If it were a tale about anyone else in the music business, like say the Beatles showing up in America, it would be a tale of idolatry and egocentrism and making it big and success as the world defines it. But because it's a tale of Rodriguez, it's different. He's a modest man who doesn't necessarily want to make it big, he just wants to change the world. Even that's easier said than done, because when he 'fails' in music he tries his hand in politics, and that goes nowhere just as quickly.
So when shows up in South Africa, this isn't typical music industry hype, this is a man who helped shape a generation. It's as though they don't want to worship him, they want to thank him. They appreciate him, and he's learning for the first time that he did somehow change the world. It's a story that, read on paper, is already pretty incredible, but to try and put yourself in all the strange mix of emotions at that first concert is absolutely astounding. It can't be put to words.
For them, a revolutionary leader is resurrected. For him, a hope is resurrected.
"To go from being the outcast to being who he really was, because it was as though it was him, and that was who he was."
But it's also a testimony to not only the power of art but the necessity of it, the mindset and outlook that comes with it for every corner of life.
"He approached the work from a different place than most people do, he took it very very seriously, sort of like a sacrament, he was going to do this dirty dirty work for 8 or 10 hours but he was dressed in a tuxedo. He had this kind of magical quality that all genuine poets and artists have to elevate things, to get above the mundane and the mediocrity that's everywhere. Even when his musical hopes were dashed, the spirit remained...he knew that there was something more..."
"So we're working class people, blue collar, hard labor...but just because people are poor doesn't mean their dreams aren't big and their soul isn't rich. My dad gave us a lot of exposure to the arts; he would let us go into the libraries and the museums and the science centers, and that was our day care, touring the halls of the museum -- Diego Rivera, Picasso, Delacroix -- and we began to learn of life outside of the city, in books and paintings and music."
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
The Cat's Agenda
Dinner conversation turned towards the events of tomorrow.
"You're gonna eat at the cafeteria tomorrow" we told the kid.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I'm in a meeting all day and Mama has a doctor's appointment."
"And my brother?" he asked.
"He's going to school too."
"And our friend?" he asked, referring to the friend who's been staying with us.
"She'll be helping, mama."
The other kid, eagerly wanting to be a part of the conversation, continued the interrogation, "And Banjo?" wondering about the cat.
We all turned to look at him in his permanent position, sleeping on his favorite chair.
"You want to know what Banjo's going to be doing tomorrow?" I confirmed.
"Sitting there," the two year old intelligently concluded on his own.
"You're gonna eat at the cafeteria tomorrow" we told the kid.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I'm in a meeting all day and Mama has a doctor's appointment."
"And my brother?" he asked.
"He's going to school too."
"And our friend?" he asked, referring to the friend who's been staying with us.
"She'll be helping, mama."
The other kid, eagerly wanting to be a part of the conversation, continued the interrogation, "And Banjo?" wondering about the cat.
We all turned to look at him in his permanent position, sleeping on his favorite chair.
"You want to know what Banjo's going to be doing tomorrow?" I confirmed.
"Sitting there," the two year old intelligently concluded on his own.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Monday, January 06, 2014
Mix Tape: News Year's Eve
According to my ongoing mix tape, it's been nearly a full year since a song has truly captivated me. For the record, that's primarily what this mix tape thing is supposed to be: songs that go on repeat.
I made a New Year's Eve playlist for our party with the help of my brothers-in-law. It was a pretty nice collection of songs, commendable for being such a last-minute affair, but I would have been OK if we had just put Arcade Fire's "Afterlife" on repeat the whole night.
I'm close to saying it's the only song that captivated me all year, so it makes sense to listen to it at the year's end. And it makes for a great year-end party song; like Coldplay on that closing night in 2011, it's the song that's become the dance-the-year-away hit.
But more than that, it feels like New Year's Eve.
Another year gone. Was it a good one, one you want to celebrate? Or a bad one, one you want to forget? Most likely it was a mix of both. Most likely it left you wanting more. Because isn't life just that? A strange mix of celebrations and regrets that leave you hoping for more?
