OK, last post was good, but when I was writing it I kept thinking of man-made things for which I’m thankful. A handful of things that make me want to shake the hand of the person who first thought of them. Some of these are debatable that they are man-made instead of instituted by God; for the sake of argument, I’m attributing all these to mankind, even though I personally think a lot of them are God-given. Again, these are in no order whatsoever:
1. Varying languages
2. Varying cultures
3. Humor (and the subsequent laughter)
4. Food (please also note how this relates to #2 [and I mean the cultures thing, not poo])
5. Computers
6. The Internet (particularly Wikipedia)
7. Photography
8. Literacy
9. Dramatic structure (combine this with photography to make movies, literacy to make books)
10. The dividers that go between urinals in men’s bathrooms
11. Games
12. Music
13. Education
14. Denim
15. Automobiles
16. Beer
17. Wine
18. Toilets
19. Toilet Paper
20. Hugging
Showing posts with label Introspection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Introspection. Show all posts
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
20 things for which John is thankful
I've been kind of limited with the blogging thing as of late. There's a lot going on, but I have no desire to discuss it here.
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about things for a few days. There are a lot of things that are in this world that are really cool, that make me feel all warm and squishy for no reason other than that they exist. I’ll make this list about what God has designed into the universe; nothing man-made will appear on this list (and yes, I understand the conundrum of how much is us and how much is Him in great works). This is just a list of things that make me happy, in no order whatsoever:
1. Magnets
2. Waves
3. Clouds
4. Stars (the Sun is included in this)
5. The moon
6. Thunderstorms
7. Trees
8. Mountains
9. Desert
10. Large expanses of water (such as oceans and huge lakes where you can’t see the other side)
11. Volcanic islands
12. Cats
13. Dogs (particularly big ones)
14. Wind
15. The sky
16. Day
17. Night
18. Fresh air
19. New fallen snow
20. Fire
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about things for a few days. There are a lot of things that are in this world that are really cool, that make me feel all warm and squishy for no reason other than that they exist. I’ll make this list about what God has designed into the universe; nothing man-made will appear on this list (and yes, I understand the conundrum of how much is us and how much is Him in great works). This is just a list of things that make me happy, in no order whatsoever:
1. Magnets
2. Waves
3. Clouds
4. Stars (the Sun is included in this)
5. The moon
6. Thunderstorms
7. Trees
8. Mountains
9. Desert
10. Large expanses of water (such as oceans and huge lakes where you can’t see the other side)
11. Volcanic islands
12. Cats
13. Dogs (particularly big ones)
14. Wind
15. The sky
16. Day
17. Night
18. Fresh air
19. New fallen snow
20. Fire
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
On art and videogames
There has been some talk as of late about videogames and whether or not they are art. Roger Ebert said in one of his reviews that he did not think videogames were art. Clive Barker refuted that and said that they were art. This is where I came in on the issue; here is Roger Ebert's response to that. This was also brought up in episode 19 of Battleship Pretension (a very good movie podcast done by two guys who really know film, but have limited exposure to games). I emailed the Battleship Pretension folks, but I did a really good write-up, and I think it warrants a wider audience.
First thing, I will admit my bias toward videogames (I include computer games in this, although there is a bit of a difference between the two; for this argument it is irrelevant). I am a proud gamer, and pretty much anybody who knows me well knows that about me. As a result, however, my opinion is biased. Still, I think my arguments are valid.
So I put it to you: What is the purpose of art? From my understanding, art's purpose on the surface is to elicit an emotional reaction from its audience, through the work of one or more artists. Ebert's argument that a bowel movement also elicits an emotional reaction is ridiculous, unless you actually are capable of crapping movies, games, or literature. I know, it seems as though Brett Rattner and his like simply poops out his work, but he actually does put effort into the creation of it. On a deeper level, art is intended to guide its audience on their own journey of self-discovery. The latter is what I think Ebert would call "great art."
On the deeper level (great art), there are very few games that achieve that, but they do exist. On the surface level (art), there are a LOT. There are also some that elicit the reaction of rage, simply because it's so freakin' bad. Much like film. Or theatre. Or literature. Or visual art. Or music.
The concept that video games cannot be great art, simply based off of the fact that the audience is a participant, is ridiculous. Does that mean that art appreciation must, by definition, be passive? Are you unable to absorb information or appreciation, is it impossible to change the entire paradigm of your life, simply because you are more involved in its outcome? Are characters any less impactful because you are interacting with them? Ebert mentions that having multiple storylines devalues them all. That makes no sense to me at all. How can it possibly devalue the story if it is indeed a well-written, well-acted, well-designed ending? If it sticks with you and leaves you feeling as though you've said goodbye to a good friend? This is similar to arguing that if there are several different artforms, that they are each less valuable than if there is a single "art." In this argument he mentions that he could make Romeo and Juliet with them naked and standing on their hands. Yes, he could, and that might be art, but would a game designer choose to do that? Only if he was a moron.
