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Russell & Chloe

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On Enjoying Sausage

I work in a store with a couple of TV's going all day long. Today, I saw an advertisement run a few times in between my screen-staring. It was for a documentary about Roger Ebert. Whether or not you liked him(that may sound odd, but he was a little infamous in some circles for his opinions about what constituted art. More on that later.), he was undeniably the king of movie critics. He's the only reason I have ever even heard of the Chicago Sun-Times.

The name of the film is supposed to be the only thing he loved more than movies: "Life Itself". That seems a tad oxymoronic to me. How can someone love actual life so much when so intrigued by the fictional, exaggerated depiction of it? It was when I loved life the least that I loved movies the most. I suppose that he would say that good film highlights the best and worst of life for us to examine at arm's length, and thus live it more fully, but I highly doubt that is the experience of most people. I can point to no more than one movie in my thousands of hours of watching that I can unequivocally say benefited me deeply and blessed me greatly, and I well believe the same message could have been received in a number of other avenues. (I think the story may be similar with the educational value of things like historical fiction). I just think I was spending a lot of time watching stories on screens in those days more than trying to live out my own, and God used the occasion to get my attention. I am firmly in the midst of a strong re-evaluation of the role of media in my life, and a lot more has been going than staying. It feels good.

This conviction aside, let's grant him his enjoyment. One of the things I have wondered about guys like him is: Can they still enjoy a movie the same way? There's a saying that gets passed around, especially with professional types in the arts: "You don't want to know how the sausage is made." The implication is that enjoyment diminishes with intimacy. A sausage may taste delicious to the average patron of New York street vendors handing them out, but the reality is: It's made of the unmentionable parts of a dead pig stuffed in an intestine and slapped on a white bun with relish. It affects the experience. The more one becomes familiar with the trade, craft and inner-workings of what is designed to be an enjoyable, if not effective (and affective), and immersive experience, the less of all these it becomes. One might say that it actually increases, as someone may appreciate a film more after having seen a behind-the-scenes look, but I suspect the enjoyment either shifts from it's original intent of story-depth to acknowledgement of hard work (trading one joy for another brand) which may carry similar levels of satisfaction but which I suspect changes the nature of it, or that it actually has a more bell-curved relationship on the axes of enjoyment and familiarity, increasing the former with mild-to-moderate exposure of the latter, and noticeably diminishing thereafter. (Credit to Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath for opening my eyes to seeing these patterns more readily). A tour of the slaughterhouse may give you a newfound appreciation for the efficiency of the factory or the toil of the workers, but it will probably not aid in the enjoyment of your next picnic.

As I've mentioned in the blog previously, I used to play video games. When I was very young, I just played them. But as I grew, I learned, as do others, that one natural extension of enthusiasm leads into investigation. I spent a lot of time (and bit of money) trying to learn as much as I could about the hobby I loved. (This is where the Ebert dispute comes in: he famously stated that video games were not - and never could be - art.) It came to the place where I spent more time reading magazine articles, watching review videos, discussing details with friends, burning through podcasts and livestreaming conferences than I did actually playing video games. A lot more, actually. Now, I enjoyed the learning. But it seemed to (at least in part) defeat the very purpose of the exploration: the enjoyment of the game. Not only did I have less time, I found my user experience changed. I found that I cold never just play. I paid attention. I noticed the elements that artificially extended the game by making a goal or task longer than needed. I took note of how the creators integrated music into the experience. I noticed the invisible "tripwires" that triggered a cinematic event to give the in-game world more of a cinematic and wild feel. But noticing perfectly undoes this intended effect. There comes a place at which the enthusiast is denied the experience of the rest. They can't enjoy the ride like the rest because they are too occupied admiring the wheels (or scrutinizing the doors). It makes me wonder if Ebert ever envied the kid ahead of him in the theatre. I've thought it at least once.