It makes you wonder why we celebrate a new year anyway. Is it to celebrate all that happened or to celebrate that it's all finally over? Aren't we just yearning for another fresh start? But the fact that we do it all over again 365 years later, doesn't that show us we're really longing for a much bigger Fresh Start?
After all the bad advice
Had nothing at all to do with life
In the end, isn't life just a lot of screaming, shouting, and working it all out? Can't year after year of the human existence be summed up in shouting, "I gotta know!"? Because what's the point? And what's next? And will it all be worth it?
What we will be has not yet been made known.
Like most songs that captivate me, there's a melancholic regret and a tired hope mixed up in every aspect of this song. That sounds like New Year's Eve, and that sounds like life, because both are waiting for the Fresh Start. Might as well dance.
This is Arcade Fire's "Afterlife" from Reflektor
I made a New Year's Eve playlist for our party with the help of my brothers-in-law. It was a pretty nice collection of songs, commendable for being such a last-minute affair, but I would have been OK if we had just put Arcade Fire's "Afterlife" on repeat the whole night.
I'm close to saying it's the only song that captivated me all year, so it makes sense to listen to it at the year's end. And it makes for a great year-end party song; like Coldplay on that closing night in 2011, it's the song that's become the dance-the-year-away hit.
But more than that, it feels like New Year's Eve.
Another year gone. Was it a good one, one you want to celebrate? Or a bad one, one you want to forget? Most likely it was a mix of both. Most likely it left you wanting more. Because isn't life just that? A strange mix of celebrations and regrets that leave you hoping for more?
It makes you wonder why we celebrate a new year anyway. Is it to celebrate all that happened or to celebrate that it's all finally over? Aren't we just yearning for another fresh start? But the fact that we do it all over again 365 years later, doesn't that show us we're really longing for a much bigger Fresh Start?
After all the bad advice
Had nothing at all to do with life
In the end, isn't life just a lot of screaming, shouting, and working it all out? Can't year after year of the human existence be summed up in shouting, "I gotta know!"? Because what's the point? And what's next? And will it all be worth it?
What we will be has not yet been made known.
Like most songs that captivate me, there's a melancholic regret and a tired hope mixed up in every aspect of this song. That sounds like New Year's Eve, and that sounds like life, because both are waiting for the Fresh Start. Might as well dance.
This is Arcade Fire's "Afterlife" from Reflektor
Sunday, January 05, 2014
post rock's not dead
it's been strange, i received two post rock cds for christmas, both of which i wanted, but it made it feel like the christmas of my dreams in 2003, ten whole years ago.
i don't like post rock as much as i used to, but i do still like it.
this song is one reason why. and i'm not sure i can think of a more appropriate soundtrack to this post, for which it is presumably titled, or also for the end of another year and all the strange feelings that come with it.
i don't like post rock as much as i used to, but i do still like it.
this song is one reason why. and i'm not sure i can think of a more appropriate soundtrack to this post, for which it is presumably titled, or also for the end of another year and all the strange feelings that come with it.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Inside Llewyn Davis
A man with a guitar in one hand and a cat in the other.
In one hand, pleasure, identity, livelihood, talent, escape, release, the ideals of life itself.
In the other hand, an unpredictable series of mistakes and mishaps and not always the best of responses to either one.
Taking care of one seems to mean letting go of the other, neither of which is really an option. The rest is an endless, complicated, seemingly impossible balancing act.
It's the strongest image I've seen in a movie for a long time. And the performances were great, too.
In one hand, pleasure, identity, livelihood, talent, escape, release, the ideals of life itself.
In the other hand, an unpredictable series of mistakes and mishaps and not always the best of responses to either one.
Taking care of one seems to mean letting go of the other, neither of which is really an option. The rest is an endless, complicated, seemingly impossible balancing act.
It's the strongest image I've seen in a movie for a long time. And the performances were great, too.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Advent 30: On being humiliated
Would you vote for a president who ran his campaign on the promise of getting himself killed?
Would you let a homeless guy give you a bath?
Would you worship a baby?
The humility of Christ forces us to check our hearts, our motives, our interests, our own humility. Because accepting what this man has to offer--and especially the way in which he offers it--requires humility in its own right.
