My son plays happily. He flits easily between two worlds, the world that is and the world he imagines. His conversation assumes the extraordinary. His play is an adventure in make believe.

How like faith.

Perhaps nothing is more like faith than play. This “admission” would no doubt make Christians raised in an era of apologetic zeal begin to sweat. It may also delight anti-theist scolds, those champions of unhappiness and pretense.

But it is no great surrender to say faith is like play. If in a young boy’s imaginative play he sees himself brave and trustworthy in the good fight, then we are glad if he grows into a man who is like that in “the real world.” Likewise, if a little girl tenderly cares for a baby doll, devoting herself to its care while at play, then grows up to become a loving, tender mother, we are happy. And we should be. I call that good.

So child’s play is braided into the lifelong chords of faith. Part of life is anticipating, by faith, the right-side-up world. And it is deadly difficult when it feels like the ceiling’s coming down all around us.

Part of the Christian life, perhaps the heart of it, is praying “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” This is holy imagination at work. This is a life of imaginative anticipation. Faith is play. It is playing at the most deeply true articles of the human charter.

Imagination is an essential capacity of faith.

Does our conversation assume the extraordinary? If it doesn’t, can we be Christians?

Jesus told us that children show us the way to the Kingdom. I believe he meant to commend both their lack of personal standing (they cannot cling to accomplishment as merit) and their capacity for deep dependence.

Children are suited for the Kingdom in their imaginative play. “Make believe” is one of the clearest avenues along the way to making us believers.

So, let them play. And join them.

HT: Matthew Clark

I have mixed feelings about O’Connor. I appreciate her work on many levels and yet I am not –to my surprise, given the wide agreement I share with her many admirers– very much taken with her work. I have guessed that it is a matter of seasons of life. In another season, I shall likely find her a treasure. This kind of thing happens.

But, if you are, or are not, captivated by the spell of this Southern treasure, you may enjoy this fascinating recording. I really enjoyed it.

I am sure I shall finally and fully be convinced of O’Connor’s brilliance when I read this upcoming book by my friend and fellow pants-wearer, Jonathan Rogers.

Also: This world is magical. The problem of evil best answered by seeing God as a writer and life as his narrative drama. Writing the screenplay for The Great Divorce movie. And more.

It’s good. Watch it.

N.D. Wilson is doing the thing I so long to see done. He is writing excellent stories from a deep well of thoroughly Christian understanding. In other words, he sees the world as it really is, magical, and is sharing delightful stories out of this well like a sloppy bucket poured out on dusty farmers.

And boy has it been dusty. We need this kind of refreshment.

He is also telling fantastic, American stories. He talks about that and more in this excellent little interview with NPR.

I just learned Amazon has reduced the hardback of The Dragon’s Tooth 40%.

I’m watching game 7 right now of the World Series and don’t know who will win. I don’t actually care much. I’m a (mostly nominal) Reds fan and only watch any baseball when it’s like this: dramatic and late.

Part of what I love about sports is the stories. I think the main ways people in America explore/embrace stories is in sports and movies. I wish more people loved books, but we’re wired for stories and sports provide some fascinating ones.

That game six was one of the greatest World Series games of all time, with drama all over. There were many storylines worth following: Comeback after comeback, home-town boy’s heroics, legendary player’s last stand. But the one storyline that got me more than any other involved, not a player, but the guy calling the game.

Like I said, last night was one of the greatest games in World Series history. It was won (after much drama) in the bottom of the 11th on a walk-off homer by local boy David Freese to force game 7. (It kept their team alive for a final game. They play best of 7.) One of the very few games people are comparing it to was 20 years ago when Kirby Puckett hit a walk-off homer to similarly save his team and force a game seven.

Joe Buck did the play-by-play last night, just like his dad, Jack Buck, did 20 years ago. Jack Buck had the famous call when Puckett blasted the game-winner for the Twins 20 years ago, a play call that’s been heard thousands of times. A signature moment for a broadcaster.

When these iconic moments happen, the broadcaster’s call is his moment in the sun. It’s what he’s remembered for. Many broadcasters have memorable calls planned, some others just reach for greatness in the moment (or so I presume). Anyway, the calls broadcasters make in these historic moments are replayed and replayed and are an opportunity for their unique stamp to be placed on a historic moment in sports. They are the voice of a moment. (Remember “Do you believe in miracles? Yes!” from Al Michaels?)

When that chance came for Joe Buck last night, in a game that had a similar walk-off homer, he chose not to make a unique statement. He chose to be his father’s son.

I love this. I don’t know much about Joe Buck, but that’s a story that moves me. Maybe it’s because I have such a great dad.

What a stage on which to obey the Fifth Commandment.

When I do the dishes, I use way more water than my wife uses when she does them. This is because I am not as skilled as she is and I think by an avalanche of water I may drown away my dish washing inadequacies. Of course, my wife doesn’t complain about the water.

It occurs to me that the same is true in writing and communication in general. If we are unsure of ourselves, unskilled, we pile up the words. We believe we must say everything we think and so overcome any chance we might have missed something. But so often less is, as they say, more.