Being the melancholic-bent introvert that I am, it can be at least a little depressing to think that one becomes more unhappy with the learning. In the world of Christianity, I fear there is a danger of this same pitfall. I think sometimes the Roger Ebert's among us treat the gospel like a dramatic narrative, and we become uncharmed with every page-turn. We learn the church service routines, the idiosyncracies of the preacher, the schedules of the elders, the Bible's stories and promises and we find that a sparkle is lost. I've even heard others express the same game they play in their heads during a sermon: figure out as soon as you can where the pastor is headed. If you can do it by the sermon title and scripture reading in the bulletin, you must certainly be a veteran. It is a kind of arrogance that believes, "I've heard this one before." We become like the Athenians in Paul's day: "(For all the Athenians and strangers which were there spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to hear some new thing.)"  -Acts 17:21 We only want to hear it if it hasn't been preached or written before. We become buyers and sellers of novelty of thought. I imagine the religious elites of Jesus' day were pretty good at that, too.

I heard something interesting the other day:

“It is not love that grows, but it is the knowing that grows and love simply expands to contain it.  Love is just the skin of knowing.” -William Paul Young

I believe and affirm that the Bible is infinitely deep and wondrous, but by seeking only this, I imagine we shall miss it. The longer I am a Christian, I find that the most important lesson's I learn are really just an impressing of the importance of something I've heard a thousand times, posted on Facebook walls, emblazoned on placards, painted in hallways and yes, even preached from pulpits. This becomes a knowing. A true experiencing of a principle. But far beyond this is the knowing of a Person. "every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love." -1 John 4:7-8 To know God is to love. It follows also that to know God is to love Him. I think it is no coincidence that the term "know" was also a verb for sexual intimacy.

Jesus had one overarching desire for His disciples just before He left them in Gethsemane: "And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent." -John 17:3 This cannot be any ordinary life, regardless of its length. It must be none other than that abundant life that Jesus promised to his own sheep.

Speaking of heaven, Ellen White once shared:

"There, immortal minds will contemplate with never-failing delight the wonders of creative power, the mysteries of redeeming love. There will be no cruel, deceiving foe to tempt to forgetfulness of God. Every faculty will be developed, every capacity increased. The acquirement of knowledge will not weary the mind or exhaust the energies. There the grandest enterprises may be carried forward, the loftiest aspirations reached, the highest ambitions realized; and still there will arise new heights to surmount, new wonders to admire, new truths to comprehend, fresh objects to call forth the powers of mind and soul and body.

All the treasures of the universe will be open to the study of God’s redeemed. Unfettered by mortality, they wing their tireless flight to worlds afar—worlds that thrilled with sorrow at the spectacle of human woe and rang with songs of gladness at the tidings of a ransomed soul. With unutterable delight the children of earth enter into the joy and the wisdom of unfallen beings. They share the treasures of knowledge and understanding gained through ages upon ages in contemplation of God’s handiwork. With undimmed vision they gaze upon the glory of creation—suns and stars and systems, all in their appointed order circling the throne of Deity. Upon all things, from the least to the greatest, the Creator’s name is written, and in all are the riches of His power displayed.

And the years of eternity, as they roll, will bring richer and still more glorious revelations of God and of Christ. As knowledge is progressive, so will love, reverence, and happiness increase. The more men learn of God, the greater will be their admiration of His character. As Jesus opens before them the riches of redemption and the amazing achievements in the great controversy with Satan, the hearts of the ransomed thrill with more fervent devotion, and with more rapturous joy they sweep the harps of gold; and ten thousand times ten thousand and thousands of thousands of voices unite to swell the mighty chorus of praise." -The Great Controversy, pages 677, 678

We are not doomed to eat Divine Sausage. We have the privilege of both knowing and enjoying, the one increasing with the other throughout eternity in the light of God's presence.

May we begin here.

Dean

After almost a full year absence from blogging or personal writing or reflection of any kind, I have been encouraged recently to journal, and then later to resume this blog. This is my first attempt to make this more of a regular part of my life. I have at least two ladies to thank for its resumption.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I first heard about Dean Muniz from a handful of people speaking about her death. I came to Andrews University too late to have gotten to know her, but those she touched I have had the pleasure of knowing.

