The Courage of our Convictions?

One of my favorite authors, Peter Kreeft, has taken a very different but very good turn in writing a recent essay. I recommend this essay to anyone who is interested in pro-life issues,and, basically, I'd recommend this to anyone looking to better understand the intersection of faith and the pro-life movement (and what that means to the individual).

Kreeft, who has a talent for making complex moral debates comprehensible (often through the use of a dialectic method, sometimes in the form of a play), has written an essay entitled, "Pro-life or Pro-happytalk?" Stylistically, this essay is nothing like his previous work, a point he remarks on. But, in this essay, I felt like I got a better understanding of Kreeft's own struggles to "do the right thing" in response to his deeply-held beliefs in the sanctity of life and his feelings of conviction as a committed Christian who took a look at what he had sacrificed for his beliefs and found his sacrifices paltry in comparison to what he could do.

It's a position that most everyone has been in, regardless of belief structure or religious creed. We look at what we believe and what we do to further those beliefs, and (when we're really honest with ourselves) we're embarrassed by the dearth of action we've displayed in response to our convictions.

Kreeft encourages us to look at how bold we've been and how bold we can be, how we can use our God-given talents in support of the cause of life. It's an amazingly revealing and compelling essay. So, go read it!

Just in case you're not convinced, I'll give you a little bit of Kreeft's essay. This is the part that was my moment of "a sword will pierce through your own soul also." Or, in plainer language, this part really got me:

"But we do know what will happen in the next world if we do respond, because God has clearly told us that. He has told us that when we die and meet Him, the Judge that no one can ever escape, we will hear these words: 'I was hungry and you did not feed Me, I was thirsty and you did not give Me to drink, I was naked and you did not clothe Me, I was sick and in prison and you did not visit Me.' That is not my opinion, that is His clear, literal, word for word divine revelation and warning. Do you honestly think He will not add: 'I was slaughtered in abortion clinics and you did nothing to rescue Me'?"

I Still Wanna Dance With Somebody

It was a day toward the end of the 1980's, and I was a young girl, standing in a Kmart, trying to fend off boredom as my mom and I waited for a prescription to be filled. Over the store's loudspeakers played "I Wanna Dance with Somebody." I barely knew what this music was because we only really listened to oldies and Christian music. Whitney Houston wasn't someone I listened to much as a kid.

But, somehow I remember her. I think of that song, and I immediately picture Whitney in that pretty pastel dress (was it lavender, or was it pink?), shaking her blonde curls as she danced. I'm not sure I'd seen anyone light up like she did while singing or have such a brightness and joy--all while maintaining perfect tone and pitch. She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen in my life, and she had that voice.

Whitney wasn't just a singer. She was a standard, a benchmark of what a voice should be. The beauty of her voice was in its strength. A classic mezzo soprano, Whitney could belt out the higher notes, but she rarely gave them too much vibrato. She owned those notes, took hold of them and didn't let them go until she was finished.

Sadly, the last few years of her life were mined for tabloid fodder, and unscrupulous paparazzi kept the public supplied with embarrassing pictures, video, and anecdotes of a woman struggling with substance dependence. I, like many others, find it all too easy to click on those little "news" stories while reading up on the day's events, and I, even though I should know better, overlook the fact that I'm engaging in gossip when I do that.

Lately, I've started to feel really conflicted about those habits. It's easy to separate a news story from the actual human being who's written about in that story. Celebrities begin to look less like real people and more like things that can be discussed (dissected, probed, exploited) for our amusement because, well, they knew that's what they were signing up for when they aspired to this fame. It's the sort of excuse for bad behavior that rests on the idea that "they were asking for it."

When I say it like that--the way it actually is--I can't really justify my urge to click on those stories. The first couple of verses from Psalm One come to my mind.
"Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night." And, I don't want to be one of the "scoffers." I don't want to allow the personal troubles of another person to be my entertainment. Mainly, I don't want to think that I spent (or, actually, wasted) my time doing something that didn't honor the dignity of another person's life.

So, this is how I want to remember Whitney. I want to remember that light, that beauty, that voice. I want to think of her with the same grace and love that Christ had for her and has for all of us, even in those times when we feel the least deserving.

On Patience (or a lack thereof)

When I was young, I wasn’t much of a reader. Now I read all the time. Perhaps I even read a little too much now, but when I was a kid I didn’t have much use for books, didn’t see any real point to reading.

Part of that not reading was due to my suspicion that the really good books would come later, when I was older, abler, whatever it was that I needed to be to read those big books with small print and no pictures. Those, I thought, were what reading really was.

It’s a familiar story, a kid wanting to be a grown up, not content to be just a kid.

I think part of what makes that story so familiar is that so many of us struggle with the patience it takes to live right now without thought to the future or without the expectation that the future holds something better. Or, maybe that’s just me.

