God Is Not Theology

Have you ever prayed a prayer consistently, fervently with faith that God would want that same thing - only for it go to wrong, or unanswered? Maybe you scoured the Bible for explicit statements on the topic, promises of God or words that seemed to apply directly to the situation - and felt certain God would answer your prayer. Maybe you prayed with such expectancy and leaned wholeheartedly on God for the outcome. Then why would he say no?

It's a tough question and when you've been through that, all answers are trite and non-comforting. It's also a complex question that's worth asking and wrestling with.

I think we think of God as a theology. I'll explain. Theology is the study of God. For Christians we lift from the Bible attributes that make up God's character and draw a composite sketch of who he is and how he works in the world. A great reason for studying theology is to get to know the God we love so we know how to please him and love him back. We align our will with his.

Things go haywire, though, when we think we have God figured out or when our studying theology serves the purpose of getting what we want. God is a person, not a theology.

Yes, God's word is alive and a revelation of who he is. Yes, he delights in hearing and answering our prayers - whether or not we completely understand him. He is good and he gives good gifts. But he really wants to know and be known. So sometimes when we say: "OK God, I've finished my box; go ahead, jump in," he puts it over our head. It's in this darkness that we begin to ask the right questions. We transition from "why didn't I get what I wanted" to "where are you God," "who are you," "do I really even know you?"

My point is simply this: we do not use God's words to bend the world to our will, we use them to bend our will to his. Christ form yourself in me; forgive me for being demanding; turn on the lights when you're ready.

Stencil: PG-13

Me back in the day

Graffiti grabbed my attention full force in 1996. This was over a decade after the height of 'tagging' in the US. I was at the New School in the West Village that year and saw a clear progression in what was happening on the streets around the city. Graffiti had moved from tagging to bubble-type free-style tags and a highly stylized, multi-colored interlacing letter design was emerging. My flatmate at the Marlton House at 5 West 8th Street, photographer George Saitas, was documenting this emergence as a side project to his work at Parsons. Another friend from Parsons was accepted for his hip-hop-heavy, multicultural portfolio.

Blek le Rat 1987

In Europe these advances were delayed, but another subculture art form was highly developed - stencil graffiti. A major pioneer was Blek le Rat, a Parisian who, I believe, had studied at Cooper Union in NYC. His life size stencils brought a new dimension to street art: he often referenced classical art in his stencils, as well as contemporary artistic and political figures. To cut down on application time - ie time on the street which increased potential for arrest - he began using huge pre-stenciled stickers that could be slapped all over  a city quickly.

England's Banksy, probably the most famous stencil artist, adopted many of Blek's stylistic traits but heightened the politically charged messages in his work. The sheer volume of his stencils and his marketing savvy have brought stencil art into mainstream consciousness.

I started making stencils in the simpler style of Blek and Banksy in college. While it's true that if I had to choose any city to visit for its graffiti, I would choose Sao Paulo for its huge, colorfully hopeful, and nitty gritty tags, I still admire stencil in all its forms.                                                        

One of my stencils:
appropriately irreverent for urinals

Mickey Mouse Music

The gas light came on as I pulled out of work last week. Heading to the gas station, I turned on NPR and smirked with happy memories as the announcer of Performance Today introduced Franz Liszt's variation of Felix Mendelssohn's Wedding March from A Midsummer Night's Dream being played by Arcadi Volodos: I saw Volodos perform Prokofiev's Concerto No. 2 in his 2002 NY Philharmonic debut. At the gas station, I turned off the engine and remembered the special and quirky night at Avery Fischer Hall.

I had been listening to Alfred Schnittke's string quartets, and it was originally the fact that Lutoslawski was in the program that drew me, not Prokofiev or Volodos. Sarah, my girlfriend at the time didn't particularly like music, but getting away from PA, a day in NYC, and front row seats at a concert made a good deal for both of us.

From my seat, I had an oblique view of Volodos' profile at the piano. He attacked the keys, and, while I was vaguely aware of his over-expressive style, I was startled. As he performed, I began to sweat and get cold. Realizing that I was leaning in and holding my breath, I eased back into my seat and exhaled. As I did, I caught the eyes of the Concert Master, violinist Glenn Dicterow. Keeping his eyes on me, he lifted an eyebrow and nodded slowly toward Volodos. I didn't know if his look was a question or a statement: Are you in the presence of a great pianist? or, You are! Checking my reactions, I listened steadily to the rest of the piece. I glanced back at Mr. Dicterow who, both brows raised and lips slightly puckered, tapped his bow on his strings in applause.

During the intermission I told Sarah about the look. We decided that if either of us were to nudge the other, it meant that he was looking at us and to immediately look at him.