Presumably the arguments for videogames being art were primarily focused around stories and characters, and it has been postulated that they were only art when they lined up with other, "actual" art forms. So does this mean that a films with a deep, engaging plot and stirring characters who are brilliantly acted cannot possibly be art because it lines up with similar qualities of live theatre? Does the fact that a game pulls facets from media which preceded it invalidate the art of the medium in which it was created? It has also been mentioned that one's style of gameplay invalidates the art ("I'll save my game, and go through that door"). So does that mean that the style in which someone absorbs art makes the creator less of an artist? Would that mean that if a person flips around a book to absorb it, or reads the last page first, that the person who wrote it was not an artist?
In this particular episode of the podcast, Tyler and David both mentioned Castle Wolfenstein as an example of videogames-as-not-art. I don't think this is a valid argument, as Wolfenstein was very early in game development, and could be easily compared with The Great Train Robbery of videogames. Was The Great Train Robbery good art in comparison to other media of the time? No, it was crap. Was it groundbreaking film? Hell yeah!
Ebert says that most games are either point & shoot (Doom-esque) or scavenger hunts (Myst-esque). And yes, that point is semi-valid; as it happens, the "scavenger hunt" game is out of vogue, although he could easily have put in some derogatory euphemism for Real-Time Strategy games and made a similar valid point. It is also valid to note that none of the games I consider to be great art are either of these styles, and it is pretty difficult to do an artistic game in these styles (although First Person Shooters these days often do have compelling stories behind them, and are frequently highly regarded in the gaming community).
In order to determine if a video game is great art, let's think about what makes a film great art. Beautiful writing, done on multiple levels, is arguably the strongest sign of a great film. Sometimes, if it is written so nothing significant happens on the surface level, but there's huge depth on other levels, that makes for a great script. Perfect cinematography, on its own, will not make a great film, but it can enhance an otherwise good film to greatness. Brilliant acting on its own will make for a good film, but in the presence of a good script the film can become a great one. There are other factors, but it seems to me that a great film is primarily about how it's written, with the rest of the film backing up the script.
That said, we can see a lot of games that likely can be considered great art. The Fallout games can be applied to this, as they are written with individual stories that all lead to one big story, which not only is exciting and dynamic, but is also a telling story about the nature of humanity. The same can be said of Planescape: Torment. Both of these games had strong gameplay for the time (not directly an artform, although that could be argued, but important to the immersion necessary to be appreciated), good artwork for the time, good voice acting, and exceptional stories. These are widely considered (among gamers) the classics of gaming, the Citizen Kane of the computer. I actualy cried at the end of Planescape: Torment, and left with a sense of wanting more, but knowing that they had done their story, and there wouldn't be a sequel.
And these are not to say that they are the best or most fun games out there (although they are wonderful and are the favorites of many gamers). Half Life and Half-Life 2 are phenomenal games. Are they great art? No. TIE Fighter is one of my favorites of all time. Is it great art? No, but it is a helluva lot of fun. World of Warcraft is one of the most addictive games out there. It also is not great art, but it is fun.
Anyway, this is a post that comes almost directly from an email that was sent to the Battleship Pretension folks, and requires that you have read the link above and listened to that particular episode. In this I primarily focus on film vs. games, as that was my audience; I don't think this lessens the argument, but it could be expanded to argue other art forms as well. Maybe I'll do that later. Also, this is NOT intended to lessen the impact or power of any other artform, but rather to argue the merits of games. However, I do hold to the opinion that (A) games can be art, even great art, and (B) Roger Ebert's arguments to the contrary are based off of ignorance of the medium.
First thing, I will admit my bias toward videogames (I include computer games in this, although there is a bit of a difference between the two; for this argument it is irrelevant). I am a proud gamer, and pretty much anybody who knows me well knows that about me. As a result, however, my opinion is biased. Still, I think my arguments are valid.
So I put it to you: What is the purpose of art? From my understanding, art's purpose on the surface is to elicit an emotional reaction from its audience, through the work of one or more artists. Ebert's argument that a bowel movement also elicits an emotional reaction is ridiculous, unless you actually are capable of crapping movies, games, or literature. I know, it seems as though Brett Rattner and his like simply poops out his work, but he actually does put effort into the creation of it. On a deeper level, art is intended to guide its audience on their own journey of self-discovery. The latter is what I think Ebert would call "great art."
On the deeper level (great art), there are very few games that achieve that, but they do exist. On the surface level (art), there are a LOT. There are also some that elicit the reaction of rage, simply because it's so freakin' bad. Much like film. Or theatre. Or literature. Or visual art. Or music.
The concept that video games cannot be great art, simply based off of the fact that the audience is a participant, is ridiculous. Does that mean that art appreciation must, by definition, be passive? Are you unable to absorb information or appreciation, is it impossible to change the entire paradigm of your life, simply because you are more involved in its outcome? Are characters any less impactful because you are interacting with them? Ebert mentions that having multiple storylines devalues them all. That makes no sense to me at all. How can it possibly devalue the story if it is indeed a well-written, well-acted, well-designed ending? If it sticks with you and leaves you feeling as though you've said goodbye to a good friend? This is similar to arguing that if there are several different artforms, that they are each less valuable than if there is a single "art." In this argument he mentions that he could make Romeo and Juliet with them naked and standing on their hands. Yes, he could, and that might be art, but would a game designer choose to do that? Only if he was a moron.