This has something to do with the idea of expression vs. communication. Artists sometimes get the high-minded, self-important notion we’re a special breed of human, superior and sophisticated. We might believe the most important thing is “expressing ourselves.”

But the artist under God understands she is a servant. She works, just like everyone else, to love and serve those who receive her work. She is like the farmer, the plumber, the pastor. She is concerned with communication (and communion), with connection, with service. It’s less important she “expresses herself” in all the ways that can be self-indulgent, and more important her work serves people. Not that it serves whatever they wish (as our market-driven, utilitarian society calls for), but like all true love, serves the person’s best. This is a vocation, not a cult. She is called, not enthroned.

Of course, the beautiful thing is that often our calling is at the cross-roads of what we feel burdened to express and the way the world needs to be loved and served.

In fact, an important question to ask oneself when considering any calling, including that of an artist, is “Does the world need this?” Another couple of ways to say this:

“Are people served by this to be more fully what they are called to be?”

“Does this work I feel called to contribute to human flourishing?”

If it does, then God is probably really calling you to the work.

(Other questions include “Am I good at it?” and,  “Does anyone say I’m good at it besides my mom and people really motivated to please me?” and, “Can I do this while fulfilling the more clear callings in my life?” Such as, if I am a husband, am I fulfilling the clear command to provide for my family?)

The self-indulgent artist, writer, communicator is all about expression and so may not be concerned with brevity, feeling it might limit her expression. The kind of writer I want to be can say less and so say more.

I’m striving for an economy of words. It takes more time and more care to say more while saying less. Have you ever been in a conversation with some one who is just a never-ending, Gatling gun of words? This person will wear you out. They have so much to say that, ironically, in the end you can’t remember any words except, “How might I escape?”

I can be like that, at times. But I want to be otherwise. Others-wise. I want to say less. I want to serve with my words. I want to pass them out like a soccer mom passes out snacks at a game.

And feel not a bit superior.

Image by Justin Gerard.

Here’s a section of N.D. Wilson’s excellent (and short) post on Stories As Soul Food. Read the entire thing here. This is one of the principal things God has been giving me over the last several years. I believe this kind of understanding is true, beautiful, good, and liberating. -Sam

N.D. Wilson…

A Mistrust of Magic?

Bible-believing Christians frequently have a deep mistrust of fiction. In particular, they have a deep mistrust of, ahem, magic. This is impossible for me to understand, partly because I was weaned on C. S. Lewis and Tolkien, but more profoundly because I was marinated in Scripture at a very young age (by my parents). And Scripture is full of . . . stories. More than that, Scripture is full of the miraculous and the amazing. “Throw water on the altar,” Elijah says. “Fire will still fall from Heaven.” A famous shepherd boy takes down an infamous six-fingered giant. Don’t let the long-haired man near a jawbone. Collect the animals and build a boat. Whatever you do, don’t listen to that serpent.

Bible pop-quiz: Did Pharaoh’s magicians really turn staffs into snakes? (Hint: yes.)

Christians serve the Man who walked on water. We serve the Man who could not be kept in the belly of the great fish, the Man who shattered the grave, and all alone, ripped the city gates off a place called Death.

Loathe the Darkness and Love the Light

Christians believe that this world is so much more than a mechanical soulless machine. And yet, we tend to tell our children stories that (we hope) will only speak to their intellects. We want to give them a list of facts to tick off, like we’re trying to communicate a party platform to new recruits, like they’re nothing but brains ready for programming. We feed their souls sawdust and are surprised when they drift away to other cooks (with different tales about reality).

Kids (and adults) don’t just need the truth in their heads — they need it in their bones. They need to know what courage looks like and tastes like and smells like before they ever have to show it themselves. They need to do justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly — heroes and villains can show them why. They need to loathe the darkness and love the Light.

Dave Bruno’s image: Andy Gullahorn playing “Skinny Jeans”

Hutchmoot 2:Revenge of Hutchmoot has ended. But for those who came either last year, or this year, it’s like Hutchmoot never ends. It just gets carried around inside you for months and months to come. Like gold in your pockets. This year was special/amazing and I plan to write more about it later.

But even if I never do myself…

I’ll be doing again this year what I did last, making a master directory of all the Hutchmoot-related posts I can get my hands on. If you want me to include yours, send me an email, or comment here with a link.

So let the Hutchmoot Hub 2011 commence. As last year, I’ll work this up on my site, then probably move it over to The Rabbit Room when it get’s closer to what it will end up being (that is, has what seems like most of the posts it will end up having).

(If you are not sure what Hutchmoot is, look here. It’s an in-person retreat/conference for The Rabbit Room community.

It was a lot of fun last year to collect all the different stories of how Hutchmoot worked on people. Or really, how God worked on us all at Huchmoot through his people.

I have so much to be thankful for, from hand-crafted name-badges to folded up papers-in pockets. But more on that later (maybe). For now, write your story of Hutchmoot. Then let me know. Then, consider eating some jello.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow…

Photo by Thomas McKenzie, on the scene of Andy Osenga’s spaceship, along with Whit, Goodgame, and Shauna Peterson.

From Paradox Bookstores in Wheeling, WV

HT: 22 Words