask what it means to fully be human. I am starting to think that even if I was capable of complete objectivity (existentialists call this "dispassionate learning" for a reason), I would not be functioning at my full capacity. I increasingly am thinking that, as a human, I was intended for, or at least I am capable of more. Love. Is this an intellectual copout for being wrong? It might be, I dont know. I need to look into it further. In any case, where am I in life? I really don't know. It may be that my feet find solid ground tomorrow, or it could be the end of my life, or after. Reading Augustine's Confessions, I resonated with his plea, "Let it be now, let it be now." I see the truth in C.S. Lewis' understanding of faith. "That is why Faith is such a necessary virtue: unless you teach your moods 'where they get off', you can never be either a sound Christian or even a sound atheist, but just a creature dithering to and fro, with its beliefs really dependent on the weather and the state of its digestion. Consequently one must train the habit of Faith." My life has been characterized with exactly this "dithering" for quite some time. I am beginning to develop this "faith", as Lewis understands it, though I am taking baby steps--if that. Where is it that I should put my faith? Again, I dont know. I feel as if I am coming closer, but I have not arrived at the place of peace in my head and heart. In any case, in this reality of which I am a part, I am not privileged to see the future. So, tomorrow awaits.

As we walk

2004-09-26T01:45:00.000-05:00

As we Walk, Talk, Breathe, then Leave this lush labyrinth

Questions questions questions, what if we get it wrong?

As we Eat, sleep, Breath then leave this world of tears

Questions Questions Questions, what if we miss the point?

Some Live and Some die, and life goes on around us

War , Love, and hate, such odd company make

--

We’re livin in a Busy, busy world where no one loves their daddy

What makes life worth livin, if we’re all alone?

We’re gonna reap what we’re sowing, and since devotion’s borin

Soon Life’s not worth livin, since we’re all alone

Some laugh and some cry, and life goes on around us

Hope is hard to find, though some say its free

--

It’s a cloudy day, when the sunset fades Away,

The cold cold world thaws its way to sanity

If one friend heaven sent helps carry the burden

That life has brought to me

Ther’re days wet and days dry, and life goes on around us

Friends, though far between, mean the world to me

A quick response to "Humbly Bend"

2004-09-09T22:41:00.000-05:00

Upon further reflection, I see a problem with this idea. Rather, I see an injustice in my assessment. To claim that the truth and the Bible are seperate entities is true. However, this is not necessarily due to the error of the Bible. The nature of a written word is so incredibly seperate than that of "truth" on the idealistic and pure level, that no direct comparison is permissable by their very natures. They are different. Further, to say "God does not reside in the Bible" is a rather sensationalistic claim that was based more on reader appeal than thought out conclusions. I am sure it worked, but it was a poor and cheap hook, not worthy of the subject matter. Still, I think at base, my best guess is that "truth" "honesty" "humility" "sincerity" etc. should be our first guides to God.

Humbly Bend

2004-08-17T01:35:00.000-05:00

Truth and the Bible are not, in and of themselves, synonymous. God does not reside in the Bible. God resides squarely in truth, and nowhere else. Now, this is not to say that the Bible can not show truth, but it, in and of itself, is not truth. Instead of using the Bible as our sole guide to truth, doesn’t it make sense that honesty and sincerity should be the chief instruments in arriving at truth? For the Bible, though I may find truth through it, is not the conclusion of the matter. In fact, honesty and sincerity are the only things capable of revealing truth. This can be demonstrated. If I were to read my Bible for an entire lifetime, and yet I am dishonest in my assessment, or insincere in my search for God, I would never arrive at truth. This leads to an even more grave possibility. If I never arrive at truth, I will never arrive at God, for God is truth. Of course, it will be said (and rightfully so), that honesty and sincerity are too subjective, and they cannot be free of suspicion. This is so true! And yet, is it not true that “narrow is the gate”? Also, the thought of being forced to seek out truth rather than it be handed down and laid in our laps is frightening to say the least; but was it not the apostle paul who said that “salvation(!) should be worked out with fear and trembling”. It should probably be added that within sincerity, humility must also be included. A wise man I know wrote, “the doorway to truth is very low. We must humbly bend to enter”. This is a very true statement, but I would also add that the doorway is thin, and as one of us approaches, we must faithfully let go of our bulky luggage and even our garments. As we stand cold and naked outside the door, we must forcefully knock until the warmth from inside invites us in to reside with the One who resides only in truth.