Presumably the arguments for videogames being art were primarily focused around stories and characters, and it has been postulated that they were only art when they lined up with other, "actual" art forms. So does this mean that a films with a deep, engaging plot and stirring characters who are brilliantly acted cannot possibly be art because it lines up with similar qualities of live theatre? Does the fact that a game pulls facets from media which preceded it invalidate the art of the medium in which it was created? It has also been mentioned that one's style of gameplay invalidates the art ("I'll save my game, and go through that door"). So does that mean that the style in which someone absorbs art makes the creator less of an artist? Would that mean that if a person flips around a book to absorb it, or reads the last page first, that the person who wrote it was not an artist?
In this particular episode of the podcast, Tyler and David both mentioned Castle Wolfenstein as an example of videogames-as-not-art. I don't think this is a valid argument, as Wolfenstein was very early in game development, and could be easily compared with The Great Train Robbery of videogames. Was The Great Train Robbery good art in comparison to other media of the time? No, it was crap. Was it groundbreaking film? Hell yeah!
Ebert says that most games are either point & shoot (Doom-esque) or scavenger hunts (Myst-esque). And yes, that point is semi-valid; as it happens, the "scavenger hunt" game is out of vogue, although he could easily have put in some derogatory euphemism for Real-Time Strategy games and made a similar valid point. It is also valid to note that none of the games I consider to be great art are either of these styles, and it is pretty difficult to do an artistic game in these styles (although First Person Shooters these days often do have compelling stories behind them, and are frequently highly regarded in the gaming community).
In order to determine if a video game is great art, let's think about what makes a film great art. Beautiful writing, done on multiple levels, is arguably the strongest sign of a great film. Sometimes, if it is written so nothing significant happens on the surface level, but there's huge depth on other levels, that makes for a great script. Perfect cinematography, on its own, will not make a great film, but it can enhance an otherwise good film to greatness. Brilliant acting on its own will make for a good film, but in the presence of a good script the film can become a great one. There are other factors, but it seems to me that a great film is primarily about how it's written, with the rest of the film backing up the script.
That said, we can see a lot of games that likely can be considered great art. The Fallout games can be applied to this, as they are written with individual stories that all lead to one big story, which not only is exciting and dynamic, but is also a telling story about the nature of humanity. The same can be said of Planescape: Torment. Both of these games had strong gameplay for the time (not directly an artform, although that could be argued, but important to the immersion necessary to be appreciated), good artwork for the time, good voice acting, and exceptional stories. These are widely considered (among gamers) the classics of gaming, the Citizen Kane of the computer. I actualy cried at the end of Planescape: Torment, and left with a sense of wanting more, but knowing that they had done their story, and there wouldn't be a sequel.
And these are not to say that they are the best or most fun games out there (although they are wonderful and are the favorites of many gamers). Half Life and Half-Life 2 are phenomenal games. Are they great art? No. TIE Fighter is one of my favorites of all time. Is it great art? No, but it is a helluva lot of fun. World of Warcraft is one of the most addictive games out there. It also is not great art, but it is fun.
Anyway, this is a post that comes almost directly from an email that was sent to the Battleship Pretension folks, and requires that you have read the link above and listened to that particular episode. In this I primarily focus on film vs. games, as that was my audience; I don't think this lessens the argument, but it could be expanded to argue other art forms as well. Maybe I'll do that later. Also, this is NOT intended to lessen the impact or power of any other artform, but rather to argue the merits of games. However, I do hold to the opinion that (A) games can be art, even great art, and (B) Roger Ebert's arguments to the contrary are based off of ignorance of the medium.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Excellence in Animation
I've been thinking about this since I saw Ratatouille, and I'm not much closer to a solid conclusion or even a solid direction. However, writing is all about structuring your thoughts, so here ya go.
Ratatouille is arguably one of the worst concepts I've heard of for an animated movie. Yay. A rat who cooks. I really wasn't all that interested in seeing it, but Pixar had wowed me on another bad-concept-good-execution movie, Cars (Yay. Talking cars. What will they think of next, a cooking rat?). The only reason I saw this movie was that it was Pixar, and I trusted their work. And I was right to trust their work, as only a group of people as skilled as the folks at Pixar could make that concept work. See the movie. It's freakin' amazing, and includes one of the funniest moments I've seen in any Pixar film.
Hayao Miyazaki has been my vote for the greatest animation director of all time (even surpassing Walt Disney) since I understood what animation directing was. I clearly remember seeing Princess Mononoke in the theatres, and leaving with an altered perspective on life. That movie is, for lack of a better term, transcendent. The man has an uncanny knack for creating some of the most amazing scenes and/or animations for whichever genre he happens to be doing.
Brad Bird, however, has made me challenge my beliefs. His first film, The Iron Giant, started as The Iron Man, a novel written in 1968 by Ted Hughes. In 1989, Pete Townshend (of The Who) released an album based off of The Iron Man, one that I remember had a frequent spot in my car's cassette player at the time. In 1993, a stage musical was created based off of this album. This musical was optioned by Warner Brothers for a film. The final story of The Iron Giant is dramatically different than that of The Iron Man, but I think the changes made it a better movie (and I think it's cool that Pete Townshend was named an Executive Producer on the movie). In any case, when I saw The Iron Giant, I was torn. Was this the best animated movie I'd ever seen? Or did Princess Mononoke still hold that spot? They're very different movies, and based off of that, I chose to not make a decision at the time.
