I once met a man who'd lost his leg below the knee. He was seeking treatment for phantom pains. The part of his leg that was missing still bothered him. He ached below the knee, not at the sight of the wound, but where he'd once been whole. He had an itch that could not be scratched.
When I left the church, an amputation was required. Friends suggested I try Unitarianism or that I just go on sabbatical. What they didn't understand is that I'd rather have a limp than a crutch.
Given time to rant, I can tell you to the point of making you sorry you'd asked all the things that I can no longer love about the church. Read some of my earlier posts and you'll see that I've already railed against the religious theater of Sunday morning. I've already been outspoken about the Christian's natural instinct towards intellectual property rights of truth. To continue the list, I grew so tired and weary of the Christian doppelganger, the "in this world but not of it" culture that looks like a sinner and talks like a sinner but walks a different path. The band Petra put out an album called "Sheep in Wolves Clothing." Living in a culture surrounded by churches, I can tell you that I'd rather run with the wolves. Perhaps it's just the comfort of the devil you know.
I was dedicated to that culture. I've lead worship, broken bread, and laid hands on the sick. I've worn ashes on Wednesday and fasted til Sunday. I recruited, encouraged, admonished, rebuked and literally shouted from the mountain tops. I was immersed and emergent. I walked prayer labyrinths. I saw you at the pole. I went to Cornerstone Music Festival. I did everything right.
I got called a heretic once. A baptist church sent a group of people to visit our emergent church. We spoke about denying Absolute Truth and the falsehood of certainty. They said Jesus was the Absolute Truth. I said maybe, but I'm fallible so there's no way of knowing for sure. They called me a heretic. I was pretty proud of that.
But for all the stupidity, the useless arguments, the clever t-shirts and meaningful coffee table books, it's not really the Church that I'd amputated. I've remained friends with a lot of those folks. I still listen to some of the music, though not as much. No, I didn't cut off the Church.
I cut off God. I re-dug my god shaped hole and I did it with a spoon.
It started with the earliest heresies. I realized that I didn't need Mary to have been a virgin when Jesus was born. Nor did I care if the miracles were allegorical or historical. Soon, substitutionary atonement went out the window and with it the divinity of Christ. I found that what was most compelling was this: I was created just like everyone else and we should love each other. I'd stopped believing in a metaphysical heaven, instead I loved to quote Jesus telling his disciples that the kingdom is among us. When two or more are gathered, whether Jesus shows up or not, we're still gathered, so let's make something of our time.
Once after a particularly moving worship service, I asked my friend Peyton, "How do we discern the difference between the spirit moving among the body and the power of suggestion mingled with mob-mentality?" He said, "That's a dangerous question to be asking here. Let's go get a beer."
Tonight, my fiance and I started reminiscing about all the Christian music we'd listened to. I don't know how it started, but soon enough we were on grooveshark.com with a playlist consisting of Five Iron Frenzy, Caedmon's Call, and the Newsboys. Yes, the Newsboys. It was like seeing an old friend, but not one I'm interested in reconnecting with. I don't know that I'd Friend christian-me on Facebook. Then again, I don't know that I'd Friend me on Facebook at all.
Here's the thing, faith unlike flesh, regenerates. It has seasons. I don't see a second season coming around. A rebirth isn't inevitable. But I'd be okay with something a little more intriguing.
I do miss something though. I've got a phantom pain where all of this used to be. I'm almost afraid to type this. An uncertain atheist is like blood in the water to the attentive evangelist. The trick is that certainty is what got the spoon of my amputation started in the first place. I want to be clear that I'm not looking for healing. I'm whole. What I amputated wasn't a necessary part of me. Being unnecessary doesn't make it any less important. I used to say, "I am not ashamed of the gospel of jesus christ." Now I say, "I am not ashamed that I used to be not ashamed of the gospel of jesus christ."
I don't like calling myself an atheist. I use it for lack of a better word. I won't call myself a christian. I left it for lack of a better god.
In truth, I really can't stand the Evangelical Atheists. The kids who worship Dawkins and Hitchens are just as annoying as any Pentecostal.
I've jokingly called rock n' roll the only true religion, but inside I kind of mean it. I love the music and the gatherings and the uncertainty and the pageantry.
What's got my phantom limb twitching tonight must be somewhere in that part of my faith. Once at a worship service I lead, I didn't light any of the candles that I placed at the alter. Instead I left several matchbooks and lighters laying around and asked the people to light a candle when they knelt and prayed. I asked them to spark hope against the darkness so that we could join them in prayer. The image of the sea of candles flickering at the end of communion still tugs at my heart.
I'm frustrated because there is no secular version of that moment. I don't have the liturgy any more and I really miss it sometimes. One of the earliest Christian Rock songs was called "Why should the devil have all the good music?" I never thought I'd be asking why christians should have all the beautiful moments.
How do I create a worshipful moment in tribute to all the things I love? I'd love to start a church where instead of god we drew our hearts to one another. I want to kneel and be grateful for my small stupid life and my amazing fiance. I want to say thank you for my parents and my sister and her family. I want to let someone know that I'm hurting without having to let someone know that I'm hurting. I want to dim the lights and play music and weep and laugh. I'm not a heretic, I'm a believer without a belief. I'm an ist without an ism.
The man I met who'd lost his leg had to get a nerve-block to ease his pain. They blocked the lines of communication between his leg and his brain so he'd quit getting the false messages. I have no interest in that. He'd had his leg blown off in a war, he deserves his comfort. I don't want comfort. I want to stay close to these signals.
I'm going to play with this mystery a while. It's made me restless. I've found comfort in the phantom pain because it means part of me is receptive to an undiscovered element. I'm not really limping, it's more a stagger and it only hurts when I hold still.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Down In Front
What's the first thing you remember? Someone said recently that most of the time, when you're remembering something, you're just remembering the last time you remembered it. I follow the logic. I don't want it to be true, but I'm sure it is.
