Prayer and the art of paralysis

I have had many arguments recently about the idea of prayer. First, I am quite exhausted from arguing as it is destructive and when you win you really lose. Rhetorical debates optimize much of what I am trying to be against but constantly fall prey to. Thus, I write this as a way to hopefully end my argument on this front-or at least verbalize my views in preparation for the next round.

I don't know what to do about prayer. My mother often tells me to simply talk to God as is he/she is next standing/sitting/eating/chillin' next to me, but I can't. I find God in many places but this supernatural presence that my mother, and others as well, feels is not of my world view. I can't simply pray. I find most church practices to be destructive and its view on prayer falls under this category. I have been asked to prayer before/during/after I lead worship some weeks and I just can't do it. I don't talk to God like that. There is something very encouraging/unique about the Orthodox view of prayer. The idea that prayers are predetermined takes away the narcissistic notion of God-talk and brings Christianity back into its original context-with the people. I know, I've had a few people say that such a focus on community is too much like socialism. I can only say about that is, "Fuck off, and read more." The my buddy Jesus just doesn't do it for me, and when I do pray by myself it's completely for selfish reasons and rarely in a form that would seem to serve the proper purpose.

Prayer must have a wider definition than the usual-head-bowed-eyes-closed formula. Prayer must be more than words that are thought up on the spot. I find that when I write, play music, watch a film, discuss theology (not argue about it), read, and commune with others, I am closer to a holistic definition of prayer that actually encourages me to move. Prayer in the common form does nothing for me but remind me of how boring mainstream Christianity is-and that is the great tragedy of the 21st century. Too often to I hear of groups that come together to pray but do nothing else. This is not only counter-productive but contradictory. From what I can gather, prayer is not about a two-way conversation but a three-way one: God, the individual praying, and the surrounding community. When we forget about praxis, we have turned Christianity into a self-help guide that is only suited for privileged people that have no need for a better life. The prosperity gospel is far to prominent in its many deceptive forms. Speaking in tongues and prophecy have become euphemisms for a hyper-spirituality that does not cause social change but reduces the gospel to an "inner peace." Such a thing does not sound bad until we realize that we have been manipulated into believing in something that Jesus did not teach. Internal and external issues are equally important to God, but American privilege has allowed such divisions.

The power of prayer is a vague concept I can only hope will gain meaning in the future. As of now, I am sceptical. Prayer meetings have little use to me (I say this acknowledging that my own social location has influenced my view and in now way am I making these claims universal). I have seen prayer be used as an excuse to remain unmoved. I seen prayer used to misinterpret the guidance of the Holy Spirit. And I have seen prayer used in such vague ways that do nothing but remind me that it has lost its power amongst the Western privileged. I do not say this as a pessimist for I am happier than I have been in quite some time. I say this because I, and many others before me, have thought this but feared the wrath of the less educated who would demean it with claims of blasphemy. I can only hope that I will see prayer become something more substantial. Until then...amen.

Post-Harry Potter Denial

I am sitting down right now watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Why this film? Because I have already gone through the other three films out right now, saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix in the theatre twice, watched The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers this afternoon, and Fellowship of the Ring earlier this week. I have also recently watch Spirited Away and, as usual, can't stop talking about how flippin' awesome the film Pan's Labyrinth was. All of this because I read the seventh and final installment of the Potter series Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which-I still stand by-should have been named Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-not-be-Named. I read the 700 plus page book in two days and am rather sad that it's over. Lord of the Rings is over, Eragon was an awful film, Narnia was just decent, and now, I know how Harry Potter ends (don't worry, no spoilers here). Fantasy is truly my favourite genre of films, books, and life. I love every page I turn and wish I was a part of every world I see on the big screen-even the screen version of Narnia...but not Eragon.

The Harry Potter books were just about the only fiction I read. With them gone I only have Chuck Palanhiuk to turn to (Fight Club, Survivor, Diary), and he just doesn't have enough books out right now. So here I am, whining about the end of something, once again. I don't care if people say it would ruin the credibility of the books, I really want Rowling to do the seven years of school Harry's parents went through. That would be frikkin' awesome...and allow me to stall my fictional grief for another 4,000 pages. I can only take so many academic books that try to enrich my mind. And why is it that I can remember all these little details from a fictional book or a movie, but I can't, for the life of me, remember the book I just finished on the subject I'm studying.

