Subtleties of Prosperty

It would be audacious to say Jesus died so that we could have more stuff and better stuff. The man gives up his life and I expect—nearly demand—my flat screen TV, large, HD, brand new. After all, Jesus came to give life, and a life more abundant, right? I’m sure there are some out there preaching that message, but most wouldn’t dare to be quite that blatant.

The prosperity gospel is much more sneaky and subtle than that. And it seeps in even in circles that make an effort to preach against such things.

My little family just finished being homeless for three weeks. In the grand scheme of things, it was a very minor affair—we were very well cared for—but once the third week rolled around it wasn’t feeling so minor anymore.

When the first apartment fell through in the middle of the first week, we were a bit disappointed, but the message came through loud and clear. We felt it, thought it, heard it. “Well, God must have something better.”

The next apartments we visited were perfect. Spacious, convenient, clean, what we were looking for. “This is the reason!” Everyone had told us so, and we believed it ourselves, the first fell through so that we could have something even better.

But those fell through too.

And so the line of reasoning must continue. Something even better! Though slightly annoying, this was getting exciting. Because sure, we could hold out for just a little longer if it meant God was waiting to really bless us.

But somewhere between the second and third week, the true response hit us. Someone told us one more time: “God has to have something really great, just right, in store.” And finally it hit us. No, you know what? No he doesn’t. He might want us to live in a terrible apartment. He might want us to be homeless for all we know. Who are we to presume what he does and doesn’t want to give us?

We had just talked a big talk back home about sacrifice, and here we are presuming the perfect apartment, convenient, comfortable, not too expensive.

Did Jesus Christ come to earth so that we could have the best Parisian apartment? Tres chic? One into which we could put all our pride?

If the son of man is born in a cattle shed and grows up to have no place to lay his head, why are we expecting to be moving on up to a deluxe apartment in the sky?

I only share this because these are the sort of ideas I talk about often, and yet I was believing the prosperity gospel along with so many others. That’s how subtle it can be. Sure, God had a reason for those frustrating weeks, but the reason wasn’t so that we could have our happy ending.

God knows, he’s in control, he has a plan? Yes. For something better? No, not necessarily.

So here we are, in an apartment we find to be more than a little aesthetically displeasing. After our first visit, we may have mourned a little bit, and honestly, described it as a place that would suck the life out of us. Now that we’re here and slowly making it our own, it’s not so bad and there are plenty of perks. Not our first choice, but of course much better than being homeless. Maybe the reason for all this happening was simply to relearn this lesson. A lesson of finding contentment in places other than earthly possessions and worldly comforts.

I was recently told about this piece of art by Banksy. Most reactions I’ve read look at it in light of Christmas/consumerism/materialism, which is probably its intent. But to me it’s a strong critique of the prosperity gospel. Like any good prophet, Banksy holds up the mirror to show us quite frankly what we’re really saying, actually believing, practically living.

Pacifism

My wife decided some time ago she's a pacifist. I am sympathetic to these leanings, but it makes things a bit challenging when raising a son.

We've been playing with this pretty sweet medieval castle. It's got trap doors and cannons and comes with three armed black knights and three armed red knights. The typical way of playing with this is obvious, not needing to be explained.

But in our family, it was deemed a happy place where everyone is a friend, no one fights, no one gets hurt, at least not intentionally. I got creative, and it became a sort of hippie commune where the red knights and black knights pleasantly work together, helping one another with the community chores. The men with the battle-axes are the lumberjacks, chopping wood to keep the fire going. Those strange spike-ball-chains are old-fashioned weedwackers, of course, and the men who wield them are groundskeepers. The ones with swords? They cut the cheese and baguettes for lunch, of course.

The boulders shot out of the cannons are for recreational purposes only, a bit like basketball. And some days the knights launch each other off the catapult, but that's just to practice their aerial stunts for the regional talent show.

And it's always sunny.

The New Guy

I guess I've always been a bit self-conscious. Moving to a new country is an exercise that either magnifies and worsens that condition, or helps to get over it entirely.

Case in point: Imagine, in your homeland, walking into the donut shop to buy some donuts for your family. No big deal. Naturally.

This morning I was asked to run to the boulangerie for some breakfast baguettes. No big deal. Naturally.

Mistake #1 - I showered this morning. And thus, went out with wet hair. Odd. I still do not understand when people in this country shower. I hope to somehow, someway learn the answer within my first year here, sensitive territory though it may be.

Mistake #2 - I walked there. Not unusual, but I walked quickly, because we were on a tight schedule to get to church on time. No one has anywhere to be on Sundays, so what's the rush lanky man?

Mistake #3 - When I arrived, I tried going through the door that said "sortiez" instead of "entrez." The man walking out the door scowled a bit and nodded to the other door. Despite being halfway through the exit already anyway, I went back out and towards the entrance just to appease everyone.

Mistake #4 - I pulled on the door instead of pushed.

Finally in the door with only 4 mistakes committed. Time to order. My French was decent enough. "Bonjour! Deux baguettes, s'il vous plait, et six pan au chocolat." I wasn't asked to repeat myself, and my bread was delivered correctly. Great.

Mistake #5 - I think I spoke too loudly.

Mistake #6 - I don't know if it was the wet hair, the awkward entrance, the loud voice, the accent, or the fact that I was buying 6 pan au chocolat and was obviously too old to be with my parents and too young to have a family of my own, but the man who was buying his bread at the cash register furrowed his brows, chuckled under his breath, and sort of sighed loudly with the baker who did most of the same. Oh thanks, so discreet of you. What is it, guys?!? Just tell me!