So how far back can you go and still touch the source memory? Asking this question I'm suddenly bombarded with the strangest glimpses - a rapid slide show of moments fires past my mental screen without context or any real trigger.
You want to reach back and remember the first joy. You want to tap into a catalog of well preserved moments of fun and kindness and tenderness. Instead you get window frames without walls. Context is loose at best, unavailable at worst. You long to recall Christmas at 2 years old, instead you get driveways with bicycles. Photos from the era tell you had fun on your 1st birthday and that you looked adorable on the first day of kindergarten. What you remember is the leather of your grandparents chair or how the tile in your bathroom looked like crosses and 8-bit spaceships.
I love the new Nostalgiatech that seems to be popping up. My new favorite app is called 8mm. It's a video app that throws a filter to match some fuzzy memory. You can even mute the sound and add the noise of a projector.
We had an 8mm camera when I was a kid. I think it was 8mm, it might have been fancier than that. It used real film that had to be processed. We had a cool little projector that required the know-how to feed the film into the thingy that looped around the little doo dad. It was all very technical.
We'd create a theater. A sheet would be hung, lights would be extinguished or faded. Then there was the moment of fascination as suddenly your very own image was on the screen. Moments ago, you'd watched a silent Donald Duck film, or a clip from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. You could get movies like that from the library. We'd watch these produced films and my dad would narrate, doing the voices of the sailors in some silly fashion.
But the family films were the main event. Cookouts and reunions and Christmas trees and birthday candles. These movies weren't narrated, they had a live commentary track from my mom and dad. For me these moments were imbued with special value. My birthday was important enough to film. Donald Duck on a camping trip, Kirk Douglas battling a giant squid, and my birthday party were on equal standing. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
37 years before we took pictures of Penne Pasta, filtered them to look old, and posted them online for all to see, we had to be choosy with what we deemed important enough to capture.
Soon enough the 8mm gave way to the video camera. The lights could stay on and there was no need for voice overs and commentary because the sound worked just find. You could see yourself on the television. That felt special too, but now I see that there was something missing. Some of the senses were being denied.
Watching the old 8mm movies, the room got warm from the bulb and you could smell the film heating up. You could see the dust in the light of the projector. You could hear the reels ticking along. The movies were silent but the moment was not. The family talked when it was time and hushed when a now dead family member waved at the camera.
The whole house was under control of the 8mm projector. Light from another room was intrusive, stray sounds weren't welcome, not even music. You didn't just pop-in a tape while world operated indifferently around you. You dedicated the space and time to remembering to remember.
A projector is special because in order to get the best view, you put it behind you. You split the room so no one blocks the light. In order to perfectly view the past, you had to leave it behind you and look the other direction. Then be still and let the images flood to the front. Televisions and cell phones and laptops don't demand this attention from us. They do what we tell them. You can pause live TV now. If you paused a film for too long, you'd burn the frame. The images of the past need to keep running or you could risk losing them.
I don't know what my first memory is. But some of the earliest are those nights, warmed by the bulb, fascinated by the image. We'd filmed the moment knowing that when we looked upon it we'd be seeing the past. It's not a sheet, it's a screen. It's not a screen, it's a window. It's a window without walls. The only context is that we were there.
My earliest memories may be of the act of remembering. There are no films of us watching the movies. When I remember sitting in my rocking chair, watching me race my cousins on my Granny's property, I'm tapping right into the source. I don't remember the race, but I remember the remembering.
Perhaps that's better.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
So how far back can you go and still touch the source memory? Asking this question I'm suddenly bombarded with the strangest glimpses - a rapid slide show of moments fires past my mental screen without context or any real trigger.
You want to reach back and remember the first joy. You want to tap into a catalog of well preserved moments of fun and kindness and tenderness. Instead you get window frames without walls. Context is loose at best, unavailable at worst. You long to recall Christmas at 2 years old, instead you get driveways with bicycles. Photos from the era tell you had fun on your 1st birthday and that you looked adorable on the first day of kindergarten. What you remember is the leather of your grandparents chair or how the tile in your bathroom looked like crosses and 8-bit spaceships.
I love the new Nostalgiatech that seems to be popping up. My new favorite app is called 8mm. It's a video app that throws a filter to match some fuzzy memory. You can even mute the sound and add the noise of a projector.
We had an 8mm camera when I was a kid. I think it was 8mm, it might have been fancier than that. It used real film that had to be processed. We had a cool little projector that required the know-how to feed the film into the thingy that looped around the little doo dad. It was all very technical.
We'd create a theater. A sheet would be hung, lights would be extinguished or faded. Then there was the moment of fascination as suddenly your very own image was on the screen. Moments ago, you'd watched a silent Donald Duck film, or a clip from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. You could get movies like that from the library. We'd watch these produced films and my dad would narrate, doing the voices of the sailors in some silly fashion.
But the family films were the main event. Cookouts and reunions and Christmas trees and birthday candles. These movies weren't narrated, they had a live commentary track from my mom and dad. For me these moments were imbued with special value. My birthday was important enough to film. Donald Duck on a camping trip, Kirk Douglas battling a giant squid, and my birthday party were on equal standing. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
37 years before we took pictures of Penne Pasta, filtered them to look old, and posted them online for all to see, we had to be choosy with what we deemed important enough to capture.
Soon enough the 8mm gave way to the video camera. The lights could stay on and there was no need for voice overs and commentary because the sound worked just find. You could see yourself on the television. That felt special too, but now I see that there was something missing. Some of the senses were being denied.
Watching the old 8mm movies, the room got warm from the bulb and you could smell the film heating up. You could see the dust in the light of the projector. You could hear the reels ticking along. The movies were silent but the moment was not. The family talked when it was time and hushed when a now dead family member waved at the camera.