Fantasy has the magical power of showing us a utopian world within the world. It shows us that our lives might be missing something important. Unfortunately, I interpret such films literally and find that what I'm missing could not possibly be found in this life (and if not here, maybe not ever if there is not afterlife [that one's for you Garrett]). When I was visiting Colorado, Garrett told me his ideal heaven was Hogwarts. I told him I would agree with that, but say that my heaven was Hogwarts and Jedi Academy school. Picture it: my lightsaber is my wond. I saber fight and then cast a spell in the middle of the battle. That's just good entertainment. But until then, here's for all the upcoming fantasy and perhaps a dream come true when VR technology lets me chill in middle earth, take a road trip to the Death Star, and be pack for pumpkin juice at Hogwarts by 6.

Sunshine

I saw the film Sunshine and felt like saying a few words about it. Critics and film lovers alike gave it a B...I agree. I actually quite enjoyed it. Good special effects, intriguing character deaths, though they basked in them to the point of cheesiness most of the time. It was a film worth seeing that didn't really bother to deal with a deeper meaning.

This is a film from the freak that brought us Trainspotting, 28 Days Later, and Millions. His films (with the exception of Millions) are an artistic blend of sadism and hallucination topped with a dash of hope. Sunshine falls into such a category though it is one of his weaker achievements. Poor acting for a crew with such accomplished past films. The film's enemy was intriguing but a little cliche since his reason for trying to destroy the ship's mission to reignite the sun was because God was calling humanity to die out with the sun. However, he is never shown in the film but appears much like a ghost in an acid trip-a very nice effect.

With all this said, the film was great. The music was unique but epic when it needed to be (though the song at the credits was lacking). I watch this film as I do so many others these days, with my eye critical to the film's technique and what it was hoping to do. This is how I could enjoy such films as The Fountain, The Matrix Reloaded, and Spider-Man 3-I acknowledge the flaws and simply surrender to what the film is trying for. And Sunshine tried for something that I thought worked. It's a thriller in a spaceship on its way to the sun. It was intense and kepy my interest the entire way. Director Danny Boyle and writer Alex Garland proved, once again, that they are a good team that can do something fresh whenever they change genres and decide to make a film. Sunshine didn't change sci-fi the way 28 Days Later changed the zombie movie genre, but it kept me interested. I'll buy it when it comes out-it's totally worth seeing again.

PS I've heard that many people did not like this film. National Public Radio gave it a bad review and Roger Ebert only gave it 3/5 stars (and it was one of the worst written articles that guy has ever done). In fact, one of the guys I saw it with didn't like it. I can only say that sci-fi is a tough sell that, I dare say, most people don't get. So if people say this film blows, then they probably don't care for sci-fi to begin with (or at the least the good stuff [I know elitist that sounds, but, fuck it, it's true]).

Real Community

My old roommate and still close friend Garrett stay in California for a week. The surrounding events made for an interesting dynamic: finals just finishing, I walked in Fuller's graduation ceremony, my parents were out, and along with Garrett was his two sisters and brother. For the few days that my parents were here along with Garrett, we all hung out, ate dinner together, and even went to the beach together. I must admit that some of it was stressful because I was being pulled in several directions. But the end result was still a fun week.

Every time I hang out with Garrett, I am reminded about what a blessing truly is. We always say that our material belongings are a blessing (and not the privilege they really are), but my friends are my blessing. Steve and Casey are two of my closest friends in my life daily. In my extended friendships are Tyler, Shane, and Jon and my roommates Dominic and J.D. Garrett and Jacob are two of my friends that I also do not see as much but have a continually close connection. This is why I often reflect on how much I loved college. The friends I made are here to stay. I may not see them that much, but I will always remain close to them, love them, and be able to connect with them. As Tyler once told me, every time we hang out, we pick up where we left off. It would be easy simply say that I'm living the past, but I believe it's something else. Steve recently read a book called Urban Tribes. According to my read-headed lover, this book addresses a growing trend in community development. "Urban Tribes" are defined by people who live together in urban settings. They consist of friends made in college and their goal is to merge those friends with the friends they each make at work. While I do not live in an urban area but something between the urban and the burbs, this urban tribe things rings true to my life. I watch a show like Scrubs and see my life embodied in a hospital sitcom. I watch Knocked Up and see myself doing to same silly antics with a group of goofy friends that never bothered to worry about growing up and letting the 9-to-5 change my life. I take hope in the friends I have made.