As I've gotten to know a good friend, Chloe, she has here and there spoken of the impact Dean Muniz had upon her life, and the effect that  the car crash which took her life also changed it. It compounded an already difficult time in her life.

While speaking with Chloe once, she began telling the story of a dean at Andrews, and I interrupted before she got much farther, and said, "Is this the one who died?" She looked like I had taken the wind out of her. She blinked and exhaled: "No. No, this one is still a dean here. Don't do that to me." I had no idea.

Most recently, I met Chloe and my old friend +Stephanie Lerner at one of the few good places to eat here in Berrien, the Baguette de France. A contact point between the two of them, having not properly met before, became their mutual experience of being on campus when the news came back that she had been taken from them. As I gathered quickly, they were both crushed. Besides being impressed by their having not met yet, I was kind of taken back.

I have a small family. Mother, father, single older brother, one uncle, and some cousins, most of which I don't know, or know very well. This has gotten slightly better, since I have kind of connected with a few on my dad's side of the family, but if you noticed I didn't mention grandparents, it's because I don't have any. When I was born, I had one living grandparent. My mom's mother, Gramma Dorothy. She died when I was 10. I didn't take her death terribly hard, and I'm not sure why. I didn't go to the funeral because it was during my outdoor school in 6th grade, and I think this was a good decision on my mother's part. Those were important memories for me there. It's possible I didn't have the closure from the funeral that a normal person would. I have only ever been to one funeral in my life, and it was for a person I had never met. I was shadowing a pastor for a class, and I was observing his handling of the funeral for the family. I have known others who have died, but they have either been acquaintances, or I was not near them when they passed. I have never lost anyone like Dean Muniz. Perhaps I've never even met anyone like her.

As I was texting with Chloe some days later, I was humbled by her descriptions of her.

"Dean Muniz inspired all of us; she wasn't just someone we loved; she was a woman we wanted to be like."

"If anyone who knew her tells me I'm remotely like her someday it will be one of the deepest compliments of my whole life."

I was so impressed by this last statement, I posted it to my Twitter account. Not having a Twitter, when I mentioned this to Chloe, she asked me what it looked like. I sent her my url.

"She celebrated me and was gentle with my heart."

She then quoted back to me a different tweet I had sent some time ago:

"...the price we choose is the price at which we'll be purchased."

She added the comment "Love that."

I remembered the quote, but also remembered that it was a while ago.  I went to my own feed and found it - about three weeks previous. This is a long time in the life of a Twitter account. Dozens of tweets intervened what I sent and what she quoted me. Chloe had dug through a portion of my Twitter feed, as she has done with a Facebook album or two after becoming Facebook friends.

It felt nice that she thought enough of what I quoted, said, or shared was worth digging through that far. It made me feel like I make a difference. I told her I felt appreciated - or at least competent and that it "helps me believe I can be a positive force in the world."

I almost started crying when I wrote that sentence in the text.

I don't know if you have ever seen the film Freedom Writers, but it has been my favorite since I saw it one night at home in 2009 while studying at community college. It is the true story of a teacher that had a tremendous impact upon a group of students in a public school, giving her all and changing their lives. I have never cried more for a film. I immediately went from the TV to my bookshelf and pulled out my 2-3 year-old copy of the Seventh-day Adventist Minister's Handbook, and began reading its beginning pages about the call of a Pastor. I have known from that moment on that God would either have me preach or teach.

The core desire at the heart of these two things is the ability to share what I have gathered in such a way as to bless the life of someone else through its impartation. Malcolm Gladwell might call me a Maven, one who voraciously finds and gathers information and eagerly shares it with whomever will listen. From everything to PC keyboard shortcuts to an understanding of the gospel, I have sought to help others so they can benefit from what I know and they have not yet discovered. I am trying to save them the experience of having to go without it or find out the hard way. Waste, after all, is my largest pet peeve.

And yet, somehow, "waste" might be an appropriate way to describe many parts of my life then and since. I will not spend any more time on this blog about my habits, but they have somehow shut out my Maven-ness for the things that matter to me most. Jesus Christ, namely, and His abundant life.