Life moved on (as it often does) and I watched more movies, some of them animated, some of them not. I saw Spirited Away, another of Miyazaki's films. This one was more subtle and ethereal than Princess Mononoke. I didn't care for it as much as the previous film, but I did find it fascinating.
Time passed and I saw more movies. The Incredibles, written by Brad Bird and him alone (he also directed, but animation is much more collaborative than any other style of filmmaking; directing isn't as auteur as it sounds in this context) was next on the list, and also added to the debate of my favorite animated movie of all time. This was his first jaunt with Pixar, and at the time, I just wanted to see the next Pixar film. I also loved the concept, and was excited about this film since I saw the teaser trailer the year before (it's the one where Mr. Incredible is trying to put on the belt of his supersuit over his fat gut, and the belt buckle pops off and ricochets around the room). I didn't know it was Brad Bird doing it; it wasn't until I was watching the first several credits that I realized, hey, that's the guy that did Iron Giant! Hmmm, the man is talented.
Brad Bird had done two of the movies I thought could be the best animated films of all time. Hayao Miyazaki did one, but I hadn't seen all of Miyazaki's work, and I pretty much had seen all of Bird's. Still, he was rapidly gaining ground.
I saw a few other Miyazaki films since then. My Neighbor Totoro is notable not so much for the story (although it is really cute), but more for the characterization of the younger two girls. I have never in my life seen a characterization in a movie as convincing as the portrayal of the youngest girl (about four or five years old); not even when it was played by a live action four or five year old. I was floored by how "real" that show was, especially when it was very much a fantasy.
Rataouille is actually my least favorite Brad Bird film. Not because it's not a fantastic film, but rather because it doesn't make me question whether or not this is the best animated film I've ever seen. But it did hit another home run for Bird.
So I've been thinking about this for nearly a month; who is the better of the two. I have a problem picking favorites. There are so many variables that it's very difficult to point out this one thing is better on all levels (or even enough to count) than anything else. They're both amazing, but for different reasons. They both have a mastery of not only the medium, but of whichever genre they choose to animate. I still ahven't seen a lot of Miyazaki, due to the fact that most of his work hasn't been translated to English. And I think that right there is what tears it. Miyazaki is Japanese. There's a cultural difference. I don't always "get" Miyazaki, in part because I haven't lived in the Japanese culture for any length of time. I know they're much more interested in ephemeral narratives, that don't necessarily make a lot of sense to Western minds. The denoument doesn't necessarily leave an American audience satisfied, as if something "more" should have ended the story. This generally doesn't apply to Miyazaki's work, but its influence is still there.
I think, therefore, that because I am American and Brad Bird is American, I will call him my favorite. On the whole, I think Miyazaki is actually (marginally) the better of the two, but I have a deeper understanding of the cuture from which Bird creates. That's why I feel as though I'm missing something with Miyazaki sometimes.
So there ya have it. Thanks for sticking with me through my somewhat self-indulgent ramblings.
Ratatouille is arguably one of the worst concepts I've heard of for an animated movie. Yay. A rat who cooks. I really wasn't all that interested in seeing it, but Pixar had wowed me on another bad-concept-good-execution movie, Cars (Yay. Talking cars. What will they think of next, a cooking rat?). The only reason I saw this movie was that it was Pixar, and I trusted their work. And I was right to trust their work, as only a group of people as skilled as the folks at Pixar could make that concept work. See the movie. It's freakin' amazing, and includes one of the funniest moments I've seen in any Pixar film.
Hayao Miyazaki has been my vote for the greatest animation director of all time (even surpassing Walt Disney) since I understood what animation directing was. I clearly remember seeing Princess Mononoke in the theatres, and leaving with an altered perspective on life. That movie is, for lack of a better term, transcendent. The man has an uncanny knack for creating some of the most amazing scenes and/or animations for whichever genre he happens to be doing.
Brad Bird, however, has made me challenge my beliefs. His first film, The Iron Giant, started as The Iron Man, a novel written in 1968 by Ted Hughes. In 1989, Pete Townshend (of The Who) released an album based off of The Iron Man, one that I remember had a frequent spot in my car's cassette player at the time. In 1993, a stage musical was created based off of this album. This musical was optioned by Warner Brothers for a film. The final story of The Iron Giant is dramatically different than that of The Iron Man, but I think the changes made it a better movie (and I think it's cool that Pete Townshend was named an Executive Producer on the movie). In any case, when I saw The Iron Giant, I was torn. Was this the best animated movie I'd ever seen? Or did Princess Mononoke still hold that spot? They're very different movies, and based off of that, I chose to not make a decision at the time.
Life moved on (as it often does) and I watched more movies, some of them animated, some of them not. I saw Spirited Away, another of Miyazaki's films. This one was more subtle and ethereal than Princess Mononoke. I didn't care for it as much as the previous film, but I did find it fascinating.