The whole house was under control of the 8mm projector. Light from another room was intrusive, stray sounds weren't welcome, not even music. You didn't just pop-in a tape while world operated indifferently around you. You dedicated the space and time to remembering to remember.
A projector is special because in order to get the best view, you put it behind you. You split the room so no one blocks the light. In order to perfectly view the past, you had to leave it behind you and look the other direction. Then be still and let the images flood to the front. Televisions and cell phones and laptops don't demand this attention from us. They do what we tell them. You can pause live TV now. If you paused a film for too long, you'd burn the frame. The images of the past need to keep running or you could risk losing them.
I don't know what my first memory is. But some of the earliest are those nights, warmed by the bulb, fascinated by the image. We'd filmed the moment knowing that when we looked upon it we'd be seeing the past. It's not a sheet, it's a screen. It's not a screen, it's a window. It's a window without walls. The only context is that we were there.
My earliest memories may be of the act of remembering. There are no films of us watching the movies. When I remember sitting in my rocking chair, watching me race my cousins on my Granny's property, I'm tapping right into the source. I don't remember the race, but I remember the remembering.
Perhaps that's better.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Monday, May 21, 2012
Open Letter to the Newest Person I Know
Dear Lennon,
Thanks for joining us. Along with your brothers Ezra and Miles, you're one of the best reasons I've got for being a better person. I'm so glad you're here because now instead of evaluating the world, in terms of the two boys in my life, I now have a little girl in my world. This world, from where I stand, isn't always keen on caring for girls of any age. More on that later.
You've been alive for a few hours. I've had Dexter Marathons that have lasted longer than your whole life so far. More on that much later. In these few hours, actually in the first few seconds that you and I shared air in the same room, I came to love you. Profound, inexplicable love overwhelmed me and your uncle with the tattoos cried like a...well a you. I love you because my sister and my brother in law made you. I love you because you don't know anything and have very little opinion about anything outside of nipples, and I respect that. You're pink and weird and have tiny parts that are doing what they do for the first time. Scientists tell me that it will be a long time before you recognize me. That's okay, take your time. I think Ez and Miles will vouch for me. One day I hope to come into your house and hear you yell out "Uncle Adam!" Until then, just know, I love you.
Having nephews is easy. We pee in front of each other. There's farting. There's loud music and talk of girls with Ezra and cars and ninjas with Miles. I'm better with the ninjas. With boys my uncle duties are about exposure to cool and fun elements of the world: guitars and Woody Allen and jeeps and The Talking Heads and sandwiches and antique stores and video games and advice that doesn't make sense and being your fan and helping your conquer. But you're my niece. You'll need privacy when you pee and you'll have these feminine moments that I know about but can't experience. My instinct with you is protection and nurture. You may not want to conquer, you may want to improve what you find here. Having this new thing, this girl, in my life is cause to take stock.
All of a sudden all this internet that's full of porn (more on that never), restaurants that have shitty food served by women in young girls' clothing, and thongs for tweens... all of it... it's shifted from silly to dangerous.
So here's the deal. I'm going to get your back in a big way. You're not going to need me and your dad and your older brothers to protect you from douchey guys. We're going to spend our time together validating you for valid reasons. I'm sure you'll be beautiful, my people breed pretty. What's better is that you'll be shockingly equipped. You're going to grow up with men in your life who tell you you're kind and smart and generous and funny. Sadly, by the time you're old enough to really read this, I doubt the world will have gotten past body issues. If you're a little bigger than the girls in your class and decide that ballet is for you, dance little one, dance. If you're tall and skinny as hell and seem to be made of elbows and knees and decide to get into wrestling, go hard, be careful, but go hard. I hope you love something weird, like math or geology. I don't know anything about those things so we'll watch Discovery channel and then have some adventures. If you're into fashion, I will wear whatever you make me. I will eat what you cook me, I will mend what you bring to me broken, I will play music you can dance to and ask you to sing even if you're only as good as me. Even if you're worse, which you won't be. I will do these things not only because you'll be impossible to resist, but because I value you. You. Your little 5 hour old self.
You should get into golf, there's a ton of scholarship money in Women's Golf.
You will not have daddy issues. I know your dad and your grandads. We will give you so much real love and validation that you'll simply request to be treasured properly or properly left alone.
I know your mom, your Aunt Candice, and both of your grandmothers. Pretty sure there are no pictures of them making a duck face, wearing only cheer shorts and tank top on the internet. Well, maybe one of your grandmothers has done that, but I don't judge.
You've been born into a family of liberal, music loving, festival attending, homeless people at Thanksgiving hosting, sports fanatical, religiously skeptical, drug experimenting, animal loving, equal rights demanding, quasi-vegetarian, good-hearted, world traveling, green, Americans.
Feel free to be none of those things. Feel free to be all or some, feel free to lead the way for us sometimes too.
I hope you'll love our music and your music (more Wilco than Gaga, please). I hope you vote with your conscience. I hope you serve with your heart. I hope you cheer for The Mavericks.
One day you'll know complex terms like: gender and equality and marriage and divorce and body mass index and GOP Primaries and you'll worry about cellulite and boobs and body hair and god knows what.
Before that day, before the worry of tornadoes and where we go when we die creep into your little mind, know that for all its chaos, the world put a guy like me, in a room with a girl like you when you were minutes old, just so I could fall in love with you and come to to the end of this letter and realize, that you're changing my life. I've got more years on me than you've got hours, and already you're bossing me around, telling me to shape up and straighten up the place.
I listened to a song today on the way to meet you by The Grateful Dead. You'll know them pretty well here soon. There's a line that I heard, and it's just for you, I'm sure of it.
"Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world. The heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own. Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings. The heart has evenings, its seasons, and songs of its own."