We talk about how the Jews were hoping for a savior-king that would establish an earthly kingdom and deliver them from Roman rule and make their own nation great again. Isn't that what most of us would like, too? It would certainly be easier, less intrusive. Find our guy, vote him in, get us the tax breaks so we can start living our best life now, where we can all finally go about our own business.
Instead we have a homeless guy trying to wash our feet. When was the last time you let a homeless guy wash your feet? (Because if anything, shouldn't you be washing his?)
Is that the savior you want? Is that the savior you're looking for?
Wait...do you even want a savior?
In our first months in France I could have said I had only one French friend. He was a schizophrenic. It was uncomfortable. Here I am coming to save the day in France and the only person who's interested has schizophrenia. Not only that, he served us. Invited us to his house. Gave us food to eat. Shared his rhubarb with us. Played with our son. Taught us French. Prayed for us. Called just to check in. It was humiliating. I'd be OK with a friendship like this if I had the superior position, if I was the one serving him. But here, I had to accept the fact that he wanted to serve us. I had to accept the fact that we needed his service.
No, we don't want a savior. Because it's humiliating. It's intrusive.
I think this is part of what Peter is coming to grips with in the upper room, as Jesus makes the rounds with the wash basin. "Me too?" he asks worriedly. "You shall never wash my feet!" Exasperated, he sarcastically gives in, still protesting, "Fine, but go ahead and wash all of me, then!"
"If I do not wash you, you have no share with me," Jesus gently insists. In other words, let me serve you.
I recently talked with several people who agreed they like prayers of gratitude and prayers of intercession for others but not prayers that request things for themselves. The argument is mostly that others are worse off then we are, others need the prayers more than we do. Sounds noble, generous, selfless. We might even say it sounds humble. But at the core it's the proud refusal of a savior. We don't want help, can't admit we need help. We want to be the savior, not the ones who need saving.
We talk often about Christ's humility, that it's a model that determines our service. That's important: in humility, count others more significant in yourselves.
But service too often makes us the savior, which is exactly the more comfortable role we'd prefer to play. Ironically, serving others can give us a twisted sense of superiority rather than the humility we thought we were displaying.
When we talk about Christ's humility, it is first about letting ourselves be served by such an unexpected, humble source. It's about following this earthly-failure-of-a-king who plans to get himself killed. It's about letting a homeless man wash us. It's about telling a helpless dependent baby that he's exactly what you had been waiting for. Those are humiliating things to do for a capable, clean cut, upper middle-class American. And that's exactly the point.
For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.
Would you let a homeless guy give you a bath?
Would you worship a baby?
The humility of Christ forces us to check our hearts, our motives, our interests, our own humility. Because accepting what this man has to offer--and especially the way in which he offers it--requires humility in its own right.
We talk about how the Jews were hoping for a savior-king that would establish an earthly kingdom and deliver them from Roman rule and make their own nation great again. Isn't that what most of us would like, too? It would certainly be easier, less intrusive. Find our guy, vote him in, get us the tax breaks so we can start living our best life now, where we can all finally go about our own business.
Instead we have a homeless guy trying to wash our feet. When was the last time you let a homeless guy wash your feet? (Because if anything, shouldn't you be washing his?)
Is that the savior you want? Is that the savior you're looking for?
Wait...do you even want a savior?
In our first months in France I could have said I had only one French friend. He was a schizophrenic. It was uncomfortable. Here I am coming to save the day in France and the only person who's interested has schizophrenia. Not only that, he served us. Invited us to his house. Gave us food to eat. Shared his rhubarb with us. Played with our son. Taught us French. Prayed for us. Called just to check in. It was humiliating. I'd be OK with a friendship like this if I had the superior position, if I was the one serving him. But here, I had to accept the fact that he wanted to serve us. I had to accept the fact that we needed his service.
No, we don't want a savior. Because it's humiliating. It's intrusive.
I think this is part of what Peter is coming to grips with in the upper room, as Jesus makes the rounds with the wash basin. "Me too?" he asks worriedly. "You shall never wash my feet!" Exasperated, he sarcastically gives in, still protesting, "Fine, but go ahead and wash all of me, then!"
