Never Forget: Thoughts on Christian Faith and National Tragedy

I am a proud American and an even prouder Christian. Every year, September 11th generally brings some complicated and mixed feelings for me as a pastor. Let me explain by way of oversimplification...

A major factor is that I am academically trained. I went to school for a long time, and being in that environment makes deep impressions on us as pastors. Here is why this matters: Whether as a point of conviction or simply as a corrective to majority assumptions, the academy usually views nationalism through a predominately suspicious lens.

One thing I learned in the academy is the almost irrefutable truth that the tendency to blend theological conviction with nationalism has historically almost always had hazardous and oppressive results. And when I look into my congregation and across the American church, I see that the overwhelming majority still function with some kind of conviction (often nebulous, but occasionally stated explicitly) that Americanism is fundamentally and organically Christian. Even if they agree with the notion that the kingdom of God is not identifiable with the United States of America, there is still a default understanding that what is good for Christianity is that America be strong, and vice versa. Americans seem to have been converted as much to Christendom and they were to Christianity, so nationalism is a hallmark of faithful Christian discipleship.

So what do I do when 9/11 roles around?

If I post a picture of the twin towers with #NeverForget, what am I communicating? First off, am I identifying myself fundamentally with Americanism? Or am I trying to communicate my solidarity with the thousands of Americans who died in a tragic act of violence? Further, am I somehow condoning the military action undertaken as a part of the war on terror as a faithful and Christian enterprise? Theologically speaking, am I guilty of helping others not love their enemy? Finally, what is it exactly that I don't want people to forget and why?

This is the problem with hashtags in general, and hashtag theology in particular. It is so vacuous that it actually operates almost thoughtlessly.

Or do I go on the offensive and actively speak against such remembrances as expressions of Christendom? I could criticize the idea of "not forgetting" as patently unfaithful to the gospel of reconciliation. But will it be heard, or will it be misunderstood, because I have chosen the worst day possible to try and make a point in one Facebook post that it took me more than 10 years to come to understand (and that still not completely).

Sure, at some level all communication breaks down and the speaker cannot control what the hearer (or reader) takes away; however, I want to be as responsible as I can with my words, especially when I am trying to speak according to God's will. And in this light, I offer my own thoughts to this dialogue. Not as THE answer, but as an answer that I have found some peace in.

I do think that there is value in national remembrance that is not simply propagandizing. While recalling tragedy in our national story can often serve some miserable jingoism or xenophobia, it could also be argued that sometimes remembrance is used as a connection to our deeper humanity--both in terms of the value of human life as well as in terms of human brokenness and depravity. And that deeper humanity is an essential and necessary voice for a nation to hear that may influence its people to not simply give into the nation's most institution-preserving impulses. In that sense, memory serves the cathartic and restorative function of correcting nationalism with basic human pathos (which is a fundamental kingdom orientation).

This is especially important for American Christians (academy or not) to remember on days like today--that remembrance is not simple patriotism, but also is an expression of a deeper belief in the kingdom of God. We remember, not to hate, but to forgive. We remember, not to raise our ire, but to raise our eyes to see those who died and those who loved them mourning and hurt by the brokenness all too prevalent in our world. We remember because lives matter. We remember because things that hurt are often worth remembering. We remember in order to heal and help others heal.

#NeverForget to love your neighbor
#NeverForget to love your enemy
#NeverForget that our hope is still coming

The Hour of Darkness - a good friday meditation

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Three times Jesus awakened them—three times. His heart was breaking, his fears were mounting, and his knees were covered in the dirt of the garden floor. Three times the Lord went to pray and pour out his soul in anguish to his Father… each time his disciples went to sleep. God forgive us, are we not also unfocused and distracted.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Peter stood at the fires in the courtyard of the high priest and three times denied his Lord, Jesus—three times. Submitting to a false court in a sham trial that was an outright mockery of justice, Jesus was saving the world. And in an outright mockery of faithfulness, Peter was saving his own tail. God forgive us, are we not also cowards and liars.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Judas betrayed the hope of the world for 30 silver pieces. Only too late did he realize that he did for 30 silver pieces that for which they would have paid 3000. He betrayed his master and friend… with a kiss. Trusting God’s promise, Jesus hung on a cross forgiving the world its sins that put him there. Doubting God’s grace, Judas hung himself in a tree haunted by his demons. God forgive us, are we not also haunted by our demons and do we not also kiss you with our lips then betray you for our own gain.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

It was religious people who struck Jesus first. Driven by fear, they raised their hands in violence. Driven by love, my Jesus knelt in humility. Honoring falsehood as testimony, they condemned the truth itself. Making sure not to wander too far into the home of a Gentile, they kept ritual purity as they handed over an innocent man to be executed. Their voices shouted first for the release of a man who took life, as they demanded the death of the giver of life. God forgive us, are we not also violent and full of compromise when we should be full of the Spirit.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Pilate has washed his hands. The magistrate found no guilt in him, but did not pardon him. Pilate chose to play politics, and in so doing he handed over the true King to die. God forgive us, are we not also addicted to popularity and often look no further than our own reputation.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

The soldiers have mocked my Lord, and beaten my Lord, and spit on my Lord. They placed a crown of thorns on his head and paraded him through the streets. They were just doing their jobs—it wasn’t personal. They were just following orders as they walked the King of Glory through the streets of shame and beat him down under the weight of his cross. God forgive us, are we not also often an unwitting part of so much systemic injustice and evil that we can’t tell the difference between doing our job and insulting our Lord.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

They played dice at the foot of the cross—gambling for his clothes. Jesus, the Savior of the world, is dying for them right above them, yet they are too busy playing games to notice. God forgive us, are we not guilty—some of us—of still playing games at the cross of Jesus.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Even the criminals beside him have turned on him—as if some how they who are truly guilty are better than him. They join the mocking crowd and heap insults upon him and shame him. It is better to die a scoundrel with my own guilt than to bear the shame of this innocent man I helped kill. God forgive us, are we not also blind to our own culpability and sin and do we not also flee the shame of the cross.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

The apostles are hiding. His closest friends and his devoted followers—all of them save one were missing. Fearing for their lives, they hid. Saving their own skin, they hid. Not understanding what their teacher had told them over and over again, they were bewildered, confused, and afraid. God forgive us, are we not also guilty of letting our fear and confusion drive us away from where we belong.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

The sun has gone black. The light of the world has been extinguished and all that is left is night. The earth itself is shaking in furious upheaval. For nothing has come into existence that was not made by him—the author of all living things has been killed, and all living things shudder in revolt. The temple curtain is torn and the graves of the saints are empty because even in darkness the light will bear its witness. So we take heart even as…

The hour of darkness is upon us…

In the stillness and silence we hear no serpent in the grass for his head lay crushed beneath the foot of the one who would not want anything. Listen and hear nothing, for the great and terrible Accuser is silent. He is defeated. His tongue finds no words, his lies have no more power, his accusations find no purchase on the perfect life and wholehearted devotion of my Jesus. The ancient evil dragon who would conquer the world and overthrow God himself is humiliated and vanquished by the love and peace of a slaughtered lamb. Satan did his worst, but God’s best was even greater.