Wake now, Lennon. See the world for us, for me. Grab my finger and say, "Look Uncle Adam!" And I will, Lennon. I can't wait.
Love,
Uncle Adam
Thanks for joining us. Along with your brothers Ezra and Miles, you're one of the best reasons I've got for being a better person. I'm so glad you're here because now instead of evaluating the world, in terms of the two boys in my life, I now have a little girl in my world. This world, from where I stand, isn't always keen on caring for girls of any age. More on that later.
You've been alive for a few hours. I've had Dexter Marathons that have lasted longer than your whole life so far. More on that much later. In these few hours, actually in the first few seconds that you and I shared air in the same room, I came to love you. Profound, inexplicable love overwhelmed me and your uncle with the tattoos cried like a...well a you. I love you because my sister and my brother in law made you. I love you because you don't know anything and have very little opinion about anything outside of nipples, and I respect that. You're pink and weird and have tiny parts that are doing what they do for the first time. Scientists tell me that it will be a long time before you recognize me. That's okay, take your time. I think Ez and Miles will vouch for me. One day I hope to come into your house and hear you yell out "Uncle Adam!" Until then, just know, I love you.
Having nephews is easy. We pee in front of each other. There's farting. There's loud music and talk of girls with Ezra and cars and ninjas with Miles. I'm better with the ninjas. With boys my uncle duties are about exposure to cool and fun elements of the world: guitars and Woody Allen and jeeps and The Talking Heads and sandwiches and antique stores and video games and advice that doesn't make sense and being your fan and helping your conquer. But you're my niece. You'll need privacy when you pee and you'll have these feminine moments that I know about but can't experience. My instinct with you is protection and nurture. You may not want to conquer, you may want to improve what you find here. Having this new thing, this girl, in my life is cause to take stock.
All of a sudden all this internet that's full of porn (more on that never), restaurants that have shitty food served by women in young girls' clothing, and thongs for tweens... all of it... it's shifted from silly to dangerous.
So here's the deal. I'm going to get your back in a big way. You're not going to need me and your dad and your older brothers to protect you from douchey guys. We're going to spend our time together validating you for valid reasons. I'm sure you'll be beautiful, my people breed pretty. What's better is that you'll be shockingly equipped. You're going to grow up with men in your life who tell you you're kind and smart and generous and funny. Sadly, by the time you're old enough to really read this, I doubt the world will have gotten past body issues. If you're a little bigger than the girls in your class and decide that ballet is for you, dance little one, dance. If you're tall and skinny as hell and seem to be made of elbows and knees and decide to get into wrestling, go hard, be careful, but go hard. I hope you love something weird, like math or geology. I don't know anything about those things so we'll watch Discovery channel and then have some adventures. If you're into fashion, I will wear whatever you make me. I will eat what you cook me, I will mend what you bring to me broken, I will play music you can dance to and ask you to sing even if you're only as good as me. Even if you're worse, which you won't be. I will do these things not only because you'll be impossible to resist, but because I value you. You. Your little 5 hour old self.
You should get into golf, there's a ton of scholarship money in Women's Golf.
You will not have daddy issues. I know your dad and your grandads. We will give you so much real love and validation that you'll simply request to be treasured properly or properly left alone.
I know your mom, your Aunt Candice, and both of your grandmothers. Pretty sure there are no pictures of them making a duck face, wearing only cheer shorts and tank top on the internet. Well, maybe one of your grandmothers has done that, but I don't judge.
You've been born into a family of liberal, music loving, festival attending, homeless people at Thanksgiving hosting, sports fanatical, religiously skeptical, drug experimenting, animal loving, equal rights demanding, quasi-vegetarian, good-hearted, world traveling, green, Americans.
Feel free to be none of those things. Feel free to be all or some, feel free to lead the way for us sometimes too.
I hope you'll love our music and your music (more Wilco than Gaga, please). I hope you vote with your conscience. I hope you serve with your heart. I hope you cheer for The Mavericks.
One day you'll know complex terms like: gender and equality and marriage and divorce and body mass index and GOP Primaries and you'll worry about cellulite and boobs and body hair and god knows what.
Before that day, before the worry of tornadoes and where we go when we die creep into your little mind, know that for all its chaos, the world put a guy like me, in a room with a girl like you when you were minutes old, just so I could fall in love with you and come to to the end of this letter and realize, that you're changing my life. I've got more years on me than you've got hours, and already you're bossing me around, telling me to shape up and straighten up the place.
I listened to a song today on the way to meet you by The Grateful Dead. You'll know them pretty well here soon. There's a line that I heard, and it's just for you, I'm sure of it.
"Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world. The heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own. Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings. The heart has evenings, its seasons, and songs of its own."
Wake now, Lennon. See the world for us, for me. Grab my finger and say, "Look Uncle Adam!" And I will, Lennon. I can't wait.
Love,
Uncle Adam
Monday, May 2, 2011
Respects
The eldest member of my tribe has passed into glory, gone to the clearing at the end of the path. So now, a journey must be made. It is time for a tribute and perhaps a reconcilliation. It is time join the mourning, to replace my grudge with my grandfather's hymnal and sing for him hallelujah. His daughters, each a tribute, each a resemblance, will gather their families, their talents and their stories. We will wake him but not awaken him. If atonement must be made, if debts are due upon his arrival in Eternity, let those debts be paid by us, the family he built. It is his characteristic generosity, sense of duty and justice that compels his daughters to be themselves dutiful and just. If debts are due, let them be paid through us or buried with him and forgotten by all. Let his legacy be an atonement for whatever atonement must be made.
I hope to divide my dissonance with him evenly by the miles I will travel to pay my respects to him. I will leave with unrest and return with peace. I will tell the good tales of his life.
But first, a journey. Then rest.
