The Strange and Fascinating Twists of Spiritual Formation

I read in the last year or so that author Richard Foster said in an interview, “We are always being spiritually formed.” For whatever reason—and although a relatively simple idea—I haven’t been able to put this away nor have I been successful at fully unpacking the reasons why these words and this thinking continue to reverberate for me.

It’s my opinion that in the world of spiritual formation we have entered a time that requires next-level thinking. Although the integrated counseling movement has moved the flywheel, so to speak, we’ve yet to establish a definitive understanding of what it means to be spiritually formed. While not a student of spiritual formation, I nevertheless have been afforded the opportunity to consider what it means, how it happens, and the heart of the matter for the last several years.

I’m convinced that “story”— both the Larger Story that God is revealing, has been revealing, and will to continue to reveal as well as our own stories (that is, where we have come from and what we have experienced and what we have felt and what we have seen and the people that have spoke into our lives both functionally and dysfunctionally) play a crucial role in how we are spiritually formed. In fact, taking Foster’s words into account, I could say that “story” is the absolute means by which we are spiritually formed: at every second of every day we are being spiritually deformed, reformed, and transformed, one upon another like layers of the atmosphere, not really sure where one begins and the other begins until we’re either colder or warmer, breathing easier or heavier.

Its easiest to think of this process as a critical path for demolishing the false selves, (also understood in terms of strongholds quite possibly) we have created. We are born in Saving Private Ryan, as John Eldredge suggests, and as we storm the beaches of our own stories through our adolescence and youth we realize a couple of things: (1) the bullets are live and (2) the stakes are high. So as we make our way from point A to point B we are able to deflect some of enemy’s shots, while unable to avoid others as they hit their mark. We are wounded. And into these wounds the enemy, our antagonist and the villain of our stories, speaks lies. Over time, like a boxer receiving short blows to the body over the course of his bout, we agree with the paralyzing lies of the enemy. These agreements lead to vows, the “I’ll never” vows, that create the false selves that stand in immediate and direct opposition to the person we were created to be.

Unfortunately, these disorienting events take place before we have enough experience to place them into their appropriate context. So what we assume to be “normal” as a child, for instance, we begin to understand as something other than normal as adults—or do we? Inherent in this paradigm is the sentiment that, yes, we have fallen as a result of Original Sin and continue to be plagued with all the resulting circumstances, but with our new hearts we are also able to recover, to some degree, Original Glory as God’s image bearers.

The critical path for demolishing the false selves is the same critical path that also lights the dusty roads that point us back toward our Original Glory. And even though we can never completely overcome our depravity on this side of life, we can live out of it less and less, while living out of our glory more and more.

So why all of this now? Oddly enough it’s the result of a novel I’ve recently picked up. Even though spiritual formation continues to be a part of my internal dialog, being exposed to John Irving’s latest novel Last Night on Twisted River at least for me begs a re-imagining of spiritual formation. All his books tend to present childhood as a very dangerous, heavy-handed, and unwieldy place, but Last Night on Twisted River—so far—is chilling in exposing the pitfalls, land mines, and live ammo we all face in the earliest, most formative years.  In so many ways Irving is able to capture this leg of the “story” for all of us in that’s it’s messy, unpredictable, and even offensive. Perhaps his greatest gift, however, is his ability to articulate heartbreak without ever saying it. You’ve just got to be willing to go on the journey with him. (And also willing to suffer the first 100-120 pages. Pretty doggone dry.) And I would add that this—so far—is my favorite Irving novel since The Hotel New Hampshire and The World According to Garp.

Where the Wild Things Are

When I first heard that Spike Jonze, director of two of my favorites Adaptation and Being John Malkovich, was making a feature out of Where the Wild Things Are I thought, “How in the world is he going to do that?” Then I watched the trailer and it looked like it actually had potential to be good. The trailer planted the suggestion that the movie aimed to identify the “wild thing” in all of us and call it out.    And recently I read a Q&A in Newsweek with Jonze, screenplay writer Dave Eggers, and author Maurice Sendak in which they described the movie as being potentially too scary for children; and made less for children and more about childhood. One of the panelist added that Where the Wild Things Are was created to be the The Wizard of Oz for the era of dysfunctional families—which added a certain measure of intrigue. I understand that the last thing some of us want to see at the movies is a slice of reality, but I can usually enjoy seeing a version of reality through the eyes of a gifted storyteller. Often this version opens eyes to the beauty around us and creates a heightened sense of what it means to be alive. These disclosures combined with a Metacritic score of 71 led me to conclude that Where the Wild Things Are was worth seeing.