Here we gather at the cross, "where the dearest and blest for a world of lost sinners was slain." Here we gather at the cross where in "blessed backwardness the immeasurable one was held but did not resist." Here we gather at the cross and surrender ourselves to the great cost and greater joy of Good Friday. Here we gather at the cross and find that we are forgiven… that we are loved… that we are chosen… that we are victorious.

The hour of darkness is upon us… thank God. 

i am not ashamed of the gospel

I have to tell you about what happened this last Wednesday. Let me set the stage...

Our auditorium seats almost 800 (by architect-count, not by actual mid-western American butt-size count). And while we have a pretty full house at our worship gatherings on Sundays, the reality is that our Wednesday evening attendance is nowhere near that. So we meet in our largest adult classroom with room for about 130 if we get in close to one another. Metal folding chairs, a music stand lectern, and a projector screen. 

Our topic for that evening's study was "Lust." We are a couple lessons into a series on the Seven Deadly Sins and how to let God free us from temptation. I had written my lesson and had plenty of material, my biggest concern was whether I would have the voice to make it. You see, I was sick and my throat was really trying to give up. My body ached and I was pretty sure I had about 30 minutes of hoarse voice to try and stretch over an hour. I knew that I would be a joy to listen to. 

I will admit that my wording was poor when I opened the class with the question: "When I say lust, what comes to mind?" I will credit that to daytime flu medication. Nevertheless, things were going pretty routinely and the room was about half full as we began, but through the first ten minutes people really began to fill up the seats--we had a larger crowd than normal. We even had to send some folks for some extra chairs, twice (really). Within 15 minutes, the room was packed. We even had visitors--more than a handful. 

But there was a "problem"... my lesson just wasn't all that great. I mean, it wasn't horrific or embarrassing, but it certainly wasn't going to be very memorable either. It was flat. When the highlight thus far was a hackneyed Billy Graham story about how the struggle with lustful thoughts is lifelong, things are pretty flat. But I was at least crossing off the bare minimums of a passable Bible study: Having walked through the connection between lust and idolatry (biblical and theological basis--check!), and having ambled through the obligatory identification of some of our own idols (group participation--okay, it wasn't open-life, open-heart testimony, but technically other voices were saying words related to the topic, so, check!), we were meandering into a discussion of some practical ways to overcome the temptation to lust (practical application--check!) when it happened. 

A hand went up. 

Thank god! First of all, my voice was tired, and a break would be welcome even if just a moment. Second, I was honestly tired of this sub-par lesson (and when you are bored as the speaker, that should tell you something). Third, the hand was from a close friend whose faith I respected and wisdom I trusted. His comments were always helpful. So I called on him. 

"I'm have problems with this class. I'm tired of this class." 

That was less helpful than I had hoped. As he went on, I became a little scared that my flat lesson was about be crushed by his depth. It deserved it, I knew, but that doesn't mean I wanted that to happen in front of a full room--and more than a handful of visitors, mind you. Pride is a funny thing.  

He continued, "I don't mean this class, but all the classes like this that tell me that temptation is always there and will always be there, and I'm condemned to a life of barely hanging on and hoping it doesn't win." He went on, almost in tears, as he exclaimed that the Word of God tells us that we have been set free. "Free!" he shouted. Then he did cry. "I was addicted to pornography for 15 years! But now I am free! I cheated on my wife! But now I'm free!" He passionately explained that since Christ's seed was in him that life was not about outlasting a nagging and overpowering temptation, but in living free. 

There was a moment of stillness--you might expect that it was awkward, but it wasn't... it was deeper than that... holier than that... it was sacred presence. And then hands shot up all over the room. As people shared and responded some wholeheartedly agreed and others thought that sounded too much like perfectionism. Another brother shared in tears that "if we could just catch one glimpse of God and know for one instance how much he loves us, we would do anything to be with him." I watched as God's Spirit broke out through the room and people bared their hearts and lives in real dialogue about faith (not obligatory one-word answers to a scarecrow question). 

The rest of the class was dynamic. We talked about moving beyond moralistic approaches to beating the lust urge, and really dug into the gospel of God's abiding presence, empowering grace, and his transforming Spirit. We talked about purity not as the result of a few decent practices with an accountability partner, but real gospel purity that desires God above all else, that hungers for God's presence more than any other thing. We found ourselves re-evangelized last night. 

It was truly awesome. I wish more people could have seen it. And yes, the visitors probably think we are crazy. But they honestly saw something that I hope they never forget--a church learning together as the Spirit taught. That was way better than my bad jokes and sore throat. That's way better than my good sermons with full voice.  

It was powerful and moving. And it was not because of me. 

That last sentence actually hurts to write. Now, I don't want to be proud person. I know that pride is bad. But I kind of wanted to be the hero. I had that moment where I feared having my weak message "outed," but it was something I needed--we needed. I will not be ashamed that I was not the impetus for spiritual breakthrough last night, because I choose not be ashamed of the gospel. I choose to be thankful. 

I am thankful for people in church who are brave enough to say that they do not hear enough of the gospel in what we are saying. Not just complaining about an interpretative difference or changes in worship practice... but who hunger to hear the gospel more. The world doesn't need more moralism, more pop-psychology, or more optimism. The world needs the gospel. And if I am not teaching it, please tell me. In fact, your honesty just might save us all. The church needs the gospel. Every time we meet, my job as the pastor called by God to speak a word from God to the people of God is to re-evangelize the saved so that we never fall prey to a powerless moralism that robs the glory of God or a bland ritualism that abandons the power of his gospel. 