I understood how much money I owed (the numbers on the cash register helped) and successfully gave the right amount of coins from my pocket. Not bad.

Mistake #7 - The cashier said "Bonne Journee" and I really wanted to impress her by saying "Et vous aussi" but I was too busy juggling euros and baguettes to remember. That doesn't sound like a big mistake, but not offering or returning these sentiments can often come off as a bit rude here.

But I did offer the most cordial "Merci" and "Au Revoir" I could muster.

I went home and fed everyone these hard-earned treats.

Best of all, I was able to just shrug my shoulders and laugh about it. I'll try again sometime soon.

Have you ever experienced such a colorful Skype Conversation?

Noischzat, Papa?

When the kid hears an unfamiliar noise, he asks what it is by saying, "Noischzat, Papa?"

Erica and I have started saying it too, mostly because we don't ever want the expression to die.

I just heard a noise outside. I don't know what it was, but it sounded like a snow plow in Coopersburg. The way I'm sitting in this chair makes it feel like it's a snow day.

Then I remembered I live in France now.

I went to kindergarten with this guy.

Pilgrimage

Language school started with this scripture:

Psalm 84:5
Blessed are those whose strength is in you,
whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.

And that's a quaint verse for people who find themselves suddenly making transatlantic moves. But I wonder to what degree and in what ways this sense of pilgrimage should be describing every Christian.

New Chapters

In the "early years" of marriage, after a long day at work, we'd escape to the pub and grille down the street for dinner. It made us feel like kids again, it made us feel like adults.

In this last night stateside, we took our son there for the first time. He told us he wanted chicken before we even asked. He watched football and ate french fries. He announced he was done, wiped his hands with napkins, finished his chocolate milk, then danced in his seat. When we left, he said, "Fun! Eating!" He understood why we like the place so much.

We said goodbye to two brothers and a dad.

We talked about starting life with no friends nearby, no family, no network. Life will be different. And it simply won't make sense attempting to recreate our American life in France. Most everything will change. It's a new chapter.

But who has ever read a chapter and slowed down because it was too good to end? Instead, we race to finish, unable to put the book down. And a good chapter makes us eager to continue, discovering what the next one holds with delighted curiosity.

So, here we go.

Missing Documentaries

Last night's victorious return to both movie-watching and documentary-watching has given me the itch for more. It probably comes in conjunction with what feels like the first real day off I can remember in years. That sounds pathetically dramatic, but in many ways feels true.

I was under the impression that not many good documentaries are being made in recent years. At least not like the year that Spellbound, Winged Migration, and Bowling for Columbine were all running for the same Oscar, or the next year with the Fog of War and Capturing the Friedmans. Those were good years. Of course, they were also the years I was a college student and had nothing better to do than study Methods of Fingerpainting 101 and track down all the latest documentaries, decent or not. (I even wrote a little manisfesto for the school paper before graduating, trying to explain my fascination.)

But today's documentary itch made me stumble onto Paste Magazine's always enjoyable list of the day blog to find, first, this list of the 20 best documentaries of 2010. Your response is probably the same as mine: You mean, there were enough documentaries made in 2010 to pick 20 and call them the best? Apparently. I've only seen one of them, and many of the remaining 19 look pretty great, including one to add the list of art-world docs, Art of the Steal, which apparently took place in my back yard.

But that led to this list, a better place to start for someone a bit more casually interested in exploring some decent documentaries. The 25 best documentaries of the past decade. I've seen 17 of the 25, and haven't heard of 2. While some of my favorites are missing (Stevie being the most obvious), you can't go wrong with the majority of these. And if you still need help, I'll narrow it down to seven for you:

23. Gleaners and I
16. God Grew Tired of Us
11. Born into Brothels
8. Spellbound
6. King of Kong
4. Fog of War
1. Man on Wire

Let me know what you watch. And remember that documentaries are always better when discussed.

Join the Hype Wagon

I'll cut to the chase: I want all of my friends to watch Exit Through the Gift Shop.
It's a documentary by Banksy. If you don't know who he is, I'll skip the superlatives so often thrown around and just tell you, basically, he's a famous graffiti artist.

I'm sort of delighted by this street art thing. Not obsessed--because I really don't know all that much about it. But just curiously delighted. So clever and intriguing. Witty and exciting. So to learn more about some of it and see some of it in action is just a lot of fun.

Just that--the first 20 minutes or so--would be enough for me. But then we get the extra surprise of this character, this wonderfully complex documentary subject that Banksy finds. Or did he find Banksy? Or did Banksy create him? And to what degree did Banksy create him? And what exactly in the world is going on here? No one is really sure, but it's so much fun.

And from there it opens the floodgates yet again on the art world just like My Kid Could Paint That and Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock?. And if I were sticking around, I'd hold an all-day controversial-art-world-documentary festival with these three. And no one would get tired watching three movies in a row because all three are just as engrossing and involving and entertaining and question-raising and debate-sparking. In Banksy's own words: "This is from the frontline, this is watching an art form self-combust in front of you. Told by the people involved. In real time. This is a very real film about what it means to ‘keep it real’."

And after you watch it (which you should, don't forget), you'd do well to read this interview.

(It feels good to write about a movie again.)