Depart husband, father, brother, soldier, teacher, servant. Depart Grandfather and Great Grandfather.
Goodbye Granddad.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Confession
“I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before Me."
Exodus 20:2
I am an Idolater.
Used to be that I would go to a place where'd we'd come together, dim the lights, allow our minds and our moods to converge and music would be our guide. I'd sing, I'd raise my hands, I'd kneel. I'd embrace the people I was there with to remind them, physically that I was here with them, and they with me. We'd call it worship, we'd call it church. We'd sing songs of praises, also called Psalms. I'd be there singing with my friends, feeling God among us, coveting a life that went on endlessly from the moment we created.
"Me and my friends are like the drums on 'Lust for Life', we pound it out on floor toms, our Psalms are sing a long songs."
-Craig Finn of The Hold Steady
I went to two back-to-back Hold Steady shows last weekend. Friday night me and my friends drove three plus hours to Oklahoma City, pilgrims on a journey, to a tiny venue in the middle of nowhere. The lights went down. We put our hands in the air. We put our arms around each other's necks. We sang along. We pounded the air. We worshipped.
The Christians will tell me that the Hold Steady are a secular band. That if I committed my body and spirit to worship last weekend, then I am a Heretic, an Idolater.
I will tell you a secret about secular music. There is no such thing. It's all praise. It's all sacred. The difference between the sacred and the secular is the intended target. I can think of no greater target of my praise than the spirit of something larger than me, moving through a crowd, unified in song.
I don't throw my hands in the air at work. I don't close my eyes and feel grateful for my small life when I'm shopping. But when I can no longer distinguish my voice from that of those around me and I feel bigger for their presence and smaller by contrast, yeah, I'm worshipping.
"As you go, preach this message: 'The kingdom of heaven is near.'"
-Matthew 10:7
"Heaven is whenever we can get together."
-Craig Finn
The shows I go to are frequently crowded. It gets pretty hot. By the end of the show, we have sacrificed our voices to join in the choir, we've been baptized in sweat. The impact of the live show is undeniable. You sing along and realize that everyone else is singing too. We've converged. We've unified.
Maybe not everyone. Maybe it's just entertainment. But if you think that there are folks in the pews on Sunday who are there for anything but the show, you should try opening your eyes when you pray. Music as entertainment doesn't dimish its capacity to be so much more. In fact, it only serves to prove that we live without dogma, that rock shows are the only unitarian churches with a bar.
It's okay to go to a show and just be entertained. Have a beer and a laugh. What's not okay - what I protest - is the notion that a crossless room where the Bibles and sacrements have been left in the closets is no place to find a savior. That the spirit of God can't move in the chorus of "Do You Realize?" by the Flaming Lips is the worst heresy. The Psalm writers don't own God and I'm pretty sure he'll move wherever he damn well pleases.
Our sacrements are what we say they are. It ain't incense, but it's smoke. Are beer and bottled water so different from wine and cheap grape juice?
I know the script of church and I'm not so naive that I don't see the manipulations of a good rock show. The lights, the use of dynamics, creating dissonance and resolving it give the crowd relief and joy. But I won't begrudge the artist their art when the goal is simply to attain joy.
My confession: I weep, I raise my hands, I embrace my friends at live shows because I am moved to do so. I don't force it and it isn't scripted. I am moved by something other than someone saying the name of the lord and asking me to praise Him. I praise the moment and the undeniable, anonymous spirit that doesn't exist with the house lights on and cold amps.
My celebration? Same thing.
The difference between sacred and secular is the target. The difference between a confession and a celebration is the measure of sin. What is the heresy of joy?
God gave us Hallelujah. Leonard Cohen heard it and Jeff Buckley passed it on.
When Crain Finn sings "We'd like to pray for you," I believe him and I pray too.
When Adam Duritz invites me to "Come Down, Leave your damage behind and gone
So come now, Let's go down to the dance floor," I hear a call to worship.
When Chris Robinson sings, "If your rhythm ever falls out of time, you can bring it to me and I will make it all right," I hear a healer looking to bless the body.
I'm not building false idols. I'm placing no gods before the God of Egypt and Abraham. I'm listening to the joyful voices of the people, raised in unison. I'm looking at the yuppies and the hood rats, the hippies and wallflowers and me and my friends. We're together body and spirit.
I am an Idolater.
I confess to feeling the spirit move among us in houses not built for any Lord.
I celebrate the same.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Exodus 20:2
I am an Idolater.
Used to be that I would go to a place where'd we'd come together, dim the lights, allow our minds and our moods to converge and music would be our guide. I'd sing, I'd raise my hands, I'd kneel. I'd embrace the people I was there with to remind them, physically that I was here with them, and they with me. We'd call it worship, we'd call it church. We'd sing songs of praises, also called Psalms. I'd be there singing with my friends, feeling God among us, coveting a life that went on endlessly from the moment we created.
"Me and my friends are like the drums on 'Lust for Life', we pound it out on floor toms, our Psalms are sing a long songs."
-Craig Finn of The Hold Steady
I went to two back-to-back Hold Steady shows last weekend. Friday night me and my friends drove three plus hours to Oklahoma City, pilgrims on a journey, to a tiny venue in the middle of nowhere. The lights went down. We put our hands in the air. We put our arms around each other's necks. We sang along. We pounded the air. We worshipped.
The Christians will tell me that the Hold Steady are a secular band. That if I committed my body and spirit to worship last weekend, then I am a Heretic, an Idolater.
I will tell you a secret about secular music. There is no such thing. It's all praise. It's all sacred. The difference between the sacred and the secular is the intended target. I can think of no greater target of my praise than the spirit of something larger than me, moving through a crowd, unified in song.
I don't throw my hands in the air at work. I don't close my eyes and feel grateful for my small life when I'm shopping. But when I can no longer distinguish my voice from that of those around me and I feel bigger for their presence and smaller by contrast, yeah, I'm worshipping.