Less than 24 hours later, as I write this, I have received five different texts, emails, calls, and messages expressing thanks to me for leading such a wonderful class with so much sharing and passionate exploration and thinking. People were moved and changed. And I guess I am glad they thanked me, but trust me... I had nothing to do with it. And that's okay. 

Hope

Every now and then, I find out that people actually read my blog, and I am always surprised. I seem to break all of the rules of good blogging, such as, blog frequently, or blog regularly, or have a clear point. Honestly, I think that the main reason I blog as infrequently and irregularly as I do is because I generally blog for my own sake. That doesn't mean that I don't want people to read my blog, but rather that I write what I need to read and hear--I write what I am processing. 

In my last blog post I wrote about how I had lost a friend, and how I had recently experienced his presence again. One reader contacted me and from that conversation, I have heard a story that I want to tell to more people. 

Cameron Von St. James and his wife Heather were just celebrating the birth of their newborn daughter, Lily Rose, when Heather was diagnosed with malignant pleural mesothelioma. She was given 15 months to live. in fact, 95% of those diagnosed with this illness die within two years. Thanks to tireless effort, countless hospital visits, many doctors, and one amazing and radical surgery later, Heather is still alive and sharing her testimony now seven years later! You can watch her video to get the full story...

Cameron and Heather work hard to raise awareness for this illness that is a result of prolonged contact with asbestos. Among other things, Cameron writes a really helpful blog about providing cancer care for loved ones. 

I wanted to share this story to help raise awareness about mesothelioma. I also wanted to share this story because I want to raise awareness about hope. 

Hope is a funny thing... a powerful thing... an absolutely essential thing for each of us. Yet hope is such a rare and precious thing. 

Quite simply, I think that the world convinces us to give up on hope. Some people of faith have a high regard for the world. In Christian theology, these folks would have a strong belief in what's called "common grace"--the belief that God's grace is at work generally in the world making it possible for good things to happen and for order to be maintained. I admire these people, but I am not one of these people. I do not have much belief in common grace. To me, the world is a broken, sick, and sinful place where darkness and death seem to speak loudest. 

I realize how gloomy that sounds to say that the world is sick and broken and dark. But I pray that you will hear me out long enough to see the glorious light that I believe fills my calling...

I got into ministry not because I thought the world was great and God was happy in heaven just waiting for us to get to him; rather, I got into ministry because I think that all hell has broken loose on this world and God has come here in Jesus to fight for every last inch of reality, and I want to give my life in hope that he will redeem it all. 

And it is this funny, powerful, and absolutely necessary hope that drives me. Hope that the whole world is full of God's presence and in his presence there is light. Hope that we are not alone in our weakness and sin. Hope that the whole world is enchanted and filled full of God's Spirit and being brought into his reign. Hope that in the end life wins. 

Whatever it is that you are facing, may you find the hope to rise above, and may you know that we are never alone. You are loved, and you are chosen. 

turning 35, hunting, & being found

I turned 35 this week. 

It felt like this...

Maybe it was the sugar high from the icing on the cake or maybe the haunting feeling that the end is likely now just as close as the beginning, but I figured that now would be as good a time as any to try something new. Seeing as how habit and routine are sacred things for me, trying something new usually means ordering a different item at Starbucks in the morning. However, this time, I wanted to reach far out of my comfort zone--really stretch myself. I surprised myself when all of a sudden in the middle of a seemingly safe conversation I agreed to go deer hunting with a buddy of mine named Mark. Over the next few days I got my very first hunting license and deer tag. I felt so official and accomplished--and I hadn't even hunted yet. I got a note the night before from another woodsy friend, John, saying that he was joining us. So, flanked by two experienced hunters who were good enough friends to show me the ropes, this morning for the first time in my life I went hunting.

Now, for those of you who don't know, hunting involves long periods of silence and stillness in the woods while waiting to kill some meandering animal. Those of you who know me  realize immediately the lack of congruence here. 

For starters, there is the whole long periods of silence thing, to which I am likely not best-suited. I have been described as "chatty," and have on occasion heard someone ask my wife, "Does he always talk this much?" And apparently talking scares the deer away, so you have to just sit there mute. I expected this to be very hard, yet in reality it was easy. It was peaceful. But I don't mean that in the whole "it-was-just-me-and-nature's-glory" sort of way. What I mean is that I did not expect to find the silence so relieving. As someone who talks for a living, it was healing to my spirit to not have to fill space with words. I wonder now if this is what monks feel like who take a vow of silence. I am so noisy, and most of it is surprisingly by choice.

On the other hand, stillness was not as serious a challenge for me. I enjoy what is referred to as a sedentary lifestyle--I am possibly in danger of being overrun by a glacier. And hunting is pretty much the most sedentary outdoors "activity" I could find except for ice-fishing--which I plan to take up this winter. Still, I made my friends promise that I would not have to climb into a tree-stand. A man my size has no business climbing 15-20 feet up to sit on something smaller than a toilet seat--God did not make hippos fit for tree-climbing. So we sent John up the tree, as he is definitely not a hippo. I ended up in a pop-up tent called a "ground blind." 

God bless the great indoors

Inside the blind, I sat on a 5 gallon bucket turned upside down, which was as comfortable as it sounds. While I did not remain motionless, I stayed as still as I could. Now, I was admittedly helped by the fact that there were two of us in the tiny blind--myself and Mark, who is not as big as I am, but is also not a small man by any measure. We were a little snug in there, so there wasn't really anywhere to move to that wasn't already pretty intimate. 

It is also true that I harbor an irrational fear of guns and ammunition, and this alone has been most effective at keeping me out of the woods for 35 years now. But, this aversion to the woods has been helpful, as I also have very severe contact allergies to most any living green plant. Seeing as how gun season does not start for another few weeks, my friends had armed me with a crossbow. I had never held a bow of any kind before, but something tells me that a crossbow is to bow-hunting what gutter-guards are to bowling. So, equipped with my training-wheels I was out in the woods but inside a blind protecting me from all that leafy nature. Could life get any better? 

Now, it had dawned on me in the days leading up to my first hunting experience that I have little desire to kill anything really. But I was able to sate my mind with the observation that given my ineptitude at the whole silence and patience thing, I was not likely to see any deer; and further, that even if I had an opportunity to fire at a deer, I was almost certain to miss it due to inexperience and lack of general aiming prowess. 

