15Nov, 2011

The first think you will notice when you move in with a healthy family is that they cannot work independently. In the first place, there is too much labor involved in raising kids for anybody to sit on the couch for an extended period of time. They are a unit, like a body with different organs or a car with different working parts. I lived with this sort of family for a while, the MacMurrays. Both John and Terri MacMurray provided incomes. Terri had a great job at an insurance agency downtown and didn’t want to leave because they needed the health benefits. They liked her so much that she worked from home most days, but she still worked. John looked after the kids when Terri was busy or running errands in town, and Terri looked after everything when John was on a photography trip. But it wasn’t just the adults that had important roles. In a way, so did the kids. It was obvious, watching them and being around them, that John and Terri took great delight in their children. They were better than television to them. And the kids felt important, I think, because they would do silly [...]

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Relationships aren’t the best thing, if you ask me. People can be quite untrustworthy, and the more you get to know them—by that I mean the more you let somebody know who you really are—the more it feels as though something is at stake. And that makes me nervous. It takes me a million years to get to know anybody pretty well, and even then the slightest thing will set me off. I feel it in my chest, this desire to dissociate. I don’t mean to be a jerk about it, but that is how I am wired. I say this because it makes complete sense to me that we would rather have a formula religion than a relational religion. If I could, I probably would have formula friends because they would be safe. I have this suspicion, however, that if we are going to get to know God, it is going to be a little more like getting to know a person than practicing voodoo. And I suppose that means we are going to have to get over this fear of intimacy, or whatever you want to call it, in order to have an ancient sort of faith, the [...]

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13Nov, 2011

Dolorean is a Portland band fronted by Al James, the brother of a friend of mine. You can’t go wrong with any of their albums, but I recommend The Unfazed and Violence in Snowy Fields as a place to start. Here’s a sampling.

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10Nov, 2011

I first picked up The Executioners Song about ten years ago at Powell’s and this was my introduction to the writing of Norman Mailer. He was a pioneer, a creator, an innovator helping, along with Truman Capote to create a new sub-genre of literature called New Journalism. Mailer wrote the story of Gary Gilmore, the first American executed by the state in ten years, bringing back capital punishment. He wrote the story as though it were a novel and captivated the country. He was a creator in the sense the genre had not been in existence until he spoke it. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize twice and the National Book Award once. Mailer died on this day in 2007.

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This week’s guest post is an excerpt from Ian Morgan Cron’s acclaimed book Jesus, My Father, the CIA, and Me: A Memoir…of Sorts. Seriously, it’s acclaimed. It has 101 5-star reviews on Amazon, and Publishers Weekly called it “Redemptive and consoling with bright moments of humor…this story is chock-full of sacredness and hope. Cron is one of only a few spirituality authors who could articulate these themes as poignantly.” Ian is also the author of Chasing Francis: A Pilgrim’s Tale, spoke at the Storyline Conference last spring, and is currently completing his doctorate at Fordham University in Christian spirituality. You can visit him at IanCron.com and follow him on Twitter here. *** My fellow first graders and I processed down the nave to receive our First Communion while a woman sang “Ave Maria” with a vibrato that could have been picked up on police radar. I remember almost nothing of the Mass itself except Bishop Dalrymple distributing the consecrated Hosts. He was corpulent, his cheeks and jowls glazed with perspiration, and he was lightly wheezing. He looked like he would have paid a hundred bucks to get out of his clericals, go home, put his tired feet up, pop open [...]

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