"As you go, preach this message: 'The kingdom of heaven is near.'"
-Matthew 10:7
"Heaven is whenever we can get together."
-Craig Finn
The shows I go to are frequently crowded. It gets pretty hot. By the end of the show, we have sacrificed our voices to join in the choir, we've been baptized in sweat. The impact of the live show is undeniable. You sing along and realize that everyone else is singing too. We've converged. We've unified.
Maybe not everyone. Maybe it's just entertainment. But if you think that there are folks in the pews on Sunday who are there for anything but the show, you should try opening your eyes when you pray. Music as entertainment doesn't dimish its capacity to be so much more. In fact, it only serves to prove that we live without dogma, that rock shows are the only unitarian churches with a bar.
It's okay to go to a show and just be entertained. Have a beer and a laugh. What's not okay - what I protest - is the notion that a crossless room where the Bibles and sacrements have been left in the closets is no place to find a savior. That the spirit of God can't move in the chorus of "Do You Realize?" by the Flaming Lips is the worst heresy. The Psalm writers don't own God and I'm pretty sure he'll move wherever he damn well pleases.
Our sacrements are what we say they are. It ain't incense, but it's smoke. Are beer and bottled water so different from wine and cheap grape juice?
I know the script of church and I'm not so naive that I don't see the manipulations of a good rock show. The lights, the use of dynamics, creating dissonance and resolving it give the crowd relief and joy. But I won't begrudge the artist their art when the goal is simply to attain joy.
My confession: I weep, I raise my hands, I embrace my friends at live shows because I am moved to do so. I don't force it and it isn't scripted. I am moved by something other than someone saying the name of the lord and asking me to praise Him. I praise the moment and the undeniable, anonymous spirit that doesn't exist with the house lights on and cold amps.
My celebration? Same thing.
The difference between sacred and secular is the target. The difference between a confession and a celebration is the measure of sin. What is the heresy of joy?
God gave us Hallelujah. Leonard Cohen heard it and Jeff Buckley passed it on.
When Crain Finn sings "We'd like to pray for you," I believe him and I pray too.
When Adam Duritz invites me to "Come Down, Leave your damage behind and gone
So come now, Let's go down to the dance floor," I hear a call to worship.
When Chris Robinson sings, "If your rhythm ever falls out of time, you can bring it to me and I will make it all right," I hear a healer looking to bless the body.
I'm not building false idols. I'm placing no gods before the God of Egypt and Abraham. I'm listening to the joyful voices of the people, raised in unison. I'm looking at the yuppies and the hood rats, the hippies and wallflowers and me and my friends. We're together body and spirit.
I am an Idolater.
I confess to feeling the spirit move among us in houses not built for any Lord.
I celebrate the same.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Pull Push
This is how I learned to swim:
My dad stood in the shallow end of the pool and I clung to the side. He said to swim towards him. He held his arms out. He was only a few feet away. I pushed off and flailed towards him, using more energy than the distance covered required. When I finally reached him I looked back at where I'd started. The distance was greater.
"Dad you moved."
"Yep. I knew you could do it and I was right in front of you the whole time."
This is how I learned to ride a bike:
My dad said to keep pedaling. He said that speed helped you stay up. I told him not to let go of my seat. I pedaled and he ran along side, encouraging me forward.
There was a moment, I felt it in my stomach, when the balance took over. He'd let go and I was on my own. Then I crashed.
"Dad you let go."
"Yep. I knew you had it and I was back here the whole time."
The lessons my dad has taught me since fall into those two categories. Pulling me towards him and pushing me on have been his methods for as long I as I've needed teaching.
When he yelled at me at 18 to get up and go to work when I wanted to blow it off, that was a swim lesson.
When my parents let me run off to Honduras for a couple of weeks to help others, they were supporting the bike until I could pedal. They stood back and watched me go, confident in my balance, sure of my return.
Both of my parents stayed up late several nights helping me learn the devil's algebra so I could finish school. Swim lessons.
Always being willing to help out with college costs when they could was no different than their hand on the seat, helping me gain my own momentum.
I've made some bad choices with women and my mom was always so willing to treat them well and make them feel welcome. Those were bike lessons. She was supportive without needing to steer.
In the pool, my dad moved away as I approached. He knew what I didn't. That the distance from where I was to where I needed to be was shorter than I thought. He knew that in my blind, head down, flailing I needed direction. I had the strength, but not the confidence.
On the street in front of my house, my parents encouraged me to take flight. To find my balance, to learn how to navigate, turn and even stop on my own.
The first lesson is motion towards becoming more like them. The second is to launch and hopefully do better.
My parents' voices guide me daily toward making good decisions and swimming toward the deep end of adulthood.
Their strength has allowed me to push myself in my own direction, crash and get back up again. Returning to them for repair and rest.
Every wise choice I've made, I've done so while trying to swim out to where they were. My successes have been largely because they steadied me while I figured out the gears.
The healthiest departure from my childhood was somewhere between my dad letting go of the seat and the realization that I was in control.
So far, adulthood has not been a fixed point. There is no other side of the pool. It's your dad moving backwards, calling out to you until you can stand, head above water, and breathe.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
My dad stood in the shallow end of the pool and I clung to the side. He said to swim towards him. He held his arms out. He was only a few feet away. I pushed off and flailed towards him, using more energy than the distance covered required. When I finally reached him I looked back at where I'd started. The distance was greater.
"Dad you moved."
"Yep. I knew you could do it and I was right in front of you the whole time."
This is how I learned to ride a bike:
My dad said to keep pedaling. He said that speed helped you stay up. I told him not to let go of my seat. I pedaled and he ran along side, encouraging me forward.