Time passed and I saw more movies. The Incredibles, written by Brad Bird and him alone (he also directed, but animation is much more collaborative than any other style of filmmaking; directing isn't as auteur as it sounds in this context) was next on the list, and also added to the debate of my favorite animated movie of all time. This was his first jaunt with Pixar, and at the time, I just wanted to see the next Pixar film. I also loved the concept, and was excited about this film since I saw the teaser trailer the year before (it's the one where Mr. Incredible is trying to put on the belt of his supersuit over his fat gut, and the belt buckle pops off and ricochets around the room). I didn't know it was Brad Bird doing it; it wasn't until I was watching the first several credits that I realized, hey, that's the guy that did Iron Giant! Hmmm, the man is talented.
Brad Bird had done two of the movies I thought could be the best animated films of all time. Hayao Miyazaki did one, but I hadn't seen all of Miyazaki's work, and I pretty much had seen all of Bird's. Still, he was rapidly gaining ground.
I saw a few other Miyazaki films since then. My Neighbor Totoro is notable not so much for the story (although it is really cute), but more for the characterization of the younger two girls. I have never in my life seen a characterization in a movie as convincing as the portrayal of the youngest girl (about four or five years old); not even when it was played by a live action four or five year old. I was floored by how "real" that show was, especially when it was very much a fantasy.
Rataouille is actually my least favorite Brad Bird film. Not because it's not a fantastic film, but rather because it doesn't make me question whether or not this is the best animated film I've ever seen. But it did hit another home run for Bird.
So I've been thinking about this for nearly a month; who is the better of the two. I have a problem picking favorites. There are so many variables that it's very difficult to point out this one thing is better on all levels (or even enough to count) than anything else. They're both amazing, but for different reasons. They both have a mastery of not only the medium, but of whichever genre they choose to animate. I still ahven't seen a lot of Miyazaki, due to the fact that most of his work hasn't been translated to English. And I think that right there is what tears it. Miyazaki is Japanese. There's a cultural difference. I don't always "get" Miyazaki, in part because I haven't lived in the Japanese culture for any length of time. I know they're much more interested in ephemeral narratives, that don't necessarily make a lot of sense to Western minds. The denoument doesn't necessarily leave an American audience satisfied, as if something "more" should have ended the story. This generally doesn't apply to Miyazaki's work, but its influence is still there.
I think, therefore, that because I am American and Brad Bird is American, I will call him my favorite. On the whole, I think Miyazaki is actually (marginally) the better of the two, but I have a deeper understanding of the cuture from which Bird creates. That's why I feel as though I'm missing something with Miyazaki sometimes.
So there ya have it. Thanks for sticking with me through my somewhat self-indulgent ramblings.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
On Death and Ressurrection
It's green out. For the first time in six months, there are leaves on the trees (OK, leaf budling things, but work with me here). For the first time in maybe six or seven months, you look out and are overwhelmed by green. Life is returning to the land.
I kind of wonder if the whole Passover thing was intentionally done in springtime. Originally, the Hebrews were in a desert country. The vast majority of Egyptian civilization was along the Nile, but that didn't really have the same kind of seasonal shift; flood season was closer to summer, and it signified the end of the farming season (as the farms were mostly submerged at that time). The Hebrews wouldn't understand it yet, but when they got to their promised land, Passover would be around springtime. I don't know how much the seasons change in Israel, but I do know that it is comparatively green (as opposed to actual desert), and that there is sometimes snow, so I would assume that there is some form of seasonal shift.
Anyway, Jesus was crucified just before Passover. He was dead for a full day (which was the Sabbath, so technically he was supposed to rest anyway), then returned to life on "the third day." This is a brief overview of the seasonal change, and a really interesting point, that right during the ressurrection of the world, comes the ressurrection of the Lord.
This intrigues me about other things as well. In northern Illinois, we have a contant reminder of the principles of death and ressurrection. In fall, things are in their sunset, and then they die. The world lies dead for several months. Then, in early April, the world comes back, green and more beautiful than it has been in quite a while. People are happier, life feel like it has more hope, allergies start to hit, it's just a better time (OK, not the allergies so much).
In California, I noticed a dominance of the "Health, Wealth and Prosperity" teaching in churches. Now understand here, I do believe that elements of that teaching are valid, and some of them do have scriptural backing, but it has no place in a church. If God wants you to be the head and not the tail, and you're struggling financially or have a chronic illness, then the obvious corollary is that God must not love you as much as the rich, fit guy over there (and there are a lot of those in LA). I'm sure part of that comes from a greedy subculture that dominates Southern California, but I also noticed that there is no real seasonal change there.
Here, you predominantly see a theology wherin suffering is a part of life. Pain causes growth and strength. Nobody likes it, until they look back on how they have changed over the years for the better. Is that because Chicagoans are smarter and more balanced? Well, yes, in part. But I also think the instinctive understanding of death and ressurrection allows people to accept a more balanced theology. Life is a great training ground; it can be a kind of a difficult place to call home.
And yes, there are places in Chicagoland that teach the prosperity theology, and there are places in LA that teach the death-and-ressurrection theology; it's just that each place has its dominant focus.
Anyway, that's me being all thoughty-like. Happy Easter!