These are the same friends that have given me a safe haven to be myself in. I don't have to worry about getting married right because it's simply not a priority. And that whole "biological clock" argument is simply insecurity masked in faulty reason. I find that the way I live is closer to a truly biblical community than that of the average American isolated and far too fucked norm. I love having people in my life, daily. The American Dream is often based on the bad theology of individual motivation. Community is often turned into a pleasure rather a necessity. Now that's unbiblical. Anyone who lives their lives in isolation, whether married or single, is not living a healthy life that has a chance at embodying the Kingdom of God. I'm not overreacting on this point either, if we truly want to understand what the Bible says about community, then we have to be able to acknowledge that we have used our own social locations to falsely interpret scripture on several occasions. When we can do this, then we can see that we are not living according to the Bible's definition of church-we're living according to America's.

In closing, I love my friends. I love how they build me up and tear me down. I love that we, together, have been able to hold onto the convictions we had in college. While social justice, real community, and video games are usually trends for the young and impressionable, we have been able to hold onto that fire. Some of us have been able to see it, others have tried and gotten burned, and still others are just beginning. Regardless of which, we are all living more healthy and full lives that can actually cause change in a country that's apathetic, a job that lacks ethical concern, and a church that's bored.

Kareoke Culture

Saturday night, my friends and I celebrated our friend J.D.'s exit from the bachelor life by going to a San Clemete Irish pub on kareoke night. I was incredibly fun. We began our musical performaces with an out of tune version of "Minnie the Moocher," sung by Dominic and your humble narrator. The night would continue with "When a man loves a woman" sung by Dom and Jackson, "Time is on my side" sung by Jon Berk and J.D.'s best man Dave. Later, I sang my token cover song "I believe," changing the line "He'll see me a person, not just a black man," to "canadian" at the end. The crowd cheered. The climax occurred after a rather shady rendition of "Baby got back" sung by a large of group of marginally attractive women who reffered to themselves as the Pirates Princesses. Steve, Jon, and myself took the stage to sing "Bohemian Rhapsody"...and then every guy in this side of the pub jumped on stage and joined together in the loudest sing along of one of the most difficult rock songs to sing. It was incredible. I'm convinced the kareoke man hated because none of us took the songs we were singing seriously, or at least as intensly as our two predecessors that monopolized the mic until we showed up and showed them up with our amazing stage presence.

What was amazing was how loud we all were. We were that group that sang to every song. Danced to every beat. And razed our glasses after every singer. We empowered those who would normally feel self-concious on stage. The amazing part was that we were all rather sober, though everyone probably thought we were drunk. This may be a negative, but I'll take it as a positive since we didn't need artificial material to give us energy and comfort to be loud and happy. We're naturally good-hearted people that love others and don't have any inhibitions about what others think. Though I must say that John Englehardt is my favourite drunk. He met a random dude and kept hunging him and eventually got a shot of whiskey from the guy. He also met an fellow seminary student and they each confided in each other about their drunken states.

I couldn't help but wonder about people that do this on a normal basis. This was my first official kareoke experience-or atleast one with music in the background. I wondered if this was place people went because they couldn't get real jobs here. Was this the only place they could truly express themselves without worrying about because taken that seriously. It's like a person that masks their aggression in a joke. Besides us, these people took their oke seriously. These were people that did theatre, choir, and band in high school. This was their tribute to the past. I don't want to sound pessimistic, but there were some people there that just looked defeated. I wonder what would happen if they would have taken that singing lesson more seriously or, at least, gone out for a part at the local theatre. But until that realization, kareoke seems to serve an important part in this culture, giving people their three minutes of fame with the safety of their day jobs. But alas, Blessed Union of Souls would simply remind us that "love will find a way." Perhaps love will lead people into something real beyond kareoke.

Little Children: wow!

Last night I watched Little Children, a film by director Todd Field. Field's films are dark with with a powerful moral core that questions the integrity of suburban life (see also his film In the Bedroom). As I watched Little Children I couldn't help but wonder how this film was not nominated for "Best Picture." True, I felt like I was watching the sequel to American Beauty, but this should not take away from the power of a film that, in many ways, tells the a more compelling story than American Beauty while tapping into the real horror of white, middle-class life. Infidelity, pornography, perversion, isolation, gossip, and day care: this film has a threesome with comedy, melancholy, and beauty. Ben Folds' picture of the rockin' suburbs finds a home in this film, right next to Edger Allan Poe's usual dose of disdain for the complacent and Van Gogh's idea of a good Christmas present.