Nevertheless, there I was hunting. Steam rose softly from my quiet breathing as I watched the tree-line at the other side of the clearing which itself was just being roused from the smoky jade shadows into the early dawn of a crisp autumn morning that God only makes in Michigan, when I was met by something unexpected: a friend. 

Up until that moment it had all been about me. Added to the usual self-centered myopia I live in, things were extra self-centered as I talked about my birthday and my first hunt. As a result, I honestly had not really thought all that much about Jeremy. Almost three years ago, a good friend of mine, Jeremy King, died while hunting in northern Michigan. He was only 31 years old, but had a massive heart attack and was found dead at the base of his tree-stand. In fact, it was John and Mark who had found him. And here I was in the birth of a new day with its new mercies surrounding me in the company of my friends--Mark, John, and Jeremy.

Jeremy, John, a different John, and Mark after a successful pheasant hunt

The immensity of everything met me in that clearing this morning. It was heavy at first and sacred. Then it lifted and I found breath--Spirit. It was what another friend of mine calls a thin space--where eternity and this world seem to be just a breath apart. I started to try and tell Mark, "I think I see why y'all love it out here." But that was as far as I got. I didn't say anything else--it wasn't fair to say anything else. Besides, you can't talk while you're hunting. 

I don't know that I feel all that connected to hunting... we came away empty and only saw two doe so far away that you could barely call it "seeing" them. Jeremy used to say that he felt closer to God when he was in nature. I think John and Mark feel that same way. Maybe I will too one day. But this morning, I was blessed to feel close to my friend Jeremy again. I don't know if John or Mark experienced that when they went back out their first time after Jeremy died. I don't know if they still feel it. I don't know if it will happen again next time I go out hunting, and truthfully, I am not sure I even want that. But I am so very thankful for today. 

It is interesting to me that once I get out of my routines--out of the expected and well-worn paths of my normal and routine life--I find myself encountered by mysteries more wonderful than I care to notice most of the time. I am reminded that God knows what I need more than I do. 

loved and chosen

In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott relays a story about teaching a Bible class to a group of young children. She recounts the experience moving from her initial decision to separate two trouble-making brothers (four and five years old) placing them on either side of two six-year-old boys, as well as welcoming a 3 year old (and his weary mother). As class began, she helped them get out their wiggles with a game in which they scrunch up their bodies and faces and hold it for a few seconds and then let loose and go completely limp. Once they are seated and calm...

I sat on the couch and glanced slowly around in a goofy, menacing way, and then said, "Is anyone here wearing a blue sweatshirt with Pokemon on it?" The four-year-old looked down at his chest, astonished to discover that he matched this description--like, what are the odds? He raised his hand. "Come over here to the couch," I said. "You are so loved, and so chosen." He clutched at himself like a beauty pageant finalist. Then I asked if anyone that day was wearing green socks with brown shoes, a Giants cap, an argyle vest? Each of them turned out to be loved and chosen..."

Captivated by the grace of this game, I could not even finish the chapter.

I spent the next hour devising ways to try and recreate this with several hundred adults one Sunday (not my most productive hour in the office, I will admit, but I'm getting at something so just let it go for now...).

You see, here is what's crazy... I spend so much of my time caught up in a really dumb trap. As I prepare sermons, I get lost... not lost, I get misled... actually, I get tempted. I get tempted to try and be incredible. I want to dazzle and impress. I want to remove all doubts that anyone in my church might have that I am really talented as a preacher. I work hard to come up with fascinating and spectacular content that is served by powerful and grandiose visual aids. I want to finish a sermon to a round of applause, or at least a lobby full of parishioners telling me that I just said something that they had never heard before or never considered. Really... I love the way those statements make me feel. (And all this for God's greater glory... yes, of course.)

Maybe that's a little exaggerated (maybe!), but you get my point. I have a friend who is also a preacher, and he has told me several times that I am the hardest working preacher in the pulpit he knows--I have no clue if this is a compliment. But, if I am honest with myself, the reason that I work so hard often has more to do with producing something original and impressive than it does with the simple, necessary, good news.

Sometimes I finish preaching and I wonder why I went into everything else when the one thing I really wish I had communicated was...

you are loved and you are chosen.  

The reason I couldn't read anymore of the chapter was that God was telling me what I really needed to hear most. I think most of us need to hear that. It's not amazingly smart or impressive. Nor is it all that original. But even better than those things... it's true. And it's a truth we need deep in our bones.

What if I just said that every week until we all believed it? Especially me. 

The bottom line is that no one in my church, no teacher, no mentor, no blogger can get me out of this trap. The only way out is to trust in God's grace to get me out--to trust that God's grace is enough not only for my soul, but also for my sermon.

The brilliant poet W. H. Auden once wrote:

"Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about."


What makes the trap so dumb is that I am the one creating it. I know some churches are preacher-eaters--but mine is not. No one at my church tells me I have to be amazing. No one even tells me that I have to be smart. What they really want most is for me to be myself--to be my creative, passionate, odd self completely  captivated by the mystery of the grace and love of Christ.

That voice telling me I have to be amazing is lying. I know that. People don't need amazing; they need real.

The voice of truth invites me onto the couch in my blue jeans and blue striped shirt and tells me, "You are loved and and you are chosen... you will win some and lose some, you will hit some out of the park and you will strike out, but never be afraid to trust that no matter what you do you are loved and you are chosen... and you are not alone either. Go tell everyone that there is more room on the couch, because they are loved and chosen as well."

nine eleven

Like any other Tuesday, I was scared awake at 4:00am Central Time by the sound of my alarm clock--which I purchased precisely because it seemed to have been rigged somehow with a tractor-trailer's horn as the alarm. I began my usual routine, which admittedly was not my favorite nor the most conducive to my natural sleeping patterns. Nevertheless, my wife and I were still in school and needed the money that my early morning job provided. So, there I was shuffling out of the house at 4:40 in the morning and driving to open up the Maryland Farms YMCA located in a business park in beautiful and wealthy Brentwood, TN. Alongside our friendly maintenance man, Al--who basically kept the place running and was undoubtedly a morning person--I was the front desk staff-person who cheerfully greeted early-rising gym-rats who were there to burn some calories before their workdays started. Al had been there for an hour already when I showed up to turn the lobby lights on and unlock the front doors at 5:00am.