By merely being here at Andrews studying Theology, I am a huge level back on track to this call of God's to my heart. For that I am most thankful. But the battle is not won in diplomas or term papers, but in hearts. That's what teaching and preaching believes the very most strongly. I have just such a heart in need of Teaching and Preaching.

I would cherish a Dean Muniz in my life, and I believe God is giving them in my life in His own way. But, like Chloe, my greatest complement and legacy would be to know that I became one myself -that I helped change someone else's life. Only God can make me such a force in this chasmic world.

"And as ye go, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils:
freely ye have received,
freely give."
-Jesus

Slaying the Dragon

After a rousing re-listen of Dumb Ways To Die, my friend +Jón turned to the infamous Double Rainbow video and asked if I had seen it. I had, and after then showing him the Songify-ed version, I became curious.

I used to watch a show, and browse online clips of said show when I didn't catch it live, that was basically an hour-long mash-up of pop-culture and technology, and consequently, video games. I will spare links and identifying references to this content because you will in no way be enriched by it. The show had a segment running down the top web videos of the day, and I wanted to see how they treated Double Rainbow when it became big a while back. I had no luck with Google, and jumped straight to the parent website for the channel that hosted the show.

I was shocked to see on the front page a series of videos featured of the channel's two primary shows saying "goodbye" on their last aired episodes. The shows were the one just mentioned and half-hour to one hour one devoted entirely to gaming. This was the channel's bread and butter programming. The whole channel was disappearing. 

The real reason for my shock, though, was that these shows used to be a big part of my life. I strongly identified with them, their stars and their content. They made up part of my very worldview. My focus on all things media and gaming not so long ago had a lot to do with these two television and web programs, and were enforced, if not developed, by them.

I watched the three videos and felt myself tearing up. I immediately felt bad that something so inconsequential moved me like this. But as I tweeted earlier today, "Nostalgia is just delusion in the past tense". A follower of mine totally disagreed with me, but I think it's often true in my case.   

I often find myself nostalgic about every phase of my life except the current one. Even in the recent phases of my life when I was nostalgic about phases before those. How can you be nostalgic about a time when you were nostalgic? I think it comes down to a simple lamentation of things past, of change, of time lost. In this particular case, about four years doing largely nothing in my free time but pursuing and spending money on media in all forms, but especially video games. For those that know, this is not a cheap hobby. I am in thousands of dollars of non-student loan debt today almost solely because of my media habits during this time.

Addiction is hard to describe to someone who has never experienced it. It is especially difficult to describe one of a psychological, non-chemical nature. "Video game addiction" sounds like an exaggeration rather than a diagnosis, but I assure you it is not. From them I have derived more than mere entertainment. Far more. Distractions can be had many ways, but games became my sense of accomplishment, my scholarship, and my community. I made it my business and my world.

Different kinds of games came to fill different roles. Role-playing games gave a strong sense of persistence and progress, of achievement and the assurance of gaining the victory through struggle, persistence and a hint of wit, often in fantastical settings with enchantments, quests and dragons. Action and racing games gave a sense of immediate thrill. Puzzles challenged the rational and abstract problem-solving. One of the strongest of all became the online multi-player military shooter. This one gave all of the above; it was a live meeting of individuals in a contest of pride, where faithfulness yielded better equipment and awards, and a close struggle over a choke point or flag was fought with intensity. I even had a clan. They played as much as I did, and I spent more time interacting with these people over a microphone than I did almost anyone else I knew in my life. There was collaboration on the "battlefield", strategizing and communicating on the fly how we would come out on top. I ramped up the amount I played solely because of this clan, even quitting something else I was doing to lend a hand in the next skirmish. It gave the sense of needing and being needed as part of a close team. I imagine this is a microcosm of the actual brotherhood of blood experienced by soldiers throughout time on actual fields of conflict.