There was a moment, I felt it in my stomach, when the balance took over. He'd let go and I was on my own. Then I crashed.
"Dad you let go."
"Yep. I knew you had it and I was back here the whole time."
The lessons my dad has taught me since fall into those two categories. Pulling me towards him and pushing me on have been his methods for as long I as I've needed teaching.
When he yelled at me at 18 to get up and go to work when I wanted to blow it off, that was a swim lesson.
When my parents let me run off to Honduras for a couple of weeks to help others, they were supporting the bike until I could pedal. They stood back and watched me go, confident in my balance, sure of my return.
Both of my parents stayed up late several nights helping me learn the devil's algebra so I could finish school. Swim lessons.
Always being willing to help out with college costs when they could was no different than their hand on the seat, helping me gain my own momentum.
I've made some bad choices with women and my mom was always so willing to treat them well and make them feel welcome. Those were bike lessons. She was supportive without needing to steer.
In the pool, my dad moved away as I approached. He knew what I didn't. That the distance from where I was to where I needed to be was shorter than I thought. He knew that in my blind, head down, flailing I needed direction. I had the strength, but not the confidence.
On the street in front of my house, my parents encouraged me to take flight. To find my balance, to learn how to navigate, turn and even stop on my own.
The first lesson is motion towards becoming more like them. The second is to launch and hopefully do better.
My parents' voices guide me daily toward making good decisions and swimming toward the deep end of adulthood.
Their strength has allowed me to push myself in my own direction, crash and get back up again. Returning to them for repair and rest.
Every wise choice I've made, I've done so while trying to swim out to where they were. My successes have been largely because they steadied me while I figured out the gears.
The healthiest departure from my childhood was somewhere between my dad letting go of the seat and the realization that I was in control.
So far, adulthood has not been a fixed point. There is no other side of the pool. It's your dad moving backwards, calling out to you until you can stand, head above water, and breathe.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Music to the Story in Your Eyes (part 1)
So my sister is a Facebooker. As Army Brats, we broke a lot of good connections over the years. She's rekindling some of those connections. I feel less compelled, for reasons that I suppose could be explored in another blog.
A little while ago she and her facebookies were involved in a pretty cool discussion about which music still stands out as important to them from their childhood. I think this is a great discussion and want to join in. My childhood friend Tim did a great job of pin-pointing why a song or album was important, not just because of the When, but also the Where. So open iTunes in another window and get ready for some downloading.
The first three albums that hold equal status as music that I remember really wanting to hear over and over again are:
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John
Abbey Road - The Beatles
and
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band Movie Soundtrack - Peter Frampton with The Bee Gees and Various Artists
I remember sitting next to our stereo console, wearing big puffy headphones with the coiled cord, listening to these albums over and over. I loved Goodbye Yellow Brick Road because it was a double-album. As such, the album sleeve opened like a book. Inside were the lyrics AND small pieces of artwork to illustrate a theme of some of the songs. Plus, on the long commute from the island we lived on to my downtown school, my dad and I could get all the way through the Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding opus without interruption. It shouldn't surprise anyone if some of that album artwork ends up as a tattoo one day. Probably Grey Seal.
The Sgt Pepper's Soundtrack was important because I loved the movie. Still do. This was pre-Mtv and if you wanted sound and sight to go together, you had to watch a musical. But we were years away from The Pirate Movie and Xanadu, so outside of Grease, I didn't like musicals. But, with Sgt. Pepper's, the music came first. They just pieced together a crazy-ass story line and a bunch of weird characters to fit in with the songs. Steve Martin was born to play Maxwell Edison.
I did love the Xanadu soundtrack. ELO is a fine band and I will always love Olivia Newton-John. My favorite songs were Don't Walk Away and the one where the Tubes battled the Glen Milleresque big band for club supremecy, only to find a happy blend of the old and the new. Awesome.
After that, it seems like there were a handful of 45s (Singles for you millenials) that struck a deep chord here and there. Like Tim, I loved some silly stuff, Pac-Man Fever, Eat It, Don't Mess with My Toot Toot, et al.
There were songs that I associate very lovingly with my parents - Lonesome Loser by Little River Band, Oh Sherry by Steve Perry (mom), and anything by CSN&Y.
But as far as my music goes, somewhere around 1983 something new popped up on my horizon. Something my parents could not have introduced me to. Something they hoped was a fad:
Rap.
Run-DMC's eponymous first album gave me something that few other albums ever had. As a tone deaf kid, I couldn't sing to save my life. But I could flow like the Savannah River by the time I was 11. Run-DMC made me want to unlock my awkward suburban white body parts and move them to beats that came not from drums but from machines.
More importantly, Rap connected me to a nebulous sub-culture. It would be years before anyone would tell me that I was white and therefore couldn't listen to Rap. No one owned Rap in 1983. Now I'm not sure who owns rap, but I don't think it's the rappers. Maybe Oprah.
My dad took my sister and I to Fresh Fest II (I don't know how we missed the first one). It was headlined by Run DMC, but supported by The Fat Boys, Whodini, and Afrika Bambata. Plus some of the dancers from Breakin' were there. I wore fingerless gloves, zip-down-the-sides-parachute pants and a shirt with mesh sleeves. Oh and a bandana like Daniel Larusso's.
I loved early hip-hop. I loved its clever delivery. I loved its fierceness. I loved getting in to Rap Battles. Tim and I formed a Rap group - scratch that, a Christian rap group called The Supreme Rappers. I think my Rap name was MC Soundwave. Yes, like the Transformer.
Soon enough, Raising Hell by Run DMC was all I could listen to. I know every lyric to every song on that album and tattle on new rappers when they sample anything from it. Dum-diddy-dum indeed.