The other day in church the sermon was about the Prodigal Son. Actually, it was about several parables, but, as always, it was the Prodigal Son who stood out to me. He is a little bit me, as I am a little bit him, as we all are a little bit prodigal.

When I think of the parable of the Prodigal Son, I’m usually moved by the grace that his father shows; that’s what I focus on most. But, this time I was thinking about something different. I was thinking about patience. As one who has no patience, I think about patience a lot, as one who has lost something valuable remains fixated on that object until it is found. Fixated on the how and why and where that object has gone.

However, I’ve never had patience. My patience is not lost. It is simply nonexistent. And yet, I know it should be there. And so I think about it.

Patience stood out to me precisely because of the Prodigal Son’s lack of patience. He wanted his inheritance. Now. Not later. The son had plans for now, and those plans could not wait for later.

His request for the inheritance obviously goes against tradition. However, inheritance, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. It is what the son would have been entitled to and his father’s heir. In that way, the inheritance itself is a financial benefit for the son and is also more or less morally neutral. It did not cause the moral decay of the Prodigal Son any more than it could edify him.

To me, the problem is not the inheritance. It’s the timing of the inheritance. The Prodigal Son received his inheritance before he was ready for it. Though money alone could not corrupt him, it could give him the means to pursue his baser desires, to move away from the safety of his family to a place where he would be free to do as he chose. He was not ready for such freedom because his heart and soul and mind were focused on his own whims and needs, not on those things that would provide a firm foundation for a life.

In thinking of the story in this way, I’m reminded all the more of the importance of the virtue of patience. There are so many times when I wish for something—perhaps an actual thing or more likely for something to happen in my life. I wonder why those things don’t come immediately, why there has to be waiting. So, now I’m trying (with gritted teeth) to remember that waiting has a purpose. Sometimes God makes us wait, knowing that we don’t yet have the capacity or strength to handle what He has for us, knowing that receiving all of our gifts at once—before our own hearts and souls and minds are focused on what is good and right and true—will lead to a squandering of fortune.

And so, I wait to read the story He has written for me, the one with the words I don't yet understand.

Why I've Gone (just a little bit) "Team Sheen"

By now, the Charlie Sheen sound bites are ubiquitous, quickly becoming a part of our collective knowledge, as Charlie Sheen, via every available media, brings us such terms as “tigerblood,” “rockstar from Mars,” and “winning” (in its new Sheen-ian usage).

We know these terms mainly due to the fact that they’re played repeatedly. Those sound bites are good for ratings. We eat up anything laced with schadenfreude, and, for better or worse, even “serious” journalists are willing to serve up such stories, despite the harm they might do to their subject or to our communal spirit.

We wouldn’t watch it if it wasn’t there; they wouldn’t report it if we didn’t want it. A cyclical argument that gets nowhere fast and bears too much resemblance to the arguments for and against certain fast food chains sporting golden arches. Let’s just say, this media circus is supersized—perhaps because the supply is inflated, perhaps because demand is high. It’s an interesting argument, but I’m not worried about it. Like I said, it gets nowhere fast, and I just don’t want to go nowhere.

I think there’s a more serious issue within this media frenzy, one that is getting overlooked. The fact is, for the past seven or so years, Charlie Sheen has been playing a character not so dissimilar to the man we’re seeing almost constantly on the news—a womanizing bachelor who takes pleasure, even pride, in his hard-partying lifestyle. The thing is, on television, this character is played with a wry smile and hints of a debauched side that the viewer never fully sees, and, though his antics speak to a shallow well of narcissism, he’s the guy everyone likes because he is fun and because, at his core, there is some good.

Conversely, when the real Charlie steps out and displays the kind of behavior that his TV character hints at, the same people who write, produce, and direct his show are quick to distance themselves; they’re quick to censure him, to tell him that this sort of behavior reflects poorly on the show and to, essentially, let the public know that Charlie is acting in ways they do not approve of.

That his behavior is bad is common sense to those of us watching at home, but I do wonder if the outraged parties realize that it is precisely this type of behavior that they’ve profited from for years, even if it was mere fiction created for a sitcom. The antics and humorous asides his on-screen bad behavior leads to is where they get their laughs and, in turn, their big payouts.

Again, that Charlie Sheen is behaving badly isn’t news to anyone. What seems to surprise the powers that be at CBS is that such bad behavior has negative consequences. It’s okay to draw a character that acts like Charlie; it’s not okay when that character is an actual human being, possibly struggling with the physical and mental stresses that accompany substance abuse. The message they send is, “We want Charlie to act like that, not actually be like that.”

