Immanent Media

This past semester I curated the chapel program at a midsized seminary. The professor who ordinarily oversaw daily chapel was enjoying his sabbatical, and I was contracted to give temporary guidance.

The chapel program is a service of Daily Prayer. Beginning with an established Call to Worship, the service proceeds with a section of praise, the reading of the Word, and prayer. The overall goal of the service is to root our prayers firmly in the Word. There are few things more dangerous than acquiring a theological education, making this daily ritual—patterning our prayers as response to God’s Word—one of the most essential chapters of a seminarian’s life.

Some students pushed back on the notion of structured worship. Most of these students were formed by a tradition which was skeptical of acknowledging patterns. For these students, structure equaled incarceration. Instead of being a jungle-gym to play on, the structure looked like a prison.

As the jungle-gym metaphor suggests, the structure must be engineered to provide the most beneficial support and the least chance that you will hit your head or smack your leg when you’re really having a good time. This is the key difference between prison bars and monkey bars.  A good structure will allow for deeply creative play. Yes, the metal bars have been carefully placed, but they were placed so that we could move freely.

It isn’t freedom from structure that liberates the Church. It is Jesus Christ who liberates the Church. The gospel isn’t that structure is passing away, it is that structure is being reinvented.

Even the most blatant and obvious truths merit crisp articulation: political parties are primarily concerned about their own self-preservation. This concern has increased to the point that Washington has become unable to carry out day-to-day operations. This ineffectiveness will continue until the Democratic and Republican parties begin investing more energy in policy than their reelection.

How can policy be taken seriously when it revolves around sociological calculus? When the political world centers around “campaigns,” is it any wonder that our processes degenerate into turf battles?

The application of power to achieve a desired end has become deeply ingrained in our technological society. We are seeing this commitment played out on a national stage, and our children will reap the consequences.

Words are being violated. Words are routinely exploited in our mass media, by corporations, by politicians, by pastors. Discontent to abuse only the earth, animals, and humans, we have turned our attention to the social fabric of language. The tragedy of this reality is exceeded by our blindness to it. The cultivation of a vigorous language has all but fallen from public conversation.

When a word is forced to give up its nuance, when it is shoved into one political corner, it ceases to have its natural vitality. Instead of being a living organism that can adapt to its context, an exploited word is brittle and sterile. Instead of carrying its own history and voice, a violated word learns to be manipulated. Instead of contributing to its community, a word’s abuse is felt not only itself but also by all who interact with it. Such a word becomes less than what it is. The rules of abuse are the same regardless of the subject.

Words are important because they connect us to reality. When society has a word for something, it evidences an enduring relationship with the reality that the word names.  Without a word, reality becomes a wash of impression. A healthy word is capable of faithfully orienting us in the complex reality of the world. A robust word can step nimbly between misunderstandings.

When language is thin, our lived experience cannot be rich.

The mouth-feel was dense and chalky. We’d add coconut oil next time, we said. So they aren’t perfect. But the space created by the mini-cakes is a habitat for relationship. I still don’t understand how the patent glaze appears, as if by magic.

I believe that our culture has difficultly rendering the world without drifting into flippant banter or impenetrably  esoteric prose. This project is an attempt to resist both.

I have one guiding principle to the content: I hope to write with precision and clarity on the things I am most aware of. You will not find intimate personal disclosure beyond this post. Those familiar with Seth Godin’s Talker’s Block will recognize the impulse. Here is an excerpt from Godin’s post on the sort of content he believes everyone should write daily:

“Not a diary, not fiction, but analysis. Clear, crisp, honest writing about what you see in the world. Or want to see. Or teach (in writing). Tell us how to do something.”

Beginnings are hard for me. The potential energy of a blank page often overloads my circuits. I find myself wanting to get it just right, to set the hook, to make something beautiful. This desire often eclipses the event itself, and the page stays blank. No more.