Good times

2004-08-13T00:19:00.000-05:00

Good friends and good laughs make me smile.

Failures of Truth

2004-08-10T03:52:00.000-05:00

Today, I had an argument. Technically, it was yesterday (into the morning hours now). My friend and I were having a discussion, and I felt that I should point out something I felt needed to be discussed. Here, I made my first mistake. Conversations that are important enough to hurt someone, should warrant a face to face conversation. AIM does very little to help good communication. After conversing for a while, and failing to listen very well,(figurativly) we were discussing different things simultaneously, without realizing it. It was not until I reread the conversation that I saw where it went wrong. My friend had said something that I missed. I went on, my friend went in a different direction. Thinking that we were still talking apples to apples, I continued to prod. Now, for my second mistake. I very much believed that I was right. I still do. However, in my anxiousness to prove/pursuade my rightness, I overstepped my bounds. I ceased operating out of love. To be perfectly honest, I don't know that I began speaking out of a loving attitude. I felt I was right, but I did not bother to love my friend enough to say what needed to be said in a loving manner. Yet, if I needed to see something I was blind to, I would want someone to tell me in a loving manner. "Luke, Love your neighbor as you love your self. You know better."

The Importance of Honesty

2004-08-10T03:24:00.000-05:00

Growing up in my church, I was always taught to believe that we,as a church, were right. Our beliefs about God, about mankind, and about ourselves were all right. (As I write this, I realize that it is not just the Church who teaches this, but most everyone grows up believing and being taught that they are right concerning the biggest questions in life. Atheists raise atheists, Christians raise Christians, etc.) Never once did anyone advise me that something in our belief system could be wrong. Of course not. What they have come to believe are their answers to the most important questions humans answer. What kind of parent would tell their child to walk away from eternal life with God? However, in this line of thinking, there is a dilemma. I discussed it briefly in "Why us?" If everyone in the world believes what they are taught to believe, most of the world will spend eternity apart from God(assuming Christianity as I was taught is correct). Of course, it is possible that God presents each person with his or her own opportunity to become a Christian during their stay on earth, and the billions of people in other religions or non-religion merely shun God's extended hand. I struggle to believe that. Perhaps it is merely my human intellect trying to comprehend system of justice too complex for my reasoning. But in that case, is it my duty to shun that which i believe to be more likely in the name of "faith"? I struggle to find the correct place for the puzzle piece labeled "faith" in the jigsaw of life. C.S. Lewis said that he would never ask someone to believe in Christianity against his/her better judgement. So, if I am to make my best judgement, it is my responsibility to make an unbiased decision, even if it leaves me somewhere other than that of Christian belief. Thus, in this case, I am not being honest if i say I believe the salvation works the way my church teaches it. Ok. After the long detour around what I originally began to discuss, I will return to the importance of honesty. As I said, I do not believe that salvation works the way I was taught growing up. This of course raises the question, "well, how do you think it works?" My answer to the very valid question, is a resounding, I DONT KNOW. Is it possible that I am wrong? Yep, absolutely. Does that scare me to death? Absolutely. So, why don't I just accept what very smart men have said within Christianity? Because I cant. If I cannot search honestly and find God, how can I expect others to carry this burden? If people outside Christianity are to be expected to find God, then God must be reachable through ways other than assuming Christianity to be true. Namely, honesty and sincerity. It seems fairly obivous that those who truly believe they are right are not afraid of research and dialogue. They welcome it, and rightly so. If truth is the biggest goal, and that goal is achieved, but you end up somewhere you never dreamed you would, havent you still succeeded in being true to the very fabric of our reality? If God does not reside at that place of truth, I cannot believe in God. Of course, as in navigation, if you are untrue to the desired course by a fraction of a degree, you will wind up hopelessly lost. And so, we must be ruthlessly honest, and accept nothing but the most pure truth. Our very being hangs in the balance.