Alas, I was wrong. I can’t possibly recommend this movie. Not only did it not deliver on its stated intentions. But neither did it deliver on the things I thought I might be able to take away—namely, that there’s something beautiful in us that only the wild can conjure. That even standing at the intersection of Chaos and Abandonment, the human spirit can will its way home. That Max, the 10-year-old son of a flawed single mother, would discover something deep inside —something that he discovers had been there all along—that allows him to see himself as King of the wild things but also king in other ways. That despite the messages he gets at home, he could discover that, yes, he does have “what it takes.” And along the way I found myself wanting to see healing instead of concession, which is what happened within every character as the closes in a whimper.

So the tale ends with each character for the most part in defeat. Yes, there can be a freedom of sorts in these sort of acknowledgments and epiphanies. I remember reading years ago in a book called Reading Faulknerian Tragedy by Warwick Wadlington that in a nuclear age in which each and every one of us lives with the threat of total and absolute annihilation, the world no longer yields the capacity for heroes. Wadlington concludes (now why do I remember this? Oh, right. Because I’m sick.) this because in the world he describes we are all heroes. We all face overwhelming odds yet charge off into battle with our morning coffee every day. For some reason that has always stuck with me and it bubbled up again during Where the Wild Things Are when Max learns that the sun, like all other things, will indeed die. In much the same way, in Jonze’s creation there is no capacity for a hero, either. It’s fatalistic and lacking hope. And, I ask you, what kind of a world is that? It’s a pall gray world void of color, certainly missing the wild, where every event is, to put it bluntly, pedestrian. I love the idea of a boy that refuses to be “housebroken,” instead looking to draw from the “wild thing” inside. But that never happens. Instead it’s a movie that trails off, ending in … . Ultimately, I guess, Where the Wild Things Are is a tragedy thus the net effect is something akin to motion sickness since the ride I expected from Jonze wasn’t the ride I got.

There is (or was) potential for Where the Wild Things Are, but it comes up way short. The trouble with the plot is that … there really is no plot. This isn’t necessarily the fault of the filmmakers since their source material is weak in story. There is unrealized beauty in some of the characters, but anything that might have been there is lost in the melodrama and absence of story. The biggest question I’ve got, though, is why Jonze didn’t get Charlie Kaufman to write the screenplay. That’s what we’re missing more than anything.

William Faulkner Meets Martin Luther

At one point in William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury the main character, Quentin Compson, expresses a desire to go behind the “clean flame.” As his native South evidenced greater and greater decay and his once-strong family has sunk into profound dysfunction, he longed for katharsis—essentially to be born again. These are the storms that chase us. For Quentin the “clean flame” was a means of refuge from tragedy and heartbreak. The idea of katharsis—a moment of purification—is significant within the Christian pilgrimage, as we all know. In a recent conversation the question was asked, “So how much healing does a person need?” The only possible answer is, “More.” More healing. More God. More community. More authenticity. More worship. These are the “clean flames” along the journey we have been called into. This quiet trip of the mind’s eye conjured these words from Martin Luther.

This life, therefore, is not righteousness
But growth in righteousness;
Not healthy, but healing;
Not being, but becoming;
Not rest; but exercise.

We are not yet what we shall be,
But we are growing toward it;
The process is not  yet finished
But it is going on;
This is not the end,
But it is the road to glory.
All does not yet gleam with glory
But all is being purified.

I keep a copy of this in my journal as a reminder that all is being purified. We’re able to see it in the people around us every day.  In a sense we’re passing through the clean flame as the minutes and hours and weeks of our lives, also described as “God’s Curriculum of Life,” are put to work for us in the process of becoming whole.