Outside the doors stood the over-achievers--those grossly over-motivated souls who pace and check their watches outside the gym before it opens. After checking them in, I busied myself with the normal stuff: brewing a fresh pot of coffee, folding the warm towels, getting the computers and printers warmed up and working properly, and making sure that all of the televisions that lined the walls in front of the treadmills were turned on. Each television was tuned to a different news network each displaying various scrolling strips of headlines and market results. The first few hours rolled by normally. There were the usual few complaints about the temperature of the pool, or the quality of the coffee, or a jammed locker.

At 7:00am I was joined up front by Mary Catherine who although still in high school had agreed to take an absence that day to cover a shift for her co-worker and aunt, Penny, who usually worked mornings with me. I'm not positive that was legal, but I was okay with it. I was tired of being alone, and Mary Catherine was always fun to work with--talkative, upbeat, and hard-working, but none of these traits annoyingly so. With a constant smile, Mary Catherine checked in new guests and held a conversation with me about her plans for that coming weekend.

The sound came first.

I'll never forget that sound--it was the sound of shock and fear. Even through the plate glass windows separating the welcome counter from the fitness floor, I heard a collective groaning. It was a noise so powerful that it stopped all conversation. I turned to see what was the cause and across every television screen was the same image... American Airlines Flight 11 had hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Smoke was pouring out of it like it had a volcano on it's side. Mary Catherine left me at the desk to go and listen to the television broadcasts.

I remember how odd it was in that precise moment and place. Behind me was a stunned crowd standing still in the middle of the gym--workout gear on and tennis shoes laced up, ready to go, sweat already falling, but no one moving at all. In front of me was a steady stream of people coming in the doors fresh from their cars--some laughing and cutting up, some singing, some smiling and greeting me jovially--all completely unaware of what was taking place. But before they even reached the counter, I watched the confusion and concern wash over them. Some wandered to the lockers trying to make sense of things but stay on schedule. Most simply stood dumbfounded watching a screen through the windows unable to even hear the broadcast.

The initial news reports coming from the scene were more panic than news. Mary Catherine returned with an update, but with details we later would learn were not accurate. Apparently, people on the news broadcasts had speculated (hoped?) that this was not a passenger plane--she reported to me that it was a cargo jet. I remember checking in a few guests whom I comforted with this misinformation.

As we spent a couple of minutes discussing how this sort of accident happens, we watched as United Airlines Flight 175 was flown into the South Tower.

This time, I went to listen. It was just moments later that the grim realization of what we were watching was becoming clear. These were not accidents. These were not cargo planes. These were commercial flights, and the planes had been hijacked. The targets were intentional. These were acts of terrorism.

It was 8:03am Central Time when the second tower was hit. The towers were collapsing and people were beginning to jump from the buildings. I watched it in real time. Many of those standing near me were already late for work, but could not pull themselves away from the television screens.

I went back to my post at the front desk, and I reported the awful truth to Mary Catherine who started crying. Most everyone either wept and grieved aloud or stood solemn and stunned. We were in slow motion.

And I don't know why, but I remember two young and attractive late-twenty-something men in grey suits walking past the desk on their way out to their jobs. I heard one of them say to the other, "Whoa! I just hope this doesn't affect the market too badly." The other nodded and with a brief laugh. The walked out the door and were gone.

I remember hating them.

I hated that their first thought was about money, not people. As I watched them through the doors, I hated their nice suits and fancy cars. I hated their nice hair-cuts. I hated their greed-soaked priorities. Truthfully and inexplicably, in that moment, my anger at these two was greater than my anger towards the terrorists who had hijacked the planes and flown them into the towers.

I look back now and sometimes surmise that although we were nothing alike in so many ways, in this one small but significant way there might not have been too much difference between me and the hijackers. I've never confessed that until now. Even now, I wonder if I should admit that.

One thing that the news got more right than they could know was this:  none of us was innocent anymore.

Every year this date reminds me that every human heart needs healed. Especially mine.

The Parable of the Sea

The Parable Of The Sea from Adam Haas on Vimeo.

God is calling us to do less.

Recently, a good friend and spiritual guide, Mark Love, has used his blog to explore a new metrics for determining the health of churches that are leaving the attractional model and the promise of megachurch for a more missional approach. Numbers of conversions, baptisms, and contribution can be helpful to some degree but are not the most reliable or revealing barometers of whether a church is healthy and thriving in God's will and Spirit, especially in a post-christian culture. 

His first three metrics were great: 1. Diversity, 2. Openly Seeking Partners in God's mission, 3. Open Dialogue on Tough Issues. To be honest, these three even made me feel good. I think most of that had to do with me seeing that the church that I help lead has been making wonderful strides on these three points in the last two years. Even if I didn't feel we had accomplished these fully, I did feel affirmed that we were on the right path toward being the church that God has called and gifted us to be. 

But then, on Tuesday, he posted his fourth metric: Simplicity.

Is your congregation--and its members--intentionally pursuing simplicity? My hunch is you're not. My hunch is that church, for a lot of your members, is just another place in our cultural landscape where people are being asked to do more.   

I think the absolute spiritual challenge of our age is related to simplicity. Taking intentional steps to slow down and pare down are crucial for paying attention to God. And there's no other place where people are going to be asked to do that. Not at their work, not in their kids' lives, not in the media they consume. Church has to be the place where that happens. 

Happy feelings = gone. #RealTalk: Mark Love is a buzzkill. (I love you, Mark!)

Not only was I challenged by his call to simplicity, I actually commented on his blog some feelings of just how challenging this has been to put into practice. I mentioned how I had been trying to create just this influence among our church leadership, and had met ideological agreement followed by practical opposition. We all thought it sounded like a great idea, but we couldn't do it--wouldn't do it. I was perplexed at the time, but had several other things keeping me busy so I let it go for a while. Then the blog post convicted me. And then, I received this honest email from one of my close friends on the leadership team at our church who had also read the blog on Simplicity:

Do you know what he's talking about?  I mean, I understand what he's saying but I don't have a clue how to do what he's suggesting.  If I don't understand it, I can't do it and if I can't do it, I can't model it for anyone else - FAILURE!!!!    HELP!!!!!

I must admit that I need to simplify - I'm tired out, burned out and ready to try something else - I just don't know what that looks like b/c I've been on this treadmill so long - its the only thing I know.  But I also know that its not the right thing or the only thing - I just don't know what the other thing is.  I do know that what we are doing now doesn't look a whole lot like anything Jesus ever did.