I kind of wonder if the whole Passover thing was intentionally done in springtime. Originally, the Hebrews were in a desert country. The vast majority of Egyptian civilization was along the Nile, but that didn't really have the same kind of seasonal shift; flood season was closer to summer, and it signified the end of the farming season (as the farms were mostly submerged at that time). The Hebrews wouldn't understand it yet, but when they got to their promised land, Passover would be around springtime. I don't know how much the seasons change in Israel, but I do know that it is comparatively green (as opposed to actual desert), and that there is sometimes snow, so I would assume that there is some form of seasonal shift.
Anyway, Jesus was crucified just before Passover. He was dead for a full day (which was the Sabbath, so technically he was supposed to rest anyway), then returned to life on "the third day." This is a brief overview of the seasonal change, and a really interesting point, that right during the ressurrection of the world, comes the ressurrection of the Lord.
This intrigues me about other things as well. In northern Illinois, we have a contant reminder of the principles of death and ressurrection. In fall, things are in their sunset, and then they die. The world lies dead for several months. Then, in early April, the world comes back, green and more beautiful than it has been in quite a while. People are happier, life feel like it has more hope, allergies start to hit, it's just a better time (OK, not the allergies so much).
In California, I noticed a dominance of the "Health, Wealth and Prosperity" teaching in churches. Now understand here, I do believe that elements of that teaching are valid, and some of them do have scriptural backing, but it has no place in a church. If God wants you to be the head and not the tail, and you're struggling financially or have a chronic illness, then the obvious corollary is that God must not love you as much as the rich, fit guy over there (and there are a lot of those in LA). I'm sure part of that comes from a greedy subculture that dominates Southern California, but I also noticed that there is no real seasonal change there.
Here, you predominantly see a theology wherin suffering is a part of life. Pain causes growth and strength. Nobody likes it, until they look back on how they have changed over the years for the better. Is that because Chicagoans are smarter and more balanced? Well, yes, in part. But I also think the instinctive understanding of death and ressurrection allows people to accept a more balanced theology. Life is a great training ground; it can be a kind of a difficult place to call home.
And yes, there are places in Chicagoland that teach the prosperity theology, and there are places in LA that teach the death-and-ressurrection theology; it's just that each place has its dominant focus.
Anyway, that's me being all thoughty-like. Happy Easter!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
On Pride
Pride is a funny thing. You get a lot accomplished in a short period of time, and build walls for yourself. You have done well. You are capable. You are right. You are blind. Sometimes the walls are there for protection, but they add to the walls that pride builds. They make you more capable, right and blind. If someone crashes up against your gates with their pride, they are also right and blind, and you reinforce your walls. But not until someone sneaks in with humility and love do they take the foundations of the walls away. That's when the walls you've spent time creating come crashing down, and you are left sitting in the mess. You no longer feel capable (although you probably still are), you are no longer right, for you are no longer blind.
The "you" in this illustration is me, and I'm right now sitting in a mess of my own making. Heidi was good about helping me out of the worst of it last night. I guess being overcommitted has developed walls of both pride and protection, the voice over thing has developed pride, and a general discontentedness thing (perhaps because of the overcommittedness) has developed a general negativity, which thankfully, has not spilled over much into my relationship with Heidi. But I have hurt some other people that I really love with my negativity. Crap.
The "you" in this illustration is me, and I'm right now sitting in a mess of my own making. Heidi was good about helping me out of the worst of it last night. I guess being overcommitted has developed walls of both pride and protection, the voice over thing has developed pride, and a general discontentedness thing (perhaps because of the overcommittedness) has developed a general negativity, which thankfully, has not spilled over much into my relationship with Heidi. But I have hurt some other people that I really love with my negativity. Crap.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
On censorship
I'm going to be asked to censor myself. It hasn't happened yet, but someone I care deeply about has called me up to schedule a time to talk to me. I hate censoring myself, but I do care about these people more than I care about spouting off about my own thoughts, so I'll do it. I'm being deliberately vague, but anyone who has been here in the last week should be able to see what has been censored. Let us never speak of it again.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Old Habits Die Hard
This has been a rough week so far. Maybe it's been the change in Daylight Savings. Maybe it's just the overcommitted thing creeping up on me moreso. I'm sure those things have a hand in it, but what I really think it is is my old habits in (lack of) nutrition and activity coming back and saying, "OK, you've had your fun, now let's get back to the real world." I skipped my workout yesterday. I was even halfway to the gym, and decided to turn around and go home. Eating right has been a huge pain in the butt all week, and I haven't bothered to actually make anything healthy this week (I've done a lot of chicken and tuna sandwiches). Last night, after the skipped workout, I realized I needed to do some work on me. Battle the needs over the desires, or at least one level of desires over another level. And I realized that in Genesis, when Jacob wrestles with God, this must have been what he was doing. Because after this, he was no longer "the deceiver;" he had a changed nature. This got me thinking (OK, thinking more). We, as Americans (not saying that other nationalities have it nailed, just that I've been an American for 36 years and I've understood my relationship with Christ for half that long, so that's my perspective) have too narrow a view on what sin is, or rather we have a skewed perspective on what it is. Sin is far to often considered a checklist we have to measure up to, but when I skipped my workout yesterday, I was sinning against God's plan for my life right now. I had to repent, and turn the whole thought process around (which is usually a wrestling process).