Tales of a Dying Superman

Small Groupologist Rick Howerton is fond of putting a note of authenticity to what is typically a mundane question when he asks, “How are you doing REALLY?” Recently I had an opportunity to have lunch with a friend I spent some of my high school and all of my college years with. Right away I asked him how he was doing, he said “fine.” There was a pause. The word “really”  hung in the air for a moment before he added, “I don’t know. Sometimes I think bad thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘I wonder what would happen if I just left.’”

“What do you mean, ‘left’?”

“‘Left’ as in ‘left and never came back.’”

Of course we talked our way through it for a few minutes. He wasn’t serious. At least, wasn’t serious in considering walking out on his life. But what he was saying was how tired of the routines and the mundane of life he has become. This can’t be uncommon in men getting close to 40 or thereabouts. The word my friend used was “trapped.” In an email exchange I had with yet another friend in this demographic I got the following:

“I wake up a lot of days and have the same what I’ll call malaise. It’s like the new day I’m facing is the exact same day I had yesterday and tomorrow doesn’t promise to be much different or better.”

Now that’s just being honest. Who can’t relate to something on the level of Groundhog Day at least for stretches (for me it tends to be January-March). Neither of these men would describe the lives as bad or their families as anything other than a blessing. I’ve known them both for most of my life and can honestly say that I love them. They’re both very successful at what they do. But I do wonder what the sum of these conversations is and what implication it has for the larger culture of today. In what ways have we both robbed ourselves and, perhaps, been robbed of adventure—which would seem to be part of the issue at hand.

If you take a moment to consider the various radio commercials you hear as well as the corporate advertisements seen on television,  but particularly television sitcoms, the sum of it is that it appears that masculinity has been lost. There was time when every young boy dreamed of being Superman. It was reinforced in our heroes, our culture—the fact is that something was expected; that life demanded something of you. A boy was expected to look the inevitable storms in the eye, forge a path through the night and face the darkness, and grow into significance. This is not commentary on leadership, but on masculinity. This is how a man bears God’s image. Alas Superman! But our culture it seems would like nothing more than to tear this image down. Of course during peace times—times with little to no adversity, strife, and war—this attribute of masculinity isn’t as vital. The mistake that’s made, however, is that these times of perceived peace are just that: perceived. The reality is that we are always at war and masculinity should always be summoned into the breach of the battles set before us. These battles tend to call out the best in us.

We need Superman, or what Friedrich Nietzsche referred to as the ubermensch that overcomes traditional boundaries to rise above the herd. Symptoms like the conversations I describe above are indicative of a dying Superman, a Superman robbed of battle and adventure, conditioned to be content to sit in front of the television on Saturdays and Sundays. But instead we are moving more and more into a liberal era that continues to look to external agencies like government for solutions and rescue instead of the latent heroes within us. There is a Superman within us … all of us. This, I can’t help but believe, is the essence of the human condition.

Coca-Cola, Marilyn Monroe, and the US of A

Exactly forty years ago today marks the summer of two events very unique to Americana. The single biggest year of expansion of what is perhaps Walt Disney’s greatest achievement took place: Disneyland. The summer of ‘59 saw the revamp of Autopia and the additions of the Disneyland Monorail, Submarine Voyage, and  the Matterhorn. That was in June. Also in 1959 was the first visit to America  by the head of Communist Russia, Nikita Khrushchev, as the result of President Dwight Eisenhower’s invitation. And on this date, September 15, a chain of events was set into motion in which the two would collide. A recent article in Smithsonian Magazine put it this way:

A few days before the premier’s scheduled arrival, the Soviets launched a missile that landed on the moon. It was the first successful moonshot, and it caused a massive outbreak of UFO sightings in Southern California. That was only a prelude to a two-week sojourn that historian John Lewis Gaddis would characterize as “a surreal extravaganza.

But the extravaganza got even more more surreal. Things got funnier. As Ike read a welcoming speech, Khrushchev mugged shamelessly. He waved his hat. He winked at a little girl. He theatrically turned his head to watch a butterfly flutter by. He stole the spotlight, one reporter wrote, “with the studied nonchalance of an old vaudeville trouper.”