I listened to podcasts about gaming, sometimes as abundantly as a couple of hours per day. I used my Twitter account nearly exclusively for the purpose of keeping up throughout the day on news about gaming, also extensively and daily. I wanted to be able to hold my own in a sophisticated conversation about the industry with anyone I met. I wanted to "get" the  references that the culture of gaming became full with. I wanted to be able to draw the line of the development, history, personalities and influence of gaming on culture and on later games. The TV channel became a fulcrum of this desire and a font of this information.

I was so disrupted that I felt an immediate desire to commiserate with (be comforted by?) someone who would understand. I called my older brother. Even he was not quite as understanding as I would have hoped, and our relationship shown on a pie chart of the topic of our conversations over the years would be dominated by a Pac-Man shaped wedge of video games. Sadly, this is largely true, even now. The truth is, I am not sure what other things to talk about that he will also respond to, and I have an obvious lingering fascination with the world on the other side of a controller. (I wrote a poem to this effect in community college a few years ago, my favorite of the entire poetry section, and with which I won $100 in a writing contest)

I believe that all of these desires are legitimate, and are only perverted by the inadequate fulfillment offered by an activity like gaming. We all want community, adventure, challenge, achievement, knowledge and surprise in our lives. There are certainly more dangerous ways to seek these things, but the very danger may lie in its unseeming-ness. By beholding we become changed. To this day, I cannot look long distances without having to constantly and actively remove the mental overlay of sniper crosshairs. That's what hundreds, perhaps over a thousand, hours of these games have done to my mind. 

The answer to these human longings lies in the center of the heart of God.

¹⁰ For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.

¹¹ For the Lord God is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.

¹² O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee. 

-Psalms 84:11

Even as soon as this Spring Break, I have still had to wage war against (or simply lay down the gun and raise the white flag toward) this old habit of mine. 

Something that I've had to grapple with is the fact that understanding a disease does not cure it. Despite the advances of sociology, psychology and their therapies, people are not made whole by merely these methods. It may assist in the struggle of overcoming a habit or character flaw or impulse, but it will not alone give you the mastery over it, even if you understand exactly why you crave or loathe something you shouldn't. Christ must do this. I am in need of a renewed heart, as much, and probably more, than I ever have.  I have a strange, deep fondness still for periods of my life where I spent a lot of time with my pet habits even when I recognized their depleted promises of happiness, and I have not the power to sever these tendons bound to my stony heart.

What I have come to realize is that I can never give up. Falling down is not good, but still worse is choosing to stay on the ground.

For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief. -Proverbs 24:16

~

I attended a lecture at the local library on CS Lewis and his Chronicles of Narnia. I have only read the first two books, and the first more than once, on top of a couple of the movies, but one story struck me harder than anything else brought out that evening.

Here, a boy named Eustace has become greedy, turned into a dragon, and has met Aslan the Lion, King of Narnia.

“The water was as clear as anything and I thought if I could get in there and bathe it would ease the pain in my leg. but the lion told me I must undress first. Mind you, I don’t know if he said any words out loud or not.

I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and , instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe.

But just as I was going to put my feet into the water I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and wrinkled and scaly just as they had been before. Oh, that’s all right, said I, it only means I had another smaller suit on underneath the first one, and I’ll have to get out of it too. So I scratched and tore again and this underskin peeled off beautifully and out I stepped and left it lying beside the other one and went down to the well for my bathe.

Well, exactly the same thing happened again. And I thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off? For I was longing to bathe my leg. So I scratched away for the third time and got off a third skin, just like the two others, and stepped out of it. But as soon as I looked at myself in the water I knew it had been no good.

Then the lion said – but I don’t know if it spoke – ‘You will have to let me undress you.’ I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know – if you’ve ever picked the scab of a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.

Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off – just as I thought I’d done it myself the other three times, only they hadn’t hurt – and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly-looking than the others had been. And there was I was smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me – I didn’t like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I’d no skin on – and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I’d turned into a boy again.”

-C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

The most beautiful, frightening and powerful truth of the gospel is the change of nature from selfishness to selflessness that God will effect in all those who choose to give it to Him to tear apart, and remake.

That Awkward Moment

I just left worship tonight for the week of prayer evening meeting, and before the message there was a student skit.