Hunaphu recently has been discussing the American Temperence Movement of the late 19th/early 20th century, which was all about the "evils of alcohol" and ultimately led to prohibition. I think that is one of the worst examples of the skewed American perspective on sin in recent memory. That thought process states, "Well, evil has been done by alcoholics, therefore the source of the evil must be alcohol." This is an extreme example, but it's far too simplistic to really nail down the truth of the matter.
Admittedly, much of a Christian life is getting to the point of understanding how to go through life without the obvious stuff: hate, lust, selfishness, etc, and most Christians build a "maintenance mentality" that promotes the checklist thinking. But once you understand the relationship aspect (and, admittedly, I didn't understand this very well prior to spending time with Heidi... ask me about that later), the whole Plan becomes much clearer. At present, I would be sinning if I was to not deal with the Voice-Over stuff, I would be sinning if I was to not work out and eat healthy. But, as Paul says in Romans, sometimes I do what I don't want to do (I'm paraphrasing). The truth of the matter is this: God has a plan for us and wants to be in relationship with us; when we are walking in that relationship we understand that plan on a basic level; when we are walking in that plan we are at our most comfortable and things seem to "work;" we understand on a core level when we've stepped outside of the plan or the relationship; God is cool about helping us back on track; it ain't necessarily easy.
Incidentally, I got up early and back in the gym this morning. It wasn't as intense a workout as I'd like, but I was there.
Hunaphu recently has been discussing the American Temperence Movement of the late 19th/early 20th century, which was all about the "evils of alcohol" and ultimately led to prohibition. I think that is one of the worst examples of the skewed American perspective on sin in recent memory. That thought process states, "Well, evil has been done by alcoholics, therefore the source of the evil must be alcohol." This is an extreme example, but it's far too simplistic to really nail down the truth of the matter.
Admittedly, much of a Christian life is getting to the point of understanding how to go through life without the obvious stuff: hate, lust, selfishness, etc, and most Christians build a "maintenance mentality" that promotes the checklist thinking. But once you understand the relationship aspect (and, admittedly, I didn't understand this very well prior to spending time with Heidi... ask me about that later), the whole Plan becomes much clearer. At present, I would be sinning if I was to not deal with the Voice-Over stuff, I would be sinning if I was to not work out and eat healthy. But, as Paul says in Romans, sometimes I do what I don't want to do (I'm paraphrasing). The truth of the matter is this: God has a plan for us and wants to be in relationship with us; when we are walking in that relationship we understand that plan on a basic level; when we are walking in that plan we are at our most comfortable and things seem to "work;" we understand on a core level when we've stepped outside of the plan or the relationship; God is cool about helping us back on track; it ain't necessarily easy.
Incidentally, I got up early and back in the gym this morning. It wasn't as intense a workout as I'd like, but I was there.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Apathy
Sorry for not posting for a while. I've been really apathetic about most things. The important things have still been important (family and immediate goals), but pretty much everything else has kind of slid by the wayside. Part of that, I'm sure, is that I went cold turkey on caffeine this Sunday. It wasn't as rough as I expected it to be, but I found myself tired and uninterested in pretty much everything. This was in anticipation of the workout regimen I'm starting next week. In any case, almost everything has slipped. I haven't felt at all like working on voice stuff, I haven't felt like working on church stuff, I haven't felt like working on wedding stuff, I haven't felt like working on work stuff. Fortunately, I'm feeling more awake and alive now, so I can get things done, but hopefully this explains my quietness as of late. Can't guarantee it'll get a lot better, but we'll see what-all happens.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The "John Can't Sleep" Post
Can't sleep. What I'm about to write isn't what's keeping me awake, but I'm thinking about it, so I thought I'd write a fair piece.
In Episode 2, Yoda is wailing on Count Dooku, until Dooku telekinetically squeezes the base of that tower, and send it crashing down onto Obi-Wan and Anakin. Yoda stops, drops everything, and doesn't just push the thing out of the way, but has to use both hands to telekenetically grab it, and then push it out of the way. Note that Dooku pretty much tossed off his telekenetic squeeze, and Yoda showed visible strain with his telekinesis. Dooku escapes. All is well with the burgeoning Empire.
In Episode 3, Yoda is wailing on Emporer Palpatine (I don't remember if he's the Emporer yet, actually), but they're fairly evenly matched with their lightsabers. Then Palpatine starts throwing those pod things around, and Yoda has to stop everything to grab them. Note that Palpatine is whipping these things around like they're frisbees, Yoda has to drop everything, use two hands, and shows visible strain.
In Episode 5, Luke needs to get his X-Wing out of the water, and tries really really hard to do so, but just succeeds in loosening it from it's precarious hold on the bottom, and it sinks further. Yoda mocks his effort, throws a good little lesson about the force in, and then gets really showy, and picks up the entire ship with one hand and gracefully guides it over to a safe place.