Khrushchev’s trip move from surreal into whatever level comes after surreal when he left the East for a trip out West. Keeping in mind that this era represented the peak of the US anti-communism bent, you can imagine the circus Hollywood became as Twentieth Century Fox planned a luncheon for Khrushchev and 200 of our biggest stars.  According to the Smithsonian article, the studio was determined that Marilyn Monroe be on hand. And not only that, but she was told to wear “the tightest, sexiest dress she had” for the premier. Told that to most Russians, “USA” only meant “coca cola and Marilyn Monroe,” she agreed to make the trip from New York where she and husband Arthur Miller were then living. (When I read this I couldn’t help but wonder how many other times she had been blatantly directed to make herself a prop in this way. That had to have a profound and negative effect on a person with a decent level of depth.)

For one of the times in her career, Marilyn arrived early. Also on hand were Edward G. Robinson, Judy Garland, Shelley Winters, Gary Cooper, Kirk Douglas, Dean Martin, Tony Curtis, and Zsa Zsa Gabor. Henry Fonda purportedly had an ear plug in his ear listening to a Giants/Dogers game during the 59 pennant race. The premier sat at the head table. But what the Soviet premier really wanted was a trip to Disneyland. This just says so much about the human desire for fantasy, fairy tale, and story, I think. However he was told that for security reasons the trip to Disneyland had to be canceled just prior to taking the stage at the Twentieth Century Fox luncheon. His wife, Nina, sat between Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope. Nina Khrushchev told Bob Hope that she wanted to see Disneyland, too. Peter Carlson in his article “Nikita Khrushchev Goes To Hollywood” describes the dictator’s reaction like this:

“Just now, I was told that I could not go to Disneyland,” he announced. “I asked, ‘Why not? What is it? Do you have rocket-launching pads there?’ “

The audience laughed.

“Just listen,” he said. “Just listen to what I was told: ‘We—which means the American authorities—cannot guarantee your security there.’ “

He raised his hands in a vaudevillian shrug. That got another laugh.

“What is it? Is there an epidemic of cholera there? Have gangsters taken hold of the place? Your policemen are so tough they can lift a bull by the horns. Surely they can restore order if there are any gangsters around. I say, ‘I would very much like to see Disneyland.’ They say, ‘We cannot guarantee your security.’ Then what must I do, commit suicide?”

Khrushchev was starting to look more angry than amused. His fist punched the air above his red face.

“That’s the situation I find myself in,” he said. “For me, such a situation is inconceivable. I cannot find words to explain this to my people.”

The audience was baffled. Were they really watching the 65-year-old dictator of the world’s largest country throw a temper tantrum because he couldn’t go to Disneyland?

So what was it about Disneyland, honestly, that might prompt such an outburst close to the height of the cold war? The expansion of 1959? I don’t think so. Such a strange event may find its roots in the notion that fantasy and fairy tale have a peculiar draw within the human condition. A strange tale, I think, for a strange time nonetheless.

Click here to read the whole article.

Obama-Care and the American Experiment

I’ve got some thoughts on the issue of government sponsored healthcare. I’m also aware that I’m far from alone in having an opinion in the matter. But maybe the parts of this conversation that I would choose to dispute aren’t the ones that we hear as much about. Maybe. To be honest, I don’t know. I’ve got zero statistics, I’ve done minimum research into the matter, and I’m a long ways from being a  journalist. Just some scattered thoughts.

My feeling all along is that the current administration would use this whole thing only as a platform for election; that the Democrats would rally around it for a period time; and then once it came time for the rubber to meet the road the collective reaction would be, “Wow there’s no way we can pay for this.” This is yet to be seen even though it does appear that many are losing stomach over it and President Obama’s approval ratings continue to go down, primarily, because of this single issue.

Hopefully we can agree that there is a basis for helping people—a biblical basis. Jeremiah 22:16 and John 21:16 both identify meeting the needs of people as something to be commended, if not expected, in God’s eyes: “He made sure justice and help were given to the poor and needy, and everything went well for him. Isn’t that what it means to know me?” Through Jeremiah God is telling His people through the prophet why He favored King Josiah.

