The Voices of Books

I received a gift of three books; I wondered if their destiny involved the madness of gagging their voice.

I enjoy books, I cherish books, I treasure books. Yet, my books mock me. Each book echoes a voice representing an opportunity never fulfilled, a knowledge never realized. I spent my first twenty years of adulthood collecting ideas to feed my life and propel my work, my recent two years peddling bindings to clear my mind and ease my burden. I scan the rows of my books regularly hoping to stop the voices of the books from calling out my name to engage their ideas, plots and calls to action. I am more weary from their calls than when my own children kept me up all hours of the night. At least my babies' voices represented something new. Some of my books have chided me since my teenage years.

Some of the voices attached to books involve professors who deemed their texts essential, reminding me of an enervated faith because I failed to heed their value as a student, or ignored their wisdom as a pastor. Some of the voices link me to colleague testimonials, which assured me of peace, efficiency, or enlightenment. These voices can't believe I ignored a call to transform my entire life, detailed on the pages of their texts.

Other books represent the voices of old and true friends. It matters not the frequency I call their name. They always respond with welcome and a gentle reminder of a conversation we shared years ago. These books encourage me through their recollection of my gifts and how I nourished the world with my utterances, The old friends have their own friends who I still long to know. I gaze at their title, glance at their contents and know that we will meet and talk like we have known each other for years, yet still have something to learn.

Today I spoke my peace to another array of voices selling me the wares of their publications. I don't have to listen to you anymore. I'm taking you to Goodwill where someone else can hear your voice. Don't call me. I'll call you. Maybe we can meet at the public, university or seminary library in seven years.

My Tenuous Time in the Sun

This week I am attending a writing workshop in Collegeville, Minnesota, home of St. John's University. SJU is host to the Collegeville Institute, an center devoted to ecumenical relationships and cultural pursuits. The Collegeville Institute offers hospitality, space and resources to writers, from those with little experience to great writers on spiritual subjects like Kathleen Norris and Parker Palmer. Here you can learn more about the work of the Collegeville Institute.

I applied for this workshop, funded by the Lilly Endowment to improve my writing. Blogging has reaquainted with me with my love for writing. Now that I am in the habit, investing time and money into my writing is more worthwhile. I want to improve my work. I've been blessed to have a few articles published over the years. Writing is growing as an opportunity for ministry, especially with blogs and other easier avenues to publish writing and connect a message with people. Below is a piece I wrote to address an assignment to work with metaphor. It's not my typical writing, but I'm glad to be stretched in the craft. Your comments are appreciated.

I laugh at weather forecasters, not because of their tenuous relationship with preciseness, but because of their blatant persecution of cloudiness. The only way clouds are depicted positively is when children lie on their backs and see animal shapes in clouds; when farmers pray on their knees and ask for moisture on crops; when mayors hope in their hearts for a break in the heat wave to stave off death.


Clouds are my companion: sometimes they sit with me, sometimes they move with me, sometimes they share moods with me. Clouds are my frame: they provide a landscape for sunshine, an inkling for stormtracks, a shield for brilliance. Clouds are my comfort, surrounding me, covering me, resting me. If the clouds go away for a time, I gravitate toward my basement to find my center—a dark place, a cool place, a shielded place. It is in that darker place where the light is limited that I can ponder the wonders of the cosmos, find my place in the universe and eventually meet my path back to see the radiance of the sun, if but only for a few moments, yet never fully.

I see value in the sun, I appreciate the sun, I love the sun, but I cannot stand in the full glory of the sun; too much sun hurts my eyes, hurts my head, points to death. In the attic of my memory my mother once walked on the path to death with melanoma. She lived. I am thankful, yet careful. I look toward the sun with wonder; I do not look toward the sun with contempt.

When considering my return to Minnesota, fearful of the brilliant sun that bordered on oppression that I once knew, I wondered as much about the weather as I did the writing. Will the clouds elude me? Will the rain nourish me? Will the sun insult me? I found peace and retreat looking at the lakeshore this morning, thankful for the gift that the full brilliance of the sun was accompanied with the grace and companionship of the clouds.

New Media Epiphanies and Strategy

Epiphanies come in many shapes and sizes, though these episodes of discovery come more frequently and rapidly.

In the past 6 months, even after coming from a huge newspaper household in my youth, I can no longer bring myself to buy a newspaper. My fingers avoid ink stains, I don't dispose of a pile of paper, and my access to archives is greater without attempting to save piles of papers and taking up storage space in my house. I read most of my news on my iPhone these days. Most of the time I even forget the wonderful mobility of a laptop.

I desire to learn about new (if not already mainstream) media without the burden of earning a new degree. I want to put some theological flesh on the meaning of communication using today's tools. I want to learn while having my insight respected and not be given too much jargon or techie lingo. I want to connect with God and others, and I want to expand my imagination in doing so.

Using Twitter over the past 8 months, I find the connections to good information and specialized discussions increase in probability. While intentionally seeking to learn and grow in the scope of connecting with God and others through new media, I found a local, Seattle Mariners-loving, Mainline-Oldline Protestant Christian who develops new media strategies with congregations (Will Boyd). We met in a Seattle neighborhood (Ballard) at fun little BBQ restaurant (Pete's Smokin' BBQ) with free wifi. The entire meeting was arranged on Twitter. We didn't share any contact information outside of Twitter (until today). We had a solid theological conversation that took me to different places of thinking, while receiving ideas for tools that can be used for more effective communication.

While reflecting on my experience on my ferry ride back to my office from Seattle, I thought about my history with networking. A connection like today's conversation 10 years ago may have taken months and thousands of dollars to develop. I used to attend conferences for networking. Not to say that conferences are a resource black hole, but my return on investment with new media is exponential. I don't have to wait for big conferences to make important connections, I choose the scope and frequency of that connection.

The entire experience today was physically framed by driving up to a big old steeple ELCA congregation--First Lutheran Church in Ballard. As I walked up to Smokin' Pete BBQ (across the street from the church) for a tweetup, I thought about old ways and new ways of connecting with God and one another. I saw children at the church daycare playing outside, realizing that sharing God's grace through serving the neighbor in a daycare still matters. This is still the declared end in mind: to connect with God and others. The means are changing, faster than sometimes I care to admit, yet I don't lament the changes like I thought I might. I'm glad God would still care to use me in an era of rapidly changing means to achieve the ends.