Here's what I'm thinking (and no, I don't think George Lucas puts this much thought into his characters; I think he says, "This'll look neat" and this serendipitously came out): Yoda was this incredible force master, but his big weakness was his telekinesis. Everybody knew it. They knew that if you wanted to stop master Yoda, throw something big around. Sure, he can pick up his lightsaber without thinking, but the guy uses a freakin' CANE! Very few people were on par with him in one-to-one combat, but they knew how to stop him if it came down to it.
So when he's in exile, thinking about how he could have saved the Republic and ended the Empire before it started if he'd only been able to push things out of the way better, what does he do? He studies it. He thinks, "I should have done it this way. That would've showed them." Sure, he's meditating and reaching out and watching what's going on "outside," but he has a lot of spare time, and evidently a lot of work to catch up on.
That's my theory. I doubt Lucas shares it, but y'know, I don't care so much what he thinks.
In Episode 2, Yoda is wailing on Count Dooku, until Dooku telekinetically squeezes the base of that tower, and send it crashing down onto Obi-Wan and Anakin. Yoda stops, drops everything, and doesn't just push the thing out of the way, but has to use both hands to telekenetically grab it, and then push it out of the way. Note that Dooku pretty much tossed off his telekenetic squeeze, and Yoda showed visible strain with his telekinesis. Dooku escapes. All is well with the burgeoning Empire.
In Episode 3, Yoda is wailing on Emporer Palpatine (I don't remember if he's the Emporer yet, actually), but they're fairly evenly matched with their lightsabers. Then Palpatine starts throwing those pod things around, and Yoda has to stop everything to grab them. Note that Palpatine is whipping these things around like they're frisbees, Yoda has to drop everything, use two hands, and shows visible strain.
In Episode 5, Luke needs to get his X-Wing out of the water, and tries really really hard to do so, but just succeeds in loosening it from it's precarious hold on the bottom, and it sinks further. Yoda mocks his effort, throws a good little lesson about the force in, and then gets really showy, and picks up the entire ship with one hand and gracefully guides it over to a safe place.
Here's what I'm thinking (and no, I don't think George Lucas puts this much thought into his characters; I think he says, "This'll look neat" and this serendipitously came out): Yoda was this incredible force master, but his big weakness was his telekinesis. Everybody knew it. They knew that if you wanted to stop master Yoda, throw something big around. Sure, he can pick up his lightsaber without thinking, but the guy uses a freakin' CANE! Very few people were on par with him in one-to-one combat, but they knew how to stop him if it came down to it.
So when he's in exile, thinking about how he could have saved the Republic and ended the Empire before it started if he'd only been able to push things out of the way better, what does he do? He studies it. He thinks, "I should have done it this way. That would've showed them." Sure, he's meditating and reaching out and watching what's going on "outside," but he has a lot of spare time, and evidently a lot of work to catch up on.
That's my theory. I doubt Lucas shares it, but y'know, I don't care so much what he thinks.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Timing
I've been learning over the past several years that timing is everything. In Ecclesiastes, it says, "To Everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven." I've been coming to realize that over the last couple years, but really heavily in the last few months. My business failed in LA because I rushed into it. I moved out of Anthony's place when the time was right, but perhaps I found an apartment a little too quickly. Heidi and I came together at just the right time in both of our lives. Even my dad's death, though it sucked, was very "interestingly" placed in the other events that were going on in my life at the time, and subsequently the timing of his inheritance really made for some interesting coincidences (and I've stated before that I don't believe in coincidences). I'm not saying I'd want to go through that again, but I am a heck of a lot stronger as a result, and my strength is something that Heidi finds appealing. Go fig.
Anyway, as I became more and more aware of this, I've been sort of sensing the timing of certain events around other things. I was just reminded of my father's death recently when that little seven-year-old girl died, and a week later I found myself counseling a guy in my guild on World of Warcraft (who's going into his first year of high school) about his neice dying.
So based off of that, I'm learning to not rush things, or not put things off that I should be doing. Basically, it's teaching me to prioritize. I've decided to hold off on brewing until my kitchen is in better shape (maybe my first brew will be a Christmas brew). But I need to get a few things done by certain dates. I have to watch all of Firefly before the movie comes out. I have to get my apartment in order before my inagural party (although that may be pushed back from October to November). I have to finish my armor before Halloween. I have to read the Chronicles of Narnia before the first movie comes out. All this, and continuing to develop my relationship with Heidi, and work and various other fun things going on... Whew, I'm a busy man.
Anyway, as I became more and more aware of this, I've been sort of sensing the timing of certain events around other things. I was just reminded of my father's death recently when that little seven-year-old girl died, and a week later I found myself counseling a guy in my guild on World of Warcraft (who's going into his first year of high school) about his neice dying.
So based off of that, I'm learning to not rush things, or not put things off that I should be doing. Basically, it's teaching me to prioritize. I've decided to hold off on brewing until my kitchen is in better shape (maybe my first brew will be a Christmas brew). But I need to get a few things done by certain dates. I have to watch all of Firefly before the movie comes out. I have to get my apartment in order before my inagural party (although that may be pushed back from October to November). I have to finish my armor before Halloween. I have to read the Chronicles of Narnia before the first movie comes out. All this, and continuing to develop my relationship with Heidi, and work and various other fun things going on... Whew, I'm a busy man.
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