Jesus repeated the question: “Simon son of John, do you love me?” “Yes, Lord,” Peter said, “you know I love you.” “Then take care of my sheep,” Jesus said. John 21:16

In the passage from John above Jesus is essentially directing the church to do likewise: “take care of the people.” The point here is that we should be helping people. We the people have an obligation to our fellow men. So this isn’t the issue. The issue is pretty simple: is this a place where our government should intercede.

So here we go. This is the editorial part. The sliver of this conversation that continues to bother me is the sentiment that we “deserve quality healthcare.” Really? Admittedly, making this idea a part of the collective vernacular is a masterstroke. Who wants to say that people don’t deserve something. These days that’s just un-American. I’ve caught myself repeating “we all deserve quality healthcare”, only recently stopping to think about what it was I was really saying. Do I really “deserve” quality healthcare? Does anybody? And what do we mean by “quality”? Is this something the US government owes me as a citizen?

And then there’s the escalating costs. Really, healthcare costs are through the roof. I pay into this big pot … and then continue to pay. And it goes up every year—for everybody! A lot. But is it really because of a lack of competition within the industry? I understand the argument about competition and, granted, what we’ve got is not without flaw. And I don’t disagree. I pay the high costs like anyone else. But I just can’t get on board with the thinking that the government can or should tackle it—that it can make it better. The effectiveness and ineffectiveness of this measure is one thing, but you want to talk about out-of-control costs. In that regard government healthcare has disaster written all over it.

However if you don’t think that our healthcare system is already socialized, think again. My insurance dictates what the doctor receives as compensation for the care I receive. Insurance premiums are high in part of because so many of us do whatever we want to do, don’t do the things we need to do, eat everything under the sun, and then get a prescription that corrects all their problems. But we all pay for it. Personal accountability, or lack of it, is a significant contributor to the high costs we all pay. More affordable healthcare options could possibly only enable this cultural trend.

Regardless, there’s merit to the “many” taking care of the “few” approach to healthcare. But that’s just it, isn’t it. This responsibility is not the government’s responsibility. Or at least it wouldn’t seem like it to me. But if “we” are not going to contribute of our own volition; rather, continue to feed ourselves more than we need, practice our consumeristic tendencies, and withdraw more and more into ourselves—if we abdicate the responsibility—then maybe it is the government’s responsibility. That’s a point of tension for me since the government has never had incentive to be efficient (but  in their defense it wasn’t created to run this sort of thing, either). Despite the fact that we have what is probably the greatest form of governing ever, government-run health insurance is not why it was formed. Essentially, this move would be contrary to the Spirit of ‘76 and what we intended in the word “American.”

What’s a Blueberry Muffin Worth?

Just an FYI on the energy equivalent of a blueberry muffin. That is, what does it take to “work off” a blueberry muffin.

Lawn-mowing 66 minutes

Cycling at an easy pace for 77 minutes

Vacuuming for 92 minutes

Jogging for 33 minutes (compared to the 2 minutes it takes to consume said muffin)

Folding laundry for 230 minutes

Lifting weights for 115 minutes

Gardening for 66 minutes (surprised that gardening and lawn-mowing are exactly the same? I am.)

40 Years Ago Today

In a recent issue of Newsweek Walter Mosley introduced the cover story this way:

Everybody is guilty of something. This is a truism of the West. It goes all the way back to Cain and original sin and has been a central topic of discourse among members of society from the construction of the laws of ancient Rome, through the Inquisition, into the Jim Crow system of the South (and North), stopping to wallow in the culture of the Soviet Union, and going right to the rotted heart of the race laws of Nazi Germany.

In 2,000 years of Western civilization we have been guilty of heresy, perversion, theft, and murder; of fighting and refusing to fight; of loving, lusting after, and sometimes just looking. We have been guilty of speaking out and keeping silent, of walking, marching, and running away. We have been found culpable for following orders and for refusing to follow them, for adultery, child endangerment, sexual harassment, and elder abuse. We have also been guilty of our religion, national origin, skin color, sexual preference, gender, and, now and then, of the blood in our veins.