"If I do not wash you, you have no share with me," Jesus gently insists. In other words, let me serve you.
I recently talked with several people who agreed they like prayers of gratitude and prayers of intercession for others but not prayers that request things for themselves. The argument is mostly that others are worse off then we are, others need the prayers more than we do. Sounds noble, generous, selfless. We might even say it sounds humble. But at the core it's the proud refusal of a savior. We don't want help, can't admit we need help. We want to be the savior, not the ones who need saving.
We talk often about Christ's humility, that it's a model that determines our service. That's important: in humility, count others more significant in yourselves.
But service too often makes us the savior, which is exactly the more comfortable role we'd prefer to play. Ironically, serving others can give us a twisted sense of superiority rather than the humility we thought we were displaying.
When we talk about Christ's humility, it is first about letting ourselves be served by such an unexpected, humble source. It's about following this earthly-failure-of-a-king who plans to get himself killed. It's about letting a homeless man wash us. It's about telling a helpless dependent baby that he's exactly what you had been waiting for. Those are humiliating things to do for a capable, clean cut, upper middle-class American. And that's exactly the point.
For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
New Nickname
The other kid, growing in mischief and sense of humor, has taken to calling me Peep Peep. No one's sure why, other than growing mischief and sense of humor.
Sometimes it's authentically sincere and endearing, as in,
"Good morning, Peep Peep." or "I love you, Peep Peep."
Sometimes it comes with a mocking too-big-for-one's-britches edge, like a random,
"Hey, Peep Peep!"
that sounds almost like Bart Simpson calling his father by his first name.
Sometimes it's a backhanded way of obeying, as in,
"Would you do this please?"
"Alright, Peep Peep."
And sometimes there's no question, he's making fun of me, as in,
"I smell a stinky diaper."
"Good job, Peep Peep."
Good thing I've always had a soft spot for the mischievous kids with a bizarre sense of humor.
Sometimes it's authentically sincere and endearing, as in,
"Good morning, Peep Peep." or "I love you, Peep Peep."
Sometimes it comes with a mocking too-big-for-one's-britches edge, like a random,
"Hey, Peep Peep!"
that sounds almost like Bart Simpson calling his father by his first name.
Sometimes it's a backhanded way of obeying, as in,
"Would you do this please?"
"Alright, Peep Peep."
And sometimes there's no question, he's making fun of me, as in,
"I smell a stinky diaper."
"Good job, Peep Peep."
Good thing I've always had a soft spot for the mischievous kids with a bizarre sense of humor.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Advent 29: True Christmas Melancholy
True Christmas melancholy does not come from working on the 25th, being far from family, lacking a lover, rain instead of snow, or not getting what was on your list.
Peace among those with whom He is pleased. Luke 2:14
Peace for whom? There is a somber note sounded in the angels' praise. Peace among men with whom he is pleased. Without faith it is impossible to please God. So Christmas does not bring peace to all. -John Piper, December 6
Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many, that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed. Luke 2:34-35
Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. Matthew 10:34
Who do you want to trust? Augustus? Herod? The civilized Western World with all of its progress? Or the source of this humble baby, born quietly in the alleys of Bethlehem?
There was no place for them. Luke 2:7
His own did not receive him. John 1:11
You refuse to come to me that you may have life. John 5:40
We prefer our earthly rulers, and our earthly way of ruling. And what a way.
Then Herod became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem. Matthew 2:16
So we wait, we hope. We pray, we plead. And we groan.
For the creation was subjected to futility, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Romans 8:20-23
Lord come with fire,
Lord come with fire,
Everyone's wasting their time,
Storing up treasure in vain,
Trusting the pleasure it gives,
here on earth.
Peace among those with whom He is pleased. Luke 2:14
Peace for whom? There is a somber note sounded in the angels' praise. Peace among men with whom he is pleased. Without faith it is impossible to please God. So Christmas does not bring peace to all. -John Piper, December 6
Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many, that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed. Luke 2:34-35
Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. Matthew 10:34
Who do you want to trust? Augustus? Herod? The civilized Western World with all of its progress? Or the source of this humble baby, born quietly in the alleys of Bethlehem?