Bingo. Did I mention already that Mark Love is a buzzkill? I might make shirts that say this.  

I know they'd sell.

Seriously, though. I feel exactly like my friend. I struggle with how busy we make ourselves and how we seem to be just another voice complicit in our culture's frenetic race to actually run ourselves to death. Sabbath is such a foreign concept that instead of embracing it's (non)practice as a part of the rhythm of life, we generally study those parts of scripture and satisfy our selves by discussing the technical timing of it in the Jewish way of counting days--apparently, by making this point, we can say we have not out-rightly ignored it.  

But simplicity is hard--especially on the communal level. Maybe your church is different from mine, but our church calendar is super-full. We have so many events and offerings on our calendar that we can't even get out of our own way. 

Often, we have so many events in the same weekend (or even on the same day!) that we struggle to fill all the necessary volunteer spots needed to pull them off. And that is what we do most often--pull them off. We rarely do something so well that we celebrate it as a complete victory; rather, we usually get to the end of an event breathing a sigh of relief, slouching exhausted against the office hallway walls, giving tired high fives for surviving and pulling it off. 

Deep down, I think we feel the weight to justify our existence to the world (but more likely to our members and ourselves), so we keep ministry efforts happening around the clock. We feel guilty for the days when the building sits empty or unused. Oh, we know that less is more (which is also  true about presentation slides, fellow preachers... but that is another blog post). And we know that by doing less we can do it more faithfully and with greater impact and effect. And we know that by doing less we can relieve our volunteer corps from feeling so over-worked and burnt out. 

We know we need to simplify, but none of us want to be responsible for it. As a leader who is "responsible" for how "my" church is doing, one of the hardest things to believe and embrace is this: 

Our church needs to do LESS.

The truth is that a lot of people in our pews and in our leaderships at many of our churches equate simplicity with laziness and complacency. Let me give you an example: 

I am responsible for the adult ministries at our church. I was recently questioned by several shepherds as to why the empty-nesters group does not have events and projects like the other lifestages (families with children, families with teens, college/young married, etc.). It was not aggressive or overly critical, but I did take a small amount of heat for not having stuff on the calendar. My response was that there is already too much on the calendar, and my group was busy being every other event's volunteer staff. I explained that any event on the calendar requires planning, resources, and volunteers to make it happen. We don't have any extra time, resources, or volunteers for any more stuff on the calendar. They seemed to get it somewhat, but they still wondered why my ministry was the only one not actively "doing something." 

Now imagine being the youth minister or children's minister at a church like ours. What would be the backlash if they trim back their calendar of events? Can't you hear it: "Why don't you care about our teens? Now they only have one night with God and six out with their friends each week." Or, "I remember when we tried to get our kids to love being at church... now it seems like you hardly want anything to do with them." "Shouldn't someone be doing something to reach our community?" Is it fair to open our ministry leaders up to this kind of unfair criticism? 

Being the ministry leader that opts for simplicity is often the same thing as being the ministry leader who is labeled lazy or a quitter or not passionate enough. Who wants that reputation? So we keep the treadmill going. We keep packing our calendar. We keep tripping over ourselves. And we keep bemoaning that our disciples do not embrace volunteering as eagerly as the more faithful disciples of back when things were better. 

God forgive us. God save us... from ourselves. 

The King Is Coming

The King is coming… but the world doesn’t even realize it.

The promises are over a thousand years old, and all of the prophecies have led to this moment. But the words have been misunderstood at best, and forgotten at worst. The world hustles busily and noisily along, and the hardly anyone notices as it happens. A child is born in a stable in a nowhere backward town that only Micah could have noted and no one could have remembered. Behold the King.

The King is coming… but the world doesn’t even realize it.

He heals the sick, he gives sight to the blind, he makes the lame walk… and they ask: could it be him? He proclaims the good news of a new kingdom that is already here, but not yet fully arrived, but he speaks in parables and stories… and they ask: isn’t there something different about the way this rabbi speaks? He preaches with authority, but lives in humility; he fights sin, but lives in radical peace; he casts out demons, but welcomes sinners; he comforts the afflicted, and he afflicts the comfortable… and they ask: by what authority does he do these things? Behold the King.

The King is coming… but the world doesn’t even realize it.

A handful of disciples spread their coats on the ground before him, wave palm branches at him, and sing a song or two of deliverance. But as he approaches the temple, it is empty. No welcoming party, no glorious fulfillment, no pregnant expectation… just empty. He takes a short look around, and then he leaves. Behold the King.

The King is coming… but the world doesn’t even realize it.

But this time people are watching. They watch as my Jesus is beaten and whipped. They watch as my Jesus carries his cross through the streets. They watch as he is insulted, spit upon, and reviled. They watch as he collapses under the weight of the cross. They watch as he is led up the hill of Golgotha. They watch as he is nailed to the cross and lifted up in shame and agony. They watch and they curse him as he blesses and forgives them. They watch as the world chokes the life from the only one who can save them from death. They watch as he is called a king, and they spit at the name. They watch as he dies. They watch as his side is pierced. They fear when the earth shakes, the sun hides its face, and the curtain of the temple is torn in two. Behold the King.

The King is coming… but the world doesn’t even realize it.

They had run—scared for their lives they scattered like sheep without a shepherd. They had hid—fearing that they would meet the same fate as their master. They had given up—the one they had followed was dead, the hope they had shared was nailed to a tree and thrown in a tomb. They had watched God die. What else was there but despair? As Sabbath ended, the women went to provide a proper burial for their master. But he was not there. The stone was rolled away. Behold the King.

The King is coming… but the world doesn’t even realize it.

The disciples watched as he returned to his heavenly throne, and they spent their lives—every remaining year, month, day, hour, second, breath—proclaiming his glory and salvation only to be executed and exiled every one. They preached it in every town, they wrote it down for all to read, and they passed down the stories as faithfully as they could. And yet, the world is once again hustling busily and noisily along. And it will be a day just like this one when it happens—because my Jesus is coming soon. Will you be ready to behold the King?

Because the King is coming.

                                                                                                                                      

This meditation was given on Palm Sunday 2013 at the Rochester Church of Christ. 

A Story Worth Telling

Every night, my son and I have a ritual. We brush our teeth and get in our pajamas. We sing a song, then we say a prayer. And then I tell him a story. 