Interesting take on our obsession with crime. Some of our most memorable movies—Bonnie and Clyde, Natural Born Killers, The Silence of Lambs—actually feature the most villainous personalities imaginable. I’ve wondered about our obsession too, but like other things, it’s not something you want to spend much time thinking about lest you stumble upon something too real and disturbing. But maybe there’s some truth into the deeply ingrained sense of guilt. Read more from Walter Mosley by clicking here.

Forty years ago today Sharon Tate and four others were brutally murdered by a group that ultimately became known as The Manson Family.  Author Joan Didion wrote in her memoir that this single event ended an era. Chief Prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi recently sat down with Newsweek’s Tom Watson for an interview. I post this not only because it’s a cultural issue, but also because it struck an entire generation so deep. I was not quite two years old at the time but even my generation can remember sensing the wake of the event. (I had no idea that Charles Manson was 5′2″.)

Read the interview here.

Upon Revisiting The Cure’s Disintegration and “Pictures of You”

The Cure's Robert Smith

“Hopelessly drift in the eyes of the ghost again.”

Ever had those fleeting feelings that come and go so quickly, yet for those split second felt something powerful move through your soul; in your heart; across your mind’s eye? Wordsworth referred to it as a “sense sublime” and the “presence that disturbs me.” Shakespeare’s Juliet described it as “too much like the lightning which doth cease to be; ere one can say ‘it lightens’.” We don’t have much—if any—control over when these flashes will come. Many times it’s a scent hanging in the air or a particular musical chord. Other times it’s a lyric or the joyous presence that accompanies prayer. The prompts are as infinite as the human imagination itself. Realized in these moments is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling that is both fulfilling and emptying at the same time; that, perhaps, catches us most “human” as humanity was created: God’s image bearers.

I was aware of The Cure and even owned a record of theirs when I was in college, but it wasn’t until recently that I paid any attention to the haunting lyrics and recollecting sounds fans of theirs have been returning to for years.

Both “Pictures of You” and a track they simply dubbed [Untitled]—found on 1989’s Disintegration—conjure the same sense of emotional-void-yet-extreme-fulfillment described by Shakespeare and Wordsworth. In both songs the songwriter is struggling with just how a person is supposed to articulate this deep desire and pathos. “Pictures of You” wrestles with the veneers of life so much like Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave.” It asks, “So what is real?” and wonders aloud about the effects of time spent with our facades and veneers and what might be lost in the process:

I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they’re real
I’ve been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel (Pictures of You)

And then there’s the words … the words we wish we could get right; the words we wish we could have gotten right; the words that we wished we could summon; the words we wish we could will; the words we wish we could get back; the words we wish we could make believable; the words that could be exactly right.

If only I’d thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only I’d thought of the right words
I wouldn’t be breaking apart
All my pictures of you (Pictures of You)

hopelessly drift
in the eyes of the ghost again
down on my knees
and my hands in the air again
pushing my face in the memory of you again
but i never know if it’s real
never know how i wanted to feel
never quite said what i wanted to say to you
never quite managed the words to explain to you
never quite knew how to make them believable (Untitled)

Listening to Disintegration I’m reminded of our fallen-ness and our opportunities at redemption. I’m reminded of a paradise lost and a coming time when we won’t even need words let alone struggle to find just the right ones. It’s remarkably human in that this whole release, particularly these two songs, manage to capture the hope of recovering something lost—an “original glory,” if you will. Until then, however; until that coming time we’re left with our words and our pictures as a reminder of Eden, or what was lost, and what stands to be regained.

Quote of the Day

If a man cannot forget, he will never amount to much.

Soren Kierkegaard, Either/Or

Seems to me to be one of those red pill/blue pill things. In order to amount to something we must forget the scent of honesuckle hanging in the heavy springtime air and any notion of an endless summer. We must not acknowledge the place where that whiff of perfume takes us or the recollection of a broken dream. We must refuse the lament. We must put away the longing to become more than what we are. To amount to something we must forget these things … but that is to deny who we are and the story being told through us.