I'm not sure how I feel about skits. I can understand why people think they are inappropriate for a worship service or in the sanctuary, but I'm not quite ready to say that. I think they could effectively portray a spiritual message in a different medium as easily as a sermon or even a video (which pops up in the sanctuary much more frequently with far less controversy).

Contemporary Christian music begins to play over the PA system. +Lauren Tieri enters from stage left. There is no dialogue. She is surprised by a man from behind, and is overjoyed to see him. There's a moment leading up the embrace where the audience wonders if this is supposed to be a significant other, or Jesus. The motions are deliberately non-romantic. Then she pantomimes amazement at what is obviously the wounds in his hands and side. He begins to lead her out stage right, when Archie Wheeler, clearly the Devil himself in all black and red, and he snatches her from him, treats her roughly, and throws her through stage-left door on the other side. Jesus and Archie dispute.

Lauren returns being shoved and handled roughly, being shamed, beaten. Others enter with dark brown bottles, sweep her off and get her to drink. Archie shoves her to her knees. Her body wracks with sobs as "Jesus" bends in near.

By this time, it feels like there is a palpable awkwardness in the sanctuary. I feel like we are all thinking this is a tad cheezy, a bit poorly acted, a skoche amateurish, or perhaps just a misguided effort to try and effect a reaction to the gospel in drama for a bunch of private-church-school students who have seen all this before.

Then the camera affords a close up of our victim and Jesus. The performance is shockingly convincing, the crying uncomfortably true-to-life. She is actually pleading.

Then it hits me. Maybe it's not awkward because it's bad. Maybe that's our front for not engaging with these all-too-real life pictures. This is our way of holding a flood of real, often painful, emotions at arms length, and looking at them without feeling them, without acknowledging that we have ever felt that way, that we know people in these situations, that it's happening the world over right now.

Jesus begins to escort her away. The demonic throng in black surge from the other side and pull her. There are six on her left arm, Jesus on her right.

But Jesus never lets go.

"Nothing is apparently more helpless, yet really more invincible, than the soul that feels its nothingness, and relies wholly on the merits of the Saviour. God would send every angel in heaven to the aid of such an one, rather than allow him to be overcome."—Testimonies for the Church, Volume 7, page 17

Lucid

After desiring for at least a year specifically to start a blog, and generally to do more writing in my life, my friend Tom pushed me over the edge a couple days ago when I posted a C.S. Lewis quote on Facebook that would have been over twice as long as their previous status character cap with the preamble, "I think this is my longest status post to date...". The first comment was Tom's: "This isn't a status update. It's a blog post." 

I don't know what kind of blog this will be yet. The length, content, form and purpose may yet change entirely before long, and I certainly don't know how often I will post. For now, this is merely something I could not let slip past undocumented, even if unread by others. Putting it into the blogosphere (I am one of those people now) at least gives the illusion that this is going beyond me. If you are reading this, I thank you for your interest, and ask that you bear with the length of this particular post, and those that follow until I begin to know what sort of beast this is that I have invited home and adopted. Any feedback is appreciated.

After debating a bit between Tumblr, Wordpress and this, I came to the point of writing after a season of pondering this afternoon.

~

I received an email today from Textbooks.com. I'm not certain why I don't delete these kinds of email subscriptions, but the "just-in-case" in me is now incorrigibly reinforced by the content of this one.

"Student success, lucid dreaming, and studying weird."

Perhaps the most intriguing subject header from spam I have ever seen, I was particularly primed for this moment by the discussion that preceded it two nights ago. My good friend Jon was over visiting my roommate, Bill, and I, as he does about weekly on campus here, and he had his friend Zippora with him. After I had shown Zippora, a Netherlander, a video about the difference between Holland and the Netherlands, we were sharing our interesting YouTube finds lately. Jon discussed a particularly cruel video prank that would have made anyone believe they were in the middle of an Asian horror film, and the subject of nightmares naturally came up.