There was no place for them. Luke 2:7
His own did not receive him. John 1:11
You refuse to come to me that you may have life. John 5:40
We prefer our earthly rulers, and our earthly way of ruling. And what a way.
Then Herod became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem. Matthew 2:16
So we wait, we hope. We pray, we plead. And we groan.
For the creation was subjected to futility, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Romans 8:20-23
Lord come with fire,
Lord come with fire,
Everyone's wasting their time,
Storing up treasure in vain,
Trusting the pleasure it gives,
here on earth.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Advent 28: Our Christmas Stories, or, Case Studies in Redemption
Christmas is the Gospel story, the story of God's intervention, his rescue plan. And if Advent is a time of waiting, then it's a time of remembering what our own 'walking in darkness' was and what it felt like. If Christmas is the joy of a Savior's birth, Advent is remembering how desperately we needed that baby to be born.
That's why I read Psalm 107 as an Advent psalm. Four case studies in redemption. What we were, in dire straits, and the drastic, powerful, gracious means God employed to gather us and make us his own. Four hopeless problems, four miraculous solutions.
He brought us out of trouble and gathered us from the four corners of earth, so let us give thanks for his goodness and his steadfast, eternally enduring love!
In one corner of the earth, we wandered through the desert, with no home, no food, nothing to drink.
In another corner, we sat in darkness, close to death, afflicted prisoners, in the bondage of slavery because of our rebellion and hatred of God and his ways.
In the third corner, we were foolish and we reaped what we sowed, suffering consequences that we ourselves chose, denying whatever was good for us, and thus getting progressively, dangerously closer to death.
In the fourth corner, we went about our business, successful and productive, important and powerful, independent and not hurting anyone, but when we saw God's power in raging storms we quickly recognized the limits of our control, and we were absolutely terrified.
That is who we were. This is the desperate waiting, the expectant longing of Advent.
But God. When we cried out to him, He delivered us. Every time.
Those who were lost, he put us on the right path that led to a new home. Where our soul was hungry, he gave us good things until we were satisfied.
Those who were enslaved, he brought us out of darkness, burst chains, shattered doors, cut bars, and set us free.
Those who were foolish, by his Word, he healed us, delivered us from our destructive ways, changed our desires.
Those who were frightened by our finiteness, he calmed the storms, got our attention, and restored rest and peace.
And so we all respond in gratitude for the salvation and the hope that comes with Christmas. Which corner were you gathered from? What is your Christmas story? The response is the same each time:
"Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love,
for his wondrous works to the children of man!"
That's why I read Psalm 107 as an Advent psalm. Four case studies in redemption. What we were, in dire straits, and the drastic, powerful, gracious means God employed to gather us and make us his own. Four hopeless problems, four miraculous solutions.
He brought us out of trouble and gathered us from the four corners of earth, so let us give thanks for his goodness and his steadfast, eternally enduring love!
In one corner of the earth, we wandered through the desert, with no home, no food, nothing to drink.
In another corner, we sat in darkness, close to death, afflicted prisoners, in the bondage of slavery because of our rebellion and hatred of God and his ways.
In the third corner, we were foolish and we reaped what we sowed, suffering consequences that we ourselves chose, denying whatever was good for us, and thus getting progressively, dangerously closer to death.
In the fourth corner, we went about our business, successful and productive, important and powerful, independent and not hurting anyone, but when we saw God's power in raging storms we quickly recognized the limits of our control, and we were absolutely terrified.
That is who we were. This is the desperate waiting, the expectant longing of Advent.
But God. When we cried out to him, He delivered us. Every time.
Those who were lost, he put us on the right path that led to a new home. Where our soul was hungry, he gave us good things until we were satisfied.
Those who were enslaved, he brought us out of darkness, burst chains, shattered doors, cut bars, and set us free.
Those who were foolish, by his Word, he healed us, delivered us from our destructive ways, changed our desires.
Those who were frightened by our finiteness, he calmed the storms, got our attention, and restored rest and peace.
And so we all respond in gratitude for the salvation and the hope that comes with Christmas. Which corner were you gathered from? What is your Christmas story? The response is the same each time:
"Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love,
for his wondrous works to the children of man!"
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