i've been reading a lot about constantine.

interesting fellow.

his mother helena, having travelled to jerusalem, allegedly found a piece of the true cross upon which Christ was crucified, nail and all. whatever nail this actually was (augustine somewhere jokes, regarding the medieval church's obsession with relics, that if all of the fragments of the wood that have been discovered were pieced together, no less than fourteen crosses would exist), he melted it down to be used as a bit for his horse's mouth. soon after, he joined his comrades in war.

on another ocassion, he famously claimed to have been visited in a vision and given a symbol for Christ, and told "in this sign you will conquer." (interestingly enough, at another point in his life, he apparently also received a vision in which the grecoroman apollo, along with another god, victory, laid wreaths upon him, symbolizing victory and success) and in that sign, which was then emblazoned on his soldiers' shields, he proceeded to do just that.

one of the things i found most interesting, though, was that the nicene creed, the singlemost widely used item of christian liturgy in history and only creed to be accepted by protestant, roman catholic, and eastern orthodox churches alike, was in fact a product of the counsel of nicea, which constantine commissioned during the period where he both held political office as roman emperor and functioned as the head of the christian church.

politics and faith.

power and powerlessness.

we've got quite a history, you and i.

i think a lot of art, especially when it comes to entertainment, portrays reality not how it is but how we would like it to be. i am sure there are a lot of reasons why we do this. there is something to be said, though, for creative expression that illuminates (sheds light on the way things really are) rather than serves as a means of escape.


from a book stolen from a friend's shelf:

When the great Flemish painter Rubens made a drawing of his little boy, he was surely proud of his good looks. He wanted us, too, to admire the child. But this bias for pretty and engaging subject is apt to become a stumbling block if it leads us to reject works which represent a less appealing subject. The great German painter Albrecht Dürer certainly drew his mother with such devotion and love as Rubens felt for his chubby child. His truthful study of careworn old age may give us a shock which makes us turn away from it - and yet, if we fight against our first repugnance, we may be richly rewarded, for Dürer's drawing in its tremendous sincerity is a great work. In fact, we shall soon discover that beauty of a picture dos not really lie in the beauty of its subject matter. - E.H. Gobrich

and from a book off of mine:

Let us love the country of here below - it is real; it offers resistance to love. - Simone Weil.

there ought to be some sort of code i think;

i always find it strange and somewhat unsettling when things are brought up in conversation that were written as public content in internet form. for some reason i think that blogs ought to be read but never mentioned - a sort of digital secret shared between friends (and complete strangers who happen to peruse these pages, hm.) - this of course is absurd, since, in writing here, i am choosing the most public and permanent forum for my thought.

oh how we brave this brave new world!


on the somewhat related note of indirect paths of exposing ourselves, read this. i think the reason why he, and other artists like him, have gained such a following is because of the honesty with which they create. something inside of us wants to know that we are not alone in our foolishness, our fears and our stupid mistakes.

this is for anyone who, like myself, has studied or is currently studying theology.

in place of a sermon this past sunday, our congregation had a little panel discussion about some really difficult questions about the christian faith.

we talked about suffering,

and what someone said really struck me,

people are not torn by suffering itself, as much as the loneliness it brings. to be a physical presence in the lives of those who are broken and in pieces, and to allow our presence to be a sort of reminder of the love and presence of G-d in the midst of the mess of this world ought to be as much of our response to suffering as providing theoretical theological solutions.

i am not very good at either of those things, to be honest. i am good at being quiet and not having words to say. maybe sometimes that is enough.


i always thought that we are not so much afraid of the dark, as we are of entering into it on our own.

watched an incredible film last night.

it documented the first season of the afghan equivalent to a certain american talent show that debuted several years ago and has been emulated in several countries since.

some things that were pretty interesting included:

- the interplay between religion, politics and entertainment. during taliban rule, such dancing and singing was banned and punishable, and much of that has carried over to the point that there are scenes where contestants are phoned by worried parents who had heard they had been killed for what they are doing.

- young people vote by means of textmessages. it has been suggested that this is the first experience of democracy (which nearly everyone i know in the western world, myself included, knows is for some reason implicitly good, but remains almost entirely apathetic about) that many of these youth have ever had.

- the winner receives a five thousand dollar prize, which works out to ten times the average annual income for an afghan citizen and .5 percent of the winnings given to the finalist in the original american version.


you should watch it.

we are not at peace with others because we are not at peace with ourselves, and we are not at peace with ourselves because we are not at peace with G-d.- thomas merton.

lately i have been thinking a lot about memory.

i was in a car with two friends of mine, headed to the one's house. myself and the other friend had been there more times than i can remember, but he had lived on other ends of the country for a couple years now, and this was the first time in a while that he was here to visit. he remarked that he was beginning to forget the names of streets, and tried to remember aloud the titles that marked the route we had to take. we thought about it though, and decided that the memory of the actual journey was still there - he could clearly recall how to get to the destination - it was just the signposts along the way that had been blurred by time.

i think that is how memories work, the details are the first to fade.

four years after the fact, for example, i think could maybe name two-thirds of my relatively small highschool class if shown their faces in photographs. i do remember things about people; i remember what kind of person you were, the way you related with people, and your place in the labyrinthine social hierarchy of secondary school. i may even remember specific events or conversations, but there is a 33% chance i won't remember your name.

(that i am referring to the reader in the second person here is absurd, since i have maintained no contact whatsoever with anyone with whom i attended elementary or secondary school. this, of course, would probably lend itself to my inability to recall my classmates' titles)

it's like when i dream. sometimes in my dreams, i am with a crowd of people, or sometimes just a few, and i will have the sense of familiarity where i am certain that i know the people i am with, and yet they are just people, and i couldn't identify a single one. they are just bodies walking alongside me, a sort of anonymous familiarity.

car rides without street signs, classmates without names, dreamed characters without identities. anonymous familiarity.

one word is too often profaned
for me to profane it,
one feeling too falsely disdain'd
for thee to disdain it;
one hope is too like despair
for prudence to smother,
and pity from thee more dear
than that from another.

i can give not what men call love:
but wilt thou accept not
the worship the heart lifts above
and the Heavens reject not, -
the desire of the moth for the star,
of the night for the morrow,
the devotion to something afar
from the sphere of our sorrow?
- p.b. shelley



i used to be a romantic of sorts,

now i am just a cynic.

wish we could send some of this rain here.