In 1987, I saw scary images with loud music being played by sinister people on Mtv. Welcome to the Jungle frightened me like fire before a caveman. I wanted more. Then I heard the opening riff of Sweet Child O'Mine and I my love of metal was solidified. I mean I liked AC/DC a lot. We used to play Hells Bells before soccer games to get us amped. I bought and wore out the Appetite for Destruction cassette three times between 1988 and 1990. Finally, I found the funds to buy the CD when I was 15.
That's it for part 1. In part 2 we discuss the Metal Years, Make-out albums, what to play at a funeral and how to make a good Mix-tape.
Before I go, here's a recap, with selected track recommendations:
Abbey Road - Something, Here Comes the Sun
Sgt. Pepper's Soundtrack - Come Together (Aerosmith) Got To Get You Into My Life (Earth, Wind, & Fire)
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Grey Seal, Social Disease, Harmony
Xanadu Soundtrack - Don't Walk Away
Run-DMC - Rock Box, Jam Master Jay
Raisin' Hell - Peter Piper, Hit It Run, Is It Live
Appetite For Destruction - (besides the obvious) My Michelle and Rocket Queen
That's it, get to downloading.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
A little while ago she and her facebookies were involved in a pretty cool discussion about which music still stands out as important to them from their childhood. I think this is a great discussion and want to join in. My childhood friend Tim did a great job of pin-pointing why a song or album was important, not just because of the When, but also the Where. So open iTunes in another window and get ready for some downloading.
The first three albums that hold equal status as music that I remember really wanting to hear over and over again are:
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John
Abbey Road - The Beatles
and
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band Movie Soundtrack - Peter Frampton with The Bee Gees and Various Artists
I remember sitting next to our stereo console, wearing big puffy headphones with the coiled cord, listening to these albums over and over. I loved Goodbye Yellow Brick Road because it was a double-album. As such, the album sleeve opened like a book. Inside were the lyrics AND small pieces of artwork to illustrate a theme of some of the songs. Plus, on the long commute from the island we lived on to my downtown school, my dad and I could get all the way through the Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding opus without interruption. It shouldn't surprise anyone if some of that album artwork ends up as a tattoo one day. Probably Grey Seal.
The Sgt Pepper's Soundtrack was important because I loved the movie. Still do. This was pre-Mtv and if you wanted sound and sight to go together, you had to watch a musical. But we were years away from The Pirate Movie and Xanadu, so outside of Grease, I didn't like musicals. But, with Sgt. Pepper's, the music came first. They just pieced together a crazy-ass story line and a bunch of weird characters to fit in with the songs. Steve Martin was born to play Maxwell Edison.
I did love the Xanadu soundtrack. ELO is a fine band and I will always love Olivia Newton-John. My favorite songs were Don't Walk Away and the one where the Tubes battled the Glen Milleresque big band for club supremecy, only to find a happy blend of the old and the new. Awesome.
After that, it seems like there were a handful of 45s (Singles for you millenials) that struck a deep chord here and there. Like Tim, I loved some silly stuff, Pac-Man Fever, Eat It, Don't Mess with My Toot Toot, et al.
There were songs that I associate very lovingly with my parents - Lonesome Loser by Little River Band, Oh Sherry by Steve Perry (mom), and anything by CSN&Y.
But as far as my music goes, somewhere around 1983 something new popped up on my horizon. Something my parents could not have introduced me to. Something they hoped was a fad:
Rap.
Run-DMC's eponymous first album gave me something that few other albums ever had. As a tone deaf kid, I couldn't sing to save my life. But I could flow like the Savannah River by the time I was 11. Run-DMC made me want to unlock my awkward suburban white body parts and move them to beats that came not from drums but from machines.
More importantly, Rap connected me to a nebulous sub-culture. It would be years before anyone would tell me that I was white and therefore couldn't listen to Rap. No one owned Rap in 1983. Now I'm not sure who owns rap, but I don't think it's the rappers. Maybe Oprah.
My dad took my sister and I to Fresh Fest II (I don't know how we missed the first one). It was headlined by Run DMC, but supported by The Fat Boys, Whodini, and Afrika Bambata. Plus some of the dancers from Breakin' were there. I wore fingerless gloves, zip-down-the-sides-parachute pants and a shirt with mesh sleeves. Oh and a bandana like Daniel Larusso's.
I loved early hip-hop. I loved its clever delivery. I loved its fierceness. I loved getting in to Rap Battles. Tim and I formed a Rap group - scratch that, a Christian rap group called The Supreme Rappers. I think my Rap name was MC Soundwave. Yes, like the Transformer.
Soon enough, Raising Hell by Run DMC was all I could listen to. I know every lyric to every song on that album and tattle on new rappers when they sample anything from it. Dum-diddy-dum indeed.
In 1987, I saw scary images with loud music being played by sinister people on Mtv. Welcome to the Jungle frightened me like fire before a caveman. I wanted more. Then I heard the opening riff of Sweet Child O'Mine and I my love of metal was solidified. I mean I liked AC/DC a lot. We used to play Hells Bells before soccer games to get us amped. I bought and wore out the Appetite for Destruction cassette three times between 1988 and 1990. Finally, I found the funds to buy the CD when I was 15.
That's it for part 1. In part 2 we discuss the Metal Years, Make-out albums, what to play at a funeral and how to make a good Mix-tape.
Before I go, here's a recap, with selected track recommendations:
Abbey Road - Something, Here Comes the Sun
Sgt. Pepper's Soundtrack - Come Together (Aerosmith) Got To Get You Into My Life (Earth, Wind, & Fire)
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Grey Seal, Social Disease, Harmony
Xanadu Soundtrack - Don't Walk Away
Run-DMC - Rock Box, Jam Master Jay
Raisin' Hell - Peter Piper, Hit It Run, Is It Live
Appetite For Destruction - (besides the obvious) My Michelle and Rocket Queen
That's it, get to downloading.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
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