For a while he wanted the stories to be fancy and sprawling in scope including everything from dragons and knights to talking animals and of course potty humor (he is a five year old boy, after all). but lately he has wanted the stories to be "real." He asks for stories of relatives and friends, or historical people like presidents and national heroes. Being a history major, I am glad to oblige--after all, these are easier to recall than the adventures of Walter the Brave and Heroic but Occasionally Flatulent Hippopotamus. As a matter of fact, the real stories allow me the best opportunities to talk about things that actually matter most. The real stories are stories worth telling. 

This has never been more true than last evening. 

Last night at bedtime, Cooper and I went through our routine and settled into bed for a story. Seeing as how we had the day off from school because of it, I decided that I wanted him to know about who Martin Luther King, Jr. was and why he was important. 

We wrestled for the first few minutes just getting Cooper to say his name correctly--it does have quite a few syllables to it, not to mention a suffix. After finally getting it right a couple of times, I actually started the story.

Inexplicably, Cooper listened more closely than usual as I explained that he stood for what was right even when people around him got mad, and that he said that we should treat everyone fairly and rightly regardless of what they look like, and that he chose to love the people who hated him and even hurt him, and that his voice was not silenced even when he was killed. 

I will never forget when Cooper said, "He was a lot like Jesus." 

I was so proud, "Yes he was. He was very important. You know that you are important too. And I hope you are always a lot like Jesus. Good night, baby boy. I love you."  

I left the room as he recited the name over and over to remember it: Martin Luther King, Jr. I am glad he knows that name. 

Short Album Review: Muse, The 2nd Law

All in all this album is a big step backward for a band that has been on the leading edge musically and lyrically in rock music for the last few years. At times this album sounds way overproduced in all the wrong ways, especially in the some-record-suit-told-them-what-to-sound-like way. Sometimes it sounds like Muse trying to sound like U2--at best, this sounds listenable but is untrue to who they are. At other times it sounds like Muse trying to do '80s influenced pop-rock (think INXS gone wrong). At its worst moments it sounds like Muse fronted by Neil Diamond (yes, I know that was mean). Matt Bellamy has a great voice and is only 34, but in this recording his voice sounds past its prime often, especially in the lower registers. Lastly, they should not have let two songs be sung by others in the band. That made them sound like an average band.

The only time this album rings true is when the band employs their penchant for overly-dramatic operatic musicality with dystopian lyrics alongside an extraordinarily well-fitting dub step influence. It is the only natural next step/progression musically on the entire album. Sadly this only happens two times on the album, once as a cameo in a song and most perfectly (and fully) in "The 2nd Law: Unsustainable"--the best song on the album hands down.

While it is okay at best, the album is a real disappointment given how incredible the last three albums have been for the power trio of agnostic anarchists. Sometimes I wish they would go back to sounding like Radiohead.

The Dark Knight of the Soul - Theolgoical Engagment with the Dark Knight Trilogy

[SPOILER ALERT   ***DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE DARK KNIGHT TRILOGY AND WANT TO DO SO WITHOUT KNOWING THE CHARACTERS AND STORY LINES THAT ARE CENTRAL TO THE PLOT.***]

Many thought-provoking and engaging pieces have been written exploring the social ramifications of Christopher Nolan's Batman films in terms of political commentary and engagement with American politics, and especially the war on terror. I will leave the political commentary to the experts, but I do want to engage the theological undertones of the movies.

One of the most powerful elements to the narrative construction of the Dark Knight trilogy is the way in which the story engages and wrestles with questions about human nature itself. While there are plenty of explosions and action scenes, the real genius of the movies is not the fantastic special effects, talented casts, or the superb fight choreography and chase scenes. The conflict in the story is not so much about controlling the buildings of Gotham, the money of Gotham, or even the politics of Gotham, so much as it is a battle for the soul of Gotham.

In the first film, Batman Begins, we encounter Bruce Wayne who is plagued by his anger and guilt over the murder of his parents when he was a child. Perhaps the most telling testimony to how great this film gets is that it more than recovers from the fact that the man who killed them is actually named Joe Chill. Wanting to rid the world of injustice like his own, Wayne eventually travels to China where after some strange turns of events he is welcomed into the League of Shadows which is lead by Henri Ducard and Ra's al Ghul. Being trained to fight "600" attackers, Wayne is developed into a powerful vigilante. It is only once he is inducted into the League of Shadows that he learns that the group intends to destroy his home town of Gotham city because of its corruption. In fact, they say later that they originally try to destroy Gotham financially by creating a broad gap between the wealthy and the poor (their plans to destroy the fabric of society by creating disparate classism were overcome by wealthy families such as the Waynes' charitable and civic minded giving and sharing--yeah... political commentary may be involved in that). With this having failed, the League then decides to destroy the city the old fashioned way--by physically killing them with poison. Unwilling to allow Gotham to be destroyed, Wayne declares that Gotham still has good people in it.

To protect the city of Gotham, destroy the drug trafficking of the organized crime bosses, defeat the League of Shadows, and protect his love interest, Rachel, Wayne creates the Batman alter ego. In one of the most intriguing lines theologically, Rachel tells Wayne who has made a fool of himself publicly, "It's not who you are underneath, but what you do that defines you." After Batman saves Rachel later, she asks who he is under the mask and he repeats the lines to her again, "It's not who you are underneath, but what you do that defines you."

The League of Shadows is an objective force of "justice" that arbitrarily determines who is wicked and who is not--who should be destroyed and who should not. The League of Shadows sees nothing wrong with executing the entire population because they deem the entire population to be corrupt. Notice that the League of Shadows believes they are good because of who they are underneath, and cannot conceive of how their own actions reveal who they are--the villains. Batman, on the other hand, protects the people of Gotham because there are good people there. Yet, Gotham is a hive of criminal activity, a hotbed of organized crime, and full of not-so-innocent people. They need the Batman so much that even Rachel recognizes Bruce can't be Bruce until the Batman is no longer needed. For now though, there indeed is a battle for Gotham's soul.