This made me immediately think of a podcast I had listened to some time ago that discussed dreams, and specifically the story of a man confronted by a terrifying dream every time he came to a stressful point in his life. After about 20 years of this, he overcame his mysterious tormenter within the dream itself after learning a method of lucid dreaming. A lucid dream is one wherein you realize you are having a dream, and instead of waking up, you take control of the dream. I wasn't able to play the podcast while they were here, as I wanted, but we did begin a discussion of lucid dreaming.

"We've talked about this, haven't we?" Jon asks. We had.

He says, "I think it's interesting, but I feel like it might be a little spirtualistic. Don't you think?" I did.

"It's only happened to me a few times," he shares,"but I LOVE flying in dreams." I agreed.

I told him that, although I haven't had a flying dream in years, a lot of times it required a great struggle for me to fly in the dream; a tremendous focus, or exertion of mental power. Sometimes, I could only get a foot or two off the ground, even if I really wanted to or needed to. It was like a suppression of a fulfilled hope, even within the freedom of a dream.

After a graphic of the measure of life success by students in a survey (34% = "happy marriage", 32% = "satisfying career", and 27% = "graduate degree". I agreed most with marriage, and wondered: "Why?"), Textbooks.com had a small ad for "The Remee Lucid Dreaming Mask". I Googled it (since the ad took me to a Facebook page) and found a video of the product. It uses small, red, blinking LED patterns to gently convey to the sleeper that they are in a dream, using a pattern they recognize, but not so strong that they wake up. They then are free to take the dream wherever their mind desires.

The idea is intoxicating. I tried a technology-free method once after I initially heard the podcast. He mentioned some routines to go through while you are awake that you will then repeat in your dream and thereby recognize an inconsistency in order to become aware. It never worked, and I gave up. Imagine the power to virtually do whatever your imagination could conjure.

I looked for reviews to see if it worked, and found a video of a college-age kid saying it worked on his first (or second) night, that it was the best $80 he ever spent and that he totally recommended it. 

Eighty dollars. I'm a private college student operating on grants and loans.

"I would absolutely do it if I knew it worked consistently," I told Bill.

I began thinking: "What would I do in a lucid dream?" And then I thought, "What would I do right now if I realized I was lucid dreaming?" 

I started envisioning fire. Summoning things. Disappearing through the floor into the basement of the library under me. Breaking the window with my mind before flying out. They were all displays of power. 

Someone in the video, when asked what he would do in a dream if he could control it, mentioned that he would, "Avenge myself of all those who have wronged me." I didn't agree; I was actually kind of shocked. I understood the principle, though. No one would get hurt, right? But then: why even do it? At that point it would be entirely about you. A catharsis. The same would be true of anything involving anyone else, like a relationship. Anything I could do with, to, or for another would really be all about me. It would be, by definition, selfish.

This was actually how I envisioned heaven before I had begun studying the Bible. After I died, God would hand over the keys of infinite power to me and let me go in my own little omnipotent universe, free to do whatever I pleased for all time. I had even come to the point of consciously marking things in my mind for later exploration after I had gained this power, as though I would comb through my earthly experience then and satisfy every earthly desire I ever had, when I had it. I only imagined this, of course, because it is what I wanted most. This is, it just so happens, the very central draw of a video game, a hobby that was introduced to me very young and that has been reluctant to release it's talons from my heart. 

I have since wondered about the nature of the things that bring joy to us, and to me. There are things that give me pleasure, that I believe always were designed to do so, such as good food and helping others, but there are many others that are a product of a human inbred and learned perversion. Culturally speaking, there are a great many things people do in this world with relish, that I would never even want to witness, let alone try. So if our derivations of joy can be so skewed and personally developed or informed, it would seem that if I had even somewhat more of a holy mind or perspective, I could not imagine how the things I have come to love could ever be delighted in by any reasoning creature. If eating soil, to use a tame example, gave me more pleasure than I have ever known otherwise, would I now from my distanced position choose that as a habit to indulge? As an eternal indulgence? And if joy, sheer hedonism, becomes the perpetual object of my concern, why not just place myself into an ethereal, non-stop flow of euphoria into my consciousness? 