Little Children tells the stories of an unhappy mother and a stay-at-home dad who are unhappy in their given situations. During this time, a many who was arrested for exposing himself to a minor (probably masturbating in front of a young girl) moves into the area, and an ex-cop, with nothing else to do, makes it his mission to make this "ex-con" feel unwelcome by posting fliers with his mug all over town, while honking at his house in the middle of the night. This character is the scapegoat of the community. In Walter Wink's Unmasking the Powers, he addresses a community's need for a scapegoat (using the story of the Legion-possessed man as his support). A scapegoat serves several purposes. Obviously, scapegoats allow blame to be cast where it should not be cast. However, this man has done terrible things and, to a degree, does not redeem himself right away. But the community's demonizing of him reveals their own fears. The film reveals the secrets of several people in this suburb: a transvestite neighbour, a husband who travels to sleep with random men, people having affairs, women gazing at men they wish they were with instead of their boring husbands, and a husband choosing porn over his wife. The "pervert" is the blatant example of this community's hidden sin. These are not good people. They are petty, arrogant, and uninspired to do anything meaningful beyond join a book club and discuss what they want to see happen rather than cause change.

I find that I left this film angry and confirmed in my hatred of the burbs, but still hopeful. I refuse to allow my family to become a vacuum of apathy that only cares about who's front lawns are properly cared for. The highlight of my week will be spend reflecting on the old days when I felt more alive. My family will not be tied down by the need for a big house. My family will know our neighbours (but this will be in a city context, still no suburbs). Little Children is a reminder of what happens when everyone around you is white-or has been assimilated into the "white" way of life. It's a sad attempt at the American Dream that ultimately ends in some poor attempts at meaning through meaningless jobs or the pathetic idea that life is all about making it to retirement. Pardon the tangent but I really hate how privileged and isolated so many are in this fucking country. While Little Children does not truly offer a way out, it offers hope in a place that, by nature, is bound to tear itself apart. Conclusion: see Little Children, it's better than every film that was nominated for "Best Picture." Sorry, as much as I loved Little Miss Sunshine, but Little Children was a little better.

Motorcycle Diaries: the anti-Che & anti-road movie

I have little respect for Relevant magazine. Some time ago they did a film review on the film The Motorcycle Diaries. But this review did not actually discuss anything about the film save the concept of portraying Che Guevara in a possitive way. The review simply tore the film apart for portraying a montrous killer as a young idealist. Unfortunately, such a review only furthers the distance between North American (or western) views on such things this film addresses. It would be easier for us all to simply disregard Che as a muderous revolutionary whose lust for power proved that the CIA was justified in aiding his assassination. It's very western to demonize someone and believe that they were not pure-hearted idealists. I do not know the complete story about Che. What I know is limited to the credibility of those whom wear his T-shirts and this film that I cannot shake.

The real Che and the Che of his diaries may be two different people, but that is not what is important. The Motorcycle Diaries is not about Che, it is about a young potential med student who goes on a road trip in hopes of finding himself and getting some tail, but instead realizes that the world he wanted to take advantage of was too fucked up for another apathetic academic snob to ignore. The Relevant review missed it spent its view hundred words more worried about the messenger than the message.

This is a gorgeous that has caused me to rethink things. Suddenly, I don't to learn German in order to better understand certain cultural scholars, instead I have, once again, heard the call of Spanish and the hope of reading from large body of writers that revealed much about the oppression of Latin America: Che, liberation theologians, and Octavio Paz. I find myself torn by a film. When a bunch of stuck up white people are tyring to say that film is ruining the youth of America, I find myself moved by something those same ignorant/apathetic/don't-know-any- better white people would not even be able to find amidst their complaints.

I've been taking a road movie class, and find that this road movie critiques every other Americna road movie. While it does so in several ways, I find myself stuck on one scene. Che and his traveling companion come across an older married couple traveling and looking for mining work (this is the only work they can get since they are communists). They ask if Che and co. are looking for work, and they say no because they are traveling just to travel. Here is the biggest kick in the nuts (this could work literally as road movies are a male dominated genre) of most American road movies. The road movie is a reflection of western privilege. Only in the U.S. could someone travel just to travel. We dream of being mobile...with our back up plan. People camp and travel because they are forced and we camp and travel for liesure activity. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?