This becomes particularly evident in the second film, The Dark Knight, which was seen as much darker than the first film. In particular, people were shocked by the darkness of the main villain of the second film, the Joker. The Joker is a maniac who takes over the organized crime of the city through chaos. Interestingly, he repeatedly frustrates the organized crime bosses of Gotham because he sees their crime as inconsequential and shortsighted. Unlike them, the Joker is not out for money or even power really. Rather, his particular motive seems to be making a philosophical point about human nature. The Joker wants to prove that the difference between good people and bad people is actually an illusion propped up by the niceties and structures of modern society. He surmises that when chaos undoes these structures every person reveals themselves to be selfish, self-serving and evil. In a chaotic environment, people stop trying to the good thing. In theological terms, the Joker espouses a profound total depravity. Thanks to socially conditioned structures, people put up the facade of doing good, but instinctively will do evil when these structures are removed.

Perhaps the best example of this in the film is in the scene toward the end of the film when two ferries have been packed full of people escaping from Gotham--one boat is filled with "innocent" civilians, while the other is filled with convicted prisoners. Each boat is loaded with explosives, but the detonator to each boat is held by the people in the other boat. The Joker threatens them that both boats will be blown up at midnight if one has not already blown the other up. He then leaves them about 25 minutes to decide what they will do with the lives of the folks in the other boat. Will self-preservation force them to willfully and knowingly eradicate the lives of the passengers on the other boat?

Added to this conundrum is the dialogue of the scene in which the passengers on the "innocent" civilian boat start to clamor that those convicts had their chance and now they're locked up for good reason. Why should we innocents die protecting the guilty? The convicts on the other hand seem ready to dispense with the civilians--after all, aren't they the morally compromised people? Eventually the "innocent" civilians take a vote which overwhelmingly favors blowing up the prisoners to save themselves. Yet even after counting the votes a voice of dissent speaks softly but clearly, "But we're still here." The prisoners--the guilty ones--had not yet detonated the civilian boat, so how could the "innocent" civilians justify their actions. Meanwhile, a prisoner on the boat of criminals has taken the detonator from the warden and thrown it out the window removing the possibility of saving themselves. By 12:00, neither boat has killed the other, and the Joker has been located and contained by Batman so no harm comes to the boats. But more crushing to the Joker was not losing a fight to Batman, but seeing that his anthropological suppositions failed.

Still, even the Joker is willing to cede this battle, because he is confident that he has won the war. By taking the white knight of virtue--Harvey Dent--and turning him into a villain and killer, he has won the war for the soul of Gotham. Startlingly, although Batman defeats Two-Face (Harvey Dent's criminal persona), even Batman believes that if the city of Gotham is shown Dent's true failings--his compromised virtue--then the city will despair and give up trying to be good. So he supresses the truth about Dent, takes the blame on himself for what has happened, gets rejected by the people of Gotham, and perpetuates a false myth about Dent that eventually carries Gotham's politicians to virtually eradicate organized crime from Gotham's streets. Still, this conclusion to the story reveals that the Joker was more right than the boat incident revealed. Ultimately, only a lie could keep Gotham good--the chaotic truth would undermine their goodness.

The Dark Knight Rises in many ways doubles down on the depravity of the previous film. This film introduces a new villain, Bane. Bane is similar to the Joker in that they are both bad guys, they both care little for personal gain, and they both question the very moorings of social community. But in many ways, Bane's character represents a distinctly different position from that of the Joker. Whereas the Joker wanted to prove that instinctively everyone is evil, Bane's anthropology seems much darker. Bane locates the meaning of being in the ability to freely cause suffering in others.

Bane is an anarchist. His understanding of law is that it oppresses--hence his speech outside the prison calling for the liberation and release of all those convicted by the "Dent Act." In the speech he calls for freedom from a system that monopolizes control of the privileges of justice to the socially and fiscally mobile. Like Joker, he is undressing the social structures that make distinctions between the good and the bad people, but his motive is not to prove that all are bad. His motive is to show that good and bad don't really matter--only freedom matters. Bane believes that anarchy--the right of the people to have no ruler--is the only true form of freedom.

But Bane is no lover of freedom for freedom's sake. He knows full well that the lack of law and order will decimate people and bring out their depravity. Bane has no plan to enable a new, free Gotham where the have-nots share equally with the haves. Bane intends to blow them all up with a nuclear warhead regardless of what they do. You see, Bane's anarchy is not an ideological expression of higher being; rather, as the self-proclaimed true expression of the League of Shadows (trained then exiled by Ra's al Ghul himself) he is showing humanity that it has no right to even exist.

Through the lens of his experience in the pit prison, Bane comes to learn that hope only exists to make the suffering of life more painful. His life inside the pit was taunted by the hope of escape, all he had to do was climb the wall and he was free. But after he was out of the pit, he was not free. His life outside of the pit was entrapped by a new hope that he would become being a part of the League of Shadows. But this hope proved painful too as even after mastering the training Bane was then exiled by his master. For Bane, hope was always a tease, never a reality. Hope was illusory. When he calls the people of Gotham to freedom, it is not to give them liberty, but to give them hope. He gives them hope so that he can destroy them both in mind and body.

Bane locates the meaning of his life in causing suffering in others. An odd comparison could be made the rat Boticelli Remorso in the book The Tale of Despereaux (not the movie, please). Remorso says that the meaning of life is in causing others suffering. Bane may not say it, but he lives it.

And yet, here is where Nolan's trademark complexity and genius is best displayed. In spite of his twisted understanding of hope and suffering, Bane's whole life is in one sense altruistic. He has forever been protecting the one truly innocent thing he had ever seen--the baby girl born in the pit prison. He fought for her protection enabling her escape, and for his altruism he was maimed and disfigured and forced to live in agony behind the mask that would dehumanize him forever--"No one cared who I was until I put on the mask." Now exiled from the League of Shadows, Bane still exists to serve and protect the little girl from the dungeon. It is actually her plan to destroy the city. It is her bomb. She is the daughter of Ra's al Ghul avenging her father by carrying out his plan to destroy the people of Gotham for their corruption and evil. Bane serves her out of devotion to her.

Of course, all of this is somewhat obscured by amazingly fun and visually stunning films. It might be hard to look past the costuming, cars, and explosions... the super-villains, henchmen, and bat -gadgets... but somewhere in the midst of all of this is a narrative raising questions about the very nature of humanity, morality, and being. It raises some wonderful questions, if we are brave enough to try and engage them. I don't know if Batman can save your soul, but there is certainly more here than your typical Hollywood blockbuster milking the cash cow (... I'm looking at you Matrix trilogy). Thanks to Christopher Nolan for writing that actually matters. Thanks to God for movies that actually mean something. That's rare these days.