I have heard my stepfather say that if it were possible to hook a button to the pleasure center of the brain, and pressing it had no other effect than stimulating this with no dependencies or side effects, the button would be repeatedly pressed to the exclusion of all else in that individual's life. This has been successfully demonstrated in both humans (pressing the button 1500 times in a 3-hour session) and other animals, a case of which was reported to me as resulting in the death of the primate merely because it did not choose to eat, drink or sleep any longer. It repeatedly pressed the button, because nothing else mattered. 

We cringe at such an idea intrinsically, and this gives me hope. But I also know that the most famous killers of all time have been thought well of by those that knew them closely. We never think we could bring ourselves to the point that we have heard about in the lives of others, and yet people do it all the time, everywhere. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." I know that I have certainly found my own self in a position that I could not believe I had lowered myself to. What, really, is between me and any of the rungs below that on the ladder of morality?

I have been reading C.S. Lewis' masterpiece, Mere Christianity, lately, having finished it just this morning. One thing he has emphasized in the latest chapters is that Christianity does not have as it's aim the making of nice people, but new men. He describes in one of my now infamously long posts from my readings:

"We begin to notice, besides our particular sinful acts, our sinfulness; begin to be alarmed not only about what we do, but about what we are. This may sound rather difficult, so I will try to make it clear from my own case. When I come to my evening prayers and try to reckon up the sins of the day, nine times out of ten the most obvious one is some sin against charity; I have sulked or snapped or sneered or snubbed or stormed. And the excuse that immediately springs to my mind is that the provocation was so sudden and unexpected: I was caught off my guard, I had not time to collect myself. Now that may be an extenuating circumstance as regards those particular acts: they would obviously be worse if they had been deliberate and premeditated.
On the other hand, surely what a man does when he is taken off his guard is the best evidence for what sort of a man he is? Surely what pops out before the man has time to put on a disguise is the truth? If there are rats in a cellar you are most likely to see them if you go in very suddenly. But the suddenness does not create the rats: it only prevents them from hiding. In the same way the suddenness of the provocation does not make me an ill-tempered man: it only shows me what an ill-tempered man I am. The rats are always there in the cellar, but if you go in shouting and noisily they will have taken cover before you switch on the light. Apparently the rats of resentment and vindictiveness are always there in the cellar of my soul. Now that cellar is out of reach of my conscious will. I can to some extent control my acts: I have no direct control over my temperament. And if (as I said before) what we are matters even more than what we do—if, indeed, what we do matters chiefly as evidence of what we are—then it follows that the change which I most need to undergo is a change that my own direct, voluntary efforts cannot bring about And this applies to my good actions too.
How many of them were done for the right motive? How many for fear of public opinion, or a desire to show off? How many from a sort of obstinacy or sense of superiority which, in different circumstances, might equally had led to some very bad act? But I cannot, by direct moral effort, give myself new motives. After the first few steps in the Christian life we realise that everything which really needs to be done in our souls can be done only by God." -C.S. Lewis

I was thumbing through a theological book years ago, and the author asked the question, "If you had the power to do absolutely anything, and you would never be punished or found out, would you still sin?" The answer had always been swimming around as a resounding "Yes! Who wouldn't?" I was alarmed because I could tell by the nature of the question that the author did not expect such an answer. If what I would do if I had all power and no repercussions involves acts of violence, or dominance, or lust, or pride, than that is what and who I am; I am become merely a shell of a Christian, or even a "decent ordinary chap", and full to the brim with festering selfishness. Everything is soaked with it. I cannot even imagine an unselfish thing.

The answer for a diseased self is not addressing individual expressions of lawlessness, but a salve for the whole soul. Christ desires to take all of me and make a new creature. This is not figurative talk, but quite literal. Here, now, a transformation of the mind, character and personality, and a full restoration of all parts physical and spiritual upon resurrection and establishment in His new kingdom. Only faintly now does this form reflect His likeness, then it shall be unmistakable. But I must choose to let Him have it, and leave it there with Him by faith. That is not complicated. It is merely the fiercest battle ever fought.  

Russell