Sorry for the rambling...my head is cloudy.

The Importance of Sincerity

2004-08-05T00:23:00.000-05:00

Today, I had a conversation with my mother. It involved my brother as well; and as usual, my mom and Joel (my brother), were in disagreement. The actual argument surrounded the issue of gambling, but that is of little importance to the reason I am now writing. As the discussion developed (or failed to do so), I noticed a few things. Absolutely everything said by either party was completely disregarded by the opposing side. This makes dialogue more or less a complete waste of the oxygen supply on the planet. It mattered not in the least what was said. Mom-"You dont understand, just listen..." Joel, completely oblivious to the merit of my mothers argument says, "No, see what you don't understand, is that..." Mom, without heeding anything said by Joel, says "Nope. You're wrong." Now, argument over. (I should mention that I did enter the "ring", but got shoved out.) Ok, let's review what has been accomplished: Mother dearest has entered the argument with "X" esatblished in her mind as correct. My dear brother has entered the bout with "Y" firmly planted as the correct concept. Both arguers make arguments completely irrelated to anything said by the other, without ever stopping to think that, my oh my, "I could be wrong!" (I know that this sounds condescending, but I am as guilty as either...even in the conversation I am using as an example!) I think perhaps the biggest error they (we) made, happened because none of us ever wanted to get to the truth about the matter. That never crossed anyone's mind. If there is truth to be known about the matter, it was never remotely involved in the actual conversation. The people involved did not want the truth, they wanted to be right. Unless one begins with a sincere hunger and thirst for truth, they will forever wander blindly clinging with a proud grip to a mere mirage--unworthy of the gloriousness of truth.

Why us?

2004-08-02T23:50:00.000-05:00

So, here is the 40 dollar question for the night--I, Luke Helm, was born and raised in a Christian home. I was brought up to believe the basic Christian message. Now, lets say another person, an islamic person, was born and raised in an Islamic home, believing the basic Islamic doctrine. We both live our lives doing whatever it is we do with the time we have to spend hear on earth, and eventually we both die on. As fate would have it, both of us were born on the same day, and died on the same day. As we stand side by side, God looks us both over, quickly reviews our lives, and passes the verdict. "Mr. Helm, you lived a good Christian life, you gave your 10% of income to the church, you came to church whenever possible, and most importantly, you believed in Jesus as your Savior. You are welcome into my love." Turning to my Islamic counterpart, "You sir, on the other hand, failed to ever seek me out. Your faith is both philosophically and historically inaccurate, and you were never willing to truly and honestly seek out the truth in this world with an open mind and heart. You will spend eternity apart from all goodness." I am troubled by this decision, and I object, "but God, isnt that a little harsh? I mean all those things you said he never did...Well, come to think of it, I never really did them either." Thinking it over, God responded, "Hmm...well, you were a little off on that theology part, and historically, well, you were way off on that part; and you never came around to seeking out truth with an honest heart. But, of course, you were born into Christianity, and that taught you to say the right things---Good enough for me. Welcome."
For the 40 dollar question- Is that just?
I highly doubt that Traders Point Christian Church, even as well as it has taught me right from wrong, has the right answers to all the questions that mankind has raised throughout our tumultous tenure on this planet. This is, of course, a poor way to arrive at a conclusion discerning truth from falsehood. I must deal with the issues themselves, rather than generalities which base judgements on assertions. However, it is an interesting to think that those of us who have been raised in a Christian environment believe that we have the corner on all truth in the universe, yet we have never taken the time to actually look at what we believe and why we believe it.
Many people are born into cultures that claim to know absolute truth. Most of these cultures think all the other cultures are wrong. We think we we born into the culture knowing truth. Why us? Love Truth enough to find Him.

the first of many

2004-08-01T23:40:00.000-05:00

Well, inspired by none other than the Jeff Timmer, my online thought bank is now open. Put your helmets on, and step into the treacherous waters known best as the Mind of Luke Helm.