But, the character they’ve created, while fictional, survives by perpetuating an even greater fiction—the fiction of a selfish, substance-using playboy who miraculously exists without inflicting lasting psychic damage on those who love and care about him. He makes mistakes; he messes everything up, but, in just the length of a TV episode, everything is back on track. However, anyone who knows, loves, and cares about someone struggling with addiction, sees through that fiction. Anyone who knows, loves, and cares about someone struggling with addiction has had to deal with the very real damage that such a struggle causes. The damage isn’t funny, can’t be solved in thirty minutes, and certainly doesn’t come with the sort of profit a hit sitcom does.

So, maybe in the midst of this media blitz I’ve become a bit “Team Sheen.” Or, if not that, I’m feeling more strongly that the entertainment makers should be a little more responsible with the images they create. Their fictions are some of our real lives, and, as we see more of the Sheen story unfold (or, perhaps, unravel) the only laughter is canned.

Please Help SHIP!

We love these kids. We love every single one of them. We’ve seen them grow up over the years, start school, graduate, go to college. We’ve seen them fall in love with those of you who’ve gone to El Salvador. We’ve seen their faces light up when they get their Christmas gifts from those who’ve sent them. We’ve seen the love they show each other and us, and we’ve known that in them we see Christ.

They are a family. They are our family. But, our family is in trouble.

Today we visited the orphanage and learned that the orphanage is in danger of being shut down. The government agency in charge of child welfare (CONNA) thinks there are too many problems with the orphanage. The building needs to be bigger; repairs need to be made; they need more people on staff. We have until October 15 to make that happen.

Even if all repairs are made and staff added, CONNA still believes that the building is only big enough for 15 children. There are 34 children in our family.This means that 19 of our kids will be taken from the only loving home they’ve known and placed in an impersonal, government-run orphanage.

These are children who have known physical and sexual abuse, abandonment, neglect. Many of our children have been through the government system before; some of them still carry the scars of it. We can’t let our children go back to that. We can’t look at the faces in that picture and choose who we could part with.

We need the new orphanage now—sooner than now if possible. We need $130,000 to complete construction. We need your prayers. We need to keep our family together.

http://shipinternational.org/

Late Night Blogging...

Oh my...

Last night I posted a little entry on this blog. But, it was meant to go on the other blog...

I decided to leave it here and also post it there as a reminder of my absent-mindedness. You know, it's little things like these that keep us, uh, humble.

:)

Sara

Mullet: Revisited, Sort Of

Well, it's sure been a little while since I last posted. Unfortunately, today's picture requires a little bit of context, and I'm afraid that by now you might have forgotten that around the age of eleven I had a mullet.

Oh, wait. You hadn't forgotten that? Yeah, me neither. There's still a mullet-shaped scar on my heart. Or, um, something like that.

Anyways, back to our regularly scheduled post. So, I had a mullet. I knew it was bad; you've all seen that it was bad; the world in general knew that I was walking around with the worst haircut ever invented. I wanted and needed to do something about it.

That's when I hatched my brilliant plan. I would have the party-in-back removed. That is, I would get the back of my hair (the very essence of its mullet-ness) removed. I came up with this plan while at Methodist summer camp and shared it with my cabin mate, Barbie. You might remember her from the camp photo. She's the girl wearing blue shorts, folding her arms across her chest, and looking like she wouldn't think twice about ripping your fingers off one by one if you so much as thought about taking the last serving of fruit crumble in the camp cafeteria.

In truth, Barbie was a real peach of a girl. When I told her about the plan for mullet removal, she gave me a pained look and told me that, really, cutting it off would just make it worse.

Despite Barbie's wise yet somehow dubious-sounding advice, I'd made up my mind that I was due for a haircut as soon as I made it back from Methodist summer camp. So I did it. Here it is:



Now, at about this moment, you might be thinking that Barbie had a point. Let's be honest, most girls look to the moms for fashion advice, and, if they could choose to look like one parent, most girls would probably want to look like their moms. You'd think I'd be the same way. After all, I've got a super cute mom. That is, I've got a super cute mom, if every guy I've ever dated is to be believed. If every therapist I've ever seen is to be believed, knowing that might have had a negative impact on my psyche. Only joking, folks. I'm just fine. :)

But, the thing is, I think trying to look like my mom might have been aiming just a little too high for me at that moment. After all, I was an eleven year old sporting a mullet and occasionally wearing white plastic shorts with light yellow LL Bean sweaters. Maybe it was healthiest for me to just look at my dad and think, "Hey. He's got decent hair. That's the kind of thing I could actually do."

So that's what I did. The haircut was followed by months of being asked whether I was a boy or a girl, but those are the kind of childhood memories that build characters. And, more importantly, they're the kind of childhood memories that have allowed several therapists to take extended Caribbean cruises. In the end, everyone wins.