Recovering from the piano concerto, I had a hard time getting immersed in Lutoslawski's Symphony No. 3. Apparently its ultra-modernism fell flat with Mr. Dicterow as well: midway through the piece, during an extended period of rest for the violins, he caught my eye. I nudged Sarah. He reached into his tuxedo pocket and slyly, slowly drew out a Mickey Mouse key chain which he dangled close to his chest. Seemingly amused that he had our attention, he smirked and rolled his eyes widely to show his boredom. Then he slipped the key chain back in his pocket, pursed his lips and seamlessly re-joined his violin with the rest of the orchestra.

This Thanksgiving...

Thanksgiving is the hardest holiday for me. I've had some wonderful Thanksgivings, but I've also spent previous Thanksgiving Days in the hospital, homeless, hungry, displaced, hurting, and alone. I get scared and anti-social near this time, anticipating the memories and sadness.

I've decided to spend this holiday alone - not to mope, but to remember. This Thanksgiving I wanted to offer something. Tomorrow I am going to fast and pray for the homeless, the displaced, the neglected, the lonely, the bewildered and the hungry. I'm also going to pray for healed marriages and families. I'm really looking forward to what a sweet time it will be!!!

If you've offered me your hospitality this year, thank you so much - I love you!!! If you read this and need prayer, I would love to hear from you! This is all I really have to offer - with my gratitude to a Savior who has seen fit to keep me alive and who always looks at me with eyes filled with so much grace.

My Best Friend

Most people who have met me in the past five years no little or nothing about my best friend, Bob. This is strange to me. Everyone who knew me before five years ago, knew that we were inseparable - even when we were thousands of miles apart. Bob was 48 years older than me. He went to my church, but I started getting to know him when I had a paper route in middle school: when I collected for the paper, he would talk incessantly.

Soon I started setting aside extra time to allow for his talking. He had incredible stories about his early life in the forties and fifties. Most of them were anecdotes about life in our small, 500-person town and the people who had lived and died there. As a pastor's son who moved a lot these stories of rooted-ness were nostalgic and sad in their small joys. But he also had stories about New York City in the Forties, taking a train across the country to California, and seeing Duke Ellington play in LA.

During my teens, I spent most of my time at Bob's house. It was a retreat from four sisters maybe, or just a peaceful place with a friend who seemed to get me. We played old sheet music on his baby grand piano and watched old movies. I would get him to play capture the flag with my sisters and our friends in the graveyard and invite him to dinner. He would come to my plays, jazz band and chorus concerts. For fun, I would introduce him as my grandpa - he loved the attention.

When I went away to New York State Summer School of the Arts, he supported me and wrote me. He was interested in hearing about my friends and love interests. When I returned, I invited ten friends from Long Island and they all stayed for a weekend at Bob's house. Once, during Christmas season, several friends came to visit and we all went sledding. Bob broke his ankle that night. That experience became his favorite story.

Jerry aged 17, sister Jennifer, Bob (We Three Kings:)

He prayed for me constantly. When my heart was aching, without saying anything, he would go into the kitchen, kneel on a chair and pray for me. He always took me in stride and gave me a broad perspective on trials. Whenever I needed advice, I could call him - if he didn't have advice, he would listen as long as I needed him to. He was present at every major failure and every success. He did old fart things with old farts and I did young guy stuff with young guys. We weren't each others' only friends, but for that season, each others' best friends.

As he entered his seventies I was living a bohemian life of travel and art. Whenever I made it home, we would spend hours catching up. I would cook for him, help him change the salt pellets for his water - the fifty pound bags were too heavy. I would weed his flowers and mow his lawn.

Bob had been on a series of medicines for long enough that they finally deteriorated his kidney functions. He was put into rehab for a fall, but became depressed and stopped eating. He came in and out of lucidity. I had gone back to college at Binghamton University and was in my junior year. During finals week of a particularly heavy semester, he called several times begging me to pick him up so he could live with me. I didn't realize how bad he was getting until his niece called and said I needed to visit him - they were bringing him home and didn't expect him to live more than a day or two - he had complete renal failure.

The last time I saw him, he was skeletal, his eyes were roaming and his breaths were gargley. I sat next to him on the bed they had moved into his dining room and held his hand in silence. For one minute his eyes focused on me. Slowly and deliberately he wrinkled his forehead and said my name. Hours later he was gone.

When I left for Oxford, each of my family members wrote me a letter. My father praised me most for my patience, gentleness and for what I had taught him about loving people of all ages.

I've been told this week that I shouldn't interact with college students any more. The reason is because they could become my greatest source of "community." While I understand what lies behind these concerns - and have experienced some of the sting - I wonder what Bob would say.